Author's Note: Warning of Clint thinking about killing people, dark thoughts about himself, self doubt. Non-explicit mention of internet porn. Scientific/medical inaccuracies and I really hope I don't offend anyone with my comic book science rendition of a rare rod/cone condition.

The Archer Chapter 10 I See Your True Colors Shining Through

"Has he ever seemed sensitive to light?" the doctor asked.

Marek and Borrs both nodded. Borrs spoke up, "The first day, when I let him get a pair of shooting glasses, he picked some that were dark tinted. He asked if he could keep him. I rarely see him without them."

Marek looked over at him. "So that's where he got those. He wears them constantly. I asked him about it once, he said that things are really bright without them. I've made him run a course without them, though, and he did fine. Little slower than normal, but well within what I thought was reasonable. Didn't think it was an issue."

Dr. Austin asked his next question, "How is his distance vision?"

This time it was Hedley who spoke up. "Freakishly good. I've been testing him out. We were 40 feet up in a tree, he was seeing bugs on the ground. I called bullshit, climbed down to check. Damned if there wasn't a bug in every exact spot he said. When we're in the woods, he sees animals before I do, sometimes a long time before I do. He says they just stand out to him. He told me his name in the circus was Hawkeye. I've got to say, it fits. Been calling him that."

The ophthalmologist wrote down some notes as he asked, "Any issues with colors?" Everyone nodded.

"We were making his ghillie suit, and he tried to pick out camo with orange in it. He laughed it off like it was a joke and at first I figured it was, but now I'm thinking he didn't see the orange. I've known some people with color blindness, but none of them would have mixed up orange and black or brown," Hedley commented.

"He gets red and green armbands mixed up, but that's all I've noticed, and he's not the only one, so I didn't think it was a big deal," added Marek. "Seems fine with the blue and yellow ones." He frowned. "Gets the green and yellow paintballs mixed up, though."

Coulson spoke up for the first time, "His reading books are color coded by level. Once we got past the yellow level 1 books, he started picking books in different levels. I've had to put away the levels that are too far above his current ability. I'm ashamed to say that I never made the connection, but colorblindness could explain it." He continued, "Is that going to cause an issue with his duties?"

Marek shook his head No. "We've done a few activities with him and the other two snipers. I gave him pictures of a target, and then had him find the person. He's been 100% accurate with people. He's not going to be identifying people with armbands and paintballs on actual missions, so I've green lighted him for field work."

Dr. Austin continued to take notes throughout, adding, "I really have no idea how to instruct you on this case, so we're going to have to go on your observations, and my best guesses. I've never seen anything like this, and neither has anyone else I've contacted."

Phil turned to the doctor, "What exactly do you guess is going on with his vision?"

"I'll skip the technical details as much as I can, although frankly I'm going to be writing a paper on this case. Here's the short version. Bad news, he has an extremely rare condition called Blue Cone Monochromacy, which means he's almost completely colorblind. As far as I can tell, he only has rods and blue cone cells."

Borrs frowned. "What does that mean?"

"He can see blue, and maybe purple. I think. Other than that, he doesn't see color at all, everything is grayscale. He's using his rod cells more than the rest of us are, so he's very light sensitive. That's why he always has sunglasses." The doctor focused his attention on Marek. "You said he can tell the difference between the yellow and green armbands, but mixes up the paintballs in those colors. Are the paintballs dark yellow and light green?"

Marek nodded and the doctor continued. "I think he guesses that what he sees as light grey is what other people call yellow. If you've got a yellow that registers as darker than the green, he's going to get them reversed." He cleared his throat. "This condition is extremely rare, but it does occur. However, his case is extraordinary and probably unique. There is an area in your eye called the fovea. This is the only area that is really in focus. Your fovea has only red and green cones, no rods, no blue cones."

Borrs frowned. "So wouldn't that mean that his doesn't work?

Dr. Austin nodded. "Most people with BCM are legally blind. He's got the opposite; his vision's the best I've ever seen. The only guess I have, and this is a guess, is that where most people have red and green cones, his have replaced with blue ones. He actually seems to have more cones in his fovea than most people. His numbers are closer to a bird of prey than what's average for a human."

"So what exactly does that mean?" asked Borrs.

"You're viewing the world on a color tv, but it's a crappy analog one. His is HD, but it's black and white," answered Dr. Austin. "You've really got to think of him as seeing only grays."

"Will he be able to do his job?" Phil asked, being careful not let any emotion show.

The doctor shrugged. "The best I can give is a resounding I don't know. That's why I called all of you in. You know better than I do whether or not he can do this."

Ivory didn't hesitate. "He can do it. His vision without a scope is almost as good as mine with a scope."

Dr. Austin commented, "I have no doubt that the saw those bugs. There's a good chance he saw others that he didn't point out to you. At 40 feet, he might, note I'm saying might, be able to see an ant moving."

Borrs nodded more slowly, "I don't know how he operates in the field. But his accuracy with a rifle is very good, and with his bow he's phenomenal."

Marek considered the longest before putting in his opinion. "It's not like we're going to be wearing colored armbands to distinguish SHIELD teams from our targets. But you can't tell me that it isn't going to affect him."

"Oh it affects him. He sees red and black as the same color. Red lettering on a black background is going to be invisible to him, for example. Color coded wires, lights in certain colors – it's all going to be tough, if not impossible for him. But he's been living like this for his entire life," said the doctor.

"What adjustments are we going to need to make for him?" asked Agent Coulson.

"There's been good luck with using magenta lenses. The red component blocks out most of the light that is too bright for him, but it allows the blue through that he needs for day vision. Other than that, don't color code things. Don't give him directions like 'Next to the red car.' He's going to have problems determining which fruit are ripe, although I'm not certain that's going to be an issue in his line of work. As for anything else, I think we're going to have to play it by ear."

"Mass, Jupiter, are you in position?" Two affirmatives came over the comms. Agent Coulson continued making certain everything was ready for tonight's meeting. "Hawkeye, tell me when you reach a good position."

"Already here, Voice," Clint replied. He had a difficult time keeping the grin out of his voice. It felt good to finally be on a real mission. He'd been on a few observation missions with Ivory, which probably were important, but they didn't feel important. He'd done plenty of tailing his targets, he knew the power of observing, but when he was on his own he'd done something with the information he gathered. Here, he told Coulson what they saw and then wrote it down, and that was the last he did with it.

It felt like a pointless exercise. So being here on a roof with his bow in his hand felt good. Tonight an undercover agent, codename Rabbit, was going to make an important deal with a suspected HYDRA cell. Mass and Jupiter were there to provide obvious muscle. He was there to provide covert back up.

He kept having to remind himself that here his job was to look just about everywhere except at his main focus, which was taking some getting used to, but even that wasn't too far off from what he was used to. He'd taken down some rich and important targets, people who had plenty of security. He was used to looking for hidden people.

Go time.

Rabbit walked into view, with his two hulking body guards bracketing him. Clint had already figured out sight lines and started scanning for movement in likely spots. His smile morphed into something a little darker as he found the first hidden gun man.

Clint hadn't survived as long as he had as a contract assassin by assuming the best of people. So when the figure in the shadows raised his rifle, Clint made a judgment call and loosed the arrow. The figure crumpled. The three SHIELD agents walked on, unaware.

Over the course of the meeting, Clint took down one more gunman. He didn't pay much attention to what was going on between Rabbit and the person he was there to meet, but Coulson eventually came over the comm line.

"He's too nervous. Something's up. Don't run yet, but wrap this up and let's get out of here."

Things got heated and then, just as Rabbit turned and started walking away, more armed men came out from positions on the ground. Clint pulled ten arrows, but there was no way he was going to be able to take all of them down before at least one of them would hit one of the agents he was there to protect.

Rabbit proved his worth that night. His indignation was evident even from Clint's removed location. Whatever the hell he said, the goons on the ground backed down, the target kept talking and by the end of everything, they shook hands and Mass walked out with a heavy box. As soon as they reached their vehicles, Clint scrambled.

Later that night, everyone sat around in Coulson's hotel room, cradling coffee and in various stages of undress in their field gear (Clint) or their undercover clothes (everyone else). Coulson was still fully dressed in his suit. Of course.

Rabbit was talking. "He just kept getting more and more nervous. It was like there was something that he was expecting."

"Agent Barton, did you see anything that might have explained this?" Coulson asked.

"Probably the two guys they had set up to take you out," Clint replied matter of factly.

Rabbit gave him some sort of look. "You should have called that in. It's a moot point, since you didn't have to fire, but next time let me know so I can arrange to deal with variables like that."

Barton managed to not roll his eyes. "I dealt with your variables. Nothing happened."

Rabbit spoke up. "What do you mean, you dealt with them?"

"They were lining up shots. I took them out," Clint responded. The stunned looks made him smirk. "So now you know the first reason I prefer my bow – silence. Shit would have gone differently if everyone heard gunshots, right?"

Mass started, "Rookie agents aren't supposed to fire without - "

Clint interrupted, "If you didn't want someone to fire when needed, you should have sent someone equipped with binoculars. You asked for a sniper, you got a sniper, and all three of you walked out alive."

"Why didn't you tell us?" asked Rabbit.

Clint shrugged. "Wasn't sure how good your acting was, if you'd give somethin' away."

Coulson fixed him with a serious expression. "Next time, tell me. We all need to trust each other to do our jobs, which we can't do if we don't have all of the information."

Nodding, Clint acquiesced. "Sorry then. I'll make sure I speak up next time."

"I'm sure you will. Unfortunately, you did leave a distinctive calling card, so that something we're going to have work around."

Clint snorted. "The hell I did! I grabbed the arrows. Didn't use broad heads, so the shaft seals the wound up pretty well. I glued the wounds shut, so with any luck they won't know why their guys are dead. Figured that would help to keep them from directly being able to connect this with him," he pointed at Rabbit.

For the second time that night, there was silence in the room. Clint kept his eyes on Coulson, who looked at him thoughtfully.

Later that night, when everyone else had left to the bedrooms of the suite (two to a room, with Clint-the-rookie sleeping on the pull out couch bed) Coulson came back out to the room where Clint was staring at the TV and eating a protein bar. Coulson pulled up a chair. Clint kept his focus on the TV.

Coulson spoke in his normal, even tones. "We know of 18 kills to your name."

Barton looked sideways at him. "Missed a few, then."

"How many?" Coulson asked him.

Clint looked at him for a while, then went back to the banal show on the screen. "Why, will it make a difference?"

"We've recruited and trained you. That's not going to change. But if you have ways of disguising the distinctiveness of your chosen weapon, it would be a good thing for us to know."

Answering around a mouthful of the protein bar, as if it didn't matter to him, Clint told him, "Real number's a lot closer to 50."

They sat in silence for a while longer before Coulson spoke again. "How did killing those men tonight make you feel?"

The archer shrugged. "Brought the number two closer to 50." He finally really looked at the agent. "You expecting me to cry on your shoulder or somethin'?" Coulson shook his head. "I killed people. Wasn't the first, won't be the last. That's what you hired me for, right?"

"You protected the members of your team. That's a different focus than what you've done before."

Barton gave him a level look. "Probably ain't much of a difference to the dead guys. Dead's still dead."

"No, but it should make a difference to you," Coulson said as he stood. "Keep that in mind." And with that, he walked back into his bedroom and shut the door.

Clint got as much sleep that night as he expected to after a conversation with Coulson, which was to say not much.

It didn't take long for the story to make the rounds at SHIELD. Among other things, it cemented his codename as Hawkeye, which made Clint happy and seemed to anger Rick, who'd taken to calling him Country Boy, in what Clint suspected was an effort to make that his codename.

Coulson helped him write his report and explained exactly how many procedures and protocols he'd broken, but also commended him on taking appropriate action when he saw what was needed. Rabbit didn't pull any punches in making it clear that Clint had messed up but he also gave credit where it was due in acknowledging that Clint had pulled them all out of a bad situation. All in all, it didn't hurt Clint's reputation and actually helped it a bit. Clint would take what he could get.

Things would have been just fine, if it wasn't for Coulson's talk. Which made him start thinking about things that he normally just shoved down into a box in the dark recesses of his brain. And that, of course, made him start thinking again how there were things that everyone else around just seemed to get, and he didn't, and it was like colors all over again. Everyone else saw these red and yellow and green things and he had no idea what they were talking about; like it was some huge conspiracy against him.

And everyone knew that it was wrong to kill people, and you were supposed to feel bad about it if you did. Only sometimes it was okay and you shouldn't feel bad but they still expected you to. And just like the colors, he didn't know when he was supposed to feel okay and when it was supposed to bother him. His whole job was to kill people.

He didn't think he was a psychopath, or a sociopath, or any of those paths, but obviously this was something else that was broken about him. He'd had a lot of time to think about it, on roof tops and next to camp fires, in hotel rooms and in his prison cell.

He'd kill Wilkerson all over again; really thought he did the right thing. Okay, maybe not in the best way. Some of those sights and sounds still haunted him. But it still felt like self-defense to him. He hadn't killed Jacques or Buck, but if he'd been able to catch them, he would have done it and felt justified.

Two different lawyers and juries told him he was wrong on both counts. Apparently he wasn't good enough to make the decision about who needed to die. SHIELD told him the same thing; he was only to take out targets after intel had decided things for him. And he could get that, really he could. Clint had no delusions that he made good choices, so he was willing to admit that a whole team of analysts and consultants and people like Coulson probably were better able to decide things.

But then things like that mission with Rabbit happened. And everyone seemed okay with him making the decision about who lived and who died. Mostly. Except he was supposed to tell them, and apparently he was supposed to be bothered by it.

Clint really didn't feel badly about killing people who were going to kill someone. And he didn't know why he was supposed to – it wasn't like he knew the two people he'd put arrows into. But everyone seemed to think he would, even the shrink he had to go as part of the mission.

Clint told him what he thought he was supposed to tell a shrink. The shrink just Mmmmm'd and set up recurring sessions.

Clint sighed. He'd figure out how to fit in someday. Along with everything else that he needed to figure out.

Coulson frowned at him. "You haven't logged any afternoon reading hours."

Barton gave a dramatic sigh from where he was lying on the couch, half of his limbs hanging off the couch. Coulson was never entirely certain if he was irritated when the young man acted like a teenager, or oddly touched that Barton seemed to feel safe enough to act like the teen he probably never had a chance to be.

"The books are boring," he whined.

"Then read something else," Phil replied calmly.

"I don't have anything else to read!"

"You spend a lot of time online. Read something online."

"Okay boss, sure thing," Clint said with a smirk.

Two days later, Barton sauntered into Coulson's office and dropped two reading reports on his desk, then threw himself onto the couch. Coulson finished up his current task, then read the reports. He looked up at Barton, who grinned at him.

"This will be acceptable no more than twice a week." Phil was proud of the way that he kept his voice devoid of any emotion.

Barton scowled. "I can read porn as much as I want."

Coulson nodded. "Yes you can. But you can only use it as your reading report twice a week. For the other days, may I recommend archery forums, hunting forums, any firearm related website, automotive manuals…" He thought for a moment. "Do you still watch movies with your friends?"

The blonde looked confused. "Uh, sometimes, what's that got to do with it?"

"Watch subtitled films with them. Text based games will count also," Coulson thought out loud.

"I can play games," the disbelief and uncertainty stained Barton's voice, "as part of reading assignment. Aren't you going to make me do, I don't know, real reading?"

Coulson explained, "Barton, reading a variety of different words is the best thing you can do. If you read as many different things as you can, you'll be exposed to more words. And if you get those words from sources that are meaningful and interesting to you, you're more likely to remember them, and movies and games that you like will give you that. That's why I don't mind you reading the porn, although I'll pass on the reports on that. But please remember that eventually we're going to need you to read and write situation reports. There's not a lot of vocabulary that overlaps those two situations."

Clint laughed, "I dunno, insertion, extraction, movement, shooting…"

"Get out of my office, Barton."

It took them almost a full day of walking through thick forest, and one intense section of mountain hiking, but Clint and Ivory finally made it to a point where they could set up their surveillance on the plantation that was suspected to be a cover for weapon smuggling. Specifically, biomechanical weapons that were being designed by A.I.M.

The two snipers had set up a minimal camp consisting of a pup tent disguised with branches and stuffed under the branches of some sort of conifer tree. They were taking turns watching and resting, eating MRE's and mostly depending on their gear to get them through the steadily dropping temperatures.

It was currently Clint's turn for down time after his shift, and he was eating his MRE (Maple Sausage, the package claimed) before laying down to try to rest. He ate the granola with blueberries while the sausage heated, saving the pop tart, muffin and crackers for later.

He had to admit, being properly supplied made wilderness survival a lot easier. When SHIELD was chasing him through Eastern Europe, he'd mostly just endured, buying food when he could and stealing it more often, but mostly just going hungry. Here, he had a snack before warm food and had plenty left over for later. In addition he had a sleeping bag and a tent – this was fucking luxury compared to what he'd had before.

With a full belly, food for later, and a sleeping bag inside a tent, he laid down to sleep, in more physical comfort than he had experienced for most of his life.

It didn't last. A few hours before his next shift, Ivory woke him with a kick to the bottom of his feet and a whispered, "Hawkeye. We got company."

Clint pulled on his boots, grabbed his bow and crawled out to meet Ivory at their observation site. Hedley handed him night vision goggles and Clint got a good look at what was going on.

Several teams of people in tactical gear were crossing the last few yards of ground to the concrete buildings. The problem was, the metal buildings that looked like storage were the locations where the weapons seemed to be stored, along with security personnel that seemed to be at least competent.

Ivory was calling in the attack to their handler, trying to coordinate their presence with the combat force. Clint looked at him. "What the hell are you doing? Let's sit tight, keep our heads down and stay the fuck out of this."

Hedley shook his head, "At the very least, I'd like them to know that there are two friendlies out here so we don't get targeted. And we're not just friendlies; we're a sniper team. We're a big tactical advantage that they might be able to take advantage of."

Clint looked back over his shoulder to say, "Getting involved in someone else's fight is never a good idea."

"Yeah, well," whatever Ivory was going to say was drowned out by an explosion. Clint swore, relieved that he hadn't been looking towards the compound at the time; the bright light would have blinded him.

Ivory grabbed his rifle and fell forward into a prone position next to Clint. "Velvet's handling the communications. We need to handle the shooting."

Cursing under his breath, Clint pulled his rifle into his shoulder and rested his cheek against the stock. Through his scope, he saw the attacking force was being overrun by the A.I.M. security forces even as they began a strategic retreat. He took a breath, pushed his misgivings down into a tight ball in his belly, and started picking off targets.

Sure enough, it wasn't too long before someone in the compound figured out that there was a sniper out there. Several tiny drones took off and headed in their direction. Their handler hadn't been able to reach the infiltration force to make them aware of the friendlies, so Clint and Ivory were on their own. Clint tried to take them down, but the erratic movements of the black drones in the night sky, and with his eyes already dealing with too much light from the fire... well, it all added up to mean that they were rapidly getting too close for comfort ."

"Ivory!"

"Little busy here."

"Yeah, well, we got incoming and I can't stop them. We gotta go!" Clint was already slinging his rifle across his back and going back for his go bag.

"They're not all out yet!" Ivory took another shot, the crack of the rifle echoing out across the landscape.

"Fuck them, we need to get out! Now!" Clint grabbed Ivory's bag, his body quivering with the build up of adrenaline.

"Not until we get them all out," Ivory said, taking another shot.

Clint let out every curse he knew, dropped both bags and hit the ground. He abandoned the careful sighting he'd been taught in SHIELD and started shooting as fast as he could, depending on instincts honed by years in the circus.

If he died here, he was going to haunt Ivory for the rest of his life.

Although it seemed like forever, less than a minute passed before Ivory got to his feet. "Secondary location, NOW!"

They both ran for all they were worth. They weren't too far into the shelter of the trees before they heard their former location get hit. By unspoken agreement, they both went to ground as soon as they found suitable vegetation. Clint pulled his hood up over his head and hoped that the R&D team had actually pulled off the thermal shielding they claimed to have woven into the cloth of his ghillie suit.

Then there was nothing to do but wait, and hope. The drones came and went several times over the next few hours, as the world lightened around them. Footsteps came closer, then passed.

More hours went by.

The footsteps returned and left several times.

It wasn't until after midnight on the night after that failed attack, that Ivory gave the okay on moving. They pushed themselves, focusing more on moving steadily rather than quickly, reaching their extraction point 58 hours after they first left their primary location.

12 hours later they finally returned to SHIELD headquarters. Clint collapsed into his bed and slept for 14 hours. The debrief was the longest he'd ever had to endure, and consisted of written reports, oral reports to three different people, and a joint session with Ivory.

In his private debrief with Coulson, Clint eventually confessed that he had disagreed with Ivory and tried to get him to change his mind. He laid down all of the reasons why retreating and not getting involved were the better options, and why getting involved was tactically unsound.

Coulson listened to him, as always, but then commented, "Being part of SHIELD is being part of something bigger. We're not perfect. We do make mistakes. It's an incredibly difficult job, and people get killed in our line of work. But we've found that brings us closer to each other. We have a brotherhood here. We don't abandon each other, we don't leave people."

Clint said in angry disbelief, "You'll trash an op just to get someone out? I don't think so."

Coulson acknowledged his point with a counterpoint, "There are rarely only two options. We will allow a setback, we will delay things, we will create diversions or sow discord. We do what it takes."

The former assassin sat in silence for an extended moment, finally asking quietly, "Why?"

"There are a lot of reasons, most of them exactly what I just told you. But the one you'll listen to is, SHEILD inspires loyalty by being loyal. When people know that they can trust, that they will be taken care of, they care more. They work harder, they do more."

Clint sat in silence after that, until it was time to go to his next round of debriefings. Hours more of sitting still in uncomfortable chairs, while other people picked apart every decision and action. The only upside was that they received a communique from the forces. Given how much of a clusterfuck it had been, casualties were lower than expected, and much of the credit for that was given to the 'unknown sniper team.' Clint and Ivory each received a copy of the letter.

Clint tacked it to the wall next to his bed.

"Agent Barton," Bernard answered the phone as he tossed yet another dart at the board in his office.

"I have some information that may be of interest to you," Coulson said on the other end of the line.

He leaned forward in his seat, placing the rest of the darts in his desk drawer. "Phil! What's up?"

"I have something that you're going to want to see."

Bernard and his adoptive family watched as his baby brother stepped forward onto the stage with the rest of his graduating class. Today marked their official promotions to Agents. Bernard knew that it meant so much more to Clint. He could see fear and anxiety and pride all fighting for real estate on his face.

Bernard had been feeling the same emotions ever since that phone call, three years ago, when he found out that his brother was alive, and a killer. He never thought pride and happiness would be words that he got to use for his brother after that.

Six months ago, his brother had arrived at SHIELD's doorstep, broken, full of despair and anger and not much else. But even then, there had still been hope. Clint had always been a survivor and here, he'd not only survived, but thrived.

Bernard couldn't imagine being prouder of his brother than he was in this moment. Clint, who'd been 'that damned kid', then 'Hawkeye', then 'The Archer' and then 'inmate', was now Agent Barton. Despite everything, he'd remade himself yet again, this time into something to be proud of. That agent stood on the stage, full of pride and dignity and respect.

"Clint 'Hawkeye' Barton." Clint stepped forward, Director Fury fixed a small metal pin to the front of his tactical gear. For the first time, he was a full agent and allowed to wear the SHIELD symbol. He looked down at it, then up at Fury. He said something to Fury, too quiet for them to hear in the audience, but Fury's short laugh reached them.

SHIELD Agent Barton walked over to join the rest of his class, several of whom greeted him with grins and handshakes.

After everyone had received their pin, Director Fury made one more short speech.

"In each graduating class, we give an award to the trainee who demonstrates outstanding leadership, and principles, and who personified SHIELD's mandate to be a force for good in this world. Otter, step forward, please." Director Fury gave her another pin, this one of a star, and a plaque.

"I'd like to give another award to a trainee who showed almost none of those traits." The audience laughed, then Director Fury continued. "But by God he demonstrated skills, the ability to survive almost every shit storm we threw him in, and a resilience that will do him well in the field. And he did it all with a Paleolithic weapon consisting of a stick and a string. Hawkeye, front and center!"

Clint stepped up. This pin was of a scarab, or, as Director Fury informed them with a devilish grin, a dung beetle. The plaque was blue with silver highlights, and Clint held it proudly throughout the rest of the ceremony.

Afterwards, as everyone mingled and gave congratulations, Coulson introduced Bernard to some colleagues he worked closely with. "Sitwell, Hill, this is my old friend, FBI Agent Bernard Barton."

As Hill shook his hand, she asked, "Who are you here for?"

He gave a big smile. "The archer is my brother, Clint."

~fin

Author's Note: What is Clint's vision like? I'm doing a HUGE amount of hand waving here. I've taken the idea of blue cone monochromacy and frantically waved a lot of comic book science at it and called it good. So basically, in my world, he sees blue and purple; everything else is grayscale to him. Like an old black and white photograph that's been tinted, but only the blue things.

toys/colors/ Select the atypical monochromacy to see what Clint does. This is my explanation of why he likes purple. *handwave* After a lot of research, I'm not at all certain this is accurate, but it's beautiful.

Finally, this absolutely couldn't have been possible without the constructive criticism, feedback, cheerleading and general awesomeness of the Beta Branch.