It was raining in New York.
The secluded facility had long ago mulled to a dull hum as many resident soldiers had retreated to their living quarters, sound asleep through the rain.
A few stayed at their desks despite the late hours, and a late night training session was being held on the outdoor field behind the compound, but the compound had gone to sleep.
Well, for the most part.
Buried deep in the compound lay a scarcely used gym, only occupied by the few agents, even during the light of day; it was kept there only for those so desperate to better themselves alone on their so limited free time. At this late hour, the gym was empty, spare for one occupant who was working a punching bag under the light of a single bulb.
The crack of his fists against the bag was louder than the crack of thunder.
Unprotected fists attacked the bag with unrelenting fury as the rain picked up outside, desperate to drown out the sound of the torrent with the sound of flesh against canvas.
Clint hated the rain, and would do anything to drown it out. Even if it meant destroying his hands, one of the most important things he had.
He spoke with his hands. He shot his bow with his hands. But the rain made him want to tear all of that down until he was a bleeding pile of shit on the floor.
Over the years, no matter where he had been, Clint had built the reputation of being the man with no feelings. The man who could swallow even the hottest, sharpest pain and bury it beneath the layers of sarcasm and bullshit. He didn’t have a past; he didn’t have a family. He was the man from nowhere who wasn’t getting anywhere fast. He didn’t have connections; he killed because he was good at it and weaponizing him was easier than putting him down.
Clint didn’t have the capacity to feel. Until it rained.
The rain brought out some juvenile, primal instinct buried deep inside him that broke him down into a hopeless, lost fifteen year old all over again. It worked to remind him of the monster he had been at eighteen, killing for money and pretending he was okay with it.
The rain broke him, more than any human ever could.
He never slept when it rained. He would spend hours in the range, guards forgotten, shooting until his arms bled, or spend hours running until he felt like vomiting up his lungs, or he spent the entire night in the gym, tearing his hands up to the point of bloody mutilation.
If there was one thing Clint understood, it was pain. Whether he was a helpless six year old being beat to shit by his father, or a heartbroken ten year old being taught to fight by his brother. If he was a fifteen year old getting nearly beaten to death by his former mentor, or a coldblooded eighteen year old assassin falling from a six floor fire escape into a dumpster. Even the twenty year old agent fighting to the death on a days old concussion and untreated bullet wound.
There was something about pain that Clint found comforting. He didn’t find it a weakness; he found it a solace. Pain was the one thing that Clint had that reminded him who he was. Pain cleared his mind and allowed him to focus on what really mattered.
So Clint would always punish himself, if that meant taking a beating or overworking himself or getting shot just to feel something.
He was no stranger to pain.
Pain kept him alive.
He would keep attacking that punching bag until long after the rain stopped and way past the point when he stopped feeling anything in his hands. Clint walked away, leaving blood smeared all over the bag he had long claimed his own. It would take hours before he started to feel pain and days after that before he got treatment.
Clint Barton didn’t just know pain.
He invented it.
