City of Angels: Issue Zero
“A Red Carol”
37 Years AgoThe sun had long since set on this unusually cold Christmas Eve in Southern California. As two preteen boys crept up the Los Angeles mountainside the temperature only dropped, causing them both to shiver. The older child, a ginger boy of 12 years with a scar over his right hand’s knuckle, tried to distract his younger brother, a teensy 10-year-old with poorly cut blond hair, by singing him Christmas Carols.
“We wish you a merry Christmas—come on. Join in, Clint,” the older boy interjected, although Clint remained silent but for his chattering teeth. The ginger continued, “We wish you a merry Christmas. We wish you a merry—”
“—You think it’s gonna snow, Barney?” Clint wondered, looking up at the night sky.
Barney hesitated, initially unsure of what to say. After a few moments, he decided on the truth, “No. It doesn’t really ever snow in SoCal.”
“But it’s cold,” Clint argued.
Barney sighed and tried to change the subject, “Hey, why don’tcha sing with me?—We wish you a merry Christmas. We wish you a merry Christmas. We wish you a Merry Christmas and a happy New Year.”
“I think it’ll snow,” Clint grumbled to himself, refusing to sing. Even still, Barney wouldn’t stop trying.
“Now bring us some figgy pudding. Now bring us some figgy pudding. Now bring us some figgy—”
“I’m starving, Barney,” Clint whined, “Maybe we should go back.”
Barney’s forced cheeriness faded in an instant, and he stopped to grab his brother by the shoulders, saying seriously, “Clint, look at me. We can’t ever go back. If we did…you want food? All he’d give you is a knuckle sandwich. How’s that sound?”
Clint didn’t say anything in return. He simply turned away, crossed his arms, and pouted as they continued up the mountain. Barney watched him for a moment, frustrated at his inability to help, before he followed after him. He started to sing again, only to have Clint quickly interrupt him for the third time.
“Barney.” Clint stopped and pointed to the north down the mountain, “What’s that?”
Barney followed his brother’s gaze to a group of well-lit, colorful tents on the outskirts of Los Angeles.
Frowning, he explained, “That’s the circus. They’re in town for the holidays.”
“Do you think…do you think they’d have food?” Clint wondered, his mouth watering at the thought of a meal.
Barney had seen that coming, but he didn’t know what to say. The two boys had never been particularly well fed, but they were about to go without food for an entire day on the coldest night of the year that also happened to be Christmas Eve. He had to do something…
Barney pulled on his brother’s jacket sleeve and led him toward the circus. “Let’s find out.”
After making their way down to the nest of tents, the two boys snuck around the back till they found trailers, what looked to be the carnies’ living quarters. Barney glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and then began to check each of the trailers in search of one that was unlocked. He couldn’t find a single one.
Barney sighed and led Clint back to the tents. Suddenly, the younger boy pulled on his coat, stopping him in his tracks. Clint pointed out a teen in a red and white uniform who happened to be lugging around half a dozen pizza boxes.
“Good eye,” Barney admitted, smirking amusedly. “Didn’t figure circus freaks were big into pizza.”
“Who doesn’t like pizza?” Clint retorted.
“Touché,” Barney replied, before saying, “You remember what to do if an adult tries to grab you?”
“Yeah. You punch ‘em right in the weiner,” Clint said, miming the action to his brother.
Barney grinned and nodded, saying, “Good. Now wait here. I’ll be back in a few.”
“Be careful,” Clint said.
Barney shot his brother a crooked smile and confidently stated, “I’m a master thief. Just you wait and see.”
Clint’s lips curled up into a slight smile, but it quickly faded as his brother disappeared into a tent after the pizza delivery boy.
Minutes passed. Clint’s chest began to tighten, and for once it wasn’t because of his asthma…although that couldn’t have helped. What had happened? It shouldn’t have taken this long. Was Barney okay? What should Clint do if something went wrong (besides hit an adult in the weiner)?
As if to answer his prayers (in the worst possible way), his brother came sprinting out from underneath the flap of a tent, his eyes filled with panic.
“RUN!” Barney yelled.
Clint froze in place. It was only after he witnessed two shadowy figures emerge from the tent that he found it within himself to do as his brother said. He took off up the mountainside. Fearing for his older brother, Clint looked back, only to witness two consecutive arrows pin Barney to a tree by his clothes. One of the shadowy figures drew a sword and began to quickly approach his brother. The other walked slowly forward, but seemed to look at Clint.
The 10-year-old reacted instinctively. He turned back and ran for his brother. He couldn’t leave him to die!
The swordsman noticed Clint well before he could reach him, and smacked the boy in the chest with the blunt end of his sword. Clint tried to jab the man in his family jewels, but he failed to land the blow before the swordsman kicked him to the ground, raising his weapon once more.
“CLINT!” screamed Barney, who tore his clothes to escape his restraints.
“STOP!” boomed the other figure: the archer.
The swordsman hesitated, and then reluctantly lowered his weapon. In the light, Clint could now make out the older man’s features. He was clearly of Asian descent, and sported an elaborate pink and purple costume. A pencil thin mustache completed his bizarre look, and nearly made Clint burst out into a fit of terror-induced giggles.
The archer, on the other hand, looked absolutely ordinary with the exception of his weapon of choice. The Caucasian man wore cargo pants and a red leather jacket over a black T-shirt. His hair was buzzed military-style. Upon closer inspection, however, Clint recognized the remains of black paint smudged beneath his eyes. Despite the eerie shadows they created, the archer actually appeared rather kind, offering him a gentle smile.
“Leave the kids alone, Jacques. We’ve already scared the piss outta them,” the archer said, his voice deep.
“Oh yes, the brats are clearly quaking in their boots,” Jacques, the swordsman, quipped, as the two boys glared at him, ready to fight.
“They’ve got spirit,” the archer agreed, before adding, “But not a lot of mass. Look at ‘em. They’re skin and bones.”
“You know we can hear you, right?” Barney growled, stepping forward.
“Slow down, hothead. We’re not here to fight,” the archer said.
“Wouldn’t be much of a fight,” Jacques muttered under his breath.
“What are you two boys doing out on your own, stealing from miserly carnies on Christmas Eve?” the archer continued.
Barney glanced away, blushing.
“None ‘a your business, that’s what,” Clint spat.
“It’s certainly my business if we’ve got two runaways on our hands. We’ll have to report you to the cops—”
“—No!” Barney blurted. All eyes on him, he slunk back again and continued, “Please don’t. We…we don’t want to go back. Our foster father…he’s a bad man. We were just looking for food.”
The archer paused to think it over for a few moments before he grinned and said, “We can do you one better. How would you boys like to stay the night?”
“What?” the three others exclaimed simultaneously.
“Stay the night. Stay a year. Hell, if you feel like it, stay your entire lives. This whole circus is made up of orphans,” the archer gleamed, offering Clint his hand.
The blond hesitated, before taking it, allowing the older man to help him up. Barney initially didn’t know what to say. He had that in common with Jacques, who looked utterly infuriated.
In the end, all Barney could manage was, “Why?”
The archer’s grin faded for a moment as he registered the comment, but he quickly recovered, piecing together what to say, “I see a lot of myself in you boys…and a long time ago, someone did the same thing for me. It’s the only reason I didn’t end up dead in a ditch somewhere in Kansas.”
The boys looked at one another, and simultaneously smiled. Barney turned back to face the archer as Jacques groaned, expecting the inevitable.
“Thank you!” the 12-year-old said.
“’Course. Just tell me one thing, hothead: what’re your names?” the archer wondered.
“Charles Barton, but you can call me Barney,” the older boy answered. “This is my little brother—”
“—I can tell him my own name,” the blond child interrupted, causing the archer to smile in amusement. The boy turned to him and said, “I’m Clint! Nice to meet you!”
“Nice to meet you, too. This here faux-French jackass is Jacques Duquesne, our resident swordsman,” the archer indicated his friend. “My name’s Buck. Buck Chisholm. And truly, the pleasure’s all mine.”
And so it was that Barney and Clint found themselves a new home and a much improved family. Nothing could break their spirits that cold winter’s night. They spent the whole of it laughing, singing, and eating in what they’d both later agree was the best Christmas Eve they ever had.
>--)->
21 Years AgoBreaking into a millionaire’s house should have been hard. Really. A millionaire should boast nothing but the best in security systems, if not outright guards. At least that’s what Clint Barton thought as he and his partner, a red costumed archer with similarly colored shades and a buzz cut, strolled quietly through the mountainside three-story home of one Kyle Richmond, the heir to Richmond Bros. Studios.
Like his partner, Clint sported a costume of his own. Whenever he saw his reflection while in the suit, he couldn’t help but feel nostalgic for his carnie days. Purple and blue with a silly winged mask patterned with an equally ridiculous ‘H’ for Hawkeye, his codename, the costume looked the part of the showboating archer he’d played in the circus. However, the reason for the campy costume was altogether unrelated to his past. He and his partner had tried to fit in with the brightly colored super culture of the day.
“Something feels off. That was way too easy. We’re not actually that good, are we?” Clint said, looking around.
“Give me a break. We’re top of the line thieves. That’s why Nefaria’s paying us a top dollar salary to rob, intimidate, or in this case kidnap his enemies,” his fellow archer pointed out.
“Whatever you say, Buck,” Clint muttered.
“What was that, Hawkeye?” Buck Chisholm grunted.
“Trickshot. My bad,” Clint grumbled, clearly not meaning it.
The criminal duo made their way upstairs to Kyle Richmond’s bedroom. Outside the door, they exchanged a look that proved they both meant business, and then kicked it in, each thief nocking an arrow in his bow.
A woman screamed, holding a sheet up to cover her nude form as she scampered out of bed. They had expected her. Boss Nefaria had informed them that Richmond had a fiancée, Penelope Davis, a wannabe actress. At the very least, Clint noticed, she looked the part of a leading lady. Gorgeous in a girl-next-door kind of way and well endowed, Penelope drew an extended stare from Clint.
Buck, on the other hand, was all business all the time.
“Where’s Richmond?!” he growled, lowering his voice to its scratchy bass.
That was what they hadn’t expected. It was nearly four in the morning on a week night, and his fiancée was in bed. Where the hell was Kyle Richmond?
Clearly still terrified, Penelope tried to compose herself. What remnants of control she regained seemed empowered by anger.
“Kyle…Kyle is out,” she darkly said, her voice quivering ever slightly. “He goes out almost every night. Drinks and does blow and fucks every whore in a skimpy dress he can find. They—they aren’t exactly in short supply.”
Clint picked up on the fact that Penelope was trying to bargain with them. To sell her unfaithful fiancé out in exchange for her safety. It made Clint wonder why she was marrying him in the first place. Did an acting gig really mean that much to her? He pitied her, but Buck…
As mentioned earlier, Buck cared about nothing but the job. A lot had changed in sixteen years.
“You’re coming with us. As far as bargaining chips go, you’ll do just fine,” Buck said, motioning to the door with his bow and arrow.
Penelope choked back her tears and stumbled toward the door.
Eyeing her commiseratively, Clint said, “At least let her put on some clothes.”
Buck frowned, but begrudgingly pointed to a robe hanging from her closet door. “Put that on, and make it quick.”
After she had slung on the robe, the two criminals led her back down the stairs, only to find two unexpected guests waiting for them at the front door.
“Surprise,” drawled the black and gold costumed ninja, Ronin, who leaned casually against the wall, his sword drawn.
Beside him stood his partner, Knight, who was dressed in silver and gold chainmail, and wielded a sword of his own. However, he, like the villains, had a bow and quiver, which he kept slung over his shoulders.
Clint and Buck were familiar with the rookie vigilantes. They’d made a habit of striking Nefaria’s operations, and had since gotten a price put on both of their heads.
“Whoo boy, this is gonna be fun,” Clint muttered, grinning.
“Shades is mine,” Ronin said, leaping toward Buck.
Knight didn’t speak, and instead lunged for Clint. The two were relatively matched as the archer met his opponent’s every blow with his bow. However, Knight managed to ward Clint away from their hostage, and pushed him all the way back to the fireplace. Meanwhile, the aforementioned hostage, Penelope, had hurried behind a couch and out of the line of fire.
Buck and Ronin’s fight was impressive to behold. Like old sparring partners, they exchanged blows at breakneck speed. Neither could successfully hit the other, and both took the advantage in forcing their opponent back at a pace that seemed almost artificial.
Likewise, the other combatants, Clint and Knight, retained their relatively balanced tactics from earlier on in the fight.
“Cute costume. Totally retro,” Clint quipped, as he kicked out Knight’s legs from under him. The hero recovered in a heartbeat, rolling out of harm’s way, and then jumped back into the thick of things.
“But the swordplay’s so 1370s in the worst way,” Clint deflected Knight’s wild swing.
“There’s not usually this much talking in a fight,” Knight uttered.
“Um, have you met your partner?” Clint retorted.
Truthfully, Ronin had begun to babble off as well, although not quite as much as Clint.
“You fight like an old man,” Ronin stepped on his opponent’s foot and tried to stab him in the shoulder.
Buck deflected the blow upwards with his bow, and used the opening to ram into the ninja, who then leaped away to escape further attacks.
“Likewise,” Buck growled, before yelling, “Hawkeye, toss me one of your gizmos!”
“You mean the ones you give me shit about?” Clint playfully shouted back, attempting to jab Knight with one of said ‘gizmos,’ a shock arrow.
“Just do it!” Buck retorted, rolling away from another of Ronin’s lunges.
Clint leaped away from his opponent, providing him the appropriate time to reach back into his quiver, grab a trick arrow, and throw it to his partner. Buck easily caught the arrow, nocked it, and avoided another of Ronin’s blows. He had to be careful about this shot. Never knew what to expect from one of Clint’s ‘gizmos.’
Meanwhile, Clint and Knight had worked their way back to the living room, forcing Penelope to seek cover elsewhere. She struggled to pass by the combatants, but managed to sprint away after Knight kicked Clint onto his backside. She then hurried up the stairs and into her bedroom as the fights continued.
On the ground, seemingly beaten, Clint used his Hail Mary tactic…
…He jabbed at Knight’s crotch.
The vigilante instinctively caught Clint’s fist with his hand, and the two quickly locked eyes, realization dawning on them.
“Clint…?” Knight muttered incredulously.
“Barney,” Clint recognized his brother. He looked over at the other two dueling opponents. “Then that makes Ronin…”
“We have to stop them,” Barney said.
But it was too late.
Buck had grown frustrated with the battle. Ronin had met each of his blows with one of his own. They were equally matched, and for good reason. Beneath the mask, Ronin was Jacques Duquesne. However, ignorant of that fact, Buck leaped back recklessly and fired his trick arrow in an upward arc. Ronin ducked, assuming it was an ordinary arrow. The projectile collided with the second floor, and exploded, sending the whole thing crashing to the ground.
“Penelope!” Clint yelled.
Barney stopped him before he could act. He grabbed his younger brother by the collar and dragged him out of the building as it began to collapse. Ronin hurried after his apprentice, and Buck…
Buck was nowhere to be found.
“No, no—NO!!” Clint screamed, on his knees, staring helplessly at the three-story house as its upper floors collapsed.
Anger boiling in his chest, Ronin held his sword to Clint’s throat. “Give me one reason not to kill you.”
Barney knelt down beside his brother and put an arm around him. Looking up, he answered for Clint, “He’s my brother.”
Ronin’s lenses contracted in confusion. “What?”
Clint, with tears in his eyes, looked up at Ronin, his age-old mentor, and removed his mask. “I’m so sorry, Jacques.”
Utterly shocked, Ronin looked back at the collapsed house and whispered, “Then Trickshot is…”
“Gone,” Clint muttered, anger burning inside him. Sirens echoed in the distance. The archer began to shake, forcing back tears. “Buck ran away…and I don’t think he’s coming back.”
Mustering whatever strength he still had, Clint stood up and balled his hands into fists. “But we’ll find him. I don’t care if we have to travel all over the country to do it. The people responsible for tonight…responsible for that girl’s death…they will be brought to justice.”
“Clint…” Barney began, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
Clint shrugged him off and coolly whispered, “That includes me.”
“Come on,” Barney urged, the sirens drawing near. “You can’t catch anyone from a jail cell.”
Reluctantly agreeing, Clint put on his mask, grabbed his bow, and ran up the mountainside. Jacques and Barney exchanged a brief worried look before sprinting up after him.
Together, the three men ascended into the darkness.
>--)->
15 Years Ago“Motherfucker,” Clint Barton grumbled, looking up into the sky at the enormous mystical, fiery pattern that had formed over the US Bank Tower, the tallest skyscraper in Los Angeles. “They started the party without me.”
What Clint wouldn’t give for a normal Christmas Eve. Something about the holidays always seemed to bring out the worst in people, or in this case the complete hellfire damnation of half the city.
“Need a ride?” came a gravelly voice behind him.
Speaking of hellfire…
Clint, who now sported a much sleeker, sleeveless costume, turned to face the sort of man who would have given him nightmares as a child. Sitting atop a burning Harley motorcycle was the Ghost Rider, a leather jacket-wearing S.O.B. with a flaming skull and an equally fiery taste for vengeance.
“Thanks, Blaze,” Clint said, sitting down behind him. He placed his arms around the motorcyclist to steady himself. “Just remember, this is only awkward if you make it awkwaaaaaarrrrdddd!!”
His cry was drowned out by the sounds of the motorcycle’s engine as Ghost Rider sped off down the street, leaving a trail of fire behind them.
…
Arriving at the Tower, Ghost Rider slowed to a stop, which finally allowed Clint to lean over and vomit on the ground.
“Every damn time…” Clint grumbled, spitting out puke.
“Hawkeye,” Ghost Rider began, “We got company.”
Clint followed his gaze to a mob of fiery red demons that stood guard outside the Tower. They all had begun to slowly lumber toward them, drawing their weapons out of thin air. As he stepped away from the hellcycle, Clint nocked an arrow.
“Didn’t realize we were going to your family reunion, buddy. I’m underdressed,” he quipped.
Ghost Rider unraveled a metal chain from the handlebars and allowed it to slink to the ground. “Go inside and end this before there’s hell to pay. I’ll cover you.”
“Love the pun, but you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Ghost Rider grinded his teeth together, then raced into battle.
Firing an explosive at a demon, Clint reached back for his next arrow. As the denizens of hell roared toward him, he shot a grappling arrow into the building’s third floor and activated it, sending himself flying over the demons’ heads. Meanwhile, Ghost Rider tore into half a dozen enemies at a time, decapitating them with his chain.
Clint hung just over the doorway, and looked down only to discover a group of demons salivating fire, eager to devour him. One chattered up at him in a language he assumed originated in another dimension. They all grouped tightly together, and began to call to him. Smirking, he reached into his quiver, tapped the tip of an arrow against his leg, and dropped it into the crowd. It exploded, eviscerating the demons and sending their guts all over the area, including onto Clint.
“Gross…and pathetic,” he muttered, dropping to the ground. He took out a demon with an arrow to its eye without even looking. “But still better security than Richmond’s place.”
Ghost Rider slaughtered any demons who neared Clint as the archer hurried inside the Tower.
…
Sweating profusely after sprinting up the stairs, Clint emerged onto the roof of the tower, an arrow already nocked in his bow, and sprinted up to the helicopter landing. There, he found two men caught in mortal combat, one’s sword clashing with the other’s bow. The blade-wielder was a ninja dressed in black and gold: Ronin. His opponent was Buck Chisholm, Trickshot, who wore the same red costume he had for years. The only difference in his appearance was the glowing design burned into his forehead, the same one that roared overhead.
Buck knocked Ronin back with a kick, but the ninja quickly recovered. The two clashed weapons again, and exchanged rapid fire blows on equal footing. The fight proved so chaotic that Clint couldn’t fire his arrow for fear of hitting his ally, Ronin. He lowered his bow, frustrated, and then docked the arrow.
Hand on the tips of his projectiles, he called, “BUCK!”
But in the end, he only distracted Ronin. The ninja slowed for half a second, but Buck immediately took advantage of his lapse in concentration. He caught Ronin’s sword in his bow, twirled it around so he could grab its hilt, and then drove it through the ninja’s heart.
“NO!!!” Clint roared, firing his arrow.
Buck removed the blade in order to deflect the projectile with it, and then kicked his fallen foe to the ground. Clint saw red, and fired arrow after arrow at his enemy. Buck reacted quickly, dropping the sword in favor of his own bow. He met each of Clint’s arrows with one of his own. Yet again, two opponents had met their match.
“Clint, it’s not too late to join me. My cause is just! I seek only to save the righteous and smite the damned, same as you,” Buck said, his voice multi-layered as if something else, something otherworldly was speaking through him.
“By murdering anyone who’s committed a crime?! By getting rid of second chances?! Buck, you won’t just be killing millions—you’ll kill us!” Clint shouted.
“I’m ready to die for the good of this city; aren’t you? Or was all that self-sacrificial ‘superhero talk’ just bluster?” Buck retorted.
“Jacques will never walk again because of you. Jim, Penelope, both dead at your hands. And my brother…you just murdered him!!” Clint growled.
“You should be proud. Barney’s yet another martyr who sacrificed himself to save this city,” Buck dryly said.
“YOU KILLED HIM, YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!” Clint roared, firing an arrow.
The projectile detonated when it came into contact with Buck’s, who had fired his a second faster. The explosion sent Clint stumbling back a couple steps. Buck remained composed and took advantage of the situation, firing two standard arrows with one shot. They nailed Clint in each of his shoulders and pinned him against a metal crane, which in turn left him dangling over the city. Even still, Clint kept his bow in his hand.
Lowering his bow, Buck sighed, “It’s a pity. I always liked you best, Clint.”
“Give me a break. You only liked me because you could manipulate me,” Clint spat.
“No, son. I may have lied to your brother all those years ago, but not to you. I meant what I said. I saw myself in you. My spirit, my survivor’s instincts, my brains,” Buck said, shaking his head. “I thought you were smarter than this. I thought you’d know better. Clint, I taught you everything you know, and yet you still thought you could win,” he uttered in disbelief, drawing his last arrow.
“No…not everything,” Clint muttered, causing Buck to hesitate. “My brother taught me how to fight dirty.”
Before Buck could act, Clint pressed a button on his bow, activating the very first arrow his one-time mentor had deflected. It exploded, sending Buck flying. He crashed into the ground in a semi-conscious heap, his back horribly burned.
Grunting in pain, Clint pushed off the crane with his feet, and leaped to the rooftop, in the process tearing his shoulders free of the arrows. He then removed two from his quiver, and walked over to Buck, each step a journey as blood leaked from his open wounds.
“Sticky bomb arrow. My invention,” Clint said, kicking Buck over onto his back. “You always hated trick arrows.”
Clint took a moment to look down at his one-time mentor. Eyes filled with disdain, he spat on him and then forced his own arms up.
Shoving the first arrow into Buck’s chest, Clint growled, “This one’s for Barney. And this? This is for the city we saved.”
He plunged the other arrow into Buck’s forehead, right in the middle of the mystical design. Suddenly, the spell overhead glowed blue and then burst, sending a wave of energy into the clouds.
Down below, the demons disappeared. Ghost Rider would have smiled if he could. He took a moment to enjoy the victory, and then drove his motorcycle right up the side of the Tower. There, he found Clint holding Ronin’s corpse in his arms, crying. He had since removed the ninja’s mask, revealing his brother, Barney’s expressionless face.
Before Ghost Rider could say anything, a single snowflake fell atop Barney’s face, drawing Clint’s attention. He looked up, and the Spirit of Vengeance followed his gaze as snow began to fall from the sky.
Ghost Rider morphed back into his sandy-haired human form to feel the snow. After a moment, he explained, “When you broke the spell, it backfired. Opposite of fire…”
“…is ice,” Clint realized. He looked down at his brother, a tiny smile ghosting over his lips before disappearing just as quickly. Overcome with grief, he began to sob harder than ever.
“Snow in Los Angeles. I told you, Barney. I told you…”
