Dr. Garner waited patiently while I collected my thoughts.
Which was difficult because my thoughts were currently: I've been murdered twice today and it's not even 9 AM.
"The first time I died," I started, "I was walking to work. Minding my own business. And then a shipping container fell off a crane and crushed me."
"That must have been terrifying."
"Terrifying doesn't really cover it. I felt everything. The impact, the crushing, the..." I gestured vaguely. "The dying part. And then I woke up in some abandoned building four blocks away with no idea what happened."
Dr. Garner made notes. "What was your first thought when you woke up?"
"'What the fuck' probably. Followed by 'am I having a stroke.'" I leaned back on the couch. "I didn't understand what had happened. I thought maybe I'd survived somehow and wandered off in shock. It wasn't until I saw the news that I realized I'd actually died."
"And how did you feel when you confirmed you'd died?"
"Honestly? I panicked. Like, full-blown panic attack. Because I was dead. I should be dead. But I was sitting in my apartment drinking coffee like it was a normal Tuesday." I rubbed my face. "And then I realized I was living in a world where people can fly and shoot lasers and destroy buildings. I'm going to die a lot here."
"That's a reasonable fear. Enhanced incidents do result in significant civilian casualties."
"Yeah. And I'm the civilian who keeps being in the wrong place at the wrong time." I slumped further into the couch. "Death number three was a deli robbery. I was just trying to get a sandwich. Energy weapon went off by accident and killed me. I didn't even do anything."
"So you feel like you have no control over when and how you die."
"Because I don't. The universe just keeps killing me. Construction accidents. Random crime. Malfunctioning weapons. I can't predict it. I can't avoid it. I just die and come back and hope the next time doesn't hurt as much."
Dr. Garner set down his notepad. "And you tested your ability deliberately. The second death."
"I jumped off my balcony at 4:30 AM because I needed to know if I could actually respawn or if I'd just gotten lucky once." I cringed at the memory. "Extremely stupid decision. Dying hurts. Like, really hurts. Do not recommend."
"But you needed certainty."
"I needed to know the rules. If I'm going to live in a world where enhanced individuals fight in the streets and buildings explode regularly, I need to understand what I'm working with." I gestured at the office around us. "And apparently what I'm working with is a government spy agency that kills me for science."
"How do you feel about this morning's testing?"
"You mean being murdered twice by Dr. Hayes?" I laughed without humor. "I feel like I signed up for something without fully understanding what it meant. I knew the contract said 'ability testing' but I didn't think that meant 'we're going to kill you repeatedly and track your respawns with GPS.'"
"That's a reasonable thing to not anticipate."
"Right? Who anticipates that?" I slumped further into the couch. "And the worst part is, it's all technically legal. I signed a contract. I agreed to this. So I can't even be mad, I just have to accept that Monday mornings now include death by science."
Dr. Garner set down his notepad. "Carson, you're allowed to be upset about this. Just because something is in a contract doesn't mean you have to enjoy it."
"But I agreed—"
"Under duress. SHIELD gave you an ultimatum and you made the best choice available. That doesn't mean you consented enthusiastically to being killed before breakfast." He leaned forward slightly. "You're allowed to have boundaries. You're allowed to say when something is too much."
I blinked. "Really?"
"Really. You have a right of refusal in your contract. Use it when you need to."
"But they'll think I'm difficult—"
"They'll think you have self-preservation instincts. Which is healthy." He picked up his notepad again. "Now, let's talk about the psychological impact of repeated death. You've died five times in two weeks. How are you sleeping?"
"Not great. Maybe three or four hours a night."
"Dreams? Nightmares?"
"I keep reliving the deaths. Especially the first one. The container falling. Knowing I can't escape." I rubbed my eyes. "And sometimes I wake up thinking I've respawned and I panic trying to figure out where I am before I realize I'm in my own bed."
"That's a normal trauma response to repeated near-death experiences. Even though you come back, your brain is processing the deaths as traumatic events."
"So I have PTSD from dying."
"You have trauma symptoms from multiple deaths, yes. We'll work on coping strategies." He made more notes. "Tell me about the phantom pain."
"It lasts about an hour after each respawn. I can feel exactly how I died. Where the container crushed me. Where my bones broke from the fall. Where the electricity went through my body." I shuddered. "It fades but it's... it's really unpleasant."
"I imagine it would be. Have you noticed any patterns? Things that make it worse or better?"
"Worse if I think about it. Better if I distract myself. The dumpster respawn was actually helpful because I was so pissed about being in garbage that I didn't focus on the phantom pain."
Dr. Garner almost smiled. "Creative coping mechanism."
"My coping mechanism is apparently getting angry at the universe for my respawn location choices. Very healthy."
"Actually, humor and righteous indignation are both valid coping strategies. Better than avoidance or dissociation." He checked his notes. "How are you functioning day-to-day? Work, social connections, basic self-care?"
"I quit my IT job. Barely leave my apartment. Haven't talked to friends because what would I even say? 'Sorry I've been distant, I've been dying a lot?'" I counted on my fingers. "Self-care is... existing? I eat. Sometimes. When I remember."
"So you're isolating."
"I'm surviving."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive, but they're not the same thing either." He set down his notepad. "Carson, you're going through something extraordinary. Most people don't have to deal with repeated death and resurrection. You're doing remarkably well considering the circumstances."
"I really don't feel like I'm doing well."
"You're here. You're talking about it. You're not bottling everything up or pretending it's fine. That's actually a good sign." He leaned back. "But we need to work on some things. Sleep hygiene. Coping strategies for intrusive thoughts. Building a support network. Managing the psychological impact of your job."
"My job that involves dying."
"Yes. That job." He picked up a business card and handed it to me. "We'll meet twice a week for now. More if you need it. And Carson? If SHIELD pushes you to do something that feels wrong—more testing than you can handle, assignments you're not ready for—you call me immediately. Part of my job is determining if you're being used appropriately or exploited."
I took the card. "You'd go against SHIELD?"
"I work for SHIELD, but my license and ethics require me to prioritize my patient's wellbeing. If they're harming you, I report it." He stood up. "For now, you're cleared for continued training. But I'm recommending they ease up on the death testing for at least a week."
"Thank you."
"That's what I'm here for." He walked me to the door. "And Carson? The fact that you can't die permanently doesn't mean your deaths don't matter. They do. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
I left Dr. Garner's office feeling weirdly lighter.
Like someone had actually listened and validated that yes, being murdered for science was fucked up and I was allowed to be upset about it.
My phone buzzed.
Text from Hill: "Dr. Garner cleared you for continued training. Report to Training Room 3. Agent May is waiting."
I groaned.
Right. Physical combat assessment.
Because dying twice wasn't enough for one morning.
Training Room 3 was a large open space with mats, punching bags, and various weapons mounted on the walls that I definitely didn't know how to use.
A woman was waiting in the center. Asian, probably forties, compact build, the kind of stance that screamed "I could kill you and make it look like an accident."
She looked at me.
I looked at her.
"You're the respawn guy," she said.
"Uh. Yeah. Carson Lynn."
"Melinda May. I'll be teaching you how to not die as often." She gestured to the mats. "Get over here."
I walked over, every instinct telling me this was going to hurt.
"First assessment," she said. "I need to see what you can do. Try to hit me."
"What?"
"Hit me. Don't worry about hurting me. Just try."
I threw the world's most pathetic punch.
She moved so fast I didn't see it. One second I was punching, the next I was on the ground with my arm twisted behind my back.
"Terrible form. No follow-through. Telegraphed movement." She let me up. "Again."
I tried again.
Same result. Floor. Arm. Pain.
"You have no training at all, do you?"
"I worked in IT. My most dangerous activity was carrying monitors."
"That explains everything." She dropped into a ready stance. "Alright. We're starting from zero. Basic stance. Like this."
She demonstrated. Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees slightly bent. Weight balanced.
I tried to copy her.
"Your weight is too far forward. You'd fall over if someone pushed you." She walked around me, adjusting my stance. "Feet here. Knees like this. Shoulders back."
"This feels weird."
"This feels correct. You feel weird because you've been doing everything wrong your entire life." She stepped back. "Now. Basic punch. From the hip. Twist your body. Use your whole body, not just your arm."
I tried.
"Better. Still terrible, but better."
For the next hour, Agent May put me through the most humbling experience of my life.
Every punch was wrong. Every block was too slow. Every stance was off-balance.
And she didn't hold back on telling me.
"Weak."
"Slow."
"You're telegraphing again."
"Did you just close your eyes when you punched?"
"Stop flailing. This isn't interpretive dance."
By the time she called a break, I was sweating, exhausted, and covered in bruises.
"You're weak," she said bluntly, tossing me a water bottle. "Out of shape. No training. No instincts. No natural talent."
"Thanks. Really boosting my confidence here."
"But," she continued, "you kept getting up. Every time I knocked you down, you got back up. That's something."
"I have a lot of practice getting back up. Usually from death."
She almost smiled. "We'll work on everything else. You won't be good for months. Maybe years. But you'll be less likely to die from easily preventable stupidity."
"That's the dream. Dying only from hard-to-prevent stupidity."
"Get out of here. Lunch break. Be back at 1 PM for round two."
"Round two?!"
"You think one hour is enough? We're doing this all afternoon. And tomorrow. And every day until you can throw a punch without looking like a toddler."
I limped out of the training room, every muscle aching.
I found a break room and collapsed into a chair.
Checked my phone.
Text from Jennifer: "How's your first day going?"
I typed back: "Died twice for science. Currently in therapy. Just got my ass kicked by Agent May. Send help."
Her response came quickly: "That sounds like a standard SHIELD onboarding. Are you actually okay?"
"Define 'okay.' Physically functional? Yes. Mentally stable? Debatable. Emotionally? I'm eating lunch in a SHIELD break room after being murdered twice. You tell me."
"Want me to call Hill and complain?"
"No. Dr. Garner already told them to ease up. I think I'm okay. Just... this is a lot."
"It's your first day. It's supposed to be a lot. But Carson? If it's too much, you use that exit clause. Don't suffer through this if it's not worth it."
I thought about that.
Was it worth it?
I was getting paid $110,000 a year. I had health insurance. I had legal protection. I had a therapist who actually seemed to care.
And I was learning how to survive in a world that kept trying to kill me.
"I think I'm okay," I typed back. "Ask me again tomorrow after I've died more."
"That's the spirit. Proud of you for surviving."
"Literally the bar is on the floor."
"In your case, that's accurate."
I smiled despite everything.
1 PM came too quickly.
I dragged myself back to Training Room 3.
Agent May was waiting, looking completely fresh while I felt like I'd been hit by a truck.
"Ready for round two?"
"No."
"Good answer. Honesty is important." She gestured to the mats. "Now get over here. We're working on blocks and dodging. If you can't hit worth shit, at least learn not to get hit."
"Can't I just rely on respawning?"
"No. Dying is your last resort, not your strategy." She dropped into stance. "Now. I'm going to throw a punch. You're going to block it. Try not to break your arm."
She threw the punch.
I did not successfully block it.
I ended up on the floor. Again.
"We're going to be here a while," Agent May said.
"Story of my life," I muttered.