The rest of Monday was more of Agent May beating the shit out of me.
By 5 PM, when she finally let me leave, I had:
> Been thrown to the mat 47 times (I counted)
> Failed to successfully block a single punch
> Discovered muscles I didn't know I had (because they all hurt)
> Gained a new appreciation for people who can fight
"Same time tomorrow," Agent May said as I limped toward the exit. "6 AM."
"Six?! Training doesn't start until—"
"Physical conditioning starts at 6. Combat training at 8. You need both." She tossed me an ice pack. "Ice everything. You'll need it."
I caught the ice pack and tried not to whimper.
I made it home around 6 PM.
Took the hottest shower my apartment could produce. Ate leftover Chinese food because cooking required energy I didn't have. Collapsed on my couch with ice packs on every part of my body that hurt (which was all of it).
My phone buzzed.
Text from Hill: "Day one complete. Medical assessment: adequate. Psychological evaluation: cleared with recommendations. Physical assessment: needs significant improvement. Report tomorrow 6 AM for conditioning. Good work today, Lynn."
Good work.
I'd been murdered twice and beaten up for four hours.
"This is my life now," I said to my empty apartment.
My phone buzzed again.
Text from Dr. Hayes: "Mr. Lynn! Great data collection today. I've scheduled follow-up ability testing for Thursday. We'll only do one death this time. Very reasonable! See you then!"
One death.
Very reasonable.
I laughed until I cried.
Tuesday, 5:45 AM, I dragged myself back to SHIELD headquarters.
Agent May was already in the training room, looking like she'd gotten eight hours of sleep and a spa treatment.
I looked like I'd been hit by a truck.
"You're early," she said.
"Couldn't sleep. Every position hurt."
"That means yesterday worked." She gestured to a treadmill. "Warm up. Three miles. Then we do strength training."
"Three miles?!"
"You need a baseline cardio capacity higher than 'IT guy who takes the elevator.'" She started the treadmill. "Go."
I ran.
Well, "ran" is generous.
I jogged slowly while my body screamed at me.
Agent May watched, occasionally making notes on a tablet.
"Mile one: 10 minutes, 15 seconds. That's worse than yesterday."
"I'm injured from you throwing me yesterday!"
"You're sore. That's different. Keep running."
I kept running.
By mile three, I was pretty sure I was going to die. Again.
"34 minutes total. Terrible." She stopped the treadmill. "But you finished. That's something. Water break, then weights."
Weight training was its own special hell.
Bench press, squats, deadlifts, pull-ups (I could do three, which Agent May called "embarrassing"), core work, and something she called "functional strength training" which seemed to translate to "lift heavy things in ways that make Carson suffer."
By 8 AM, when combat training started, I was already exhausted.
"Today we work on blocking," Agent May said. "You're going to get hit less. Eventually."
She spent two hours hitting me while I failed to block properly.
"Better," she said after I successfully blocked one punch out of thirty. "Still terrible. But less terrible than yesterday."
"Is that going to be my life? Graduating from terrible to slightly less terrible?"
"Yes. That's literally how improvement works." She tossed me a water bottle. "Lunch. Back here at 1 PM."
I found the break room and checked my phone.
Text from Jennifer: "Survived day two?"
"Barely. Agent May is trying to kill me through exercise."
"That's standard SHIELD physical conditioning. You'll adapt."
"Will I? Or will I just die of exhaustion?"
"If you die of exhaustion, you'll respawn and have to do it again. So probably motivating to not die."
"That's a terrible motivational strategy."
"Welcome to your new life."
I ate a sad cafeteria sandwich and tried not to think about how much I missed my old job where the most physical activity was walking to meetings.
1 PM: More combat training.
3 PM: "Tactical awareness seminar" which was basically "here's how to not walk into obvious danger like an idiot."
5 PM: Finally released.
I went home. Iced everything. Ate. Passed out by 8 PM.
Wednesday was somehow worse.
6 AM: Cardio (still terrible at running)
8 AM: Combat training (blocked three punches out of forty—progress!)
10 AM: Weapons familiarization
This was new.
Agent May led me to a different room filled with weapons mounted on walls. Guns, knives, batons, things I couldn't identify.
"You're not ready for guns," she said. "But you need to know what they are and how they work. Pick up the Glock."
I picked up the gun like it might explode.
"It's not loaded. Relax." She demonstrated proper grip. "Like this. Finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire. Never point it at anything you don't want to shoot. Basic safety."
She walked me through different types of firearms. How they worked. How to tell if they're loaded. How to make them safe.
"You're not firing any of these today. Maybe not for months. But you need to recognize them and understand the threat level." She picked up a rifle. "This is an AR-15. Effective range, magazine capacity, rate of fire. If someone points this at you, you need to know what you're dealing with."
"Great. More ways to die."
"More ways to assess threats and make smart decisions about whether to engage or run away." She set down the rifle. "Running away is always an option."
"Really? SHIELD is teaching me to run away?"
"SHIELD is teaching you to survive. Sometimes that means fighting. Sometimes that means running." She pulled out a knife. "Now. Knives. Even more important than guns because people underestimate knife wounds..."
The next two hours were deeply uncomfortable lessons in exactly how dangerous basic weapons were.
Lunch. More sad cafeteria food.
Text from Hill: "You're doing well for week one. Keep it up."
I stared at the message.
"Doing well" meant I'd been beaten up for three days straight and learned exactly how many ways I could be killed with common objects.
"This is fine," I muttered.
Thursday arrived with a special surprise.
After morning PT (still bad at running) and combat training (still bad at fighting), I had my follow-up appointment with Dr. Hayes.
"Mr. Lynn! Ready for today's testing?" He was way too cheerful.
"You're going to kill me again."
"Just once! Very restrained." He led me to the testing chamber. "Today we're testing a different variable. Previously, we tested chemical asphyxiation and electrocution. Today: blunt force trauma."
"You're going to hit me with something."
"We're going to drop something on you. Specifically, a weighted object from increasing heights until we achieve fatal trauma. Then we track respawn timing and location as before."
I stared at him. "You're going to drop things on me until I die."
"Exactly! Much more controlled than the construction accident. We can measure exact force and impact location." He gestured to the chamber. "Ready?"
"No."
"Great! Step inside."
I stepped into the chamber because I'd signed a contract and apparently "death by science" was in my job description.
The door sealed.
Dr. Hayes's voice came through the speaker. "We'll start with a 50-pound weight from 10 feet. This probably won't kill you. Then we'll increase height until we achieve fatality."
"That sentence should not exist."
"Science requires precision! Here we go!"
A panel in the ceiling opened.
A weight dropped.
It hit my shoulder.
"OW! FUCK!"
"Not fatal! Good data point. Increasing height to 15 feet."
"Can we take a break—"
Another weight dropped.
This one hit my head.
Everything went dark.
Death #6: Blunt force trauma (50-pound weight from 15 feet)
I woke up in a storage closet, clutching my head even though it wasn't actually injured.
My phone buzzed.
Text: "Respawn detected. Building D, Level 1, Storage. Distance: 1.8 kilometers. Time: 4.9 seconds. Please return for debrief. Excellent data!"
"Excellent data," I muttered, standing up. "I'm so glad my death contributed to science."
I made my way back to the testing area.
Dr. Hayes was practically bouncing. "Wonderful! The force-to-fatality ratio is consistent with standard human tolerances, which means your respawn doesn't come with enhanced durability. Very important data!"
"I'm so happy for you."
"We have enough for today. Same time next week?" He checked his calendar. "Let's say Thursday again. We can test fall damage!"
"Fall damage. Like a video game."
"Exactly! How high can you fall before it's fatal? What's the injury pattern? Does landing position matter?" He was genuinely excited. "So many variables!"
I walked out before he could schedule my next murder.
Friday was the worst day yet.
Not because of the training—that was standard terrible.
But because after morning PT, combat training, and lunch, I had an appointment I'd been dreading.
"Mr. Lynn," Hill said, meeting me in a conference room. "We need to discuss your first field assignment."
My stomach dropped. "Field assignment?"
"You've completed your first week of training. You're cleared for low-risk observation assignments." She pulled up a file on her tablet. "Nothing dangerous. Simple reconnaissance. We need eyes on a location that might be enhanced-individual-related."
"And if it's not low-risk? If I die?"
"Then you respawn and report back with intelligence." She said it so casually. "That's the value of your ability, Lynn. You can gather information in situations where others would be at fatal risk."
"So I'm the disposable scout."
"You're the scout who can't be permanently lost." She turned the tablet toward me. "Monday morning. Briefing at 0700. It's a simple stakeout. You watch, you report, you come home. Easy first assignment."
I looked at the file.
Then at Hill.
Then back at the file.
"I don't have a choice, do I?"
"You have your right of refusal. But I wouldn't recommend using it for a basic observation assignment." Her expression softened slightly. "Lynn, we're not sending you into active combat. We're sending you to watch a building. It's as low-risk as field work gets."
"And if it's not?"
"Then we learn something about your ability under field conditions." She closed the tablet. "Dismissed. Enjoy your weekend."
I walked out of the conference room in a daze.
My first field assignment.
Monday.
I went home Friday evening, exhausted and sore and terrified.
Collapsed on my couch.
Pulled out my phone.
Text from Jennifer: "How was week one?"
I typed back: "Died once more. Got beaten up daily. Agent May says I'm 'less terrible' at fighting. Have a field assignment Monday. I'm terrified."
"What kind of assignment?"
"Surveillance. Hill says it's low-risk."
"When SHIELD says 'low-risk' they mean 'probably won't die more than once.' Want me to review the assignment parameters?"
"Can you do that?"
"I'm your lawyer. I can review anything they're asking you to do." She sent me her email. "Forward me the briefing docs."
I forwarded everything Hill had sent.
Jennifer's response came twenty minutes later: "Looks legitimate. Basic surveillance, backup team on standby, clear extraction protocols. This is actually pretty standard. You'll be fine."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true. Carson, you survived a week of SHIELD training. You died once and got your ass kicked daily and you're still functional. That's impressive."
"I really don't feel impressive. I feel like I'm barely holding it together."
"That's called adapting under extreme stress. You're doing better than you think." A pause, then another text. "Want to grab coffee this weekend? Debrief about the week?"
I thought about that.
Coffee with someone who wasn't actively trying to kill or train me sounded amazing.
"Yeah. That would be really nice actually."
"Saturday, 2 PM. I'll text you the place."
I spent the rest of Friday evening icing my bruises and trying not to think about Monday.
My phone buzzed one more time.
Text from Agent May: "You survived week one. Most people quit by day three. Good work."
I stared at the message.
Agent May, who'd spent all week beating me up and insulting my fighting skills, was complimenting me.
I typed back: "Thanks. Does this mean you'll go easier on me next week?"
"No. It means I know you can handle harder training. See you Monday, 6 AM."
I laughed despite myself.
This was my life now.
And somehow, weirdly, I was starting to accept it.