Chapter Text
There were nights when a man wanted the world to know his name, when he felt like King of the Town, Top of the Heap... Clint Barton didn't have too many of those, and tonight wasn't shaping up to be one of them either. Once performances were over with the travelling circus he was currently living with, he often wandered the streets of whatever City they happened to be in that week, stopping petty thefts and muggings with an air of quiet distraction. Part of him felt like he was meant for bigger and better things, but the other half wondered if that was entirely true.
Whispers were spreading, about people with incredible abilities. Some of them dark, some of them light, but all of them slowly making themselves known in this strange new world they all found themselves in. He wasn't that kind of person. Sure he was quick, and deadly accurate with pretty much anything he picked up, that's how he had landed his job with the circus side show. Knife throwing, shooting apples out of people's mouths, and other assorted death-defying acts with all things sharp and pointy managed to draw a crowd, even in this day and age, but that was just training and a little natural talent. He wasn't shaping the world here, hell, he was hardly even shaping his own world.
Maybe he was too big for his britches. The ringmaster called him that often enough. Said he put on airs, thought he was better than the rest of them. That couldn't be further from the truth. The family he had made travelling with the sideshow was dearer to him than he could even begin to define. Deaf in one ear, alone in the world, he had thought his life was over before the bearded lady, Margie, had stumbled across him, drunk as a skunk in some dive bar, throwing darts for pints like some trained monkey. They sideshow had taken him in, sobered him up, and treated him like he belonged. Maybe Georgio the Wolfboy was terrifying to some, and maybe Strong Jim made folks think he was one of those heroes folks whispered about, but to him they were his brothers and sisters. They'd shared their secrets and their fears with each other.
The sound of the fire siren split the air, and Clint froze, sniffing the air as if that would somehow lead him to the trouble. Minutes later the fire brigade blazed by, back in the direction he had come from. A horrid feeling hit the pit of his stomach, and he turned, giving chase to the brigade as fast as his legs could carry him. As he drew nearer to the place the circus had set up that morning, smoke and ash hung heavy in the air, making breathing a struggle. Weeping and pained moans played a low counterpoint to the shouted instructions from various firemen. Bucket brigades were putting out the smoldering remains of the last big top tent.
Terrified for his found family, Clint pushed through the crowds, scanning them for a familiar face amidst the soot and heavy fire blankets. Finally he found Georgio, the hair on his face singed until he was damn near clean-shaven. Putting a hand gently on the young man's shoulder, Clint gestured at the scene, at a loss for what to say. Georgio shook his head. "It was bad. Ringmaster is gone, took all the money with him when he went. Margie didn't make it, Jim too... so many were caught inside when everything went up..."
Staggering back, he put a hand against the nearest engine, the sound of water pumping through the tanks almost soothing, or at least it would be if his whole life hadn't just gone up in smoke. Somewhere out there a man they had all pledged themselves to was on the run. The Ringmaster had betrayed them all, and there were so many innocent souls that would shine no more. All for what? Money? Clint pushed down the rage growing inside him. He had to stay cold, stay cool. Margie and Jim deserved vengeance, and there was no one in the world that would pursue it for them. No one but him.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
That had been four years ago, and Clint Barton was still on the trail of the man known as The Ringmaster. After the fire he had disappeared for four months, popping up again halfway across the country where he rain a real estate development scheme, fleecing rich business men for all they were worth. Clint had almost caught him, when he'd pulled another burn-and-run. This time he had been prepared though. No innocent casualties were caught in the inferno. Ensuring their safety had allowed the Ringmaster to escape, but he stood by his decision.
After that it had been a human trafficking ring, arms dealing, and high profile art theft. Each time Clint got close, the slippery bastard managed to ooze between the cracks and escape. In the pursuit of his enemy, Clint had developed a bit of a name for himself as a vigilante. He'd had to get a mask to hide his identity. Armed with a bow and arrow, mostly, though he also carried throwing knives, his chase had turned over plenty of rocks, stomping on the disgusting bottom-feeders that associated with the likes of the Ringmaster. Every time a few more got scooped up and locked away, though his main quarry always seemed to escape at the last minute.
Not this time though, Clint was sure of it. He had intel that suggested the man was meeting with a high profile contract killer tonight, and Clint was itching to bring them both in. Apparently the Ringmaster was tired of the relentless way the vigilante that the newspapers were calling Hawkeye was chasing him, and he wanted to put an end to it. Clint wondered if the Ringmaster knew who he was, knew that it was someone out of his own past hunting him down, or if he thought that Clint had perished with so many others, back in that fire.
It was time to find out.