Chapter 11
The heat is suffocating. Dry air fills Clint’s lungs as he crouches behind a crumbling wall, his rifle snug against his shoulder. His heart pounds in his ears, but his hands are steady, his breathing measured. The others are spread out, moving with quiet precision through the ruined village, their boots kicking up dust with every step.
This is it. No training simulation, no practice runs. He’s here.
Clint Barton, fifteen years old and officially nonexistent on paper, is now a sniper in a special forces unit.
He still remembers the moment he was assigned his spotter.
“Barton, meet Ramirez,” His commanding officer had said during briefing. “He’s your eyes. You screw up, he’s the one who’s gonna chew your ass out first.”
Ramirez had grinned, offering a firm handshake. “Hope you’re good, kid. ‘Cause if you’re not, I ain’t carrying your ass through this.”
Clint had smirked, shaking his hand. “You won’t have to.”
They’d bonded fast — over bad food, worse weather, and the shared understanding that in their line of work, you trusted the guy next to you with your life. Ramirez had been the first to tell him, bluntly, that nothing in the field was like training.
“You ever been shot at before, rookie?” He’d asked during a night patrol.
Clint had shaken his head.
Ramirez had chuckled. “That’s gonna change real fast.”
Their unit has been sent to secure a compound in hostile territory. Intel says there’s a high-value target inside, but the village is a maze of crumbling buildings and narrow alleyways — prime ground for an ambush. The moon is high, casting pale light over the sand-colored ruins. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks, the sound quickly swallowed by the oppressive silence.
Clint is stationed on an elevated position, rifle steady as he scans the area through his scope. Ramirez crouches beside him, binoculars pressed to his face.
“Three tangos, west building, second floor,” Ramirez mutters.
Clint shifts his aim, adjusting for distance and wind. His finger rests lightly on the trigger. He takes a slow breath.
“Take ‘em.”
Clint doesn’t hesitate. One squeeze, and the first man drops. The second barely has time to react before he follows. The third tries to run — Clint adjusts, tracks, fires.
Down.
His first real kills. He doesn’t let himself think about it. He ignores how the scar on his ribs throbs.
Gunfire erupts from below as the rest of their unit breaches the compound. The radio crackles in Clint’s ear — commands, updates, someone shouting for backup. He keeps his breathing steady, scanning for the next signs of movement.
“Tango, rooftop, east side,” Ramirez calls.
Clint finds him instantly — rifle raised, taking aim at their squad below.
He doesn’t let him pull the trigger.
A clean shot.
The fight lasts minutes, but it feels like hours. The adrenaline keeps him sharp, focused, but by the time the last shot is fired, and the village falls silent once more, Clint feels every muscle in his body protest. He exhales slowly, flexing his fingers away from the trigger. His shoulders ache, his head pounds, but he’s alive. They all are.
Ramirez nudges him with his elbow as they pack up their gear. “Well, rookie. Congrats. You just survived your first firefight.”
Clint lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. Guess I did.”
But deep down, he knows this is just the beginning.
Clint has learned to breathe with silence.
Not just any silence — the kind that stretches across a battlefield before the first shot rings out, the kind that weighs heavy when a decision has to be made. It’s different from the controlled quiet of the circus ring before a trick, different from the careful hush of Buck’s range before squeezing the trigger. This silence breathes — it waits — and Clint has learned to wait with it.
His first few months in the unit were spent in Ramirez’s shadow, watching, listening, waiting for instructions. Ramirez was always the one calling the plays, positioning them both, deciding which shots to take. Clint had skill, but skill without discipline was just a reckless gamble. So he followed Ramirez’s lead, let himself be shaped by the experience of someone who had been doing this a hell of a lot longer.
But it didn’t take long for things to change.
At first, it was small. Clint would notice wind shifts before Ramirez pointed them out, adjust his scope before the order came. He started predicting movements, knowing exactly where to position himself before anyone told him where to go. Ramirez saw it too. The way Clint wasn’t just reacting — he was anticipating. And then, the shift became undeniable.
“You know what you’re doing,” Ramirez had muttered one night, tossing Clint a pack of rations after a successful mission.
Clint caught it, raising an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”
“I am.” Ramirez scoffed. “Most rookies don’t adapt this fast.”
Clint tore open the pack, shrugging. “Guess I’m not like most rookies.”
“You cocky little shit,” Ramirez smirked.
But after that night, things had changed. The next mission, Ramirez stopped double-checking Clint’s calls. The mission after that, Clint was assigned his own post, his own vantage point separate from Ramirez’s. By the time they were deployed again, Clint was no longer someone to train — he was someone to rely on.
And he knew how to make himself disappear.
He didn’t just shoot — he vanished into his surroundings, moved like he had no weight, no presence, nothing to give him away. He tracked targets like he’d been born to do it, reading their movements like it was second nature. It didn’t take long before the others started calling him Ghost, half-joking, half-serious.
“You don’t move like a soldier,” Ramirez had observed one night as Clint checked over his rifle. “You move like a predator.”
Clint hadn’t known what to say to that.
The final test came on a mission in the mountains. The terrain was rough, the wind unpredictable. Clint was placed at the highest vantage point, Ramirez positioned further down. The order was given:
“Ramirez, spot for Barton.”
But Ramirez didn’t.
“You don’t need me,” Ramirez said over comms. “Take the shot.”
Clint exhaled slowly, adjusting his aim. A single pull of the trigger. The target dropped, no corrections needed. A perfect shot, completely on his own.
“Clean shot, Ghost.”
“It’s Hawkeye, by the way.”
It was an oversight on Clint’s end, but Clint’s still young as fuck, just about to turn sixteen — sixteen, he wonders if any of his team members have cider on them — and he hasn’t trusted anyone other than Buck Chisholm in a long time. But Ramirez seems like a man worth trusting. Not completely, but Clint’s willing to extend his trust beyond hostile regions.
“I’m sorry?”
“You guys keep calling me Ghost, I prefer Hawkeye,” Clint shrugs, whittling a twig with his combat knife. “Ghost is too… it just doesn’t fit me.”
“Oh, so you’re just choosing your own call sign? That’s real cute, rookie.” Ramirez eyes the twig in Clint’s hands, the methodical and expert whittling no doubt catching the former’s attention. “You come up with that yourself?”
Clint flicks a sliver of wood off the tip of his knife. “Yeah.”
Ramirez watches him for a moment before exhaling through his nose, amused. “Well, I guess it fits. You got eyes like a damn bird of prey.”
Clint doesn’t say anything, just keeps whittling. It’s an old habit — one he picked up first from Duquesne, then Buck back in Illinois. Keep your hands busy, keep your mind sharp. Buck used to carve wood into simple figures, rough shapes that gradually smoothed out into something recognizable. Clint never had the patience for that, so he just carves to carve, letting the blade do its work without a final form in mind.
Ramirez shifts in his seat, rifle resting against his knee. “So, what, you never liked Ghost?”
Clint shrugs. “Like I said, it’s not me.”
Ramirez leans back, rubbing at his jaw. “Guess I can see that. Ghosts don’t leave a mark.”
Clint flicks the finished twig aside, watching as it disappears into the underbrush. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. Ramirez has been in the field long enough to know that Clint isn’t the type to fade into the background. He wants to be seen. He wants to leave something behind. Something good, hopefully.
Ramirez claps a hand on Clint’s shoulder as he stands. “Alright, Hawkeye. Hope you live up to it.”
Clint rolls his shoulders as Ramirez walks off, the name settling over him like a familiar weight. He’s not Ghost. He’s never been Ghost.
Hawkeye suits him just fine.
And the next few months only further solidify his place in the unit. Clint isn’t just some kid playing soldier anymore — he’s their sniper, the one they count on when things go sideways. He’s faster, sharper, more precise. He no longer second-guesses his calls, no longer waits for someone else to take the lead.
He earns their respect, not just with his shots, but with the way he handles himself. He’s still young, but no one brings it up anymore. It doesn’t matter when he’s the one dropping targets before they even know they’re being watched.
And with that respect comes something else — trust.
It’s not something Clint is used to. Outside of Buck, he’s never really let himself rely on anyone. But Ramirez is different. The guy’s a veteran, sharp as hell, but he doesn’t act like he’s above Clint. He treats him like an equal, like he sees him.
And maybe Clint doesn’t fully trust him yet — but he’s getting there.
“You ever gonna tell me how a kid like you ended up here?” Ramirez asks one night as they sit around a small fire, eating cold rations.
“Doubt you’d believe me,” Clint chews slowly, considering.
Ramirez raises an eyebrow. “Try me.”
Clint smirks, shaking his head. “Nah. Maybe another time.”
“Figures.” Ramirez huffs. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”
Clint grins, tossing a small pebble at him. “Yeah, but I’m a good shot, so you’ll keep me around.”
Ramirez catches the pebble, rolling it between his fingers before tossing it back. “Damn right.”
For the first time in a long time, Clint feels like he belongs somewhere.
But the thing about belonging is that it never lasts forever.