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Clint’s so high no one can touch him.Well, they can. And they do.But Clint’s high enough he doesn’t care. Not really. A little blue pill, one or two pink ones, half a pale-yellow bar-shaped tablet, and all the sharp edges go soft and fuzzy for a few hours. The big, hulking cameras cease to exist. The bright stage lights look more like sun bursts. The hands on his skin become welcome touches, teasing him with sensation, demanding his submission, wringing every drop of pleasure until he’s completely drained and then pushing him to give a little bit more. Given the feel-good cocktail buzzing through his veins at the moment, Clint might even describe this as ‘kinda awesome.’“How you doin’, Flint?” Jack, his scene partner, asks, briefly injecting reality into Clint’s trip.“’M good,” Clint murmurs, arching into Jack’s touch, closing his eyes, and falling back into the mental haze.Three months ago, when he first showed up looking to scrounge up enough to pay rent, some of the crew raised an eyebrow at the idea of filming with a guy doing his best imitation of a kite, but Clint explained it away, insisting he’s naturally shy and the pills help him come out of his shell. Begrudgingly, the producer allowed a test scene. While anyone within arm’s reach could take one look at Clint’s pupils and see the truth, he proved he could still follow directions, gave believable reactions, and didn’t come across as stoned on film. So, as long as he didn't get sloppy, he could mainline anything he wanted to prep.They have no way of knowing of the truth, that this is just one of the many lies he's told throughout his life, a desperate performance in order to survive. Far from bringing out his true personality, the pills help Clint burrow his true self into a shell, hidden deep, unseeable, unknowable.And there, he doesn’t have to wonder how he ended up here or what his mom would think if she’d lived to see this or if he’ll ever be able to get real work with this kind of dirty laundry in his closet. He doesn’t have to think of the thousands, maybe millions of people who will jerk off imagining what they’d do if they could get their hands on him. He doesn’t have to wonder if some cruel twist of fate will drop a copy of one of his videos into the laps of one of the few living people he actually still respects like Henry Carson.Nope. Once a week, in exchange for enough money that he doesn’t have to worry about food or rent and can actually dare to imagine a future for himself, Clint pops his pills, shuts down his brain, and turns over control of his body for a few hours, submitting to every demand.And the crowds fucking love him.“I need a color,” Jack prods as his fingers do something wicked that makes Clint whine sharply.“Green,” Clint moans, rolling his hips the best he can.In a way, Clint’s lucky. His slighter build and stature make him really popular for the more vanilla forms of kink. Soft shit like 'Twink’s first time' and 'Noobie gets drilled' or whatever. The customers who are drawn to his particular look want to see a fresh-faced, an innocent man-boy who's shocked by the idea of a sex act and then not-so-secretly loves it. So, Clint comes in, slaps on the excited grin he’s perfected, holds his fake ID (which was the main reason he was so cash strapped) up next to his face, and is filmed verbally 'verifying' his age and consenting to the slate he’s been scheduled for that day. Usually, it’s fairly sedate stuff that lets them knock out enough material for three or four videos back to back.Getting a blow job while acting like he’s never had one before and is nearly dying of pleasure? Check. Giving a blow job while staring up with big, soulful eyes and periodically pretending to choke? Yep. Being fucked in various positions while gasping about how full he feels and begging for more? Been there, done that. Afterwards, they usually wrap it up with a series post-coital interview that are then spliced at the end of the appropriate video where Clint gushes about how much he loved it all and is looking forward to playing more next time.Today's a little out of the normal, though. They’re working on something different. Apparently some ridiculously loaded fanboy wrote in and commissioned a scenario, specifically requesting Clint, or 'Flint Poleman' as he’s known on set, for a specific fantasy he wants to see acted out. The entire set is buzzing about it. They’re a fairly small operation. Custom requests could open up a massive new revenue stream for them.At first, Clint’s not sure how he feels about being singled out, but when they tell him how much his personal cut will be, he gets over it quickly. The payday from this single film will go a long way towards shoring up his nest egg and getting him the hell out of Dodge. He's totally willing to bend over and grab ankles or whatever for that. A few calls and a large money transfer later and they’re roaring to go.Which is how Clint ends up naked, bound at the wrists, ankles, and thighs, several sets of ropes snaking up and around his body down to the rails of the bed frame to keep his body open to touch.Clint’s gasping, panting, not just feigning for the cameras, but in true desperation, as Jack’s hand works, edging him to the very reaches of his limits, per the patron's request.“Please…. Please, I need…” Clint groans, hips jerking up as much as the ropes will allow. “More…” Jack aggressively works Clint open, making him writhe.“Good?” he asks teasingly.Clint nods dumbly, watches wordlessly as Jack’s other hand slides upward. He grips Clint’s shaft tightly, delivering the speed and friction Clint has been desperate for this whole time, shoving Clint to the hovering edge of release.But just as he starts to seize up, Jack lets go abruptly.“No!” Clint howls desperately, his voice breaking. Jack tuts mockingly, really playing it up for the cameras.Then Jack, the bastard, repeats the whole process again, a second time, a third time, until Clint's crying in earnest, as requested, pleading brokenly for release.“You’ve been so good. I think you’ve earned it,” Jack croons.Finally, Jack takes him in a firm, tight grip and a rhythm that sends Clint careening towards the finish line so fast his heart physically hurts a little as his pulse races to keep up with the increased stimulation.“Yeah, yeah, please…” Clint chants between gasping breaths, his hips squirming. His muscles tense, tighter and tighter, spots dance in front of his eyes, and…“Freeze! Federal agents! This is a raid! Everybody put your hands up!”The hand that has been guiding Clint towards burning bliss is suddenly snatched away.“No!” Clint howls, utterly oblivious to what’s happening around him, only able to focus on the broken promise of release. “Fuck! Jack… Come on! You promised!”But Jack doesn’t respond.After a few seconds where Clint’s sure he’s going to burst into honest to god tears, he peels his eyes open.And sees he’s surrounded by what looks like a SWAT team. A brief glance around the room shows him all of his coworkers in various positions of surrender, some standing with their hands in the air, others kneeling with their hands behind their heads. Clint can't even begin to process what's going on. His eyes drift back to one of the guys in all black, a balaclava covering most of his face. The guy hesitantly takes a first step towards Clint only to be pulled back. The guy looks over his shoulder then makes way for whomever he sees there.A man in a neat, black suit steps between two of the gun-toting goons. He’s kind of bland looking, the kind of nondescript that probably makes him very effective as a fed, with just the slightest hint of what will probably eventually be a receding hairline. And he has the kindest blue eyes.“How old are you?” he asks softly, his demeanor somehow simultaneously non-judgmental and concerned.Clint blinks slowly, struggling to bring his brain back online, the question echoing in the void of his mind where his thoughts should be. Unable to answer around the lump of thwarted desire in his throat, he moans and licks his lips, letting his eyes fall shut.“Christ…” somebody else murmurs. “Cover him up.”A heavy blanket drops over Clint’s hips. And mortifyingly, the solid weight and soft, velveteen texture are enough to send him careening over the edge.He moans and spasms, incapable of even being embarrassed in the moment as he pants through the long-awaited release. When it’s over, his body slumps and his eyes roll back. Exhaustion and the downers he took prove to be too much even in the middle of a clear crisis. In the split second before the darkness pulls him under, Clint belatedly thinks, ‘I might be in trouble.’
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
When people think of a covert federal agency, it’s probably all explosions and master spies running around in a global game of cat and mouse, like in the movies. And, yes, admittedly that is part of what SHIELD does. But it’s only made possible by the million other mundane things they do, including surveillance, infiltration, and raids. Companies of all sizes from mom and pop shops to multinational conglomerates. Any of them can house a nasty underbelly which might swell out of control if unchecked.While far lower on the list of priorities, they raid a porn studio roughly once a quarter. Some of the owners piss and moan, railing against puritanical moral judgment sanctioned by the government (although they usually shout it with much more colorful words of the four-letter variety) and Phil’s been accused of being a pearl-clutching busybody more than once. But the truth is far more complex. While the industry is nominally legal, the lack of any true regulatory agency beyond the CDC (whose primary concern is keeping a lid on communicable diseases) tends to draw in seedier elements looking for a legitimate front for their shadier activities, sometimes with the owner and workers none the wiser. So, SHIELD dutifully keeps their ear to the ground, listening for the next murmur that could lead to a bigger bust, like today.Phil, standing in a small, eight by ten interrogation room they commandeered from the local PD, flips open the folder he already knows by heart. Happy Trails, a small studio owned by one Hunter F. Thompson, birth name Ralph Edward Burroughs, suddenly started garnering a lot of chatter on the trade wires about two weeks ago. Initial investigation showed reasonable finances for a company their size. A quick glance through their video portfolio showed an offering that wasn’t necessarily to Phil’s personal tastes but neither did they merit governmental intervention.That all changed this morning when the little company was wired a deposit ten times their normal monthly income from a series of dummy corporations SHIELD analysts had tagged as being associated with Sergei Rutsov, an up-and-coming Latverian crime boss desperate to get footholds established in the West.Phil looks up from his file and settles his gaze on his detainee. He doesn’t say anything. Just sits and waits.After a few moments of what most would probably call ‘uncomfortable eye contact’, the guy begins to squirm.“Don’t you have to let me make a phone call or something?” he blurts out.Phil tilts his head ever so slightly to the right and waits two more seconds before answering. “You’re thinking of jail where you’re processed and booked, then allowed to call someone to arrange bail. You’re quite a few levels above jail, Mr. Thompson.”Thompson shifts nervously, his breathing speeding up a few ticks.“Then maybe I need a lawyer...”Phil pauses, waits for Thompson to make the words a firm request rather than a vague musing tossed out to gauge reaction. But the man doesn’t. Which is probably for the best. Phil hates invoking the anti-terrorism laws just to run the clock.“No need,” Phil says, taking a seat across from Thompson, the metal slab of a table all that separates them. From here, he can see the fine sheen of sweat starting to bead Thompson’s hairline.“I just want to ask you a few questions about your business.”Thompson’s lips pinch into a frown before smoothing out. He crosses his arms but sits up a little straighter. “I didn’t know the feds were into porn but who am I to judge?”Phil lets his lips curve up into a small smile. “For the most part, we aren’t. As long as you pay your taxes.”“And I do. Every year. I get a bit of a kick outta watching the tax prep lady blush when I tell her how much lube I’m writing off as a business-related expense,” Thompson says with a bemused smile, his body language loosening just a bit. “So, I should be good, right?”“Sure, as long as all of your actors are consenting adults,” Phil says.“Consenting…,” Thompson parrots slowly, seeming genuinely confused.“Your actors. Consenting adults. Are they?”Thompson’s brow furrows and his face mottles a patchy red. Whatever ease had been in his body disappears.“Hey, man. Whatever you’re trying to say… I run a legitimate business. Church folk might not like it, but it’s all on the up and up. Everybody on my roster? There willingly. I make sure of it each and every time they come in.”Phil purses his lips to show that he’s giving the man’s words actual consideration.“As important as consent is, I’m actually more focused on the ‘adult’ part.”Thompson blanches.“I don’t hire kids,” he insists through clenched teeth. “That’s sick and illegal.”“Well, I’d like to believe you, but there’s just one problem. You hired this one,” Phil says, placing down a tightly cropped photo of Clinton Barton they’d pulled from one of the films. The boy is clearly in flagrante delicto and his face suggests he’s in the middle of doing something that would send Children’s Services into a tizzy.Thompson’s face goes deathly white. “Wait! No... No! That’s not… Jesus… Flint’s eighteen. I’m sure of it. He showed me his license and his birth certificate. No. You’re wrong.”Phil hums. “Not according to the federal fingerprint database, the one for missing and exploited children just so we’re clear, which identifies him as a sixteen-year-old missing from a foster home in Wisconsin. And he just turned sixteen a month ago. How long did you say he’s been filming with you?”Thompson ignores the rhetorical question, probably unable to hear it over the massive meltdown that’s building.“Oh fuck… no… fuck fuck fuck…” the guy whispers desperately. “I… I didn’t mean to…”Phil sighs, not unkindly. He returns the photo to his folder.“Doesn’t really matter. Every second of footage? Kiddie porn. Any money you received for it? Illegal. Anyone who downloads it is in possession. Anyone who… partnered with him is looking at endangerment of a minor, statutory rape, production of child pornography. Letting him so much as walk through the door of your set was enough to get you shut down. Never mind the Viagra and OxyContin we found in his system after pulling him directly from your film set.”Thompson’s body tenses, giving every sign of a man about to make a desperate, ill-advised bid for freedom. Phil’s own body responds in kind, ready for anything. He might not outwardly look it, but he didn’t get this far on brains alone. Anyone who underestimates him does so at their own peril. But between one breath and the next Thompson collapses, all signs of fight gone, defeat in every stressed line of his face.“I… I didn’t know,” Thompson says plaintively. “Honest. I know how that sounds like bullshit, but I swear! I really was just trying to run a clean business.”“Ignorance is not a legal defense. You have a duty to do due diligence,” Phil reminds him. “But…”“But?” Thompson repeats, perking up, a drowning man scrambling at the hint of a life preserver.“I might be able to help you. If you help us.”Thompson nods frantically, his headed moving up and down like a bobblehead doll after being flicked.“Yes! Whatever you… Whatever I can do. There’s gotta be something. I don’t wanna go to jail for something like this. And I have kids. I can’t be on some sex offender list.”Phil pulls out a photo and slides it over to Thompson.“Tell me what you know about Sergei Rutsov.”“Who?”“Sergei Rutsov. The guy who wired you almost two hundred thousand dollars this morning.”Thompson heaved an irritated sigh. “Damn it to hell. Is nobody going by their real name?”Phil lifted a brow at Ralph-cum-Hunter who saw no irony in his own complaint. “Seems par for the course in your business.”“True enough, I guess.”He looks at Phil’s picture again. "I don’t know anything about a Sergei Rutsov. In his letter, he said his name was Seth Ruthers and he was just a big fan of our work. Came across like an idle rich kid with money to burn.”“So, you took a huge payment from him and focused all of your company’s resources on his request, no questions asked.”Thompson wipes a hand over his face.“I got excited, ok? I saw dollar signs and I didn’t stop to check if it was glitter or gold," he sighs heavily and slumps in his seat. "So, what’s the deal with Sergei Rutsov? Is he secretly underage, too? Another minor I unknowingly corrupted?”“No. He’s an international criminal and aspiring terrorist you laundered money for and nearly gave a foothold here in the States.”Thompson stares at Coulson for a long moment as though waiting for the punchline. When one doesn’t come, he blinks and lets his gaze drop.“I think I’m going to be sick…”-Half an hour later, Phil exits the interrogation room with every detail Hunter Thompson could think of regarding his brief correspondences with Sergei Rutsov’s operation and a few details that had nothing to do with the case but Thompson seemed to have thrown in for fear of appearing to hide something. Ultimately, Coulson will probably recommend a huge fine, heavy and extended supervision, and maybe an adjudicated sentence that could be expunged if they all keep their noses clean for the foreseeable future. The kind of fines the State AG will hand down for child pornography, however unwittingly produced and distributed, will probably force the studio to shutter, but it pales in comparison to the time, resources, and manpower the government will spend to chase those dozens of illegal and illicit videos from the respectable parts of the internet to the farthest corners of the dark web.Phil emerges from the police station, affidavits secured in his briefcase, and climbs into his dark sedan, starting the vehicle up and pointing it in the direction of the hospital. He has one more witness to debrief.
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Smell isn’t his strongest sense, but Clint knows from the first shallow inhale upon waking that he’s somehow managed to land himself in a hospital. Not that he’s been in one all that often, even when he probably should’ve been. Too expensive and too risky, crawling with well-meaning do-gooders asking all kinds of nosy questions. But the epic size of the shit storm required to force an ultra-rare hospital visit made the sounds and smells painfully memorable and unmistakable.Experienced enough not to give away what little advantage he has, Clint carefully keeps his eyes closed and reaches out with his other senses best he can, trying to remember what exactly got him here this time. A soft, nubby standard-issue hospital blanket under his fingertips. The low, repetitive beep of the heart monitor to his left. The soft shush of recycled air with that distinct medicine-y smell wafting through the vents. A TV in the far corner of the room tuned to some type of upbeat kid’s show, turned down to the point of barely being audible. Cushioned footsteps in the hall, most likely staff going wherever they’re needed.But most importantly, Clint detects a silent presence in the room. It doesn’t feel… dangerous… but it’s definitely out of place. Once upon a time, this would’ve been reassuring, because it would’ve been his brother, concerned and protective, dependable like the sun. But that… that‘s in the past. Barney made it very clear the last they spoke that he’s no longer responsible for Clint or his wellbeing.Swallowing hard against the painful lump that thought puts in his throat, Clint refocuses. He cracks his eyes the tiniest of slivers, just enough to be able to glimpse through his eye lashes and get a lay of the land. Scope then plan, he reminds himself.It’s a guy... No. Fuck. It’s a fed.Wha…Then between one breath and the next, the whole embarrassing ordeal comes rushing back. Clint barely manages to bite back an embarrassed groan. His can almost see the feds who found him gathered around a water cooler laughing their guts out about the weird ass twink who shot his load in the middle of a raid.At least this guy didn’t see it live, even if he probably knows about it.Forcefully pushing the thought away, Clint continues his stealthy surveillance. The guy’s clothes practically scream G-Man, but he’s a bit younger than the one he’d seen before, probably fresh out of fed school or wherever they hatch these guys. That might work in Clint’s favor. The guy’s body language says he’s not expecting trouble, a little on the bored side if anything. Sitting at Clint’s bed side, he’s got one ankle propped up on the other knee, a newspaper balanced on his lap. Relaxed and settled in for the long haul, he’s leisurely working on the crossword puzzle.Clint pretends to shift in his sleep, testing both his arms and legs to be sure he’s not cuffed to the bed. But all his body reports back is the slight sting of chafed skin at his wrists, ankles, and thighs from struggling against Jack’s ropes earlier. He relaxes, as much as he can with the law sitting three feet away and blocking the most obvious exit. With a deep breath, like someone shifting in the middle of sleep, he turns his head. A steady glimpse through his lashes reveals even more concerning details. In addition to the kids’ show on the TV, the walls are painted a soft but cheerful blue with a parade of colorful, smiling cartoon balloons floating across the wall, a sight that should be uplifting, but instead makes his stomach sink down to his toes.It’s the pediatric wing. They’ve somehow figured out his real age.Shit.He’s gotta get out of here before he ends up in some stupid group home for troubled kids. Again.“You’re in a hospital, kid,” the fed says suddenly.Clint freezes, considering what to do next. His indecision becomes audible as the beeping of the heart monitor speeds up.Damn it.“I know you’re awake. Pretty sure you’ve been casing the room for the last ten minutes,” the agent says with a bit of humor in his voice.Clint’s tempted to keep ignoring him or maybe pull the blanket over his head, but it’ll be even harder to convince the guy he’s wrong about Clint being a minor if he pretends to be asleep to make the bad man go away.“It’s okay. You’re not in any trouble. You’re safe,” the guy says, misreading Clint’s hesitancy.With an internal sigh, he lets his eyes flutter open and looks over.The fed gives a small smile. “There you are. Been waiting for a couple of hours. I’m Agent Bennett. You can call me Andrew or Andy if you like. I’m here to make sure you’re safe and everybody’s being nice to you.”Well, you’re about a decade too late, Clint thinks with a barely suppressed snort.But now’s not the time for one of his rare pity parties. Clint clears his throat and shifts a little, trying to sit up, swallowing a groan at the tenderness in his body. Quickly folding his paper and stashing it away, Bennett leans forward and pushes a button on one of the rails. The head of the bed rises, giving Clint a stable incline to rest against.Once he’s settled, Clint opens his mouth, even as he’s still trying to figure out what he can say to get out of this.“Why am I…”That’s all he gets out before his rasp disintegrates into a hacking cough. Bennett reaches for the bedside tray and pours some water, passing the plastic cup to Clint who accepts it gratefully, letting the cool liquid soothe his throat and wash away the nasty, chalky taste coating his tongue.When he’s had his fill, he passes the cup back.“Why are you what?” Bennett prompts patiently.Clint’s dealt with enough social workers to know he has to choose his words carefully so they don’t come back to bite him when he least expects it.“What are you going to do with me?” he corrects. “Am I going to jail?”He probably can’t be prosecuted for the porn, but they might be able to nail him for lying about his age. And he’s well aware that being a runaway can land you in juvie ‘for your own good.’“Nah,” Bennet says. “In fact, you’re probably the only one who’s not going to jail. We arrested the bad men who hurt you and they’ll be going away for a long, long time.Clint grimaces, equally at the thought of Hunter, Jack, and the others going to prison primarily for the unintentional sin of trusting him and at Bennet’s patronizing tone. If Clint wasn’t eighty percent sure he’ll need to play the poor-innocent-me card to get out of this, he’d remind the agent he’s sixteen not six.Bennet doesn’t notice the reaction and rattles on about how Clint’s the true victim here, trapped at the center of a vicious child pornography ring. He assures Clint he’s done nothing wrong and goes on and on about how they can get him placed in a great home with all the support he needs.This doesn’t have to define you, he says. You can go on to live a normal life.Clint gives a perfected hopeful smile like he’s swallowing the pretty, little lies hook, line, and sinker just to get the guy to shut up.As the day continues, Clint and Bennett talk sporadically. When the topic’s not about Clint’s newly former occupation, Bennett loosens up and talks to Clint like the near adult he actually is. They talk a little about basketball (apparently, the local college basketball team is having a pretty decent season), about school (the three and a half years Clint attended were okay), about a TV show centered around a monster hunter Bennett likes and thinks Clint should watch (Clint hasn't had access to a TV of his own since he was five).Finally, a pretty nurse comes in with a tray of food.“I hope you have an appetite,” she coos.Clint definitely does. He hoards his earnings jealously, but normally after a day of filming, he treats himself to the biggest, most wasteful burger combo on Hungry Henry’s deluxe menu. An extreme luxury, it replenishes the calories he’s burnt and helps dull the effects of the drugs in his system. By now, his stomach his trying to figure out what gives and he’s about ready to eat anything they put in front of him.Still, he’s a little disappointed at the tray in front him that’s apparently the ‘sensitive tummy’ menu the docs recommend after having to pump someone’s stomach. Clint wonders idly if this is what adults get, too.He pokes half-heartedly at the Jell-O, scoops up a bite. It’s sweet and tangy, nearly painful in how sharp the citrusy taste is against his deprived taste buds. But instead of rejoicing in what would be a rare sweet treat on nine out of ten days, he screws up his face and makes a displeased sound, perfectly mimicking the spoiled brats he sometimes sees when he passes restaurants with outdoor seating.“This is gross,” he whines. “You said I’m not in trouble, but this tastes like punishment.”Bennett snorts. “Hospital rules.”Clint sighs and mushes the gelatin under his plastic spoon.“You sure you can’t get me anything from the cafeteria?” he wheedles.“Sorry. Can’t leave my post,” Bennett says, sounding somewhat genuinely sympathetic.Clint decides to up the ante, feeling like a heel even as he knows what he has to do.“I’m sorry. I’m being a brat,” he apologizes, infusing his voice with his best imitation of sincerity. “It’s just that… At the last foster home, I was in… the dad. He used to… he used to make me… it was in the jello, so I couldn’t fight back, ya know?”Clint looks up, letting tears well in his eyes. “It was strawberry, not lime like this, but the texture… I just... I can’t…”Bennett, who is probably far too kind-hearted for this job, nods with a soft sympathy in his eyes. He swallows once and then after a few seconds stands.“Tell you what. There’s a food court on the first floor for visitors. How’s a burger and fries sound?” he asks with a placating smile, his eyes a little desperate with the need to make it better.“Like heaven,” Clint says with a timid smile, a little sad he won’t be around to enjoy the fruits of his yarn he’s spinning.“Alright, don’t go anywhere,” Bennett says, probably thinking it’s a rhetorical joke. Coulson’s cellphone buzzes at the exact same moment the elevator chimes heralding his arrival on the proper floor. He doesn’t even have time to check it before the elevator doors slide open and he’s confronted by harried agent. Bennet. A level 2 agent with a security clearance one step above trainees who could be spared to babysit a kid for the afternoon.“We’re looking everywhere, sir,” Bennet blurts out, trying to forestall whatever reaction he anticipates from the senior agent.Before Coulson can even formulate a response, his cellphone vibrates three more times in rapid succession. With a sigh, he slips it out of his pocket and glances down at the cascade of notifications.
MINOR CB MISSING. FLOOR SEALED. SEARCHING.
CODE YELLOW ACTIVATED.
AMBER ALERT?
PLS ADVISE.
He looks up at Bennet who gulps and takes a nervous step back, probably seeing all his career hopes and dreams flash before his eyes.“That kid had enough drugs in his system to keep him off his feet for at least another three hours,” Coulson says in a measured tone. “How exactly did he manage to slip past an agent posted in his room and the entire hospital staff?”Bennett relays how the kid suckered him and Phil almost has to admire it, especially from someone so young. That doesn’t make it any easier to accept. The kid was under their care and he might be running back to the arms of a pimp or who knows what kind of awful abusive situation. The story he gave Bennett wouldn’t be an uncommon backstory for someone who ended up in the porn industry so young.Coulson organizes a methodical search of first the hospital and then expands the search grid to a ten-block radius. All they ever find is an abandoned hospital gown and a broken lock where he stole clothes from a PA’s locker.Most sixteen-year-olds can’t successfully avoid a federal manhunt, even one conducted with kid gloves because of the age of the subject.Phil’s professional interest is piqued.
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The first order of business after slipping away from his fed shadow is clearing town. Unfortunately, that’ll mean running out on the lease for his tiny efficiency apartment which is a goddamned waste. The place is perfect, located in a slightly rundown part of town with low rent prices designed to appeal to students at the nearby junior college and anyone who can tolerate the constant noise and traffic they create. With the ebb and flow of each semester and graduation, the complex has a high turnover rate, making it much easier for Clint to blend in among the fresh-faced eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds. On top of that, it’s a bottom floor corner unit with plenty of ways to get in and out in a hurry, within walking distance of a discount grocer, a laundromat, a skate park, and the library. For a little while, despite the less than savory things he did to pay for it, Clint had felt like he had his own little slice of home and he has to bite back burning swells of anger in his belly as he pulls out drawers and dumps the contents into a duffle bag, preparing leave the first stable residence he’s had in years.It’s unavoidable, though. He’s not naïve enough to think the feds hadn’t fingerprinted him while he was unconscious. It’s standard practice for an unidentified minor they believe is being trafficked. Add in all the still photos and video of him they had to have confiscated from Happy Trails, it’s only a matter of time before they track him down if he stays.Teeth clenched, Clint stomps away from the dresser over to his bedside table. He picks up the books he kept there. A GED workbook and a course catalogue from the junior college. He stares at them for a moment before chucking them violently into the trash, scoffing a disgusted noise at the ridiculousness of it all.“In your dreams,” he mutters darkly to himself.He’d spent so much time blending in with co-eds, listening to them talk about school and their plans for the future, he’d started to nurse a fantasy that maybe one day he could actually be one of them. He’d been painstakingly working his way through the GED prep book, the minuscule progress each night making it even more glaringly obvious he was ridiculously fucking behind. Not that he'd held any illusions to the contrary. The last time he’d consistently gone to school had been the third grade and even then it hadn’t been every day. He and Barney had both missed long stretches when their foster dad decided there were too many cuts or bruises to avoid suspicion.Clint could read, though. Well, mostly. As long as there weren’t too many big words. And he could do basic math, particularly the kind that had to do with budgeting money. But he was better at hands on application. He could eyeball a person or a building and figure out how tall they were, how far away they were, what angle he would need to hit them with a rock or arrow. Good to know in the circus when he needed to make flashy trick shots, not so much in day to day life. He’d spent more than one night wistfully flipping through the course cataloguing, circling classes that sounded interesting, trying to figure out how what he knew, what he could do, and what was being offered could be cobbled into a two-year degree.He should’ve known better. Fucking loser, like every other Barton before him.Having packed everything else he intends to take, he drops to a knee and slides a long, canvas duffel out from under his bed. Unzipping the bag then lifting the flap of the cardboard box inside, he runs a reverent hand over the contents, a brief reassurance that everything is still intact. His bow and quiver. He might not use her every day anymore, but he’d never leave his girl behind. For a while, his shooting days had started to seem like another lifetime, but he might need them now. Re-fastening everything, he pulls the straps of his duffels over his shoulder. After one last longing look around the room, he sets his shoulders and walks out, locking the door behind him, literally closing the door on that chapter his life. Sighing in frustration, he heads out towards the Greyhound station.Phil can’t stand leaving a job undone. Even though he isn’t the one who lost Barton, he feels like he’s failing the kid by not finding him. However, seedy it might’ve been, they cut the kid off from his primary means of providing for himself then lost track of him before making sure he had a safe place to stay and steady means to eat. If his time as a Ranger and then as federal agent has taught him anything, it’s that people will do wildly foolish things to put a roof over their head and food in their belly. That’s how they catch ninety-eight percent of their informants and a good chunk of their criminals.He can’t focus on Barton’s case las much as he’d like. One kid who voluntarily fled hospital care is not professionally considered worth the full attention of a senior SHIELD agent. But it’s a case that Phil worries at like a sore tooth any time he has a modicum of down time. Today, he has an hour or so before his next briefing and he finds himself standing in front of what is quickly becoming his unofficial Clint Barton Corkboard Clue Board. Using the finger prints they’d taken from the kid and a little investigative elbow grease, Phil’s been able to patch together a timeline of the kid’s tragic-so-far life. There are only two pictures of Barton that were not pulled from Happy Trails, one taken around age 3 and another around age 7. Phil considers the circumstances that would allow for a four year gap where no one cared to take a single picture of a growing child. There's nothing he can do other than shake his head.The Barton family history starts much in the same way as all families. Harold and Edith Barton married in 1974, a butcher and homemaker respectively, settled down in Waverly, Iowa. Eldest son Charles Bernard Barton born in 1977, youngest son Clinton Francis Barton born in 1981. The first signs of trouble showed up in 1984 with a note from Charles’ second grade teacher concerned about the bruises on the boy. Two years later, Clint’s kindergarten teacher called Social Services, concerned about Clint’s tendency to steal food and hide it in his cubby. Over the continuing two years, the concerns continue ranging from hospital admissions for broken bones which also noted that the boys were painfully underweight and poorly socialized, school records marking teachers' request for special services for Clint to test for a learning disorder, and notes from a social worker, noting deadlines the Barton parents had been given to address the concerns their social worker had presented about the boys’ wellbeing in addition to notes in the margin that suggested evidence of domestic violence between husband and wife. It had all come to a head with a police report from 1988 detailing the fatal crash that had killed Harold and Edith. Harold’s blood alcohol had been nearly triple the legal limit.The man shouldn’t have even been upright, let alone behind the wheel of a car, Phil thinks to himself as he flips the page.It had taken the police three days to identify the bodies and an additional two for the staff at Waverly Elementary to hear the news and call the police to find out what had become of the two Barton boys.From there, with no living relatives, they’d bounced from foster to foster home until in 1992, just shy of Clint’s eleventh birthday, both boys had disappeared, neither one generating any additional paper work until Clint landed on SHIELD’s radar with Happy Trails.Phil sighs and scratches his head. What happened in those missing six years? Where's the older brother? By all accounts, they’d been as thick as thieves.The clue has to lie in the last foster home. Phil sits at his desk and shoots off a quick email before heading to his briefing. If he can find out what was happening in Hayward, Wisconsin in August of 1992, maybe he’ll have a lead on his missing kid.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
By all appearances Althea Nelson is a sweet, kind old lady. With snow-white hair and pale, age-worn skin that makes her look every bit the grandmother she’d be if she’d ever had kids of her own, she doesn’t seem capable of harming anyone, not physically any way. But Phil knows there’s more than one way to hurt a person. Her social services folder says she’s been banned from fostering children since February of 1993, one month after it was discovered she’d failed to report the disappearance of the Barton brothers over six months earlier.“What can you tell me about this boy?” Coulson asks, setting out the photo of Clint that was closest in age to when Althea had fostered him.She studies the photo for a brief moment. “Clinton. Clint. Quiet little guy. Cute, too. Eyes like silver dollars just watchin’ everything. Surprised you’re here about him and not that brother of his. That one’s the reason my license got pulled.”“Can you tell me exactly what happened?” Coulson prodded. He’d read the official account, but he wanted her to describe it in her own words.Her lips press into a thin line and her brow furrowed briefly before smoothing out. “I fostered for nearly forty years, did you know that? And I ran a tight ship. Firm love. Most of the kids just needed rules, some consistency. To know somebody cared enough to set limits.”She looks down at the picture again.“In ’82 and in ‘83, I was honored by the city for my work. ‘An angel of mercy’ they called me. I was good for those kids. Being here helped them,” she says emphatically. “All I wanted… I just wanted to give them a good home.”Then she sighs, a resigned sound.“But maybe… maybe I was a fool, too caught up in how much I liked helping. I should’ve admitted long before it fell apart that I knew I was getting too old to wrangle last chancers.”Coulson raised a brow in interest. “The Bartons were ‘last chancers’?”Althea draws a contemplative breath, taking a moment to unwrap and rewrap the shawl around her shoulders.“Not the younger one, no. He was a sweetheart, left to his own devices. A lot of families would’ve been glad to take him in. But that older one? He could get up to no good in an empty room. And there wasn’t no keepin’ them apart. If he fell into trouble, the younger one would dive right in after him.”Coulson nodded. It matched what little he knew of the boys. “And they found trouble here?”She gives him a sharp look. “Won’t do you no good playin’ dumb with me. You know they did.”“I know what I read, ma’am. I’m asking for your insight,” Coulson replies firmly but respectfully.She gives an agreeable nod, takes a sip of the ice tea she’d set out for them, stalling a moment longer before continuing.“One of the rules was that boys weren’t allowed on the second floor. That’s where the girls’ rooms were. Mine is the first door past the stair landing,” she says. “But that Barney… he was a charmer and a sneak.”She clicks her tongue ruefully. “In my hay day, he’d’ve never got past me. I had ears like a bat. But that boy? Quiet like mouse and sly like a fox when he wanted to be.”“And the fox got in the hen house?” Coulson supplied helpfully.“Yeah, he did,” she says. “I never really bought his choir boy act. Too obvious, ya know? But by the time I realized how much rule breaking he was really doin’, Pamela was three months on.”The murmured admission hung in the air, heavy and stale.“Can’t imagine a foster child turning up pregnant while in state care went over well,” Coulson murmured.“Went over like a lead balloon,” she said with a shake of her head. “Social services immediately pulled all three girls. I never got any of ‘em back. Pamela went to a special home for pregnant teens while they investigated. Then she started sayin’ he forced himself on her. It was a mess.”Phil knew from reading the file, the girl had eventually recanted, saying they’d been boyfriend and girlfriend and she’d simply been afraid of being punished if she admitted she’d willingly had sex with her foster brother, particularly since Barney happened to be two years younger than her. But by the time she’d had her change of heart, the Bartons had already disappeared, Barney likely scared to death of facing sexual assault charges.“Why didn’t you tell anybody when the boys ran?”She closes her eyes for a long moment and a dull red flushes her skin.“Embarrassment, I guess,” she says. “I failed my girls. Then I failed my boys.”“And you never figured out where they went?” he asks.She shakes her head. “Never heard a peep out of them. They didn’t have any family, never claimed to know anybody anywhere. Clint sometimes talked about running off to the circus, but he also talked about living on the moon. You know how kids that age are.”Coulson cocks his head, intrigued. “Did you ever take them to see the circus?”Althea shakes her head confused. “No. Other than Clint, all of my kids were teenagers. They wouldn’t’ve like it.”“But was there ever a circus ever around? Or a carnival or some type of traveling exhibition?”Althea pauses, thinking. “You know, there was a… a carnival. I remember it from the way back when I was much younger. It used to travel through, made a circuit of the surrounding states. It was a family troop. Or at least a group pretending to be a family. Carl’s… Carlson’s… Carson’s. That’s it. Carson’s Carnival of Traveling Wonders.”Coulson jots the name down on the inside of the folder before sliding the photos inside and flipping it closed. He pulls a card from his breast pocket.“If you think of anything else,” he says.She takes it, inspecting the bland white card with just his name, a generic federal agent title, and an untraceable number.“Of course,” she says.As Phil heads towards the door, she follows, seeing him off.“Whatever Clint’s gotten himself mixed up in, just know he’s a good kid,” she says. “Just had a hard start and never quite shook it.”“He hasn’t done anything bad,” Phil assures her. “I’m just trying to find him and make sure he’s safe. I want to help him.”“Good,” she says firmly. “That one needs all the help he can get.”- Crossing state lines isn’t much of a hassle once he manages to convince the lady at the ticket window that Yes, his dad would be there to meet him on the other end and It’s not a big deal. His mom and dad send him back and forth several times a month and twice during summers. Ticket in hand, Clint slumps into the seat, relieved when the bus is finally in motion. It won’t actually stop the feds who have jurisdiction nationwide particularly in cases of kiddie porn. But California’s a pretty big state with lots of lost little boys and girls who came seeking fortune and fame. It’ll take them a while to figure out he skipped out on the state all together.He’d heard a lot about Portland. It would be as good a place as any to start over. If that didn’t work, he’ll just keep moving north towards Seattle. Maybe things are looking up.Or maybe not.Clint’s always had crap luck. The first road bump is finding a place to crash. The shelters here all require proof of identity he no longer has for anyone who looks like a minor. Getting a new set of forged papers would cost more than he has to spend if he wants to eat as well. Other than the Flint Poleman ID, he doesn’t have any papers to back up his made-up age. Even if there was a tiny chance that identity wasn’t beyond burned, he’s scared to use it. There might be APBs on it. And he sure as shit can’t go back to his old profession. The world of porn is surprisingly small and the few furtive online forum searches he managed to do on the library computers showed that word’s out that ‘Flint’ is jailbait. All his videos have been pulled from any website able to be considered even passably reputable and both he and Happy Trails are persona non grata.Determined, he trudges on. He lasts for nearly three months on his nest egg before it runs dry, even the crummiest of cheap motels expensive when he relied on them for days on end. He tries everything he can to supplement his dwindling savings: busking with street performances, panhandling, and selling everything he has except his bow and the clothes on his back. But after going another two weeks of hit or miss on whether or not he got to eat on any given day, he falls back on the other skill he never thought he'd have to use again.Already regretting it, he strolls into a neighbor, holding a box of Snickers bars he spent his last few dollars on. If anyone asks, he’s from the Black Hawke Boys’ Basketball team doing a door to door fundraiser to help his team pay for an out of state tournament. After going to enough houses to lend legitimacy his pretense (and making a sweet twenty bucks in profit to boot), he finds a house that looks promising. He knocks on the door."Candy sale! Help send Black Hawkes basketball to Florida!"He waits long enough to be sure no one is coming to the door then ducks down, out of sight of neighbors, peeking through windows as he rounds the house. Like much of the neighborhood, it appears to be empty during the day. But he can't be sure without more recon.Clint repeats his fundraiser routine for three alternating days to get a feel for the neighborhoods' schedule throughout the week. When he has finally seen enough to feel confident, he makes his move. After a quick look around, he scales the rain gutter up and shimmies into an open window on the second floor. Sliding in through the small space, he lands softly on the floor. Dusting the drain pipe grime off his hands, he pushes to his feet and looks around. Even nicer stuff upstairs than what he'd seen on the ground level. He apparently was in a study. He takes a moment to look at a few pictures. It's always been a quirk of his whenever he did this. A morbid curiosity of what normal families choose to commemorate through photography. One photo in particular tickles a memory somewhere in the back of his mind. A guy in a t-shirt with a full head of hair but familiar blue eyes and a slight smile. But Clint can't quite place the face.He heads towards the door, running his thumb across the strings of a pretty fancy looking cello, just firmly enough to cause a few notes to ring around.He rounds the corner of the door stop and comes to an abrupt halt.A thin brunette with pale skin, shaking hands, and a gun.A big gun.“Don't move,” she blurts shakily, the whites of her eyes wide with fear. "Th-the police are already on their way."Clint slowly raises his hands but otherwise doesn’t twitch a muscle. Nothing beats the uncanny beginner’s luck of a frightened, untrained civilian who doesn’t actually want to kill anyone.He sighs to himself, kicking himself for getting himself into this.It’s only another minute or two before the sound of sirens split the air.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The end of a long night blurring into the start of a long day finds Phil sits at his desk, flipping through the dossier Research put together on Carson’s Carnival. The file includes flyers and newspaper adverts with cartoon lions, trapeze artists, and a grinning Ring Master. “Carson’s Carnival of Traveling Wonders Featuring: Amazing Animals, Dazzling Dancers, Crazy Clowns, and 15 Death-Defying Acts!” From all appearances, it was a legitimate, family-owned, traveling circus, at least for the first three decades. In the final ten years or so, thoroughly documented by police reports, crime seemed to follow the group like an inky shadow.It started out small, petty crimes here and there, a few show patrons who were almost positive they’d been pickpocketed, but maybe you just left it at home, honey. Then a bit more daring, a rash of home burglaries in the towns conveniently and suspiciously within hitchhiking distance of wherever the carnival was located, but with no concrete proof the transient workers had anything to do with it. After that, they grew bold, targeting commercial shops, burgling in the middle of the night. Finally, success made them reckless. A jewelry store was robbed and the night security guard ended up with a fatal hole in his chest that didn’t match any bullet or knife forensics knew of. Carson’s was investigated, thoroughly and repeatedly, but to no avail. The local PD couldn’t pin anything on them. The troupe escaped charges with a stern warning to never return to that particular town. Shortly after, the show lost three of its main attractions: Trickshot, real name Buck Chisolm, The Swordsman, true name Jacques Duquesne, and a kid phenom, the Amazing Hawkeye, real name unknown.Looking at a sketched picture of the light-haired kid in a dark, bedazzled lycra uniform, Phil has his suspicions. He’s trying to decide what info about the suspected crimes he could use on his cork board when his desk phone rings.“Coulson,” he answers brusquely, his mind still in the file. While the crimes might show what lengths the boy was willing to go to, the heists themselves were undoubtedly planned by the older men, so they wouldn’t offer much insight into Barton’s M.O., motivations, or tendencies.The voice on the other end catches his full attention with a few mumbled words.“Hold him until I get there,” Phil orders as he gathers up all the clippings back into the file and slots them into his briefcase. “Make sure someone is watching him, literally, at all times. I’m four hours out.”-Clint is deeply irritated that he’s been majorly busted twice in such a short period of time. It's enough to hurt a guy's pride. He has no one to blame but himself for this second go round. He was sloppy and unprepared. All those months of easy money for lying on his back has made him slow on his feet, he thinks to himself in disgust.The Dudley Do-Rights from Portland PD are quite pleased with themselves. According to their gloating and snarky remarks, Clint has accidentally positioned himself as the prime suspect in a series of violent home invasions because of course he has. Miss Shaky’s-Got-a-Gun is the hero of the day and the locals are doing warm up stretches in preparation to throw the book at him.But none of that is his true concern. Instead, his brain is keyed in on the fingerprints they’d taken and how long it would take them to ping on the Feds’ radar. He’ll be long gone before any trial as long as he’s only contending with Don Johnson and Cheech Marin who are currently staring at him through the slats of the holding cage from their post by the door. But the uneasy feeling in his stomach is telling him that his already shitty luck is stretching even thinner. Portland isn’t Small Town America. They should have more to do than keep an eye on a single teenaged thief, no matter how vicious he’s accused of being. And yet, he’s being guarded like Hannibal Lecter’s junior protégé or something, an armed two-man team watching him around the clock as he alternates between pacing his cell and lying on the concrete slab that's supposed to be a mattress. The biggest obstacle to his Houdini-ing this place is that all the removable ceiling tiles and window panes are on the outside of his holding area.In the first hour, he discreetly tests the sturdiness of the bars. Disappointingly, they apparently do still make ‘em like they used to.At lunch, he tries to pocket the plastic fork that comes with his meal. He’s not sure what he can do with it but it might be useful later.“Hand it over, kid,” Cheech demands.Clint plays dumb. “Hand what over?”“The spork.”Clint shakes his head slowly and shrugs, feigning confusion.Cheech sighs. “You were issued one plastic tray, one plastic cup, one plastic bowl, two paper napkins, and a plastic spork. All of which are to be accounted for. Now hand it over.”Clint scowls and relinquishes his spork. “Don’t see why a fuckin’ spork is such a big deal...”“Me either. But I’m not the one getting worked up about it,” Cheech points out.An hour after lunch, he disparages both cops and their mothers when they don’t have the decency (are wise enough not) to turn their backs as he relieves himself in the corner toilet.By hour five, he’s seriously considering playing the sick kid card again. He’s pro-conning the wounded child vs escaped suspect gambit when the door between Cheech and Don swings outward, granting permission to a new participant.“Shit,” he hisses.“Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Barton,” the fed from Happy Trails says drily.Clint leans against the bars. “Out of all the gin joints in the world…”“You shouldn’t be in any of the gin joints.”The fed flashes a badge to the two locals. They nod and leave their post for the first time all day. The suit picks up a folding chair, brings it closer to the bars, but is frustratingly and likely intentionally too far back for Clint to reach out and grab him. The guy sits, crosses an ankle over his knee, and flips open a file, quietly scanning. Clint recognizes it for the tactic it is but his patience for games ran out hours ago.“So, what are you? A white knight travelling the country, saving me from myself?”The man looks up, his face perfectly calm. “No. I’m a professional dot connector.”Clint frowns. “What does that even mean?“It means, I get a bunch of seemingly random events dumped in my lap and it’s my job to figure out how they all go together.”He picks up some pictures, showing them to Clint as he talks. “Dot one: I have two brothers who are tragically orphaned. Cute kids, though.”Flip.“Dot two: I have a circus of grifters and thieves.”Flip.“Dot three: I have an unsolved murder. Family man. He left behind a wife and two small children, by the way.”Flip.“Dot four: A bunch of unintentional but nonetheless illegal kiddie porn.”Flip. Flip. Flip. Flip.“And now I have dot five: a very curious home invasion.”He flips the last picture, showing Clint his recently taken mug shot. “Now, I have to figure out how and why all these dots are connected.”“Maybe they’re not,” Clint says. “Maybe I’m a square peg you’re trying to jam into your round hole.”The fed arches a brow. “Answer a couple of questions and we’ll see.”“I guess,” Clint mutters.“How long have you been in Portland?”“A few months.”“Can you be more specific?”“I don’t know. Can I?” Clint automatically retorts back.Fed guy stares patiently, not the least bit ruffled by Clint's bratty tone.Clint sighs. “Two and a half months. I got here the last week of July.”“Portland PD thinks you’ve been pulling invasions for over a year.”Clint scoffs rudely. “Well, we both know that’s not true.”Fed guy nods in tacit agreement. “But you did invade a house.”“I didn’t mean to.”That eyebrow goes up again.“I mean, I meant to break in," Clint clarifies, "but I didn’t know anyone was home. It was supposed to be a simple burglary.”The fed makes a note on his folder.“Most people don’t know the difference between the legal definition between burglary and home invasion.”Clint shrugs a shoulder. “Most people haven’t lived the live I’ve led.”“Very true,” the guy acknowledges. “So, why her house?”“Who is her?” Clint asks.Mr. Fed holds up a picture of Shaky Brunette. “Audrey Nathan. What’s so special about her?”“Special? Nothing. The house was nice and it looked empty, so I went for it,” Clint admits. “I didn’t know Shaky existed until she pulled her gun on me. There’s nothing special about her.”Fed guy’s face goes blandly blank. He closes his folder and places both feet firmly on the ground.“So, Mr. Barton, you would have me believe that it’s pure coincidence that you escaped from federal custody, fled across several states, and by dumb luck broke into the home of someone with whom I’m personally associated?”Clint blinks, dumbly. “I... What? You... Holy shit. Are you serious?”The fed stares at him, waiting.“Wow," Clint laughs a bit hysterically. "If it wasn’t for shit luck, man…”The stare intensifies, docile pleasantness coating clear foreboding. “I don’t believe in luck. Or coincidences. So you can see how someone in my position might start to believe this was intentional. That their personal life is being targeted. That might make someone in my position very angry.”Clint’s spine straightens at the hidden menace behind the intentionally bland tone. “Seriously, man, I swear it was a complete accident. I’m a dumb kid who did a dumb thing!”“See, I don’t think you’re nearly as dumb as you pretend to be,” the man says, shifting to stand. “I’ve seen your fake documents. Top of the line. The apartment you ditched. Meticulous. The paperwork you burned. It's not easy for someone your age to live alone and stay completely off the radar. It takes foresight. I think… I think you’re a planner.”The man shrugs out of his suit jacket, carefully places it around the back of his chair. The dress shirt underneath is snug, hinting that there’s danger under the accountant façade. He steps towards the cell and unlocks the door, completely unafraid of the supposedly violent criminal inside. Clint quickly shuffles back as the fed steps inside.“Mr. Barton, did someone send you?” he asks softly..The hairs on the back of Clint’s neck stand up. Part of this reason he’s lasted this long is by recognizing danger, even in the seemingly mundane. For all he’s mentally mocked this guy as being milquetoast, he’s very suddenly unsure he can take him in a fight.“No! Nobody sent me anywhere. I shouldn’t have done it. I was out of money and I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t even know your name,” Clint blurts as the guy uses his physical presence to herd them into the corner Clint knows is in the surveillance camera’s blind spot, efficiently cutting off Clint’s every attempt to go around him. Every instinct is telling him to lash out, but those same instincts know that getting into a fight with a federal agent in a police station while under arrest for attempted assault is a suicide run.He raises his hand’s in surrender, an attempt to placate. “I was hungry and cold and I’m usually really good at stealing undetected. I swear to you I was just trying to get some money. I didn’t know she had anything to do with you. You gotta believe me.”The Fed stops, straightens, steps back. And all at once the menace bleeds away. “Okay. I believe you.”“You do?” Clint says shakily, dumbfounded by the abrupt switch.“I do," the man nodded. "Coulson, by the way.”“Coulson,” Clint stumbles over the name, his heart racing, lodged halfway in his throat.“That’s my name. Phil Coulson,” he firmly takes hold of Clint by the arm. “Let’s go.”Clint unsuccessfully tries to shake the grip and digs his feet in. “Go where?”“I’m remanding you into my custody and taking you back to California.”Completely lost, still refusing to budge, Clint just blinks.“Unless you want to stay here and see if you can talk your way out of felony charges a second time?”Clint shakes his head and lets Coulson lead him out of the cage, slowing to a stop as the agent pauses to slip his jacket back on and pick up his files.“What are you going to do with me in California?” Clint asks nervously.“Haven’t decided yet, but it’ll be better than jail.”Clint follows Coulson out of the holding area and to the watch desk in the main foyer near the front entry. He watches as Coulson signs some paper work and slides the pages over to the locals. Then they stroll easy as they please out the front door much to the silent displeasure of the cops present.“You hungry?” Coulson asks as they approach a clearly government-issued dark sedan.“Sure. I could eat.”He’s going to give this guy the slip as soon as possible but he can at least get a burger on Uncle Sam before he goes.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
They end up at a gourmet burger diner Phil heard about the last time he passed through this area. It’s a little out of the way, but it’s worth it when Clint’s eyes go wide once they slide into the dark wood booth and he gets a look at the menu. There are only about half a dozen options, but they all sound gluttonously decadent and he’s comically indecisive, changing his mind several times while they wait for service. Finally, the kid settles on the Carolina burger: meat patty, chili, onions, coleslaw, yellow mustard, American cheese, and fried pickle slices. He adds a large order BBQ brisket fries on the side and begrudgingly accepts a large glass of cheerwine soda when neither Coulson nor the waiter will let him order whiskey. The spicy sauce extras are enough to give Phil heartburn at just the thought. He instead choses a more sedate bacon cheeseburger, fries with Cajun seasoning, and a vanilla coke in solidarity with his underage companion.The silence while they wait for their food is awkward, but Coulson’s in no rush to break it. It gives him the opportunity to observe and catalog unobtrusively. Clint drums his fingers on the table, bopping his head to the catchy, upbeat pop song that’s playing low in the restaurant as he stares hopefully and intently at the dessert menu on the side of the napkin dispenser.“So, I woulda asked this earlier,” Clint finally says, looking up from his perusal, “but I was just glad to get away from Bumfuck PD. Who do you work for?”“The Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division,” Coulson says smoothly, after years of practice, careful to keep his voice well underneath the restaurant’s ambient music.He watches as Clint squints, then silently mouths ‘SHIELD’.“Okay, that’s clearly bullshit,” Clint says. “Seriously, though, what are you? Like FBI or something?”“Nope. We’re a newer, smaller division.”Clint scrunches his face. “Never heard of you.”Phil smiles, pleased. “Most of the general public hasn’t and we like it that way. We do national security like all the other alphabet groups, but we also focus on the fringes, the strange, the hard to explain. We look for dots.”“Like ‘the truth is out there’ kind of dots?” Clint asks making wavy, hippy dippy motions with his hands.Phil shrugs. “If anybody ever comes knocking on the galactic door, we’ll be there to answer.”Clint seems to consider that for a moment as the waiter swings by to drop off their drinks.“Porn’s not hard to explain,” he says once the man is gone.“Porn, or the money laundering it aids, falls under national security,” Phil clarifies. “If we can make funding more difficult to come by, we can stop major crime and terrorism in its tracks.”Clint nods in acceptance and goes back to drumming on the table. After a moment he stops.“So what kind of ‘hard to explain’ stuff have you investigating?”“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”Clint snorts.“Ok. Is Area 54 real?”“Yes. Just like Areas 1 through 53.”The kid’s eyebrows go up. “Are aliens real?”“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”An eyeroll. “You’re no fun.”“So I've been told. Sorry.”Clint sips at his soda. “How do you know I won’t tell anyone about your dot connecting?”“I don’t,” Coulson says easily. “But it wouldn’t matter even if you did. What proof do you have that would make anyone believe a shady runaway going on about a secret government agency no one’s ever heard of? They're more likely to think you're bat shit or on drugs.”Clint barks out a laugh and throws a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Ouch, dude.”They pause as the waiter approaches again and places their food. In the face of high calorie heaven, Clint loses interest for the moment and methodically starts to inhale his meal. He doesn’t look up again until all that’s left is drippings and crumbs. He gives a dramatic sigh of contentment and smiles in a way that makes him actually look his age.“So, why is this totally-not-made-up department of the federal government investing so much time in my general well-being?” Clint asks, clearly still skeptical. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, or whatever. But not even my social workers didn’t put this much effort into tracking me and it’s their literal job.”Phil considers how to phrase his response. He hasn’t known Clint for very long, but it’s long enough for him to know the kid isn’t the type to accept anything approaching pity.“When you were five or six years old, what did you want to be?” Phil asks.Clint frowns, clearly thrown by the non sequitur. “I don’t know. A cowboy? An astronaut? King of the kangaroos? What does anybody wanna be at that age?”“So, you weren’t secretly thinking, ‘Gee, I hope I grow up to be a porn star’?”Clint arches an eyebrow and scoffs. “I don’t think I wanna know what kind of kindergarteners you’re hanging out with. Actually, you probably shouldn’t be hanging out with little kids at all.”Phil waves away the verbal jab. “Point being, kids aren't supposed to be in that situation. If you were of age and consenting, I’d mind my own business… but with you barely being sixteen, I can’t look the other way.”The corners of the boy’s mouth turn down in a way that suggest he’s dealt with far too many adults who could and Phil can’t help but be saddened. Based on what he’s read on the Barton boys, Clint’s slipped throughout a lot of cracks.“I guess you expect a thanks, then,” Clint murmurs, but noticeably doesn’t actually say anything of the sort.“Nope. Just doing my job,” Phil says. “Ready to go?”Clint nods, licking his fingers before grabbing a napkin and rubbing the sticky remnants of BBQ sauce off. “Mind if I hit the can first?”“Of course,” Coulson says, signaling the waiter for their ticket as Clint slides out of booth and heads towards the restroom.Glancing at the total, Phil pulls the cash from his wallet. He tucks the money into the plastic binding, swapping it for his copy of the receipt which he neatly slides into his wallet to preserve for his expense report. He hands the folder back to the waiter, then slides out of the booth. Looking around, he confirms his initial impression of the space. The main entry/ exit as well as the path to the kitchen are well within his line of view from where they’d been sitting. So, there’s only one real alternative.He walks out of the restaurant and leisurely rounds the festive-looking building, admiring the brightly painted murals as he goes. He’s leaning against the brick wall studying the hanging lanterns when the backdoor cracks open.“I think you passed the men’s room,” he says, nonchalantly.Clint startles, and in his haste to back away from the unexpected voice, he backs into the door causing it to swing wide and slam noisily into the brick wall of the building. Two cooks on a smoke break look up in curiosity. Coulson gives them a wave that doesn’t seem to dull their interest, but they don’t get up to investigate.“I got lost,” Clint says lamely.“I figured you would,” Phil says pleasantly, as though it’s completely believable. “Car’s around front.”Clint sighs and leads the way.The plan is to take Clint to the FBI office in San Fernando Valley. A guy there knows some people and owes Coulson a favor. He’s pulling some strings to try to get Clint a decent placement and some leads on education recovery programs that might help him get into a trade school. Nothing Clint hasn’t been promised before, but Coulson seems so sincere, Clint’s willing to play along a little bit longer. Since they don’t have the paperwork airports require that’ll let Coulson cross state lines with a minor who’s not legally in custody, they’re driving.The car’s reasonably spacious with an actual working heater but fifteen and a half hours is about thirty times longer than Clint’s attention span, particularly without anything to focus on. He gets squirmy at thirty-seven minutes.He flicks the radio on, changing the station every few seconds. Coulson turns it off.Clint’s fingers glide up the door panel to push at the buttons. Window goes up, window goes down. Window goes up, window goes…The fuck?He pushes it a few more times just to be sure.“Did you just ‘child lock’ me?”Coulson doesn’t answer, but his eyebrow indicates he thought it appropriate for the behavior.Clint sighs and slumps down in his seat, wiggling until he can get his feet up on the dash.“Take your feet down, please.”“Are you ordering me as an officer of the law?” Clint asks irritably.“No, I’m asking you as someone who’s seen what happens to femur bones if an airbag deploys while your feet are on the dash.”Clint swallows uncomfortably against the thought and takes his feet down. He watches cars pass for a little while longer before he gets antsy and starts shifting again.Coulson pulls the car over to the side of the road.“What happened?” Clint asks sitting up straight. He looks at the dash console but none of the indicator lights has come on.“Nothing,” Coulson says as he pushes the gear shift into park. He unfastens his seat belt and stretches to reach into the backseat, close enough that Clint can faintly smell his cologne. It’s really nice. Fancy smelling. Not long after, he’s found what he’s looking for and settled back into the driver’s seat. He hands Clint a pen and a paperback book.“Here, this might help.”Clint looks at the book, flipping through the pages as the car eases back into motion.It’s a bunch of puzzles. Word searches, crosswords, something called ‘cryptograms’, one with numbers and blank squares, mazes, and, unironically, connect-the-dots. He looks at the example for the cryptogram but he can’t make heads or tails of it and it kinda makes his head swim. Same thing with the number squares. Coulson’s filled out several of them, so there has to be a rhyme and reason, but Clint can’t figure it out. He decides to try the maze puzzles. Turns out those are the best even if they’re too easy, even when he challenges himself to make it end to end without having to turn back.“Not bad,” Coulson comments at one point.Clint smiles, feeling a small flare of pride.He finishes all the mazes and starts working on the connect-the-dots until he starts to get a headache and realizes he’s straining his eyes. There’s not enough light. He looks up, blinking, shocked to realize the sun is setting.“What time is it?” he asks, stretching for the first time in what feels like hours.“A quarter til eight,” Phil answers as he signals to switch lanes and over takes another slow moving big rig. “You really got into the zone.”Clint nods. “Yeah, I’m generally kinda twitchy, but if I find something I really like…”Coulson hums appreciatively. “You can keep it.”“Thanks.”Coulson drives for a little while longer before sighing. “Alright. I think I’m starting to hit a wall. Been driving most of the day. Let’s get a room. We’ll start fresh tomorrow.”Clint nods, stomach shifting nervously. A room. Okay. Fair enough.Coulson exits the highway onto a service road and then turns left onto a surface street.With the sun firmly below the horizon line, they pull into a motel parking lot. It’s lower tier, somewhere between a La Quinta and a Super 8. Definitely not the Hilton but nice enough that there’s no worry about whether or not the car will still be there in the morning.Clint waits in the car while Coulson goes inside to register them. No doubt so the clerk doesn’t seem him with an obvious street kid.Key card in hand, Coulson comes back, taking his suitcase and a duffle bag out of the backseat. Clint follows behind, trying to map out in his head how this should go. Coulson hasn’t really given any hints. And he knows from experience the nice, quiet ones can be the most unpredictable.In the room, Clint's surprised to see two full sized beds.“I’ll take the one by the door,” Coulson says as he puts his things down on the desk/ table that’s built into the wall. He takes a small, black, rectangle out of his shirt pocket and starts pressing at it. It takes Clint a second to realize it’s a cellular phone. He’s seen them on TV, but he doesn’t have any one to call let alone the money to afford one.Coulson looks up from the device. “Why don't you go ahead and shower?”Clint nods. “Okay. Yeah.”He goes into the bathroom and closes the door behind him. It’s a small, tiled space with a low-ceiling and a narrow shower/ tub combination. Clint turns on the water, crank the lever to the right to get the temperature extra hot. The shitty motels he’s been staying in had terrible water pressure and tiny water heaters. He definitely doesn’t mind taking advantageous of whatever stipend Coulson’s traveling on.Stripping down quickly, Clint gets under the water, letting the stream soak his hair and skin. He unwraps one of the tiny bars of soap and runs it everywhere. It smells bland but clean which is about as much as he can ask for. After he rinses the suds away, he pauses. Just for the briefest of moments. Then he soaps up his hand. Gripping his cock, he starts to stroke. A few rub and tugs in, he lets himself relax a bit, starts to enjoy it.He can do this. It’ll be fun. With the dark blonde hair and blue eyes, Coulson’s not bad looking. He’s nice and he’ll probably be gentle. The more Clint thinks about it, the more he warms up to the idea. This'll be easy.When he’s fully hard and ready but not so much that he has to worry about finishing too soon, he takes the tiny bottle of conditioner. Slathering some on his fingers, he reaches behind himself. By the time the water starts to cool, he’s taking two fingers comfortably. It might be a bit of a stretch if Coulson’s packing more than a standard-issued gun, but he’ll be fine.Turning off the water, he steps out, does a half-assed job of drying, and wraps a towel around his waist. He swipes a hand through the steam on the mirror and grimaces. He looks like fucking Kevin McAllister. Clint runs his fingers through his hair to make it look a little less kempt and then swishes a bit of the complimentary mouthwash.Coulson is sitting sideways at the desk, facing the door. He doesn’t even look up when Clint exits the bathroom. “I ordered us a pizza. It should be here in thirty minutes.”So, Clint needs to work fast. Got it.Letting the towel drop away, he walks up behind Coulson. He leans over and slides his arms around the man at the same time he presses a licking kiss to his ear.Coulson’s hands move lightning fast as he grips Clint’s biceps and sends him flying literally over his shoulder.“Holy shit!” Clint yelps at the same time Coulson exclaims ‘What the fuck?’Clint's sprawled in a naked pile of limbs on the floor. He smacked his head when he landed, he’s shaking with confusion, and his cock is jerking in a bad way, half wanting to shrivel from fear and half hardening with adrenaline.“Why are you naked?” Coulson nearly shouts, from where he's now towering over Clint's prone body.“Why wouldn’t I be naked?” Clint yells back defensively.Coulson stares for a long moment before suddenly jerking his gaze to the ceiling. He takes a deep breath. “Sweatpants. On the bed. Put them on.”“I--” Clint stutters.“Put them on, please,” Coulson says, his voice much calmer.Clint looks around and notices the gray sweatpants that had been placed on his bed.Oh, shit.Clint shakily climbs to his feet and crosses the room.“I read this all wrong, didn’t I?” he asks quietly as he slides the pants on. He lets the elastic waistband snap loudly into place. “I should’ve… I should’ve asked.”Coulson brings his gaze down. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I should’ve realized what this would look like to you.”Coulson can say whatever he wants but Clint knows it’s his fault for assuming Coulson would want to fuck somebody like him. What if… Shit. He probably didn't even fucking like guys. Clint assumed he did because he hadn’t made a big deal about what he'd seen at Happy Trails, but what if he was just being super professional? Damn it. He said he had a 'personal connection' with that Audrey girl. Gawd, he just had to go and fuck this up, too, didn’t he? He’s lucky that over-the-shoulder takedown is all Coulson did.“I’m sorry,” Clint mumbles quickly. “You don’t… You didn’t like, say, anything that… I mean, I shouldn’t have tried… I know you’re not a fag and you’ve got a girlfriend or whatever. You don’t come across as a homo or anything, I mean… I…”The words peter out and he finally dares to look up.Coulson doesn’t look angry. In fact, he looks kinda… sad?“Clint,” he says. “I think we got our wires crossed. Nothing is going to happen between us. I should have been clear about that.”“I know,” Clint answers quickly. “I'll never... I won't do that again. I know you don’t like…”“It doesn’t have anything to do with my orientation,” Phil says calmly. “Even if I were interested, you’re sixteen. That alone would get me arrested in Oregon and California and heavily censured in D.C.”“Oh,” Clint says.“So, we’re going to hang out, eat our pizza, keep our hands to ourselves, and go to bed. Deal?”Clint nods, still embarrassed beyond words, his cock thankfully wilted, but his ass uncomfortably slick and open.He steals away to the bathroom to clean himself. By the time, he gets back the pizza has arrived. They eat then watch TV for half an hour before calling it a night. They each settle in their own bed and Coulson turns out the light.Clint lays there in the darkness, waiting for sleep to overtake him.“There’s nothing wrong with being gay," Coulson says out of nowhere. "I like women, but I like men, too. Someday, you’ll meet right guy and hopefully by then the world will have changed enough for you to live whatever life you want to together.”Clint doesn’t respond, not sure what to make of the nighttime confession or the confessor.The next day is awkward. Phil tries very hard to behave as though nothing happened, but Clint is unusually quiet and reserved. He's obviously embarrassed and shakes off any attempt at conversation. There’s not much Phil can do to change that. He lets the kid spend the remainder of his trip buried in his puzzle book, only stopping for meals and restroom breaks.Eventually, they arrive in San Fernando Valley. Phil meets with his friend David who brings along a lady from social services. With nothing else to be done, he says his good-byes wishing Clint the best.Before he leaves, he gives the boy a card. It’s plain with just his name and a phone number. No header, no title. But the number will connect him to Phil or someone who can pass a message, no questions asked.“If you ever need anything, day or night, help or just to talk, give me a call.”Clint takes the card and shoves it in a pocket.“Thanks, man,” he says dismissively, affecting the above-it-all attitude he’d had two days ago.Phil leaves.He’s saddened but not shocked to hear that Clint’s already runaway not even three weeks later.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It’s not that he doesn’t want it to work. He does.Kinda.Coulson went out of his way, called in a marker, to give Clint a second chance instead of leaving him to rot in Portland. But he’s used to doing his own thing his own way. Living with the Gibsons is… smothering.They aren’t mean or cruel or anything. It’s more like he’s slowly suffocating to death in pristine Pleasantville.Thomas is a pediatrician. Tall and blond with a runner’s build, he’d have fit in easily on set. Katherine is brunette and petite, a stay-at-home wife who volunteers part-time at the library, doing toddler story time or something. She’s kind of meek, maybe natural timid or perhaps unsure of how Clint might react to her. She always defers to Thomas, letting him take lead.They’re super apple pie, pleasant but strong believers that firm rules and ‘clear expectations’ keep kids on the straight and narrow. Clint’s their first attempt at fostering and they’ve obviously read a lot of books and pamphlets in preparation.On day one, they present the rules: Everybody needs to be up and dressed by seven am. Breakfast is at seven-thirty (no sugar. It’s bad for your teeth and makes it hard to concentrate!) Out the door by eight. Thomas drops Clint off at the alternative education center by eight-fifteen with his super nutritional sacked lunch in hand. Katherine picks him up at three-thirty p.m. on her way home from the library where he receives a wholesome snack (but not too heavy. Don’t want to ruin your appetite before dinner.) Thomas gets home at six, just in time to change clothes before dinner at six-fifteen.Clint’s nearly in hives from all the intensely enforced punctuality and it doesn’t take long for his best behavior to give way to his indomitable independent streak.The first boundary he tests is clothes. The Gibsons are painfully straight-laced, conservative dressers with plenty of khaki, polyester, and polished leather, but they haven’t tried to set any particular dress code for Clint. Katherine takes him shopping on his second day with them, since he showed up with only the clothes on his back. Clint’s not sure what to expect from her when Thomas isn’t around to take charge. She’s still fairly quiet but gives him some suggestions on how to get decent quality pieces with the stipend they receive for housing him. Having his care check actually spent on him is definitely a new experience. Katherine doesn’t seem upset or bothered when he ignores her suggestions of nerdy ass twill pants or polo shirts and instead goes for graphic tees and jeans. The only non-negotiable is making sure he buys plenty of socks and underwear. Even then, she roams off while he chooses, too modest to watch him contemplate boxers vs briefs (boxer briefs, best of both worlds).Afterwards, he’s free to mix and match as he pleases. That night, with a pair of scissors and a piece of sandpaper, he makes strategic alterations to his new clothes.When she sees his revised look, Katherine merely hums.“Very trendy,” she says with a bit of amusement in her voice.He pushes harder.If clothing isn’t an issue, then lack thereof probably would be.Clint makes it to breakfast early on day three. Most of his clothes don’t.Katherine turns, frying pan in hand, and visibly startles. Her jaw line and cheeks flush a dull red when she sees him, clad only in a pair of boxer briefs. Setting the pan on a heating pad on the counter, she gives a tight smile and slips from the room and down the hallway to the master bedroom.Tucking his bare feet on the rungs of his chair, Clint takes a sip of orange juice, genuinely curious to see how this plays out.It doesn’t take long for Thomas to emerge, towel slung around his neck, hints of shaving gel streaked his half-shaved face. He already has his khakis on, but is wearing a plain white t-shirt, not yet tucked and his hair is not as neat as it normally is.“You look comfy,” he says casually, as he draws near to the table.“I am,” Clint replied, wiggling his toes.“Well, I really hate to impede on that, but everybody needs to be dressed in the common areas. House rules.”“It’s a stupid rule,” Clint challenges.Thomas shrugs away the complaint. “It’s good practice. Gets you prepared for the day.”“I’ve spent plenty of days wearing less this,” Clint says, then adds, “in public.”Thomas pauses, appearing to process that. He takes a deep breath.“You have an… usual past. You’ve done what you needed to do and no one faults you for that,” he says. “We took you in because we want you to have a chance at a better, more stable life from here on out.”Clint shifts uncomfortably in his chair, uneasy with the intensity of Thomas’ sympathetic tone.“You don’t want to be babied and we’ll respect that as much as possible,” Thomas continues, “but if you really want to be treated as an almost-adult, we shouldn’t have to tell you to wear clothes in shared spaces. Agreed?”He says it in such a clear and obvious way that it makes Clint feel like an idiot. Which makes him angry. But lashing out with ‘you can’t tell me what to do’ would undermine his own stance, proving that he needs firmer guidance.“Agreed,” Clint mumbles, now cold and uncomfortable, unable to even remember what he’d hoped to get out of this.He’s feeling his own flush as he slides out of the chair and heads back upstairs to get dressed.Clint falls in line for a while, following the rules that are laid out for him even if he doesn’t always understand why they’re in place. That’s what most adults do, right?But blind obedience is not really in his nature.On day eleven, he decides getting up ass early is the fucking pits.“Are you up?” Katherine asks through the door at seven-ten.“Yup,” he assures her from the bed.“Breakfast will be ready soon,” she advises at seven-twenty.“Okay,” he responds, still completely prone.“Get a move on,” Thomas calls at seven thirty-five. “Oatmeal’s getting cold.”“Alright,” Clint says finally sitting up on the side of the bed. He scratches his belly and then his balls as he leisurely puts some thought into what he wants to wear.He’s pulling his shirt over his head when a knock sounds at his door at seven forty-five.“Clint?” Thomas calls.“I’m up. Getting dressed now!” he says as though he’s been hurrying all along.“Open the door, please,” Thomas asks. “I need proof you’re in the upright position and fully-clothed.”Clint rolls his eyes even if it’s reasonable request at this point. He wouldn’t trust him either.The Gibsons have been surprisingly willing to grant Clint his privacy. He’s been in plenty of homes that had an open-door policy and even a few crazier ones that took the doors completely off the hinges to make sure nobody was up to no good. Thomas and Katherine always knock and ask permission before entering or at least give him several seconds warning before opening the door. Maybe one of their books forewarned them of the gamble of surprising a sixteen-year-old boy in his sleeping space.He shoves his arms into his shirt and crosses the room to open the door. Thomas runs an appraising eye over him, eyes pausing only a millisecond on the dark, baggy t-shirt and grunge jeans before he puts on smile.“Get your shoes on, kiddo,” he says in a carefully patient way. “Hurry or you’ll have to go without breakfast.”Clint wonders if they’d really make him go without eating. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s been allowed to go hungry, but these two are more the ‘most important meal of the day’ type. He considers testing his theory in a few days.He stomps his feet into his new boots and clomps down the stairs, making it to the kitchen at seven fifty-eight. Thomas’ smile is now decidedly strained. Clint can’t decide if the tension is from Clint failing to follow his schedule or from him disrupting theirs. Katherine politely but firmly puts a toasted egg sandwich in one of his hands and the brown bag lunch in the other. Twelve minutes after eight, Clint slides into the passenger seat with no further hassle. Thomas drops him off at eight thirty-two.The next day, they wake him up at six am.“You seem like you need more time to get going,” Thomas says with no hint of malice.Clint mentally calls a temporary truce to rethink his life decisions as he drags tiredly through the rest of the day.As accommodating as they are, the deal breaker turns out to be curfew. Neither side is willing to budge. Clint’s accustomed to coming and going as he pleases with no permission needed. ‘It’s a school night’ doesn’t faze him. The Gibsons want him inside by eight pm on weekdays, eleven-thirty on the weekend. As far as Clint is concerned, the night doesn’t even get interesting until midnight.“Be that as it may,” Thomas said, “we’re responsible for your safety and it’s hard to know if you’re safe if we have no idea where you are, who you’re with, or what you’re doing.”Clint refuses to play ball. On Friday, day fourteen, he decides to see what the Valley has to offer with only a vague ‘I’ll be out late” written on a note stuck to the fridge as notification. The Gibsons are within walking distance of a bus stop. From there’s, it’s only a quick metro ride to North Hollywood to a house party a guy at the Alt Ed center invited him to.Clint can feel the bass almost a block out. Once within eye shot, he can see that it’s a full house. There are people everywhere, looking to range anywhere from early teens to late twenties. While he considers himself more solitary person, he likes parties. It’s a great way to make connections, find out who know who and who has access to what. The Gibsons are alright, but he needs to have Plan B and Plan C on the back burner. Clint pushes his way through the door, weaving through the mass of bodies. Taking a deep breath, he lets the mood slip over him and slides his party face on.“Clint!”He looks around and spots Gil, the guy who invited him. About three years older than Clint, Gil looks a little like Orlando bloom and has the easy-going mannerism of Pauly Shore. Clint graces him with an easy smile.“Hey, man,” he says, sidling up beside the man. “Bitchin’ turn out.”“Yeah,” Gil says proudly. “You ready to have a good time?”“Hell, yeah,” Clint says. “What’s on offer?”“Pick your poison,” Gil answers, “You looking to get high, to get drunk, or to get off?”“Yes, please,” Clint replies, with a wicked grin.“Well, alright,” Gil drawls as he passes over a shot. Clint quickly knocks it back, shivering as the burn races through his stomach and up his spine. This'll be fun.It’s just shy of four am when Clint finally makes it home. Preferring to skip the hassle, he scales the tree outside of the house, nearly falling twice with only muscle memory saving his neck. He shimmies across the thickest branch to reach the roof overhang under his window and slip inside. He flops onto the bed and more or less passes out as soon as his head hits the pillow.A sharp rapping on his door wakes him seconds later. He looks blearily at the clock on his bedside. Eight thirty am.“Uggh,” he groans pitifully and slumps back against his pillow.More knocking.“Clint. I’m coming in,” Thomas says when Clint doesn’t acknowledge his presence.Thomas enters, but stays a respectable distance away from the bed. Clint rolls over onto his back, the stale odor of alcohol wafting from his skin as he moves. His body feels sticky and achy from a rough night without a lot of warm up. He wonders if Thomas can smell it from across the room.“Good morning,” Thomas begins.He grunts in reply.“I’m glad to see you’re relatively okay,” he continues. “But you were out way past curfew. W would like to speak with you about how we can come to a compromise. Please get dressed and meet us downstairs. We’ll have breakfast and talk.”Clint groans in irritation, but sits up at least acknowledging the words. His blanket falls to his waist, revealing the marred skin on his chest.Thomas glances at the hickeys dotted there. He lips tug into a small smile of amusement. “I hope you at least walked her home.”“I’m sure he made it home fine by himself,” Clint mumbled.Thomas looks at him, his eyebrow lifting just slightly. He hums, but it doesn’t necessarily sound condescending or disapproving like Clint expected.“Get a move on please,” he says before leaving Clint to it.Clint forces himself out of bed and schleps into the bathroom. He takes a shower as hot as he can stand it, trying to force some of the mental fog away.When he makes it downstairs, Thomas and Katherine are seated at the kitchen table, both sipping cups of coffee.Katherine gets up and brings him a spinach omelet and turkey bacon. The smell kinda makes Clint want to puke but he holds it back, manages to eat a strip of shady not bacon. After a few more bites, he pushes the plate away.Thomas clears his throat. “So, you were out pretty late last night.”“Uh-huh,” Clint grunts.“We know you’re used to doing your own thing. You’re street smart and good at taking care of yourself.”Clint nods slowly at the suspiciously timed compliment.“With that in mind, we try to let you do your own thing as much as possible.”Clint scoffs. ‘His own thing’ definitely doesn’t include being up before noon on a Saturday eating a disgustingly nutritious breakfast while forcibly living out a Very Special Episode.“Yes, we try to keep you on a schedule,” Thomas concedes, “but we also do our best to let you make your own personal choices like your clothes or what you do in your free time.”“Isn’t this whole pow wow about you not liking who or what I do in my free time?” Clint fires back sarcastically.Katherine perks up at the ‘who’ and looks questioningly at her husband. He gives her a brief look that probably says they’ll talk about it later.“While I think you’re kind of young for that,” Thomas says, “ultimately, that’s your decision to make. As long as you’re being safe.”Clint tries not to let his surprise show. The families he stayed with in Iowa and Wisconsin had very strong feelings about it, particularly once they got a hint of the ‘who.’ Maybe the Californian outweighed the conservative in them?“At the end of the day we’re your legal guardians. The law holds us responsible for the things you do and the things that are done to you. We need to figure out something that works for all of us. Until we can, we’re going to ask you to stay in the house where we can be sure you’re not in danger.”Clint sits up so quickly, it makes his brain feel like it’s sloshing. “Are you… are you grounding me?”“No. It’s more of a cooling off period, taking time out to…”Clint’s eyebrows fly up at the word ‘time out.’ “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”Thomas frowns. “Clint, please don’t use that language.”“I’ll use whatever fucking language I goddamned want,” Clint yells, standing, knocking his chair over in the process.Thomas meets him on his feet, bodily placing himself between Clint and Katherine. Like he’s some kinda dangerous delinquent here to hurt the little woman. The reflexive action irritates Clint even more.“Why don’t you go back to your room?” Thomas asks placatingly. “You can rest until you feel calmer.”Clint opens his mouth to argue but then his stomach churns queasily.“Whatever,” he grumbles through gritted teeth before he stomps away from the table. After a detour to the bathroom to worship Porcelain Jesus, he goes to his room, flopping on the bed. It doesn’t take him long to pass back out.When he wakes again, the sun is halfway across the room. Just as the drowsiness begins to fade, there’s a knock on the door. After the prerequisite ten seconds, Thomas sticks his head in.“We made lunch if you’re hungry.”“Oh. I’m allowed food?” Clint sneers groggily. “Golly, thanks.”Thomas sighs. “We’ll never withhold food from you. It’s a right, not a privilege.”Clint chooses not to exercise his right and pulls the blankets up to his chin, turning his back to the room.Eventually, the door snicks shut.That night, well after Thomas and Katherine normally go to bed, Clint slides open his bedroom window. He’s halfway out when he realizes the tree branch from the night before has been trimmed back. For a moment he considers whether or not he can make the jump. He’s eighty percent sure he can, but that’s a twenty percent chance he might end up with broken bones. He climbs back in and instead sneaks down the stairs. He doesn’t have any real destination in mind. It just grates at him to be told that he’s not free to go.He’s halfway to the front door when a voice speaks up.“Going somewhere?”Clint’s gaze snaps around to see Mr. Gibson lying on the sofa that faces the front door. Clint would’ve seen him even in the dark if he hadn’t been so focused on making a break for it.“Wanted some water,” Clint says sharply as though that had been his intention all along and how dare Thomas question his motives for being up this late.“Have as much as you’d like,” Thomas says. “Don’t get lost in the kitchen or we’ll have to immediately report you as a runaway.”Clint forces a laugh like it’s the funniest thing he ever heard then lets his face fall flat in clear disdain. He gets his water then heads back to his room.The intense scrutiny continues until Clint’s almost climbing the walls. Every time he turns around, Thomas or Katherine are there asking where he’s going, what he’s doing. Time to get up. Lunchtime. Bedtime. Lights out.Fucking Christ on a cracker. It’s starting to feel like juvie.All he needs are legal guardians. They’re trying to fucking parent him.Clint nearly sobs in relief when on day nineteen their schedules clash and they’re forced to leave him alone for the first time all week.“One of my patients has been admitted to the ER. I have to go check on her,” Thomas says as he packs his satchel. “Katherine should be back from her committee meeting within the hour. I know you haven’t been a big fan of hanging around the house. This is your chance to earn our trust and get some of your freedom back. Please don’t make us regret it.”Clint nods like a good boy.“Foods in the microwave, emergency numbers are on the fridge, ok?”“Got it,” he reassures the man.“Alright,” Thomas says, sliding his bag onto his shoulder. “See you at dinner. Be good.”“Of course,” Clint agrees, already mentally figure out how to use his head start.Thomas sighs, looks around uncertainly, and then heads out to his car.Clint waits twenty minutes before he’s out the door, bag packed.He doesn’t need help running his own life.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It’s a quarter to six in the morning. Usually, Clint would’ve considered that painfully early to be up for the day (although, not necessarily too late to still be awake…) But it’s never too early to make sure he has food in his belly.Although he stretches the little money he has primarily by only buying fruits and vegetables, easily eaten raw or cooked over an open flame, from the grocery store, grapes, bananas, tomatoes, and plain baked potatoes get old fast. He stubbornly insists on one real, hot meal each day. The only way that’s even quasi-affordable is by getting up early and catching the Early Bird special at the diner near the homeless camp where he’s been squatting since he landed here after taking off from the Gibsons.A heaping pile of scrambled eggs, four strips of crispy bacon, a slice of toast, all cooked in melted butter and paired with bottomless coffee for four bucks. Clint eats every bite, even after his stomach starts to feel overly full, knowing that this will be the lion’s share of his caloric intake for the day.“More coffee?” Rita asks.“Yes, ma’am,” he accepts with a smile.The waitress is just this side of portly, gray gracefully intermingling into her blonde hair. He knows from her idle chit chat that she’s from these parts born and raised, co-owns the diner with her husband, and has a grandson around his age that she’s unbelievably proud of because he’ll be leaving for college in the fall, the first in his family.She pours him a fresh cup. “Let me know if I can get anything else for you. Growing boys like you need a lot of energy to do all that learning all day.”“Yes, ma’am,” he agrees.Using bits of what she’s told him about her grandkids and his own knowledge of the alternative learning center he’d briefly attended, Clint’s spun just enough of a yarn to convince her that this is his first stop of the day on his way to being a bright scholar, leader of tomorrow. In reality, he’ll hang out here until eight o’clock when the Rec Center four blocks over opens. There he’ll get cleaned up for the day: take a shower, wash his hair, and brush his teeth. Street lesson number one: if you don’t want people to realize you’re homeless, you can’t smell like you’re homeless.For now, Clint haunches over the activity book Coulson gave him. He’s mulling over one of the math puzzles that he now knows is called Sudoku. The point is to plug the numbers one through nine into nine sets of three by three grids so that each three by three grid totals fifteen horizontally, vertically, and diagonally without any of the digits repeating. He had to read the directions out loud slowly four times and study the grids Coulson had already completed before he could wrap his number-dumb brain around that.Coulson, of course, had already completed all the highest difficulty ones. In pen. Clint took nearly a month to complete all the ‘easy’ ones in pencil, nearly tearing holes through the pages erasing his mistakes over and over. But he’d finished them, something he’s unreasonably proud of. Now he’s stumbling through the medium difficulty puzzles.He gets through half of one, fairly sure it’s correct, before the uptick in customer traffic alerts him that it’s time to move. He slaps four dollars and a quarter (a stingy tip but still more than he can really afford) onto the tabletop, shoves the book and his pencil into his backpack and heads off.In short order, he’s under a shower spray. For a public facility, the rec center has hot water with surprisingly good pressure and, best of all, they have separate changing rooms for adult/ minor, male/ female, and those restrictions are strictly enforced. This is the one time when Clint gladly concedes his minor status in exchange for not having to worry about who might be lurking in the corners.Once he’s done there, he heads off to the library. He's convinced the librarian, Marleah, that he’s homeschooled and working on an independent learning project. It keeps him in a climate-controlled environment for most of the day. He goes there on Mondays and Wednesdays, bounces between the city’s free museums with a forged note about his homeschool status from his ‘mother’ on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and then the laundromat and the local Sikh temple on Fridays. Initially, Clint had been worried he’d stand out too much with his blond hair and blue eyes, but the Sikh are ridiculously friendly and welcoming, giving out free meals, no questions asked. After eating there a few times and getting a lay of the land, Clint decides to volunteer a couple of hours each Friday, serving those who come in behind him after he’s eaten, which seems to please the Sikh. They chat with him and the people in line while ladling food on plates. He’s learning a lot about their culture and even picking up a bit of Punjabi.At the library, he buries himself in the stacks, out of sight, out of mind. He finds a pretty cool book called The Bower’s Bible, an illustrated encyclopedia that goes into the history and mechanics of archery. It’s got enough big words that he has to stop and go pull a dictionary, but it’s interesting enough to make it worth it. It’s kinda cool to read the nerdy science explanation of what he understands by instinct.By the time he leaves the library, he's seriously jonesing to go shooting this weekend. He’ll have to backtrack for his bow. It’s far too valuable to stow at a hobo camp. Instead, he’s got it stored in a rental locker at the bus depot downtown. That means two two-hour walks, round trip, one to pick up his bow and one to put it back, but it'll be totally worth it. He misses his girl, the twang between his fingers, the satisfaction when the arrow thwaps exactly where he directed it. In his circus days, he spent hours shooting every day. He’s probably rusty as hell. He’s never gone this long without practice.He’s so wrapped up in his anticipation that he doesn’t notice the van pull up beside him until the door slides open and someone reaches out and grabs him. Before he can so much as yelp, there’s a sharp sting against his neck. Everything starts to swirl dizzily and then fades completely to black.Consciousness creeps back in like a friend unsure of its welcome. Clint’s head throbs viciously, his mouth is dry and gross, and he’s ten times woozier than after a night of hardcore partying. A hard-earned instinct keeps him from opening his eyes, pushes him to mentally survey his surroundings first.It’s quiet, much quieter than it ever gets in the city. The floor under him is cold, hard and bare. Wherever he is, it smells dank and musty, maybe even industrial. He doesn’t sense anything covering his eyes and his mouth is free, but his hands are tied behind his back with what feels like metal wire and his feet are bound and stripped bare, his socks and shoes taken probably to discourage any escape attempts. But whatever jerk wad grabbed him is in for a real surprise if they think the threat of splinters and sharp rocks will keep him from trying. Even the worst damage to his feet would beat staying at the mercy of some pervy weirdo that snatches kids off the street.He hears the soft snick of shoes across the floor as someone approaches. Then a grimy shoe sole settles on his face and presses down until he lets out a grunt of pain and has to open his eyes.The foot lets up and he’s able to turn his head and see its owner.A clean-cut white guy in his early thirties, brown hair, green eyes, clothes plain in the way the really expensive kind are. He could easily be mistaken for any of the corporate yuppies Clint’s seen a million times over all up and down the western seaboard.Except he has a kid drugged and restrained in an abandoned warehouse. Definitely not very yuppy-like.“You know, I didn’t really believe it when my guys on the street told me they'd seen the Flint Poleman just roaming around the streets, not a care in the world."Clint’s stomach drops at the mention of that name. Fuck. This just went from bad to oh-sweet-baby-j levels of worse.“That’s not my name,” Clint insists, trying to wriggle into a slightly-less-vulnerable sitting position. “I don’t know any Flint Poleman.”The man nudges at him with his foot, forcing Clint to turn over onto his bound hands.“I’m sure it’s not your name,” he says with a nod of acceptance. Then he squats down, reaches out, and pulls Clint’s shirt up, baring his midriff.“But this birthmark?” he says, poking at the café-au-lait stain just below Clint’s belly button and slightly to the left. “That’s how I know you’re Flint.”Clint has to fight not to groan in dismay. Of all the stupid ways for trouble to find him...It’s not distinctive, not heart shaped or in the shape of Africa. But palm-sized, it’s big enough to be seen on camera. It had never occurred to him that viewers would focus on it or use it to identify him in real life.“If I’m Flint,” Clint says, refusing to give him the satisfaction of admitting it, “then I’m nothing but trouble. I heard the FBI raided Flint’s last video, arrested everybody ‘cause he’s underage.”The man shrugs and stands back up, dusting his hands like merely touching Clint had somehow contaminated him.“Agreed. Runty jailbait is not my type and I don’t need that kind of trouble,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “But I’m what you would call a… professional gopher. I find rare things and sell them to the highest bidder. I know a few cash-flushed freaks who’d love to get to know you personally and would gladly make it worth my while.”If Clint thought he was feeling a bit sick to his stomach before, it’s nothing compared to what he’s feeling now as adrenaline and fear burn uselessly under his skin. He yanks at the wires holding his wrists even as he knows it pointless.“While you were out, I had a bit of a fire sale,” Yuppie tells him. “Now it’s time for deliveries. You’re the last thing that needed to be loaded into the van.”Grabbing him by the arms with a surprisingly strong grip, Yuppie pulls Clint to his feet and starts pulling him towards a door that leads to only-god-knows-where.Even as he’s swaying and unbalanced on his feet, Clint tries to fight back, using every dirty trick he can, even limited as he is. He doesn’t really know what the hell Yuppie is on about, but Street Lesson Number Two is never allow yourself to be taken anywhere. Technically, he’s already failed that lesson, but that doesn’t mean he has to allow himself to be taken further away.But at the end of the day, he’s an underweight teenager with both of his hands tied behind his back fighting a full-grown man. He doesn’t stand a chance.“Pity. I was going to let you stay up like a big boy, but now I guess you’re going on two trips,” he says, pulling out a syringe.“No, please,” Clint pleads, trying to squirm away but it’s useless.When Clint wakes again, he’s slumped in a van, wedged between boxes. His hands and feet are still bound, but he can sit up so he does. He looks out the back panel of the van, trying to get his bearings. He sees enough to realize they’re at an old gas station, but they’re definitely not in the city anymore. It looks more like one of those blink-and-you'll-miss-it type places Mr. Carson favored when the troupe was heading from one show to the next. There doesn’t appear to be a soul in sight. It’s just past dusk and he knows from his traveling circus days that small towns tend to shut down with the sun.The boxes are blocking his access to whatever latch mechanisms the back or side panels might have. He looks over his shoulder towards the driver’s seat. Maybe he can contort through the boxes and climb over, steal the van and get to help.He tries to figure a way out, twisting this way and that, but with so little space and his limbs tied, he can’t make it work. He used to do acrobatics as part of his act, but he’s still bound by the laws of physics.He’s trying to figure out what else to try when a car pulls up behind them. A guy gets out and starts going through the motions to pay for his gas and fill his tank.“Help!” Clint screams. “Help me, please!”He uses his body weight to make the van rock and the guy finally looks over, frowning in confusion. The stupid windows must be tinted.Clint keeps screaming and moving. The guy steps over the feedline to his gas handle and starts to slowly make towards the van, his face creased with concern, and Clint is nearly choking on excitement and relief.Then there’s a sudden bang and the man drops out of sight of the window, to the ground.Clint freezes, wide-eyed, barely able to breathe.Yuppie walks into view, face disturbingly undisturbed. He squats down, disappearing briefly, then reappearing with a wallet. He walks up to the window and wags his finger at Clint before rounding the van.“Well, that was unpleasant,” he says breezily as he climbs into the front seat and closes the door behind him.Clint remains motionless not daring to look over his shoulder.“Christopher Stammets,” Yuppie reads out loud. There are ruffling noises. “Looks like he has a wife, two kids, both super cute. Too bad you just cost them their daddy.”Clint blinks hard, his eyes burning. There’s a very real possibility he might puke.“I really wish you hadn’t made me do that, Flint,” Yuppie says as he starts up the engine. “But the penalty for child sex trafficking is natural life in a federal prison. Do you know what they do in prison to people who hurt kids? Once you’ve crossed that line, there’s no turning back and everything else feels pretty small potatoes.”Something smacks Clint in the back of the head and slides down to wedge between his back and a box. From the leathery feel, Clint would guess it’s the wallet. For the next few hours, it’s like the pea that kept the princess awake in the stories and Clint stares out what he can see of the back window until it’s too dark to see anything but the vaguest outline of his own reflection.After that, Clint doesn’t lose his will to escape but he’s determined not to drag anyone else into the line of fire.On the third day, they stop in some Podunk town. Yuppie turns around to talk to Clint through the divider.“We’re going to stop here. We need more supplies and I could really go for a hot meal,” he explains like they’re buddies on a road trip. “I’m going to untie you and let you out so your muscles aren’t all atrophied by the time we arrive. But I hope you understand that I have no issue with whacking ma and pa in the diner over there. And if you make me do that again? Well, that compartment back there is going to turn into a rolling toilet for you and you’ll get a dose of the good stuff whenever I need to stretch my legs and take a piss.”Clint doesn’t doubt it for a moment. The Patrick Bateman vibes coming off this guy are intensifying by the mile and he’s already woken up twice, presumably after being dosed via his water supply while Yuppie drops off a delivery.“Can you be a good boy, Flint?” he asks with a smile so inconsistent with the tone of his threat, it sends chills down Clint’s spine.Clint nods, having no choice but to play along for now.And so it goes for the next two weeks, stopping in small towns every few days.Clint painstakingly leaves a trail, not at every stop, that’s too risky. But any time he feels reasonably sure Yuppy won't catch him and the threat of collateral damage is low. He leaves a folded-up note tucked under his plate, barely legible after being scribbled blindly in the dark on a piece of crumpled paper, in one town. In another, he slips a second note with Christopher Stammet’s ID under his plate. He does the same with a credit card in a third.It’s a long shot that the waitresses will actually call the number or the cops, but it’s all he has.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Honey, you’re home!”Phil barely bothers to toss a droll glare at Jasper Sitwell who invites himself into Phil’s office with barely a knock and plops into one of the chairs that face Phil’s desk.“I was only gone for a week,” he points out.“And the kids ran absolutely wild,” Jasper says. “I told ‘em, ‘you just wait ‘til your father hears about this!’”Phil rolls his eyes. He shares supervisory duties over a portion of the probationary junior agents with a handful of his fellow senior agents, but, somehow, it always seems to fall to him to keep them in line, not a particularly appealing prospect after the past few days.A week ago, he’d headed out on a mission to run down an 0-8-4, an object of unknown origin, in Paolo Santero, roughly two hundred klicks outside of Ecuador. Phil had gone in as a college archaelogy professor. Of course, the appearance of gringos poking around in their backyard had attracted attention of the local guerilla forces and the job had gotten… messier than Phil had hoped. After three days that felt like a bad parody of Raiders of the Lost Ark, he’d finally made it back last night with only enough time to sleep and shower, before promptly reporting for debriefing with Director Keller and Deputy Director Fury first thing this morning.“Anyone in particular give you a hard time?” he asks.“Lopez failed to turn in his 1891-H form after returning from his training op. Again. It’s a minor infraction but the repeated failure to comply with basic protocol is concerning,” Jasper says, dropping a demerit notice on Coulson’s desk.“Johnson is requesting to run the Rank Advancement simulation again,” he says, stacking the request form on top of the demerit. “I like his spirit, but I think he’s biting off more than he can chew. I think we might need to sit him down and have the strength assessments talk.”Phil picks up the request and skims over. He doesn’t disagree, but he’s not sure if two failures are enough to warrant putting their administrative foot down. Maybe it’s the part of him that loves the Steve Rogers-esque underdog, but he’s slow to penalize someone for not being the model of physicality.“I’ll think about it. What else?”“The plumbing in the female agents’ locker rooms on level seven and eight are on the fritz,” Jasper reports, adding the carbon copy of a request form to the stack. “That means the agents on seven, eight, nine, and ten are sharing. I’ve been after maintenance, but they’re moving slower than molasses going uphill on a cold day. I know you have some pull with Moby. I was hoping you could put a bug in his ear and get this done before we get another EEOC complaint.”Phil nods. He’s coffee friends with Jonas Moby, the cantankerous head of Maintenance who has a soft spot for vintage Topps’ baseball cards, but what they really need is for Director Keller to finally lean on the Security Council to secure funding for retrofitting.Located equidistant between their much better-known alphabet brothers in Langley and Quantico, SHIELD sits in Arlington, Virginia, twenty minutes outside of the Nation’s Capital. The building they’re in was originally built in the 1940s, back when SHIELD was still the Strategic Science Reserve. Despite Peggy Carter’s pivotal role in founding the SSR, the building had not been built with female agents in mind. A full third of the ‘women’s’ facilities still have urinals in them, which won’t make any of their agents blush, but does mean that there aren’t as many stalls as there would be in a restroom designed specifically for them. Any of them being out of commission creates log jams and security issues as agents are re-routed to floors to which they’re not assigned security clearance.But SHIELD is still earning its stripes. The last hint of the seriously unexplained had been two years ago with Captain Danvers and SHIELD had nearly been shut out of the investigation by the big boys. Only Fury’s connection with Carol had kept them in the loop. It had bought them a measure of good will in the intelligence community, but the lack of save-the-day headlines means the appreciation was accompanied by only a minimal bump in funding.“Why didn’t you bring any of this to Maria’s attention?” he asks as he finishes jotting down notes into a to-do list.“I want people to straighten up and fly right, not flee in abject terror,” Jasper responds, making Phil huff softly with laughter.Maria Hill is very take-no-prisoners. While it often means the baby agents (and even some of the senior staff) tend to prefer to deal with him and Jasper for fear of getting their heads bitten off, it does weed out trivial complaints. Anyone willing to brave Maria truly believes their request or information is worth the risk.“And last but not least, please check your messages,” Jasper says, clasping his hands together in supplication. “Despite consensus being that I’m a poor substitution for the Philip J. Coulson, your answering machine is full so people are starting to call me.”“I’ll get right on that,” Phil promises. “Can you close the door behind you? Thanks, Jaz.”Jasper’s eyes narrow playfully, but he takes the hint and gets up.“Rude,” he calls out as he obediently does as asked.Phil takes care of the junior agents first. Personnel over personal, as always. Lopez is notified that his probation period is being extended by fifteen days and that his next infraction will result in a meeting with the disciplinary committee with potential consequences up to and including separation from service. Phil extends another invitation to Johnson for the advancement with a preparation guide and a reminder that a third unsuccessful attempt would bar him from retesting for another two years. Then he e-mails Moby with a lead on a VG-EX4, 1927 Charlie Gehringer baseball card paired with a polite request to expedite the bathroom repairs.Once that’s squared away, he calls into his answering service, flipping to a blank page in his notepad as the automatic system prompts him through authentication.Most of the messages are routine, in a similar vein to Jasper’s requests, but a few stand out.
“Hi, this message is for, uh… Christopher Stammets. This is Starwood Café, off of I-80. I just wanted to let you know we found your license. We’ll hold it behind the counter. You can come pick it up whenever you’d like.”
Phil jots down the name. It only takes a moment’s review of his mental rolodex for him to be certain he doesn’t have any field agents using that particular alias, but he’ll have to check against CIs in case it’s a signal for help.Information documented, he presses the keypad to save the message and queue up the next in line.
“Hi, this is Detective Anthony Notaro of the Laramie PD. This number has come up in the course of an investigation and I’d like to speak with you as soon possible. Please give me a call back at---"
Phil adds the number to his list and draws a star beside it. Like any other federal agency, SHIELD can’t go into a city or state’s backyard uninvited unless they can prove federal law has been violated, which is difficult at the best of times for their hazily-defined agency. So, they spend a lot of time nurturing connections, hoping one day, one of them will pay dividends. Wyoming is exactly the kind of place where cow mutilations or unexplained abductions might be the start of something interesting.He keys to the next message.
“Umm… Hi, my name is Maggie and… I’m not sure if this is real, but I can’t… I can’t just ignore it. I’m a waitress and I found a note that says ‘Kidnap. Need help. Please call’ and it listed this number. I’ve heard too many horror stories about serial killers at truck stops and… I just… If it’s a joke, then it’s on me and what’s the harm? But maybe I’m saving somebody’s life? I called the cops, too, just in case…”
Well, that definitely sounds like trouble. He draws a question mark next to it for follow up.But first, he contacts Detective Notaro. The man bluntly asks if he knows a Christopher Stammets. Apparently, Mr. Stammets, who doesn’t have an enemy in the world, has been the victim of a baffling and seemingly random homicide and all they have are footprints, size nine, from custom-made dress shoes, tracks from the most common tires in production in the Western United States, and a stolen credit card wrapped in a piece of paper with Phil’s number on it.Phil tells Detective Notaro that Stammets is possibly connected to a multi-state case he’s working and promises to call the man back as soon as he has more information.His dot connector is definitely tingling now.He follows up with Maggie’s PD. The detective there reports having the aforementioned kidnapping note paired with a photo of a young married couple and two young kids with Chris, Lizzy, Sarah (5), Sadie (3) written on the back. Phil’s ears perk up at the name Chris.It takes a bit of wrangling and a lot of phone tag, but they’re eventually able to use the license, the credit card, and the photo to confirm that Christopher Stammets is a real person who was murdered for reasons unknown less than a week ago and now someone is using his personal effects as bread crumbs to draw attention, possibly because they’ve been kidnapped and are being carried across state lines.The million-dollar question is who?Only the third diner still has surveillance footage from the timeframe in which they think the note was left behind. They’d readily agree to overnight it to Phil.When the package finally arrives the next day, he borrows a TV/VCR combo from Requisitions and starts scrubbing through the tape, looking for clues. He fast forwards to the timestamp of the day the diner waitress had provided, watching at 10x speed from opening that morning since she’d been unsure when exactly the note had been left.He’s halfway through his morning cup of coffee when he finally sees something promising. He slows the recording down to get a better look.A man, brunet, early thirties, enters with a blond, teenaged boy. From first glance, everything about the two clashes. The man is dressed like a mid-level white collar worker. The boy wears a black t-shirt with the sleeves and sides cut out nearly to his waist paired with a baggy, distressed jeans. The brunet’s body language screams cock of the walk, someone who is used to getting their way. The blond is far more skittish, like he’s considering bolting at any moment. But he doesn’t, allowing himself to be herded into a round booth that would make escape both cumbersome and noticeable. While the man is comfortable, king of whatever space he occupies, the kid is all but screaming ‘I don’t want to be here.’Once they’re settled, the kid finally looks up and Phil finds himself staring straight into Clinton Barton’s eyes.“What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time, Clint?” Phil wonders aloud to the video image of his crumb dropper.He’d known the kid had run away again, but how he keeps popping up in the middle of Phil’s path is probably a SHIELD-worthy mystery.With a worried sigh, he rewinds back to the moment the two entered and slows the film to one-fourth speed, studying the image frame by frame for clues.Upon closer inspection, he spots what might be ligature marks on Clint’s wrists, suggesting the kid has been restrained. His gait, while not drunken weaving, doesn’t seem as graceful as one would expect from a former circus performer. Maybe drugs?On the way to the table, Clint appears to be scoping the room. Maybe looking for escape routes? Yet, when an obvious and realistic opportunity comes up, Clint stares forlornly at the path but doesn’t take it.Phil frowns. In the short time he’s known Barton, the kid has made five attempts to run away from federal agents, local cops, and civilian guardians, three thwarted, two successful. Why is he staying put for this one not-particularly-intimidating guy?After puzzling over it a bit, Phil wonders if perhaps Christopher Stammets was collateral damage of a previous ill-fated escape attempt. Clint would not be the first kidnapped kid to be cowed by threats of harm or death and it would be all the more effective if he'd actually witnessed his captor murder someone who tried to help him. Phil makes a note of it and then rewinds to the portion of the film that had passed while his mind picked at the pieces.He watches all the way through their meal until the man is distracted, flirting with Maggie, the waitress. Clint glances at the two and then slyly lifts his plate just enough to slip a flash of something yellow underneath. The note. Bingo.Once the duo has exited the diner, he runs the first tape through an imager which allows him to isolate an image of Clint’s companion. He then runs that through the National Driver Registry. While the computer is working, he puts in the tape of the diner’s external surveillance.He cues up the start of the day and watches until the man climbs out of a dark blue service van with tinted windows and a side sliding panel door pulls up to the very limits of the camera’s view range, out of eye shot of the diner’s windows. The man removes a few heavy-looking cardboard boxes and leans inside for several long minutes, likely threatening Clint within an inch of his life. Finally, Clint emerges on wobbly feet, rubbing his wrists, squinting against the early morning sunlight. The man motions for Clint to walk ahead of him and they head into the diner. Just under an hour later, they emerge. The man makes Clint remove the boxes and climb inside. Then he leans inside again, presumably re-applying Clint’s restraints, putting the boxes back in, and sliding the panel door closed. He gets inside and starts up the van.Phil leans in, hoping against hope for a license plate as they drive off, but no such luck. At least he has fantastic images of Clint, the man, and the van itself. He also has the direction of travel. He knows Clint started somewhere near California and they appear to be sticking to I-80. They’ve already been spotted in Nevada, Utah, and Wyoming.While he’s trying to figure out where the two could be headed, the imager finally spits out a result.Bernard Shelton IV.“Hello, Bernie,” Phil murmurs. “Where are you taking our young Mr. Barton, you pervy, little weirdo?”Phil runs the name through the federal database and doesn’t even try to bite back a curse at the results. Shelton is a trafficker in hard to procure assets from art to vehicles to people. His family is prominent enough that nothing ever seems to stick to Bernie the fourth, but Phil can only imagine one thing that would get Clint, an orphaned street kid, labeled as a ‘difficult-to-procure asset.’Phil spends the next hour putting together a brief which he then faxes to the State Highway Patrols for the remaining seven states that I-80 crosses. He also puts out a nationwide BOLO and alerts Border Patrol at the US-Canadian crossing. He even submits his briefing file to the EAS for an AMBER alert, the fledgling child abduction alert system that launched last year. So far, the system is limited to emergency messages on AM radio stations, but it might help.With all his lines in the water, he pulls up Shelton’s file to look for potential clues and contacts while he waits for a bite, hoping he hasn't seen the last of Barton