"I –I used to know him," Bucky stuttered out, his eyes on the newspaper spread out above him.

Clint glanced up at the soggy newspaper, at the golden-haired hero pasted to the front of it. A droplet of rain saturated through the paragraph detailing the captain's heroics. "Yeah?" he asked, glancing at Bucky disbelievingly. He wasn't doing so great.

Bucky's dark hair was damp and pasted to his sweaty forehead. He was sitting in their makeshift shelter, his arms wrapped around his legs as he shivered and trembled with the force of the fever that was eating him whole. The ratty hoodie he was bundled in did nothing to protect against the damp chill that was seeping through their cardboard hideout. It had been Clint's but it was two sizes to big for him and they both knew Bucky needed it more.

"Went to school with him," Bucky murmured deliriously. "Used t'call him Stevie." He laughed a little at that, a sharp broken sound before he broke off coughing.

Clint winced, hovering uncertainly. "Yeah?" he asked, hating the way his voice warbled on that one word. He didn't know what else to say.

"Mm yeah. Was just a little guy," Bucky slurred, gesturing with his right arm. "Tiny thing. Used to get beat up all the time."

Clint looked up at the picture. The guy there was a giant beefcake. No way was he the kind of guy to get into fights left and right, let alone lose them. The Purple Heart he was being presented seemed to indicate that Clint's assessment was right. Some hotshot, top of the world guy like Steve Rogers? No way he came from downtrodden little Brooklyn. He glanced back at Bucky nervously. Rogers probably just reminded him of his friend and he had the names mixed up.

"Yeah," Clint commented softly, watching Bucky helplessly.

He smiled wanly, his complexion a terrifying paleness. "I used to – to fight for him. Clean up his messes. He hated it." Bucky laughed again, a weak chuckle that was over before it really began. Too much like Bucky's own life. "Used to say he coulda handled it. He was always walking 'round bruised. Never told me who did it, but I'd find the guys. Not fair, pickin' on a guy like Stevie." He sighed quietly at that, coughing weakly as he shuddered, drawing up tighter against himself. His eyes slid shut and he was out cold once again.

Clint scrubbed a hand over his eyes. What was he supposed to do? A week ago Bucky came down hard and fast with a cold that wouldn't go away. Neither of them could afford to be sick. Clint had bought what he could in the beginning; lozenges and zinc and whatever he could find that was loaded up with vitamin c. None of it helped. Bucky was going to die at this rate. Going back to Hydra wasn't an option. They'd risked their lives to get out of there –the thought alone sent a shiver through Clint that had nothing to do with the weather. It wasn't like he could jut use a payphone, report Bucky as was –nobody would come. They were two homeless kids. Nobody cared. Clint wasn't sick but he didn't want to risk moving Bucky. His arm still wasn't healed up yet and if he took him to a hospital they'd start asking questions. Questions Clint wouldn't be able to answer. And then they'd call the police and he'd be hauled off for questioning. Hydra would hear about it, and they would come and take back their assets.

The word alone had Clint crawling out of the makeshift shelter, glancing back at Bucky worriedly. He was too pale, trembling and shaking, muttering under his breath as his fever dreams devoured whatever was left of his consciousness. Fuck. He couldn't let him die. There was a pharmacy just a few blocks away. Clint had tried to swipe some Tylenol yesterday but security found him out and let him go with a warning. Clint could play the first time offense card exceedingly well. He shuffled anxiously, glancing back at Bucky worriedly. If he didn't get something now, Bucky would probably die. Hopefully there would be a different security guard this time.

Clint hunched his shoulders and set off across the street, heading to where he knew the pharmacy was located. He didn't want to waste any time by trying to find a different store; time was something neither he nor Bucky had much in excess of. Clint peeked inside the store, casually entering it as he canned for the security guard. He definitely didn't see the one who had been here the day before. A quick glance at the clerk showed that Clint had caught a lucky break for once. They were both new; didn't even give him a second glance. Clint sneezed, keeping his head down as he wandered down the aisle to the Tylenol. He skimmed over the symptoms they relieved, grabbing the first bottle that promised to relieve fevers and slid it into his sleeve as he wandered down the aisle again. He paused at the tissues, made a pained face at the price as he brought his hand up to wipe at his nose.

His gaze lingered on the suppression bottle next to the tissues. It cost a fortune and anyone needing them required a doctor's note. Hydra used to handle all of that. But in less than a month, the last shot he and Bucky had would wear off. Everyone would know. They didn't have a plan about what they would do then, but they would deal. Clint sighed again, a little wistfully as he turned towards the door. His eyes widening in shock, he quickly turned back to examining the display in front of him as he clutched the bottle of medicine in his head. Behind him, the door swung open, the welcome bell jingling merrily as the officer stepped inside. The guy wasn't wearing a uniform and the car parked outside was nondescript but it was obvious with how the guy walked and carried himself that he was an officer.

Shit. Clint thumbed the bottle of pills in his hand anxiously. It wouldn't be the first time he had stolen something and it probably wouldn't be the last but he really didn't want to get law enforcement involved. He meandered around the store, eventually finding himself looking at the bottle of suppressants again. Could he be any more obvious? From the corner of his eye he saw movement, watched as the nondescript officer settled in next to him, picking up a bottle of cough syrup.

"Waiting for the doctor's approval?" the officer asked him kindly, brown eyes twinkling. "I remember what that was like. I used to stare the bottles, think how differently life would be if only I could get one. It took me a few months after that before I got the prescription and could stop staring at these things like they held the weight of the world in them." He gave a chuckle, picking up the bottle in his hand.

Clint smiled, well-practiced with keeping his anxiety under control. "Yeah. I just turned twenty-one. Could finally get that appointment." It was a lie. Clint was barely twenty and Bucky was just twenty-four. No doctor would even take Bucky as a patient and without proper employment papers; they wouldn't accept whatever flimsy or creative excuse he gave them.

The officer nodded, smiling at Clint sympathetically. "My daughter's down with the flu right now," he sighed. "My wife sent me to get some cough syrup," he waggled the other bottle at that. "You should dress more warmly, kid. With this kind of weather?" The guy shook his head. "Flu's real bad this year."

"I know," Clint said quietly, thinking of how quickly Bucky had deteriorated. He felt the bottle in his hand, keeping his hand cupping it securely. Soon, he could help.

The officer nodded before he stepped up to the counter, paying for the bottle of cough medicine and the suppressants. He walked back towards Clint, pausing for a moment before winking cheekily and handing over the bottle of suppressants.

"I remember what it was like," the officer whispered. "They make a big deal out of it, but it's… whatever side effects you might feel, it's always worth it." He smiled gently, tipping his hand to Clint as he left the store.

The clerks didn't notice anything. Clint pocketed the bottle as well and waited until the officer had driven away before he walked out of the store. The alarm went off and Clint took off at a run. He circled the block, leading a trail in the opposite direction of Bucky in case anyone was following before he went the long way around to get back to his friend. Bucky had slid down against the cement wall, was lying in a writhing bundle as he shivered and whimpered pleadingly under his breath.

Clint grabbed out the bottle of fever medication, opening it with shaky hands as he took two pills out and set the bottle aside. "Bucky," he said, hoping it would get him a reaction.

Bucky jerked back, closer towards the wall. "No," he moaned sickly, shoving his hand in Clint's direction. "No." He wasn't awake.

"Bucky," Clint repeated, pleadingly. "C'mon it'll make you feel better."

"No," he whimpered, trying to hide his face against his shoulder.

Bucky knew what was going to happen next as much as Clint did. They'd been drugged before on multiple occasions for Hydra when they screwed something up. Tied down with leather restraints on what always felt like an operating table, a bright fluorescent light above them, pills were shoved down their throats. If they didn't give in and take them or tried to fight, they had their noses plugged and were forced to take the pills anyway. Clint tried to force a pill in his mouth, but Bucky kept his lips and teeth clenched together. With a heavy heart, fearing for his life, Clint pinched the end of Bucky's nose cutting off his supply of air. And waited. When he opened his mouth in a gasp, a strangled wail on his lips, Clint shoved the pills into his mouth and pressed his hand over Bucky's lips. Bucky flailed and struggled, his one arm slamming into the side of Clint's face. It was almost enough to knock Clint's grip aside as he waited for Bucky to swallow, disgust welling up inside of him as Bucky fought him.

"It's just me," Clint pleaded, keeping his hand over Bucky's mouth. "You're safe Bucky. Please. Swallow. You're sick and you need to get better."

Whether it was because Bucky had expended too much energy fighting or because he actually heard Clint, Clint would never know. But he would always be grateful for the way that Bucky's body went slack as he swallowed the pills down. Clint winced, pulling away from Bucky hastily. At least Hydra had always had water handy. It got easier to just not fight them, to take the water and the pills whatever the unknown drugs would do. Just because it got easier didn't mean that Clint always did the sensible thing. Sometimes he had to fight, because he could. He knew that Bucky had felt the same, had often done the same. Clint grabbed the two bottles of pills, fastening the lid back onto the Tylenol.

He scanned the instructions; concentrating as he picked over the directions word by word until he could figure out how often Bucky would have to take the pills. Four hours before he could have another. Clint swallowed, setting the Tylenol down next to Bucky. He reached outside, swiping his finger along the wet grit of the asphalt. On the interior cardboard he left his coded message; he was going out for a bit but that if it was dark outside when Bucky woke up, he would have to take another two pills. There definitely wasn't an if about Bucky waking up. Clint wiped his finger dry on his pants –there was no way any part of him would be clean or could be clean after all of this. He set the back of his hand over Bucky's forehead, wincing at the heat he could feel radiating off him.

There was no guarantee that the pills would work. Bucky could very easily still need a doctor. And there were plenty of black-market doctors willing to help out when needed, the kind of doctor who wouldn't ask questions so long as there was money to pay. Clint paused, looking back at Bucky. Clint had no one else in his life and he wasn't sure he could live knowing he let Bucky die when there was something he could do about it. Grabbing the suppressants, Clint left the makeshift shelter that was mostly just a mess of soggy cardboard at this point. The ragged tarp over Bucky's half would keep him safe, but Clint wasn't sure how long the structure would remain standing at this rate. Clint headed down the narrow back alleys and to the storage spot he and Bucky had made. He glanced around carefully before he lifted the stones out of place.

Clint grabbed the handgun, slipping the pills into its place before replacing the stones and concealing the weapon. He didn't exactly have a coat, but it fit underneath his shirt well enough. Buried under the street sign for Carriage Street and Bryant Crescent, the gun was dry and safe. They'd taken it from the last Hydra agent who had found them before leaving his body for the officials to find. No one would ever think to question a couple of street kids. Not in this day and age. Too many young kids would just go missing, stolen off the streets or out of backyards and family lawns. As far as Clint had been able to learn, Bucky was one of those kids. Clint had been a different kind of kid. He wasn't kidnapped against his will and handed off. No, Clint had been sold.

Sometimes, a couple of years later, the kids would resurface. The ones who weren't desirable. The Betas, usually. Sometimes Alphas. Omegas would never be seen again. Clint never asked Bucky why he didn't go home; in return, Bucky never asked why Clint didn't try to find his brother. They'd spent too many years together to not know details of the others' life. Clint was sold when he was fourteen to Hydra, on the verge of his fifteenth birthday. Bucky had been stolen from the streets as near as Clint could figure when Bucky was thirteen. They both avoided talking about home, once Clint stopped hoping that Barney would show up to save him. It was too late for that. Clint had missed his chance and Barney had missed his, probably never even knew that it had come and gone. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.

So they had been eking out a miserable life on the streets that was better than anything they'd ever had before. Well, it wasn't better than the circus exactly. And Clint doubted it was better than Bucky's home. But their memories of Hydra were more powerful and prominent and neither of them wanted to endanger anyone else by association. Clint swallowed tightly, feeling the weight of the gun press against the small of his back. He already had too much blood on his hands. The stains would never come off. Bucky no doubt felt the same. Two blood-stained, combat trained Omegas would never make a presentable or handsome partner. Omegas were delicate, polite and mild mannered. Clint was all muscle and scar tissue, a ticking time bomb of issues ready to go off at any second; Bucky was an even bigger mess of scar tissue, a missing arm and he frequently vanished entirely. Oh, he was there physically. But sometimes the parts of him that made up Bucky just seemed to scatter entirely to the four corners. A couple of hours, sometimes days later, he would come back to himself with vague memories.

Clint wandered the streets, asking the hard questions until he had a name. The clinic wasn't that far away from where their makeshift shelter was located. It was disguised as an herb shop but once Clint set foot inside he could already tell that it was clinical and better run than some of the questionable places he'd been to before.

"How much for an examination?" he asked gruffly, watching the secretary startle into action.

"Two hundred," she answered, smoothly.

Clint hid his grimace at the figure. "My friend, he's… he's sick."

"Two hundred," she repeated, her voice hard as steel. "Prescription costs vary. If he's got that flu that's been going around, the medication will run at about one hundred and fifty dollars or more." She paused, her grey eyes giving Clint an unimpressed once over. "If we have to keep quiet about anything, there's a thirty dollar fee for that."

Clint blinked and opened his mouth to argue.

"Can't pay?" she interrupted before he could even begin. "Then get out."

Three hundred and eighty dollars wasn't a bad price, really. Clint had been expecting worse. Biting his lip, he left the clinic and headed to the nearest bank. It wouldn't be his first time robbing a bank –it would be his first time attempting to do it without any back up and without any kind of a plan. Convenience stores didn't keep that kind of cash in a till and they were jumpier than bank clerks. Convenience clerks got shot pretty commonly; bank tellers not so much. Clint paused as he surveyed the bank, feeling the weight of the gun. Cameras everywhere. It didn't really matter if he got caught so long as he could get out of police custody before Hydra showed up.

Clint walked into the bank, grateful to see it was deserted except for a couple of tellers, two customers and the security guards. They were clearly up to date on their training though because from the corner of his eye he could see them advancing towards him. Clint pulled out the handgun, flipped the safety off and fired two shots without looking. They were both non-lethal. The first security guard went down with a pained cry, the bullet clean through his right hand. He wasn't going to be able to draw his gun in that condition. The second bullet went through the other security guard's left hand. He dropped with a pained cry, fumbling for his gun with his right hand before giving it up.

Clint walked to the teller, leveling the gun at her. "Four hundred dollars," he demanded roughly. "Now."

She squeaked, fumbling nervously as she counted the cash out, her eyes wide. Clint snatched the cash from her, wincing as he heard a police car pull up. He ran for the doors, kicking the security guard's gun from his weak grasp as he raced outside. Banks had silent buttons to call the police; he wasn't interested in shooting any more innocents. He'd done more than enough of that for one lifetime. Clint jumped across the nearest car to him, firing a shot at the police cruiser's back tire as he kept running. Hopefully it would slow the police down long enough. Clint cut through the short cuts, dropping the gun into a dumpster on his way by.

He wasn't going to get away from this, that much was obvious. He skidded to a stop, listening. There was only the distant sound of sirens. Grateful, he rushed back to his makeshift shelter where Bucky was still curled up. They'd been here for three months, maneuvering through the maze of alleys and side streets –Clint would have been surprised if someone had found and caught up to him. Impressed even. This was definitely the hardest part though. Clint helped Bucky to his feet, leaving the Tylenol behind with a pang of regret. It had done nothing for Bucky, certainly nothing noticeable. Bucky wavered on his feet and Clint hurried put his arm around his shoulders, leading him to the clinic.

He froze every time there was the sound of a siren, however close it was. They would have his picture going around soon. There was never enough time. He glanced at Bucky, wincing. Bucky's complexion seemed deathly white and there was a sheen of sweat across his face. Every few steps he would groan and cough weakly. Clint was half-carrying him and he doubted that when Bucky woke up that he would remember a single thing about this day. Clint glanced at the shadows flickering in as the sun slipped behind a cloud, minutes until sunset.

It was early evening by the time Clint got Bucky to the clinic, handing over a hundred of it to the secretary as the doctor took Bucky into a back room. Clint hovered nearby anxiously. He alternated between pacing the length of the available room and drumming his fingers against his arm. It felt like forever before the doctor was stepping out of the room.

"He has the flu. You're lucky you got him here when you did," he said, sternly. "There's no way he can go home. Wherever that is," he snorted derisively.

Clint pinched his lips together to keep himself from punching the guy in the face. "Is he gonna be alright?" he demanded.

The doctor eyed him. "You have the money for the drugs? I can treat him here. It's a hundred and fifty."

Clint nodded, pulling out the cash and handing it to him. He ignored the way the doctor only eyed him more suspiciously. "Look just… help him get better. And don't tell anyone anything," he added, shoving the last of his money towards the doctor.

It was the best that Clint could do to try and ensure that Bucky would be okay. The doctor nodded and took the money, counting through it thoroughly. "I won't say a word. He's good to stay here."

Clint nodded, feeling the exhaustion of the last week catch up to him. Well. Bucky would be okay. That's what mattered, really. Clint turned and left the clinic, walking down to the police station. He half expected that any second there was going to be a police car stopping and pulling him over. But no one did. Turning himself in was the last thing he wanted to do, but he'd already seen three media stations covering his unusual bank robbery. He wouldn't be able to get out of here and he wouldn't be able to do anything to help Bucky. Hydra knew he was here in the city, knew he was wanted by police.

He couldn't afford to lead them to Bucky. Clint was in good enough physical shape to stand up against whatever they threw his way. Bucky was not. If they caught Bucky now, he would probably die. Not from whatever they did to him, but because he couldn't stand to go back there again. Clint wasn't looking forward to it either, really. He walked into the police station, heard the way their mouths dropped open in shock and Clint dropped to his knees obediently, hands behind his head.

If he could keep Hydra busy, just for a while, he could keep Bucky safe. He zoned out, allowing the officers to order him about as he went compliantly. They fingerprinted him but there was no match. They took his picture. Still, no matches came up. They asked for his name and Clint knew better than to give it to them. If they wanted something from him, they wouldn't just hand him over to Hydra. He hoped.

It wasn't a surprise when they led him downstairs, marched him past the cells and down into the basement. They cuffed him up and left him hanging. It was nothing Clint wasn't used to. It used to be this was something reserved specifically for Omegas. Omegas were just property; they were the ideal baby bearer of the species. But with the Omega Rights fighting and winning court rights over the years, more and more people fell in line with the law. For the police, it meant that they could interrogate anyone they wanted like this. They still had certain laws to protect the prisoners, such as the police requiring a certain amount of evidence and having to file charges within the specified time limits.

Many years before Clint was even born, there was an attack. It was an airborne virus and it started in a jail cell in the middle of the United States. It wiped out something like seventy-five to eight percent of the global population. No one was ever really sure on the count. Those who survived the virus were altered. There were still two genders but each gender had an orientation, as Clint understood it. Alpha, Beta and Omega. Alphas were designed to impregnate and Omegas were designed to birth children. Betas however were still more closely related to the human species before it had been altered. In order to reproduce, it had to be a Beta male and a Beta female. During the times where Omegas and Alphas were incapacitated, Betas had to ensure the structures in the world were evolving and working to ensure population recovery.

These days, Betas still outnumbered the Alphas and Omegas. Some scientists theorized that once the population had stabilized, Betas would make up about eighty percent of society while Alpha and Omega genetics became recessive again. Over population would not help the country. As it stood with a volatile population and the police being blamed for the virus in the first place, the justice system had adapted to give the police certain freedoms. However in order to attempt to curb their propensity for violence, cameras were installed in every room and when police were patrolling they were expected to carry their cameras with them.

Clint glanced at the camera in the room, relieved to see it was uncovered. A dumb thing to be relieved about, but. He was, nonetheless. Habit really, of being in too many places that either didn't have cameras or always had them covered. There were fines for cameras placed so that the viewer couldn't see or when something blocked the vision, but the sound systems usually worked so the fines were smaller. And there was less that was done. Every Hydra facility Clint had ever been in lacked proper recording devices. Nothing worked or it simply wasn't there. Clint learned first hand why they weren't there. So it was a relief to see a camera.

Up until they brought the interrogator in. It had been several hours since they cuffed him up because he couldn't feel his arms anymore, and the pins and needles had long since come and gone. The interrogator didn't even try to go for subtle, tossing his jacket over the camera, rolling his sleeves up. He grinned wickedly, turning his wrist just enough that Clint could see the tattoo on the man's forearm.

He was Hydra.

Phil

S.H.I.E.L.D. was first created as an offshoot, grassroots Omega Rights organization. They provided training in combat related specializations for anyone regardless of orientation and gender. But problems started to arise when other governmental organizations refused to take their trained Omegas and they banded together and changed S.H.I.E.L.D. until it was a force to be reckoned with. Under Director Fury's command, S.H.I.E.L.D. had more influence than even the CIA and the FBI. They were privy to everything going on in the country. Phil was proud to serve the organization; he was in charge of their Omega Rights section –he trained many of the Omegas and brought them out on foreign field assignments to preserve and protect Omegas in other countries. Places like Russia where they were still actively using Breeding Facilities; kidnapping Omegas off the street and locking them up for Alphas to enjoy.

Phil did honest, good work. He wasn't unfamiliar with the murky waters that STRIKE teams often got mixed up in as he had been put in charge of an op or two not to mention the few he had participated in as a younger man. But, if anyone were to ask Phil what he preferred, it was definitely training and working with Omegas. So many of them came to S.H.I.E.L.D. as their final resort or were recruited when they were on death row. It was Phil's job to train them, teach them how to make good use of their lives. Prove to them that Omegas were just as capable as any knot-headed Alpha. Phil liked being able to bring out the best of their skills and abilities. It was worth being proud of, seeing these terrified, traumatized men and women grow into confident and capable agents.

And it wasn't to say that there were no drop outs or students who didn't learn as much as Phil would have liked them to. Same as any of the other handlers at S.H.I.E.L.D. Maria took care of the Alphas –she wasn't about to let any Alpha order her around and she wasn't going to let any Alpha order her into submission. Part of the requirements to being a handler required spending a portion of time with the new agents so they could be sure to assemble functioning teams. Therefore they had bi-weekly schedules throughout the levels of S.H.I.E.L.D. so senior agents like Phil and Maria could make time to educate and instruct new agents while continuing to work with their established teams.

Which was to say that when Phil got home, he wasn't surprised his phone started ringing as soon as he set foot in the door. Really, everything considered, it was pretty expected. It was habit for Phil to turn the radio on and the only thing anyone was interested in talking about was the Omega bank robber who shot two guards without looking and stole exactly four hundred dollars and later handed himself into the police. Two days after the fact and it was still all the newscasters could talk about, repeating the footage, as though someone might spontaneously appear with information. No one had.

"Coulson," he answered.

"Have you seen the footage?" came Fury's crisp reply. "I want him with S.H.I.E.L.D."

"He's a criminal," Phil pointed out casually. "Most of the new recruits will recognize him. Provided he's even willing."

"He robbed a bank for four hundred dollars," Fury countered. "He'll do it for the money. And if he won't, you'll find a reason for him. Recruit him, Agent." The line went dead.

Phil sighed very quietly and turned on his television, flicking to the local news station. Sure enough, there was the footage. Somehow, and Phil had a very strong feeling about this, he was pretty sure the Omega hadn't stolen exactly four hundred dollars because he needed the money. If he had, he would no doubt have done it sooner. Watching the way the young man moved, determinedly and with his eyes on the clerk, Phil had no doubt the Omega in question could have robbed the place without drawing needless attention to himself. His shooting was quite remarkable though. Two bullets fired and the man didn't even break stride or turn his head to see and each bullet had gone clean through the guards' hands. The Omega didn't even look phased by the violence. If anything, he looked almost resigned to it. Phil couldn't say what left the impression except that there was something to the Omega's eyes.

Phil exhaled softly, rubbing a hand over his face. They hadn't released the Omega's name over the networks yet. Which most likely meant he was trying to protect his identity for some reason. From his family, possibly. Wanting to preserve his reputation in case of a favorable match with a potential mate. He'd kept his head down, instinctively away from the cameras so his face was already safe from prying eyes. Phil paused, glancing at the man in the looped footage. No, whatever it was that motivated him, it had nothing to do with mates. This Omega wasn't a refined child of high society, a wilting flower waiting for his mate. He was muscular and good with guns, quite possibly combat trained. All traits of which many hotheaded Alphas would ignore or mock.

It was a common attitude. Maria had the pleasure of being the one to beat it out of them when she got them in training. In turn, part of Phil's training was to help Omegas overcome whatever instincts they had in reaction to an Alpha giving an order. An order they couldn't follow in the field. S.H.I.E.L.D. trusted psychologists were always on site when Phil took the new agents into the gymnasium and gave orders they couldn't possibly follow. It was untrue what the media proclaimed, that no Omega could disobey an Alpha's command. None of that was why S.H.I.E.L.D. ran these field tests. They did it because the Omegas they took in and trained had often been in horrific situations and they needed to know their limits. Some of them ended up crying, others had no issues at all. There were only two field tests for this –once by Phil and once by the new recruits' regular handler.

Phil replayed the news story and with an exhausted glance at the clock, dialed the police station that the Omega on the news had turned himself in for. Not for the first time, Phil was grateful for the politic clout S.H.I.E.L.D. now carried. In part it was due mostly to Nick and his sheer stubbornness to make something of the organization as well as to Captain Rogers and Agent Carter. It had made Phil's life a lot easier over the years.

"Metro police station, how may I help you?"

"I would like to meet with the young Omega who turned himself in," Phil said politely.

"I'm sorry, no reporters allowed," came the swift reply.

Phil restrained a sigh. Of course they were going to interrogate the kid. They had probably already started. "I'm not a reporter. I'm an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"O-oh!" she said, her bubbly voice turning nervous. "I-I'm not sure what we can do about that, Agent…?"

"Why don't I come down and meet with him right now? I can show you my badge and proper identification," Phil said smoothly. "Then I can meet the prisoner and we can decide where to go from there."

"We don't have any information on who he is," the clerk whispered, clearly worried about being overheard.

No doubt if she was sharing confidential information without even getting his badge number. Phil stopped himself from sighing, just barely. Everyone knew that the Omega had chosen to withhold that information but it wasn't something that was supposed to be confirmed quite so freely.

"That's quite alright. We've got that covered," Phil lied. They would have it covered, and soon, once he got in to meet with the Omega. Hopefully.

"Well I'll see you shortly Agent…" she trailed off expectantly.

"Very soon," Phil agreed, ending the phone call without giving his name. Standard procedure in case the agency in question had an informant. It wasn't strictly part of the rules given that it was just a local police department, but Phil had always been a bit more of a stringent rule follower than most. When it suited him. He always hated having to meet with a potential recruit after an interrogator had gotten there first.

Most cases, the interrogators weren't needed at all. But the police were jumpy and still trying to make it up to the public, trying to protect them against a repeat incident of what happened almost a hundred years back. Their reputation would never be sterling –everyone blamed the police for their lack of care. Nowadays they were harsh on their uncooperative prisoners, more so than they needed to be. But they were straddling a harsh line of public perception and politic pressures –neither of which everyday officers could cope with efficiently. Interrogators were called in just in case. It didn't make it right, but the public was loathe to condemn their use when it could potentially prevent the annihilation of humanity. Privately, Phil couldn't help but think that there was a better way. For everyone involved.

Phil walked back out into the hallway of his apartment building, locking his room before he went back down the four flights of stairs and to the curb. He hailed a taxi, knowing that his appearance was going to make a big difference in how everything played out with the Omega. A paper-pushing accountant with a classic car probably wouldn't win over the administration. He needed to be bland and unassuming, just another boring bureaucrat trying to please his boss. It worked rather effectively with most people. Harried officials who had paperwork to get done could relate all too easily to the pains Phil was going to be going through.

Phil walked into the station to discover it was full of disorder. The drive here had barely taken twenty minutes. Traffic wasn't a problem especially not at this time of the night. So either something had come up and the officers were fretting about it or his visit had sent them into chaos. Neither of which was reassuring. Phil ambled over to the front desk, spotting the clearly anxious receptionist. Her hair had been thrown back hastily, was tangled with frizz and she jumped every time anyone walked too near her. Phil suppressed the urge to sigh –he had been hoping he would finish up here early enough to get home in time for dinner. That wasn't going to happen.

"I'm here to see the prisoner," Phil said, smiling politely as the receptionist startled. "Phil Coulson, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D." He handed his badge over to her, noting the way her fingers shook as she took it.

"O-of course," she stuttered.

"Can you believe my boss called me in after hours to investigate this kid?" he asked her.

"Everyone's been real curious," she agreed tentatively, her eyes glancing towards the basement door worriedly as she got up. "I'll just show this to the sheriff."

Phil casually surveyed the office, stretching his neck as he mentally marked out the exits and counted police officers. They weren't bustling or anything, but the station wasn't totally deserted either. Could be a good sign, or a bad one. He let his gaze linger on the basement door; the cells would be through there and beneath them would be the prisoner. If everything was running smoothly here, the interrogator's room would be soundproofed and set up with surveillance equipment which included an audio recording of what was going on. Only high level prisoners were subjected to more intense interrogations, the ones who were suspected to have valuable information. Those interrogations often involved no cameras or disabled audio recordings.

The receptionist returned with another nervous smile. "Looks like everything checked out. You're free to go see him," she said, gesturing to the cell door.

Keeping his suspicions to himself, Phil entered into the cells. There were drunk tanks and heat tanks, evenly spaced apart. There weren't many locked up, it was pretty quiet. It was no less reassuring to see that the prisoners were being handled appropriately. Every step closer to the interrogator's room sent a corresponding bad feeling surging in Phil's gut. He ignored the prisoners, opening the door and walking down into the dimly lit basement. There was a chill present, the heating have been lowered to increase tension on the Omega.

Phil stopped himself as he rounded the corner. Hanging from the corner, suspended with his hands above his head was a Beta. At least, the pheromones scattered throughout the room screamed Beta and a Beta who had recently been through plenty of trauma. Phil forced himself to swallow, intentionally scuffing his foot against the concrete. The Beta twisted at the sound, snarling, incapable of doing anything.

What confusion there was surrounding his orientation didn't matter. They could sort that out later once he joined up with S.H.I.E.L.D. It wasn't as though they were exclusive to only Alphas or Omegas; there were many Betas. Unlike the army which took only Alphas and MI-6 which was notorious for taking only Omegas.

"You fuck'in touch me again," he spat out, fighting against his restraints. His nuances on words were off but for no discernible reason. His ears were uncovered, unlike his eyes which had been blindfolded.

"I'm not an interrogator," Phil replied, disgusted at the very notion. "I'm Agent Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."

The Beta snorted derisively at that. "Like you're any better."

Phil frowned. "I would say we're certainly more advanced than the interrogator here. Did he blindfold you?"

The Beta scoffed. "What's it look like to you? 'Cuz I gotta say I'm having a hard time seeing it myself."

"I can't imagine," Phil replied dryly. "I'm going to remove it."

The Beta seemed to be about to speak but at Phil's statement, he quieted. Phil undid the knot easily and tossed the blindfold aside with distaste. Most interrogators cleaned up after themselves better than this. A blindfold wasn't outside acceptable parameters. It was part of the atmosphere, of creating suspense and making the prisoner uncomfortable.

"What do you want from me?" the Beta asked, blinking as he adjusted to the low lighting of the dungeon.

"I want to recruit you," Phil answered honestly.

The Beta snorted, loud and echoing in the chamber. "I'm a criminal. You have to know that much. Your Homeland Division ain't gonna want me."

"I'm not from Homeland Security," Phil corrected, just a little wryly. "I'm with S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Same difference," the Beta all but growled, tilting his head up to scowl at Phil. "You don't want me."

"The order my boss gave me disagrees with you."

The Beta tilted his head to the side. "Riiiight," he drawled.

Phil arched a brow. "I'm here on orders. Do you want to stay tied up here for longer or should I bring you back to HQ where you can have a hot meal three times a day and earn pay?"

"You don't want me," the Beta repeated, his voice hollow.

Time for a different tactic, then. "They've been playing the footage for half the week," Phil argued. "You're a good shot, we need someone like you."

The Beta gaped indignantly. "Good –good shot?" He sputtered. "I'm the best shot!"

Phil didn't believe that for a second. "I'll believe that when I see it." Granted, someone who could shoot that accurately without even looking was either lucky or a great shot. But the best? Phil doubted it.

"Get me outta here and I'll prove it," the Beta growled, tugging on his restraints in frustration.

"I'll need your name for that," Phil said gently, drawing his badge out. "I swear I'm a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. But to get you out of here and released into my custody, I need your name."

The Beta looked at Phil distrustfully. "And if I don't?"

Phil didn't bother suppressing his sigh this time. "You'll stay strung up here. The interrogator will come back and he'll continue until you confess or you die. Because in the law's eyes, a man too afraid to give up his own name must have done something truly unforgivable."

If the Beta was surprised by that, he didn't show it. "What if I don't know my name?"

"No one would believe you." Phil stepped back, towards the door. He wasn't sure he could leave the Beta strung up like this, but he was grateful that he didn't have to test and see what would happen if he did leave.

The Beta grunted in exasperation. "Clint Barton," he ground out. "My name is Clint Barton."

Phil smiled. "Thank you. I'll get you down as soon as I can. It might take a bit."

The Beta –Clint –rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'll just hang out here," he retorted caustically. "I don't have anywhere better to be."

Phil definitely did not envy whoever got assigned to the Beta. He nodded briskly. "Good," he said unnecessarily before leisurely walking back up through the holding tanks to the main office.

It seemed like everyone had waiting until he emerged. Because as he stepped through the door, silence greeted him and as he set sights on the unmoving people, everyone flew into action. Officers were practically tripping over their own feet to get out-of-the-way. Which was odd, very odd. The sooner he got out of here with the recruit, the better things would be. Phil walked over to the receptionist who was practically radiating anxiety.

"I need to speak with the sheriff," he said with a polite smile. "The guy down there? He's definitely the one my boss was looking for."

"His office is j-just over there," she stuttered out, gesturing to the only room.

Phil walked over and apparently the receptionist had paged her boss, because the door opened before Phil could even knock and he was invited in.

"So I hear you're the suit sniffing around here," she said bluntly, offering her hand. "Name's Tamara."

"Phil," he replied, shaking her hand. "Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"What do you want with our illustrious bank robber?" She didn't sit down or offer Phil a seat as she leaned back against her desk casually, territorially.

"That's confidential," Phil said, keeping his posture loose and easy despite Tamara's presence. "We've been investigating him for a while."

Tamara scoffed. "He's a homeless Omega hooked on suppressants," she growled. "S.H.I.E.L.D. can't be interested in the likes of him."

Well, that certainly explained why he smelled like a Beta. "We're looking into a cartel," Phil offered. "Trying to figure out where they get their supplies. The guy downstairs? He's a low-level runner, but he's the one making the trips across the border. A bit stubborn but our cells are better suited to get out a confession from him."

Tamara barked a laugh at that. "A bit stubborn? Bastard's been here for days and he wouldn't even give up his name."

Phil smiled patiently. "I've got my orders to take him off your hand. I can call my boss, if you want to clear it with him first."

Tamara waved his offer off. "No, no. Just get the kid out of here. Maybe you guys can smarten him up a bit." She got off her desk, pulling out a key from her desk.

"We'll do our best," Phil agreed, catching the key she tossed to him.

"If I see him on the streets again, I'll be calling you guys up."

"I'll be grateful if you do," Phil assured her.

They exchanged brief farewells, and she handed him his badge back. In turn, Phil handed her his card. If she called, it would get passed to one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. receptionists. Important information would get relayed back to him. Phil returned down to the interrogator's room where Barton was dangling. His eyes were on Phil before he finished getting to the bottom of the stairs. Phil offered him what he hoped was a reassuring smile, before undoing the restraints that bound Barton.

Barton winced, staggering as he landed on his feet, wobbling. For a moment Phil feared he was going to have to steady the other man when Barton seemed to regain his balance.

"Get me outta here," he muttered, pulling away from Phil.