Chapter 10
The air in the small office smells like dust and old paper. Clint stands at the door, looking down at the papers Buck’s laid out across the desk. They’re an organized mess — a mix of old military forms, passport photos, and legal documents. But none of it’s real.
Buck sits across from him, elbow propped up on the desk, a half-empty cup of coffee in his other hand. His expression is sharp, focused, but Clint can tell he’s holding back. He’s never liked the idea of cutting corners — especially not for something as serious as this.
“You sure about this, kid?” Buck asks, voice gruff, his usual easy going manner gone for the moment.
Clint doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
He’s been sure for months now. Since the moment he started thinking of life outside the circus, outside the weight of his past, Clint has known what he wants to do. The military might not be perfect, but it’s real and it’s structured. It’s a place where he can be more than just some runaway, some kid trying to make his way in the world.
Buck flips through the papers, tapping a stack in front of Clint. “This is all gonna be on you, you know.”
“I know,” Clint replies, his voice steady. He knows the risks — he knows he’s not just pushing limits here. He’s breaking every rule that could come back to bite him. But that’s the point. If he can get away with this, then he can get away with anything.
Buck slides over a folder with his name on it, the seal on the front stamped with some unfamiliar government insignia. Clint looks at it, fingers tracing the edge, but it’s not his real name that he sees — Clinton Francis Barton doesn’t exist in the eyes of the system.
“This is the birth certificate. Got you born in ’76 instead of ’79, which gets you in at eighteen,” Buck mutters, watching Clint’s reaction closely.
Clint takes the folder, flipping it open carefully, taking in the weight of what’s inside. He doesn’t feel scared, not really. Just… a little heavy. Like the world is starting to shift under him.
“You’re putting yourself out there for something that could turn on you real quick,” Buck continues, his voice quieter now. “If they catch you with fake papers…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. They both know what happens then.
Clint’s jaw tightens. “I’ll be careful. I know the stakes.”
Buck watches him for a second before he nods. “Alright. Here’s the deal. I’ve got a guy. He’s gonna handle the fake IDs, the whole package. But you gotta follow through. No half-assin’ it. You want this, you work for it.”
“I’m ready.”
“You better be,” Buck says with a grunt, standing up to pace around the room. He stops near the window, looking out at the cloudy sky. “This is gonna be a whole different world, kid. You think you’re ready for it?”
Clint takes a breath. It’s not the first time Buck’s asked him that, and it’s not the first time Clint’s answered with a quiet, confident nod.
“I’m ready,” He says again, with more conviction this time.
Buck nods, not looking back at Clint but rubbing a hand across his mouth. “Alright. I’m in. Let’s get this show on the road, then.”
The morning Clint heads to the recruiter’s office, Buck’s with him, standing in the background like a shadow, offering no words of encouragement or caution — just his silent presence, as if he’s letting Clint make this decision on his own.
Clint walks into the small, cramped office and sits down across from a recruiter with a stern face, his uniform crisp and official-looking.
“Name?”
“Clinton Francis Barton,” Clint answers without flinching, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. He slides the papers across the desk, careful not to show the slightest hint of hesitation.
Lying’s become almost too easy for him; between lying his way out to form a bond with the other circus kids and hiding the nightmares and the pain from Buck, it brings Clint an odd sense of pride to know that his façade of playing older than he is won’t be too hard of an act, usually. But in front of a military recruiter? Yeah, he’s willing to admit that he’s pretty nervous.
The recruiter picks them up, inspecting them carefully, meticulously flipping through the stack. Clint waits, holding his breath, his palms sweating despite the chill in the air.
Finally, the recruiter looks up, nodding. “Everything checks out. You’re good to go.”
Clint feels a jolt of something — relief, maybe, but something else too. The door to his new life is opening wide, and he’s stepping through it with no idea what’s on the other side.
As he walks out of the office, Buck’s waiting by the door, a rare smile on his face.
“You’re really doing this, huh?”
Clint doesn’t smile. Instead, he meets Buck’s gaze and says, “Yeah. I’m really doing this.”
Clint stands outside Buck’s house, his duffel slung over his shoulder, the weight of it pressing into his muscles. The morning air is cold, crisp, the kind that seeps into your bones and lingers. Buck’s leaning against his truck, arms crossed, expression unreadable. They’ve never been the sentimental type — neither of them — but there’s something unspoken hanging between them now.
Clint shifts his weight. “I need you to do me a favor.”
Buck raises a brow. “Yeah?”
Clint hesitates for a second, then pulls his bow from where it’s strapped to the side of his bag and holds it out. “Keep this for me.”
Buck looks down at it, then back at Clint, lips pressing into a thin line. “Kid, you sure?”
“Just till I get back,” Clint says, trying to sound like he’s certain about coming back in the first place. He’s been practicing with this bow for months, gotten so used to the feel of it in his hands that parting with it feels wrong. But there’s no room for it where he’s going.
Buck takes the bow carefully, running a hand along the grip before nodding. “Alright. I’ll hold onto it.” He pauses, then adds, “You’re not gonna get a lot of chances to shoot over there. Military doesn’t exactly hand out bows to their guys.”
“I know.” Clint glances at the truck, then back at Buck. “I’ll figure it out, like always.”
Buck sighs, rubbing the back of his neck before fixing Clint with a look. “You remember what I told you?”
Clint nods. “No anger in my arrows. Or my fists. Or my bullets.”
Buck huffs a small laugh, but his eyes are serious. “You find somethin’ worth fighting for, kid. That’s the only way you get through this in one piece.”
Clint doesn’t have an answer to that, so he just slings his duffel higher and steps back. “Guess I’ll see you around.”
Buck nods, but he doesn’t say goodbye. Neither of them do.
The first few days in the army are a blur of barking orders, endless drills, and exhaustion that digs deep into Clint’s bones. His body aches in ways it never has before, and for someone who’s spent the last few years flipping through the air and landing perfect shots mid-performance, that’s saying something.
The military isn’t the circus. There’s no applause, no showmanship. Just discipline, precision, and the constant need to push harder than the guy next to you.
His bunkmates are a mixed bag — some fresh out of high school, others looking for a way out of whatever life they left behind. Clint doesn’t talk much, doesn’t offer any details about himself beyond what’s necessary. He listens, though. Watches. Figures out who’s who in the first week.
They wake up at the crack of dawn, sometimes earlier, and Clint quickly learns that the drill sergeants love finding new ways to break them down. It’s not about skill — it’s about endurance, about following orders without hesitation. More importantly, it’s about building a mental fortress, strong enough to take on the real world, as Buck would say.
And Clint? He learns fast.
He’s always been quick on his feet, good at adapting. Running through obstacle courses feels natural, almost too easy, though he quickly realizes the army doesn’t care how fast you move if you can’t keep up with everything else. Shooting drills are different. Rifles have weight that bows don’t, recoil that he isn’t completely used to, even with the practice he got from Buck’s marksman rifle. Pistols are smaller and feel too light in his hands. But his aim? That’s solid. And thanks to his time at the circus, he already knows how to control his breathing — how to wield his patience. His instructor takes notice early on, and Clint finds himself getting pulled aside more often than not, getting pushed toward sniper training.
His discipline still needs work — he mouths off more than he should, gets in trouble for not standing at attention fast enough, for smirking when he should be dead serious. But he’s learning. The language, system, everything; Clint’s soaking it all up like a sponge.
More often than he’d like to admit, but his days usually end with him lying in his bunk after a brutal day of drills, staring up at the ceiling, letting the ache settle into his muscles. He thinks about the circus, about the bow Buck’s keeping for him, about whether Barney and Duquesne are even still alive.
He doesn’t miss the circus, not really. But he sure misses something. Maybe just the version of himself that existed there.
But that guy’s gone now.
Clint turns over, closes his eyes, and lets sleep take him before morning comes and he has to prove himself all over again.