Chapter 13
Clint doesn’t need to look back, but he does anyway. The heavy clank of his boots on the cold cement fades, the echoes of the military prison’s walls slipping further into the distance. He’s escaped. But in a way, it’s not freedom; it’s just another step further into the darkness he’s been carrying with him for so long.
He’s sixteen now — just a kid, still, though it feels like he’s spent a lifetime in the army and prison. His time at the circus feels like a fever dream at this point. And now, escaping the prison isn’t about finding safety, it’s about the hunger to move forward, to keep running, to survive. That’s all he’s ever known, really. Survive.
He knows the way back to Buck’s place without even thinking. Photographic memory — it’s one of those things Clint has learned to rely on; a curse and a gift. In a world where everyone’s out to screw him over, the ability to recall every detail, every layout, has kept him one step ahead, sometimes too far ahead. He’d used it to plan his escape, memorizing the prison’s architecture, its weak spots, the guards’ routines. It was methodical. It was a perfect plan. And it worked. But now, with nothing but the clothes on his back and the motorcycle between his legs, he feels emptier than ever before. The darkness inside him is no longer a shadow — it’s who he is.
The motorcycle had been waiting for him — the same one Buck moved near the military base before Clint had even joined the army. Clint didn’t realize it at the time, but Buck had seen it coming. He knew Clint needed something more than just the army, more than just the grind of survival. And so, the bike had been ready for Clint from the moment he was ready to make that choice. It was a gift, and it was a symbol of the one constant in Clint’s life: Buck.
The roar of the engine fills the silence as Clint speeds away, the cold wind biting at his skin. He doesn’t care about the cold, though. The ride feels faster than it really is, but it’s a release. The speed is the only thing that’s grounding him right now. He doesn’t know what comes next. He doesn’t care.
But as the motorcycle hums beneath him, the words Ramirez said echo in his mind. You don’t move like a soldier, you move like a predator. At first, Clint hadn’t fully understood what that meant, why it stung more than the usual insults. He’d fought against it, tried to prove Ramirez wrong, tried to convince himself he wasn’t just another killer. But in the dark recesses of his mind, Clint had known. Ramirez had been right. Clint wasn’t just a soldier, wasn’t just a guy who followed orders. He didn’t follow anything anymore. He only hunted.
Clint’s hands grip the handles of the bike harder, a flicker of regret bubbling in his chest. But it’s not for the kid Ramirez killed. It’s not for anything he’s done or will do. It’s for the fact that he’s let himself go this far. He’s become exactly what Ramirez had warned him about — what Buck always reminded him about: a predator. And that realization hits harder than anything. Not a soldier, not a hero. A predator.
He doesn’t know why that feels like the deepest cut. Maybe because it’s true, and the truth always hurts the most.
When Clint pulls up to Buck’s house, the silence between them feels more oppressive than it ever has before. Buck’s standing in the driveway, arms crossed, his usual steady gaze fixed on Clint. It’s like the man’s been expecting him, but Clint can tell something’s different. The softening in Buck’s eyes is gone now. There’s a hardness there, a wariness that wasn’t there before. And Clint knows why.
“You left,” Buck says quietly, as if he’s just stating a fact. But Clint can hear the disappointment there, underneath it all.
Clint doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know if he should apologize for leaving, for not trusting Buck enough, or if it even matters anymore. His eyes flick to the motorcycle, the one Buck had gotten him when he first joined the army. It had been a gift, a way of showing Clint that there was something else — something outside of the military, outside of the violence.
“I couldn’t stay,” Clint finally mutters, his voice hoarse, rough. It’s not an explanation, but it’s all he has to offer.
Buck’s silence stretches between them, heavy and thick. Then Buck speaks again, his voice softer now, but no less firm. “I know you’re different now, Clint. I know you’ve changed, but you don’t have to be this way. You don’t have to keep running from everything.”
Clint just shakes his head. There’s no coming back from this, not for him. Not for what he’s become. He’s not a soldier. He’s not even a man anymore. He’s a weapon, a machine, and the sooner he accepts that, the better.
“I know, Buck,” Clint says, his voice barely a whisper. “But I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know what else I can do.”
Buck looks like he’s going to say something else, but Clint cuts him off. He doesn’t want to hear it. He can’t.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” Buck’s voice is now barely above a whisper as well, but it’s loud enough to shatter the painful silence Clint has been choking on.
“I know,” Clint chuckles once, bitterly. “I couldn’t leave it behind, though. It’s the only thing that’s mine. The only thing that makes sense anymore.” He traces his fingers along the curve of his bow; Buck kept it just as it’s supposed to be, just like how Clint asked him to. “Bye, Buck.”
Clint turns away, and for the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel like he’s leaving something behind. He feels like he’s running toward something — maybe even running toward himself. He’s not sure. All he knows is that he can’t stay here. Not now. Not like this.
Buck doesn’t stop him as Clint walks toward the motorcycle. The sound of the engine firing up is deafening in the silence. Clint doesn’t look back as he revs it, the tires screeching on the gravel driveway. He’s not looking back at Buck, not looking back at the life he left behind.
It jars him to think that he’s still only sixteen; it’s one hell of a life he’s got here.
The first time Clint walks into the room, no one takes him seriously.
He can see it in their eyes — the way the men lounging around the dark, smoky den size him up, the subtle smirks exchanged behind his back. He’s too young. Too clean. Too new.
Clint doesn’t blame them. He looks like a kid playing dress-up in a killer’s world, but if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that appearances don’t mean shit.
The man across from him, the one running this particular outfit, leans back in his chair and folds his arms. His name doesn’t matter — he’s just another middleman, another stepping stone between Clint and the job. But Clint listens as he speaks anyway.
“You’re the one calling yourself Hawkeye, huh?” The man scoffs. “Real original.”
Clint doesn’t rise to the bait. He just stands there, still, watching. Waiting.
The man sighs through his nose, flicking a glance to his associates. “Look, kid, I don’t know what you think this is, but—”
“I don’t miss.”
The words come out quiet, controlled, but they land with weight. Clint isn’t trying to convince them — he’s stating a fact.
The man raises an unimpressed brow. “That so?”
A slow smile spreads across Clint’s face. He’s not sure if it’s amusement or something colder. “Give me a test run.”
The room falls silent for a moment, then the man chuckles and leans forward, gesturing toward one of his guys by the door.
“Alright, Hawkeye,” He says mockingly. “Let’s see what you got.”
They take him to an abandoned lot just outside the city. Rusted shipping containers stand like silent sentinels under the dim glow of streetlights. The man hands Clint a rifle, one that’s been through hell but still functional.
“There,” He says, nodding toward a lone, battered car across the lot. “Quarter taped to the antenna.”
Clint shoulders the rifle and scopes in. The wind is low, barely a factor. The angle is easy.
He pulls the trigger.
The quarter snaps off and clatters against the windshield.
The silence that follows is different this time.
The men shift on their feet, exchanging glances. Some of them still don’t believe it, so Clint sets the rifle down, pulls a pistol from one of their belts before they can react, and nails the quarter in midair as it drops.
The echo of the gunshot fades, but the point has been made.
Clint straightens, tossing the pistol back to its owner without a word.
The leader of the group exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. “Shit.”
Clint just stares at him, waiting.
A beat of silence. Then, finally—
“Alright, Hawkeye. You got the job.”
Clint doesn’t smile. He doesn’t say thank you. He just nods, his mind already settling into the cold familiarity of precision and distance.
It’s just a job. Just another target. And Clint never misses.