Tuesday morning started with Agent May adding "multiple attackers" to my combat training.
This meant I got my ass kicked by two people instead of one.
May had recruited another SHIELD agent for the exercise—a guy named Simmons who looked like he bench-pressed cars for fun. Together, they proceeded to demonstrate exactly how outmatched I was.
"Real fights aren't one-on-one," May said, circling me with Simmons. "You need to manage multiple threats, control distance, and not get surrounded. Begin."
They came at me from different angles.
I managed to block May's punch, then immediately got tackled by Simmons.
"You're dead. You focused on one threat and ignored the other." May pulled me up. "Again."
We did this for two hours. I died (hypothetically) approximately thirty times. But by the end, I was starting to understand the principles. Keep moving. Don't let them surround you. Use one attacker as a shield against the other. Create distance when overwhelmed.
"Better," May said, which was her highest praise. "Still terrible in an actual fight, but you're learning survival tactics. That's more important."
"Survival tactics meaning 'run away effectively?'"
"Survival tactics meaning 'stay alive long enough for backup to arrive.' Which for you is the entire strategy."
Fair point.
At 2 PM, I met Bobbi Morse in a different training room.
This one was set up like an urban environment—rooftops, alleys, building interiors. Perfect for surveillance training.
"Lynn." Bobbi gestured to the setup. "Extended surveillance is about three things: patience, awareness, and endurance. Most people can stay alert for an hour, maybe two. After that, focus degrades. We're going to train you to maintain awareness for eight-plus hours."
"How?"
"Practice. And techniques." She led me to a rooftop observation point overlooking a fake warehouse. "First rule: Get comfortable but not too comfortable. You need a position you can hold for hours without cramping, but not so comfortable you fall asleep."
She showed me various positions. Sitting, kneeling, prone. How to shift weight without moving visibly. How to stay low and use cover.
"Second rule: Breaks. You can't maintain perfect focus for eight hours straight. Your brain needs micro-breaks. But you can't just zone out. You need structured attention shifts."
She taught me a rotation system. Watch the target for ten minutes, then scan the surrounding area for two minutes, then back to the target. It kept the mind engaged without burnout.
"Third rule: Stay hydrated and fed, but don't eat or drink so much you need to leave your position. Plan your intake carefully."
We spent four hours drilling. She'd have me observe the fake warehouse, tracking movements, counting personnel, noting patterns. Then she'd quiz me on what I'd seen.
"How many people entered in the last hour?"
"Seven."
"Wrong. Nine. You missed two because you were focused on the main entrance and didn't see the side door activity."
We did it again. And again. By the end of the session, I was successfully tracking multiple entry points, counting accurately, and maintaining focus.
"You're a natural at this," Bobbi said, looking impressed. "Most agents take weeks to develop this kind of focus. You're doing it in one session."
"I've had a lot of practice staying very still and quiet while trying not to die."
"That's... actually a good survival instinct. Use it." She checked her watch. "Same time tomorrow. We'll add distractions and see how you handle stress during surveillance."
Wednesday morning, May added weapons to the multiple attacker scenario.
Now I was getting beaten up by two people with batons.
"In the field, attackers will have weapons. You need to defend against armed opponents while unarmed." May twirled her baton. "This will hurt. But you'll learn."
She wasn't lying. It hurt a lot.
But I was learning. Disarm techniques. Using environment as weapons. How to create distance against armed opponents. By the end of the session, I'd successfully disarmed May once (she was definitely going easy on me, but still).
"You're improving faster than expected," May said. "Most recruits take months to reach your current level. You're doing it in weeks."
"Is that the dying? Is dying making me better?"
"Unknown. Medical hasn't detected any physical enhancements yet. Could just be intensive training and survival instinct." She put away the batons. "Either way, keep it up. You might actually survive long-term field work at this rate."
Coming from May, that was basically a declaration of love.
Wednesday afternoon, Bobbi added complications to surveillance training.
"Today we add distractions. Loud noises. Movement in your peripheral vision. People getting close to your position. You need to maintain focus despite disruptions."
She had other SHIELD agents create distractions while I tried to maintain surveillance. Conversations nearby. Movement behind me. Simulated gunfire. Everything designed to break my concentration.
I failed the first three attempts, losing track of the target when distracted.
By attempt six, I was maintaining focus despite everything happening around me.
"Excellent," Bobbi said. "You're compartmentalizing well. That's crucial for long operations. Tomorrow we do the full eight-hour simulation with all variables."
"Can't wait," I said, my eyes burning from staring at the fake warehouse for four hours straight.
Thursday morning was more combat training, but with a twist.
May brought in four agents.
"You're outnumbered and need to escape, not fight. Show me what you've learned about survival."
They came at me from all sides.
I immediately ran.
Used obstacles to break line of sight. Created distance. When cornered, I threw a chair at one of them and ran past while they dodged. Made it to the designated "extraction point" without getting caught.
"Perfect," May said. "Your instinct is to run. That's good. You're not a fighter—you're a survivor. Never forget that."
Thursday afternoon was the full surveillance simulation with Bobbi.
Eight hours of watching the fake warehouse. Tracking movement. Noting patterns. All while other SHIELD agents created distractions, moved near my position, and generally tried to break my focus.
I maintained observation for the full eight hours. Logged everything accurately. Didn't get spotted.
"Outstanding," Bobbi said when it ended. "Lynn, you're ready for Monday. I'm impressed. You've got good instincts for this work."
"Thanks. I'm just really good at hiding and hoping not to die."
"That's literally half of surveillance work. You'll do fine."
Thursday evening was my scheduled death session with Dr. Hayes.
I arrived at his lab with the enthusiasm of someone walking to their execution.
"Mr. Lynn! Wonderful to see you!" Dr. Hayes was, as always, way too excited about murdering me. "Today we're testing extreme temperature tolerance. Specifically: how cold is too cold?"
"That sounds terrible."
"It'll be fascinating! We have a temperature-controlled chamber. We'll lower the temperature gradually until you expire, then measure respawn timing and effects." He led me to what looked like a giant freezer. "Ready?"
"No."
"Excellent! Step inside."
I stepped into the chamber. It was already cold—maybe 40 degrees Fahrenheit.
"We'll lower the temperature by ten degrees every five minutes," Dr. Hayes said through a speaker. "Tell me when you start experiencing symptoms."
The temperature dropped.
At 30 degrees, I started shivering.
At 20 degrees, my teeth were chattering uncontrollably.
At 10 degrees, I could barely feel my fingers.
At 0 degrees, I was pretty sure I was dying.
At -10 degrees, I definitely was.
Everything went numb. Then cold. Then dark.
Death #12: Hypothermia (for SCIENCE)
I woke up in a maintenance closet, shivering violently despite not actually being cold.
My phone buzzed.
Dr. Hayes: "Respawn detected! Time: 5.3 seconds. Temperature at death: -12 degrees Fahrenheit. Fascinating data! Come back when you're ready for part two: extreme heat!"
I stared at the message.
Part two.
He wanted to freeze me AND burn me in one session.
Me: "Give me 30 minutes."
Dr. Hayes: "Take your time! The furnace needs to warm up anyway!"
I sat in the maintenance closet, trying to shake off the phantom cold. My body felt like it had been frozen solid even though I was perfectly fine physically. The phantom sensations were getting weirder—I could feel exactly how the hypothermia had shut down my body, how my core temperature had dropped, how my heart had eventually stopped.
After thirty minutes, I dragged myself back to Dr. Hayes's lab.
"Excellent! Ready for phase two?" He led me to a different chamber, this one radiating heat. "We'll increase temperature until expiration. Same protocol. Should give us excellent comparative data!"
I stepped into the heat chamber.
Started at 80 degrees. Uncomfortable but manageable.
At 100 degrees, I was sweating heavily.
At 120 degrees, I felt like I was being cooked.
At 140 degrees, I was definitely being cooked.
At 160 degrees, I died.
Death #13: Extreme heat exposure (also for SCIENCE)
I woke up in a different maintenance closet, this time feeling like I'd been set on fire.
My phone buzzed.
Dr. Hayes: "Excellent data! Respawn time: 5.1 seconds. Death occurred at 158 degrees Fahrenheit. You expired slightly faster from heat than cold. Fascinating! See you next week for chemical exposure testing!"
I texted back: "Looking forward to it." (Still lying.)
I sat in the closet for another hour, waiting for the phantom burning sensation to fade, and contemplated my life choices.
This was my job now. Professional guinea pig for an overly enthusiastic scientist who kept finding new ways to kill me.
At least it paid well.
Friday morning, Agent May seemed to notice something different.
"You're moving better today," she said, watching me warm up. "Your reaction time is slightly faster. How do you feel?"
"Same as always? Tired, sore, moderately traumatized?"
"Your mile time is dropping. You're at 7:30 now. Three weeks ago you were at 10 minutes." She pulled up her tablet. "Your strength benchmarks are also improving beyond what training alone would account for."
"Is that the dying thing? Am I getting stronger from dying?"
"Unknown. Medical is monitoring. But yes, there's a correlation between your death count and physical improvement." She set down the tablet. "Don't get cocky. You're still weak compared to enhanced individuals. But you're definitely improving faster than baseline humans should."
Death count: 13.
Thirteen deaths in four weeks.
And apparently they were making me slightly better.
"So I just need to die a bunch more times and eventually I'll be strong?"
"Eventually, maybe. Right now, focus on not dying stupidly." She started the treadmill. "Five miles. Let's see if you can break 40 minutes."
I ran.
Finished in 38 minutes.
May actually smiled. "Progress."
Friday afternoon was final prep with Bobbi.
"Monday morning, 6 AM insertion. Eight-hour surveillance window. Martinez and Chen on close perimeter, I'm on overwatch. You're the eyes on target." She reviewed the tactical plan one more time. "Questions?"
"What if the fire guy spots me again?"
"You call for extraction and we pull you out in thirty seconds. But you're better trained now. Use the techniques we practiced. You'll be fine."
"And if I die anyway?"
"Then you respawn, report what killed you, and we adjust the plan. But Lynn? You're ready for this. I've trained dozens of agents. You've got good instincts. Trust them."
Friday evening, I updated my notebook.
Week Four Summary:
Deaths: 13 (Two new deaths - hypothermia and heat exposure, both for science)
Training Achievements:
Multiple attacker defense (getting dropped less)
Extended surveillance techniques (can maintain focus for 8+ hours)
Weapons defense (can sometimes disarm attackers)
Five-mile run: 38 minutes (getting actually fast?)
May noticed I'm improving faster than normal training would explain
Power Level: Might be slightly enhanced? Hard to tell.
Physical Changes Noted:
Faster mile time
Better reaction speed
Strength improvements beyond normal training
Could be the deaths making me better?
Mental State: Nervous about Monday but prepared
Next Mission: Monday 6 AM, 8-hour surveillance, better backup team
Conclusion: Death count is 13. Apparently dying is making me better at not dying. The irony is not lost on me.
I closed the notebook and tried to sleep.
Monday was the big test. Eight hours of surveillance. Fire manipulator on site. High-value target.
Either I'd complete my first truly successful extended mission, or I'd learn new and exciting ways to die.
Probably both.