Clint Barton

The problem with a mask is that eventually you can't take it off.

It wasn't Clint's day on monitor duty, he wasn't on call with the Avengers or on patrol in his neighborhood. He wasn't globetrotting for SHIELD, or going into space. He wasn't looking for trouble, and his bow was on the wall over his couch at home.

"I said get the money in the futzing bag! I'm not foolin' around, I got a ray gun here!" The kid couldn't be more than twenty, half-lunging over the bodega counter to threaten the world-weary father of four behind it with what was definitely some kind of space-alien ray gun. The hood's accomplice held out an open backpack, and both wore bandanas pulled up over their faces.

Standing at the back of an aisle, Clint sighed. "Dammit, I just wanted some groceries," he muttered, before getting a good grip on the can of dog food in his basket. "Hey! Hey, jackass!"

Keeping the gun pointed ("gangster-style," when will they learn?) at the cashier, the lead hood turned around. "You talkin' to me?"

"No," Clint snapped, "I'm talking to the other jackass who's stickin' this place up." The hoods paused for a moment, the one with the backpack puzzled as to why this random guy wanted him in particular. "Of course I'm talking to you. I'm gonna give you a chance to get outta here before you regret this."

"Cover 'im," Raygun muttered to Backpack, who, lacking a weapon of his own, resorted to making an imaginary gun out of his hand and leveling it at the cashier. Swaggering, Raygun turned to point his weapon in Clint's general direction. "Howzabout I give you a chance to gimme your wallet and get outta here?"

"I don't have my wallet," Clint explained, "I'm in sweat pants here. Look, my belt is friggin' rope. I just brought a few bucks to buy my groceries."

"You 'spect me to believe that?" Raygun demanded, gesturing emphatically with his weapon. "Maybe I'll just shoot you and check for myself, you think'a that?"

"You're not gonna shoot me." Some punks really were too dumb for their own good. "You're not gonna shoot anybody. First off, you're trying to come off all tough, but your voice's cracked, like, three times since you came in here, and that accent's preppy-rich-boy-gone-slumming. Second, those tats are magic marker, and they're rubbin' off, poser. Third, that's a Skrull army surplus sidearm: the trigger's on the inside of the handle, and you can't pull it if you can't shapeshift." The throw wasn't great--kind of underhand, snapping up from his basket to launch a can at Raygun, dropping his basket to sprint after it in a lunging tackle.

Behind the counter, the cashier grabbed up his folding chair, beating Backpack about the head and shoulders with it while Clint subdued Raygun. Sitting on the dazed teen's chest, he groaned, "man, now I'm gonna be writing reports all night."

Clint has learned something, and it's important he and Jim discuss it at the earliest possible opportunity. To that end, he's been combing the Nexus, looking for that familiar gold shirt, the cocky smile, or anyone arguing with Naugus.