Agents Martinez and Chen found me ten minutes later, still sitting on the floor next to the cat.
"Lynn. You okay?" Martinez helped me up.
"Define 'okay.' Physically? Yeah. Mentally? I died seven minutes into my first field assignment. A guy shot a fireball at my back. I'm in a bodega storage room with a cat who's judging me."
Chen looked at the cat. "That's Mr. Whiskers. He lives here."
"Of course he has a name." I brushed chip crumbs off my pants. "Did you get the fire guy?"
"He got away. All three targets scattered after the explosion. We got photos though." Martinez showed me his phone. "Fire manipulation, confirmed enhanced. This is good intel."
"Good intel. I died for good intel."
"That's literally your job," Chen said, not unkindly. "Come on. We need to get you back to headquarters for debrief."
The ride back to SHIELD was silent except for Chen occasionally asking if I was okay.
I wasn't okay.
I'd lasted seven minutes in the field.
Seven minutes before an enhanced individual spotted me and killed me with a fireball.
My first field assignment was a complete disaster.
We arrived at headquarters around 9 AM.
Hill was waiting in a conference room.
"Lynn. Sit."
I sat.
Martinez and Chen gave their report while Hill pulled up footage on her tablet—apparently they'd been recording from somewhere nearby.
The footage showed me walking toward the warehouse. The explosion. Three figures running out. One of them clearly on fire but not being harmed by it.
Then it showed me running.
Then a fireball.
Then me dropping.
Hill paused the video. "Seven minutes from insertion to death. That's a record. For worst field performance."
"I'm sorry—"
"I'm not done." She pulled up another angle. "You reported the enhanced individuals immediately. You called for extraction the moment you were spotted. You followed protocols perfectly. The mission was compromised by the explosion, not by your actions."
I blinked. "So... I didn't screw up?"
"You died in seven minutes. That's a screwup. But you died following orders and gathering intelligence." She closed the tablet. "We now have confirmation of enhanced activity at that warehouse, facial recognition on three subjects, and evidence of weapons development. That's actionable intelligence."
"I got it by dying."
"Yes. That's what we're paying you for." She leaned back. "How do you feel?"
"Terrible? My back feels like it's on fire even though it's not. I'm traumatized. And a cat judged me in a bodega storage room."
Martinez snorted.
Hill's expression didn't change. "Phantom pain should fade in an hour. You're taking the rest of today off. Tomorrow you're back to normal training schedule. Dr. Garner wants to see you this afternoon. Questions?"
"Did I fail?"
"You gathered intelligence and survived. That's not failure. It's a successful reconnaissance mission with one casualty—you." She stood. "You're dismissed. Go see Dr. Garner. Then go home."
I found Dr. Garner's office and knocked.
"Come in."
I walked in and immediately collapsed on the couch.
"Rough morning?" he asked.
"I died in seven minutes. Fireball to the back. The backup team found me in a bodega with a cat."
"I heard. How are you feeling?"
"Like a failure? Like I'm terrible at this? Like maybe I should quit and go back to IT where the most dangerous thing was angry clients?" I put my face in my hands. "Seven minutes, Dr. Garner. SEVEN MINUTES."
"Carson, you followed protocols. You reported what you saw. You called for extraction when compromised. That's textbook field work."
"Textbook field work doesn't involve dying in seven minutes!"
"For most agents, yes. For you, death is an occupational hazard." He set down his notepad. "You're not most agents. Your value isn't staying alive—it's coming back with information."
"So I'm SHIELD's suicide scout."
"You're SHIELD's resurrection-capable intelligence asset. Different framing, same function." He leaned forward. "But Carson, let me ask you something. Did you panic when that enhanced individual spotted you?"
"Yes! Of course I panicked!"
"But you ran. You called for extraction. You tried to survive. That's good instinct."
"I still died."
"Because someone shot a fireball at your back. There's no training that prevents that." He made notes. "You're being too hard on yourself. First field assignment, you encountered an active enhanced incident, gathered intelligence, and survived through your ability. That's a win."
"Doesn't feel like a win."
"Because you're measuring success by normal standards. You need to adjust your metrics." He pulled out his notepad. "Let's talk about how you're processing the death. Walk me through what you remember."
We spent the next hour talking through the fireball death in detail.
What I saw. What I felt. How the respawn felt different (it didn't—same process, different pain pattern).
Dr. Garner made notes, asked questions, and validated that yes, getting killed by a fireball seven minutes into your first field assignment was traumatic.
"You're going to have more field assignments," he said eventually. "Some will go better. Some will go worse. The question is: can you handle this becoming routine?"
"I don't know."
"That's honest. Let's work on coping strategies for field-related deaths versus training deaths. They're different psychological experiences."
"How?"
"Training deaths are controlled. You know they're coming. You consent explicitly." He gestured toward the window. "Field deaths are chaotic. You're trying to survive. The death feels like failure even when it's not. We need to reframe how you process those."
"How do I reframe 'I got killed by a fireball in seven minutes'?"
"You obtained intelligence on enhanced weapons development, identified three enhanced individuals including one with fire manipulation, and confirmed the location's active status. All while surviving to report. That's success with a painful method."
I thought about that.
"I guess when you put it that way..."
"Exactly. Your job isn't to not die. It's to gather information and come back. You did that." He stood up. "Take the rest of today off. Don't think about SHIELD. Don't think about the mission. Go home, eat something, watch terrible TV. Process this at your own pace."
"Thanks."
"That's what I'm here for. And Carson? Seven minutes is only a record until the next mission. You'll do better."
"Or die faster."
"That's the spirit."
I left Dr. Garner's office and headed home.
Made it without dying. Personal victory count: 1.
Collapsed on my couch and stared at my ceiling.
My phone buzzed.
Text from Jennifer: "Heard about the field assignment. You okay?"
"Died in seven minutes. Fireball. Currently questioning all life choices."
"Seven minutes is impressive. That means you survived six minutes and fifty-nine seconds before dying."
"That's a terrible way to measure success."
"Welcome to your new career. Want to get dinner? You probably shouldn't be alone right now."
I thought about spending the evening alone with my thoughts versus having actual human company.
"Yeah. Dinner would be good."
"7 PM. I'll pick the place. Somewhere without fire hazards."
"Appreciate it."
I spent the afternoon doing nothing.
Watched Netflix. Ate leftover Chinese food. Tried not to think about fireballs.
Around 4 PM, my phone buzzed.
Text from Agent May: "Heard about this morning. You followed protocols. Good work."
I stared at the message.
Agent May, who'd spent two weeks telling me I was terrible at everything, was complimenting me.
"Thanks. Still feels like I failed."
"You gathered intel and survived. That's the job. See you tomorrow, 6 AM."
"Do I have to run tomorrow?"
"Yes. Running away from danger is your best survival skill. We're improving it."
I laughed despite myself.
Another text came through.
Hill: "Mission report filed. You're credited with intelligence gathering that led to enhanced individual identification. Well done."
Well done.
I'd died in seven minutes and SHIELD was calling it "well done."
This was my life now.
7 PM, I met Jennifer at a Thai restaurant in Brooklyn.
She was already seated when I arrived, looking professional but relaxed in casual clothes.
"You look better than I expected," she said as I sat down.
"I took a nap. Cried a little. Had a minor existential crisis. Standard Monday." I grabbed the menu. "Thanks for this. I really didn't want to be alone tonight."
"I figured. First field death hits different than training deaths." She ordered pad thai. "Want to talk about it or avoid it?"
"Bit of both?" I ordered green curry. "I keep replaying it. The explosion. Seeing the guy on fire. Running. The fireball hitting me. It happened so fast but my brain keeps slowing it down, analyzing what I could've done differently."
"Could you have done anything differently?"
"Probably not. But my brain doesn't care. It wants to find the solution that keeps me alive." I took a long drink of water. "Dr. Garner says I need to reframe how I think about field deaths. That my job isn't to survive, it's to gather information and come back."
"He's right. But that doesn't make it easier."
"No. It really doesn't." I picked at my food. "Seven minutes, Jennifer. I've been in job interviews that lasted longer than my first field assignment."
"But you got the intel. SHIELD identified three enhanced individuals and confirmed weapons development. That's a successful mission."
"Everyone keeps saying that. Successful mission. Good intel. Well done." I set down my fork. "But I died. And it hurt. And I woke up in a bodega with a cat judging me."
"Mr. Whiskers is very judgmental. I've met him." She smiled slightly. "Carson, you're allowed to feel shitty about this. You were traumatized today. That's valid. But you also did your job and survived—which is literally what SHIELD hired you to do."
"By dying."
"By not dying permanently. Important distinction."
I laughed. "This is the weirdest career I could've imagined."
"You work for a spy agency as a respawn-capable intelligence asset. Weird is baseline." She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "But you're doing okay. Better than okay. You survived two weeks of brutal training and your first field disaster. That's impressive."
"Thanks. I think I needed to hear that."
"Good. Now eat your curry and tell me something normal. What show are you watching?"
We spent the rest of dinner talking about normal things.
TV shows. Bad movies. The absurdity of New York rent. Jennifer's other cases (carefully avoiding confidential details).
It felt amazing to just be a normal person having dinner with a friend.
Not a SHIELD asset. Not a respawn-capable disaster magnet. Just Carson, eating Thai food and complaining about streaming services.
"Thanks for this," I said as we finished up. "Really. I was spiraling before this."
"That's what friends do. They prevent spiraling." She grabbed the check before I could. "My treat. Consider it a 'survived your first field death' celebration."
"That's a weird thing to celebrate."
"Your entire life is weird things to celebrate now. Get used to it."
I made it home around 10 PM.
Felt weirdly lighter. Like dinner with Jennifer had reminded me I was still human, not just a SHIELD asset.
My phone buzzed.
Text from Hill: "Tomorrow, normal training schedule. 6 AM PT with May. 8 AM combat. 10 AM tactical seminar. We'll review field performance on Wednesday. Rest up."
Normal training schedule.
Back to getting my ass kicked by Agent May.
Honestly? After today, that sounded almost relaxing.
I set my alarm for 5 AM and actually managed to sleep.
Tuesday, 5:45 AM.
I dragged myself back to SHIELD headquarters.
Agent May was waiting in the training room, looking fresh while I felt like death warmed over.
"Lynn. Heard about yesterday."
"Yeah. Died in seven minutes. Not my finest moment."
"But you ran. You followed protocols. You tried to survive." She tossed me a water bottle. "That's good instinct. We're going to make you better at it."
"Better at running away?"
"Better at recognizing threats, assessing danger, and extracting yourself before you get killed." She started the treadmill. "Four miles today. We're building endurance. If you can run longer, you can escape longer."
I got on the treadmill, already exhausted.
"Quick question—does it get easier?"
"No. You just get better at handling hard." She started her own treadmill. "Now run. We've got work to do."
The rest of the week was brutal.
Tuesday: PT, combat training, tactical awareness seminar where they used my field death as a case study (humiliating but educational).
Wednesday: More PT, more combat (I blocked 5 out of 40 punches—progress!), meeting with Hill to review field performance.
"Your response time was good," Hill said, showing me footage. "Recognition to extraction call was under ten seconds. That's excellent."
"I still died."
"Because you were spotted and targeted by an enhanced individual with ranged fire capabilities. There's no shame in that." She pulled up another file. "Next field assignment is scheduled for two weeks. Same parameters—observation only."
"Can I request no fire-wielding enhanced individuals this time?"
"No. But we'll better assess the threat level before insertion." She closed the tablet. "You're improving, Lynn. Both in training and in field awareness. Keep it up."
Thursday: Dr. Hayes's scheduled murder session.
"Mr. Lynn! Ready for today's testing?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really! Today we're testing drowning mechanics." He led me to a tank of water. "How long can you hold your breath? Does hypoxia affect respawn timing? Let's find out!"
Drowning was exactly as terrible as it sounds.
Death #9: Drowning (for science, as usual)
I woke up in a bathroom stall, coughing phantom water.
My phone buzzed with the standard respawn statistics.
"I hate my job," I told the toilet.
The toilet offered no sympathy.
Friday: Final day of week two.
PT with May (four miles, completed in 38 minutes—still terrible but improving).
Combat training (blocked 7 out of 40 punches—May said "less terrible").
Final session: weapons training continued.
"Today, handguns," May said, leading me to the range. "You're not ready to carry in the field, but you need to know how they work."
She taught me proper stance, grip, sight alignment.
Let me fire a few rounds at targets.
I was terrible at it.
"You're flinching before you shoot. Stop anticipating recoil." She demonstrated. "Like this."
By the end of the session, I'd hit the target three times out of twenty shots.
"Terrible," May said. "But you're learning. We'll keep practicing."
Friday evening, I collapsed on my couch, exhausted.
Two weeks of SHIELD training complete.
Nine deaths total.
Every muscle in my body hurt.
But I'd survived.
My phone buzzed.
Text from Jennifer: "Survived week two?"
"Barely. Died once more for science. Drowning. Do not recommend."
"You're building up quite the death resume."
"Yeah. 'Experienced in: crushing, electrocution, explosions, fireballs, drowning, and general incompetence.'"
"That's actually impressive diversity."
"I hate that you're right."
She sent me a gif of someone giving a thumbs up.
Another text came through.
Hill: "Week two complete. Performance: adequate. Field readiness: improving. Next assignment briefing Monday. Enjoy your weekend. Try not to die."
I laughed.
"Try not to die" was becoming SHIELD's version of "have a nice day."
I pulled out my notebook and updated my stats.
Deaths: 9
Weeks at SHIELD: 2
Running endurance: Still bad but less bad
Combat skills: Terrible but improving slowly
Shooting: Extremely terrible
Survival instinct: Apparently good?
Mental state: Surprisingly stable given everything
Weekend plans: Sleep for 48 hours straight
I set down the notebook and closed my eyes.
Two weeks ago, I was an IT guy with a normal life.
Now I was a SHIELD asset who died regularly for intelligence gathering.
My life was completely insane.
But somehow, weirdly, I was starting to accept it.