Sunday morning I woke up at 11 AM.
No alarm. No Agent May waiting to make me run until I puked. No SHIELD obligations.
Just me, my apartment, and the blessed freedom of a day off.
I laid in bed for an extra thirty minutes purely because I could, then finally dragged myself up to make coffee.
My phone had a few messages.
Dave: "Yo, you free today? Want to grab lunch again? That burger place was great."
I smiled. Dave and I had hung out last week before my second mission, and it had been nice to reconnect. He still didn't know about my actual job—still thought I was working some "security consulting" gig. But he was a good friend and I needed more normal in my life.
Me: "Yeah, lunch sounds good. Same place? 1 PM?"
Dave: "Perfect. See you there."
Another text from Jennifer: "Survived Sunday morning without dying?"
Me: "So far so good. It's only 11 AM though, plenty of time for the universe to get creative."
Jennifer: "Don't jinx it. Enjoy your day off."
I spent the rest of the morning doing aggressively normal things. Laundry. Cleaning my apartment. Catching up on TV shows I'd missed while being murdered for science.
It felt weirdly luxurious.
At 12:45, I headed out to meet Dave.
I took Jennifer's safe routes, avoided the high-risk intersections, kept my head on a swivel. Agent May's training was apparently permanent now—I couldn't turn off the constant threat assessment.
That guy walking too fast? Probably just late for something, but I tracked him anyway.
That construction site? Noted the unsecured equipment and took the long way around.
That bodega with the 40% robbery rate? Nope, different street entirely.
I made it to the burger place without incident and found Dave already in a booth.
"Carson! Good to see you again, man." He stood up and gave me a quick hug. "You're looking even better than last week. Whatever your boss is making you do at that gym, it's working."
"She's relentless. Five miles at 6 AM every day."
"That sounds like actual hell." Dave laughed as we sat down and ordered burgers. "So how was your big project? You seemed nervous about it last week."
Right. I'd told him I had a "big project" on Monday. Which technically I did—a field mission, but he didn't need to know that.
"It went well actually. Better than expected. My boss was impressed."
"Nice! See, I told you you'd do fine." He took a sip of his drink. "You seem more confident. Like, last week you were still adjusting to the new job. Now you seem like you're actually settling in."
"Yeah, I think I am. It's still hard, but I'm getting the hang of it." I paused. "It's weird though. Three weeks ago I was just an IT guy. Now I'm doing completely different work and it's... I don't know. It feels right?"
"That's good, man. I'm happy for you." Dave grinned. "Even if your job is still mysteriously vague and you won't tell me what you actually do."
"Risk assessment. Security vulnerabilities. Exciting stuff like that."
"Uh-huh. Sure." He clearly didn't buy it but wasn't pushing. "Well, whatever it is, it suits you. You look less stressed than you did at the old job. Remember when the Peterson migration melted down and you didn't sleep for like three days?"
"Oh god, don't remind me."
"See? New job is clearly better if you're not having Peterson-level breakdowns." He took a bite of his burger. "You still should tell me more about it though. I'm curious what kind of security consulting involves this much physical training."
"It's... field-based. I have to be able to handle myself in various situations."
"Like what, corporate espionage?"
"More like... facility inspections in potentially dangerous locations?" That was vague enough to be technically true.
"That still sounds fake but okay." Dave laughed. "At least you're being consistently mysterious about it."
We spent the rest of lunch catching up. Dave told me about the new guy at our old office who kept breaking things. I told him carefully edited stories about "security consulting" that made it sound boring and technical. It was nice. Normal. A reminder that I used to have a life that didn't involve dying repeatedly.
"Same time next week?" Dave asked as we finished.
"Might have another project Monday, but maybe Tuesday or Wednesday?"
"Works for me. Don't be a stranger, yeah? Even if you're all fancy security consultant now."
"I'll try not to."
I made it home around 3 PM.
Spent the rest of Sunday doing absolutely nothing productive. Watched TV. Played video games. Ordered pizza.
It was glorious.
Around 8 PM, my phone buzzed.
Text from Hill: "Mission briefing moved up. Tomorrow, 10 AM. Be ready to discuss assignment details."
Well, so much for relaxation.
I texted back: "Understood. See you then."
Another text came through, this one from Dr. Hayes.
"Mr. Lynn! Hope you're enjoying your weekend. Quick reminder: We have testing scheduled for next Thursday. I've prepared some fascinating experiments involving extreme temperatures! Can't wait!"
I stared at the message.
Dr. Hayes wanted to freeze me or burn me to death for science.
This was my life now.
Me: "Looking forward to it." (Lying.)
Dr. Hayes: "Excellent! Your enthusiasm is appreciated! See you Thursday!"
I set my phone down and went back to my video game, trying not to think about next week's scheduled murder.
Monday morning, 5:45 AM, I was back at SHIELD headquarters.
Agent May was waiting in the training room. "Lynn. You had a whole day off. How do you feel?"
"Rested. Ready. Slightly concerned about Hill moving the mission briefing up."
"Good instincts. Changed briefing usually means changed parameters." She started the treadmill. "Five miles. Then we're doing combat drills with weapons today. You need to be ready for anything."
"Define 'anything.'"
"Exactly what it sounds like. Now run."
I ran.
The five miles were slightly less terrible than last week. I finished in 40 minutes (two minutes faster!), which May called "approaching acceptable."
Combat training with weapons was interesting. May handed me various objects—baton, knife, improvised weapons like a pipe or a chair—and taught me basic defense and offense with each.
"You're not going to be a weapons expert," she said, demonstrating a baton strike. "But you need to know how to use what's available. In the field, you won't always have your preferred weapon. You use what you can find."
We drilled for two hours. I got hit a lot, but I was also starting to understand the principles. Distance, timing, leverage. It wasn't about being strong—it was about being smart.
"You're learning," May said, which was basically her version of a standing ovation. "Still terrible, but learning. Tomorrow we add multiple attackers."
"Can't wait," I said, massaging my bruised arms.
At 10 AM, I reported to Hill's office for the mission briefing.
She had Martinez and Chen there, along with someone I didn't recognize—a woman in her thirties, sharp eyes, professional demeanor, dressed in tactical gear.
"Lynn, this is Agent Morse. Bobbi Morse, codename Mockingbird. She'll be your backup lead for this assignment."
Bobbi offered her hand. "Heard good things about your last mission. Looking forward to working with you."
I shook her hand, trying not to be intimidated by yet another incredibly competent SHIELD agent. "Thanks. I'll try not to die too much."
"Hill mentioned you have a unique survival method. Don't worry, we're prepared for... unconventional situations." She said it professionally, but there was curiosity in her eyes.
Hill pulled up the mission brief on the screen. "Same target as before. The warehouse network. Intelligence suggests they're moving operations. We need to confirm new location before they disappear entirely."
She showed aerial photos of a different warehouse, this one in Brooklyn. "Higher security than last time. More personnel. Confirmed enhanced individuals on site, including our friend with fire manipulation."
"The guy who killed me last time."
"Yes. Which is why we're approaching this differently." Hill pulled up a tactical map. "You won't be going in alone. Morse will be positioned with overwatch. Martinez and Chen will have a closer perimeter. If anything goes wrong, extraction is thirty seconds, not two minutes."
"What's the catch?"
"The catch is this is a higher-value target. We need better intelligence—not just what they're building, but who's funding them and where they're shipping. That means closer observation, longer time on site."
"How much longer?"
"Potentially eight hours. Maybe more." Hill looked at me seriously. "This isn't a quick in-and-out like last time. This is extended surveillance. Can you handle that?"
I thought about it. Eight hours of staying hidden, staying alert, not getting spotted by the guy who'd already killed me once.
"When is it?"
"Next Monday. That gives you a week to prepare." Hill closed the briefing. "Morse will work with you on advanced observation techniques. Martinez and Chen will drill extraction scenarios. You'll be ready."
"And if I die?"
"Then you respawn and report what killed you. But let's aim for the first successful eight-hour mission instead."
After the briefing, Bobbi Morse caught up with me in the hallway.
"Lynn, you got a minute?"
"Sure."
She led me to a quieter area. "Hill gave me your file. The whole file, including the classified parts. Your ability is... unique."
"That's one word for it."
"I wanted to say—I've worked with enhanced individuals for years. Powers, mutations, tech enhancements. But I've never worked with someone who has your specific capability." She looked at me seriously. "I need to know: when you die, how long before you're back in action?"
"Depends on where I respawn. Usually five to thirty minutes to get back to position. Plus an hour of phantom pain, but I'm functional through it."
"And mentally? Does dying affect your ability to continue the mission?"
"I mean, it sucks. But I can push through it. I've done it before."
She nodded, looking satisfied. "Good. Because if this mission goes sideways, I need to know you'll get back up. We're counting on your intel, even if you have to die to get it."
"No pressure."
"Lots of pressure. But I think you can handle it." She smiled slightly. "We'll start training tomorrow. 2 PM, after your session with May. I'll teach you long-term observation techniques. How to stay hidden for eight-plus hours without losing your mind."
"Looking forward to it."
The rest of Monday was simulation training with Hill.
She threw scenarios at me that were specifically about extended surveillance.
"You're watching a building for eight hours. How do you stay alert? When do you take breaks? How do you manage basic needs like food and water?"
Turns out surveillance was 90% boring and 10% terror. The hard part wasn't the danger—it was staying focused when nothing was happening.
I died in the simulation a few times from losing focus and getting spotted. Each time, Hill reset it and made me try again.
"Surveillance requires discipline," she said. "You can't get distracted. You can't get bored. You have to maintain awareness for hours at a time."
By the end of the day, I'd successfully completed an eight-hour simulation twice. It was exhausting mentally, even though nothing had happened.
"You're ready for this," Hill said. "One week of prep and you'll be fine."
I hoped she was right.
That evening, I called Jennifer.
"How was your Monday?" she asked.
"Got assigned another mission. Eight hours of surveillance instead of two. Higher stakes. More danger. The usual."
"Carson..."
"I know. But I'm ready for it. They're giving me a whole week to prepare. Better backup team. I'll be fine."
"You said that before your last mission and you died in seven minutes on your first attempt."
"Yeah, but the second one went great! Two hours, zero deaths!" I paused. "I'm getting better at this, Jennifer. I promise."
She sighed. "I know you are. I just worry. You're still the anxious IT guy I met three weeks ago, except now you're working for a spy agency."
"Anxious security consultant. Get it right."
"You're impossible."
"But you're still my lawyer."
"Unfortunately for my blood pressure, yes." I could hear her smiling. "Just be careful, okay? I like having you as a client. You pay well and you're not boring."
"I'll do my best not to permanently die before your retainer runs out."
"That's all I ask."