Chapter 3: Against the Whetstone

Over the next weeks, Kurt's life fell into a strict, Bianchi-approved schedule.

Kurt's day started at 4 am (GMT. Several times, the sun was high in the sky when he awoke, but the schedule stayed the same no matter what time zone the Helicarrier was travelling through). At that time exactly, a drill sergeant—sometimes Bianchi, but usually not—entered his cell and rousted him from his slumber.

He called it his cell because that was essentially what it was. He'd kept the same little windowless room they'd brought him to on the first day. It had nothing but an army cot, a rickety endtable, a small writing desk with a metal stool pushed under it, and a metal chest. And it wouldn't have been able to fit much more. He'd been given small day-to-day objects, like a desk lamp, an alarm clock, pens and paper, and—surprisingly—a curry-comb and soft brush for his fur. Still, the cell seemed barren and impersonal, like it didn't care whether he was there or not.

At exactly 4 am GMT each day, someone loud and commanding burst into his room and rolled him out of bed. Then, he or she barked orders in his ear while he stuffed his half-asleep body into exercise clothes and trudged out of the room for the morning workout.

Once, he tried locking the door the night before, but the drill sergeant—a large Moroccan man—apparently had a copy of his key, and burst in like he was storming the gates of Hell. Kurt's left ear rang for the rest of the day.

After a week, Kurt set his alarm for a couple minutes before they burst in. After two weeks, he didn't need to set his alarm at all.

The morning workout consisted of Kurt running himself to exhaustion while the morning's drill sergeant barked orders at him for two hours straight. Often, they would spend the entire time jogging through the labyrinthine corridors of the base. Sometimes, they would spend it in a weight-room, on a sloped treadmill. Sometimes he would be taken to the padded training room (from his duel with Sgt Bianchi), and run through a gambit of calisthenics. Once, Sergeant Bianchi even took him to the engine room—where there were a lot of pipes and machines around—and had him do an acrobatic routine. No matter what they did, the workout was always cardio-vascular, and it was always solitary.

As Kurt understood it, most agents worked out with their squads. Often, while jogging, Kurt and the sergeant-du-jour would pass by others doing the same thing. Depending on who was leading, waves or salutes were occasionally exchanged. Most agents also gave Kurt more than a second glance, but he was used to that.

Kurt didn't have a squad to work out with, so he was given the full attention of his superiors. He wasn't sure whether this was because he was the only one on Operation Wonderland, or because he was simply expected to work individually. It was nerve-wracking to be getting so much undivided attention. At least back at the Institute and at the circus, he'd had teams. Now, he felt like every single one of his seven-or-so sergeants was examining his every move.

He wouldn't admit it until much later, but all the individual attention worked wonders.

After his workout, he was sent to the showers, and then to breakfast.

Apparently, there was only one kitchen in the base, but three separate mess halls. The smallest mess hall was for officers and high-profile members, so that they could talk business without worrying about the grunts overhearing more than they had to. The largest was the main mess hall, where most agents took their meals with their comrades and chatted about the ladies they'd left in their beds on their last missions.

The middle-sized one was for members that were not high-profile, but low-profile. This was for those whose presence in the base wasn't particularly advertised, or who worked independent, private cases. This was where the secret agents and the spies ate (on the rare occasions they returned to base). This was where no one asked personal questions about anyone else, especially when it came to their missions.

This was also where Kurt ate.

It became clear early on that Kurt's presence on the base wasn't supposed to be officially acknowledged. Certainly, most of SHIELD knew he was there— even simply walking the halls, he was pretty difficult to miss—but it wasn't talked about, not even over dinner or during down-time. What a former X-man was doing in SHIELD was certainly never speculated about. SHIELD's official stance was that Kurt Wasn't And Had Never Been There.

Sometimes, Kurt felt a little thrill at that thought. He felt like James Bond, working on a top secret mission of international importance. At this point, not even he was entirely sure what his mission was. He regularly dined alongside the best spies in the world, and even cultivated friendships with a couple over their soggy beans and dry potatoes. At times, he couldn't help but be caught up in the romance of it.

But then, there were other times that Kurt was gripped by doubt, wondering what in God's name he was doing there. He wasn't a SHIELD agent… he was a circus acrobat who had once been an X-man. He didn't even know what, exactly, he was expected to do. There were times when he feared he was just going to be sent on some suicide mission. After the things he'd heard from Logan, he wouldn't have been surprised if that was exactly it.

Whatever he was expected to do, SHIELD would deny any part of it. That much, he knew. He wasn't sure what to make of that.

After breakfast, Kurt was given a short break to take care of personal business before the day's training started at 8:00 GMT.

The training varied according to who was currently at the base and had time to train a lone recruit. Morning training was typically light on physical activity; a fact Kurt was grateful for, since he was usually still exhausted from the morning workout.

Most days over the first couple weeks, he was quizzed and lectured (in turns) on regulations and procedures. On one particular day, he was made to stand at attention in the same spot for three hours, reciting the codebook in order from cover to cover. SHIELD took regulation very seriously, as should be expected from such a tightly run organization. Kurt learned early to follow the codes to the letter. Not all of his drill sergeants were as lenient (God forbid!) as Sergeant Bianchi, and minor slip-ups could have serious consequences.

His first day, a casual "mein Herr" had earned him bathroom-cleaning duty for a week ("OP 78: SHIELD's official language of operations is English. Excepting special circumstances specified on the list below, all formal interactions among agents must be conducted in English"). Later that week, he'd snickered at an unfortunate turn of phrase regarding firearms procedures, and had been deprived lunch. That lesson had really stuck.

He was also given lessons and lectures that he assumed involved his future mission. He was taught the ins and outs of the United States government, and drilled on important figures until he could recognize the entire Senate and most of the House by face and name alone (putting them together was another story). During one lesson, he was given a summary of what had happened since he'd left the States… the establishment of the GCD and mutant registration, active hunting of so-called 'rogue' mutants, blah blah blah. Fury had told Kurt much the same when he'd captured him, and much more succinctly.

There were also lessons on computer hacking, lock picking, fooling elaborate security systems, and both building and disarming explosives. Like their fondness for black, SHIELD certainly knew a lot of dirty tricks for good guys.

In the morning timeslot, he was also given his theory training. He received dozens of books on various melee techniques—both with and without weapons—and was taught more types of firearms than he had previously thought existed. His previous driving and piloting experience was built upon to now include various military vehicles as well as vehicles he should never have any business operating (a construction crane? Really?). Under SHIELD's direction, he studied tactics, both theoretical and historical, as well as a bit of psychology, sociology, criminology, and first aid.

What got him most were the lessons on 'creative misdirection.' Lying.

At one point, it hit him that he was going to have to lie. A lot. Maybe to people he cared about. It was all part of the secret agent package: you had to be able to spin convincing lies to get the job done. It was for the good of mutants, he told himself. He was going after the GCD… loosening their stranglehold on mutantkind was much more important than maintaining his already-tarnished integrity. Still, he found himself staying up one night, the Eighth Commandment rolling through his head in waves of sick guilt. He spent most of that night praying for his immortal soul.

And then there were the speech lessons. Those weren't difficult as much as they were annoying.

One day, Kurt was ecstatic to discover that he would eventually get his Image Inducer back, at least in time for any real missions. What's more, it would be more versatile: able to project different hair colors and cuts, facial structures, heights, and body types. This, combined with a smaller, less conspicuous Psychic Suppressor, would make him virtually impossible to track and identify. Or so Sergeant Bianchi assured him.

However, this caused a new concern. Apparently, his accent was too distinctive. Ergo: speech lessons.

"Try it again. The three Windsor wives want thirty white thistles."

Kurt stared up at his instructor, chin on the familiar metal table and mouth twisted to one side. "Zhat still does not make sense to me. Who vants thirty vhite zhistles? Vhy vould zhey vant thirty vhite zhistles? Seems silly to me."

The woman glared down at him, but he'd endured much, much worse in the two weeks he'd lived at the base. This woman wasn't exactly intimidating: with her glasses and graying hair, she was downright mousy. Maybe she was the base archivist or something; she was definitely no drill sergeant.

Oh yes, he was very annoyed, as well as insulted. It made him petty enough to exaggerate his accent just a little bit. "Vhy are zhere zhree Vindsor vives, anyvay? Vhat does zhat even mean?"

"You're being difficult for the sake of it, and you know it."

"Vell vhat do you expect? You come in here und start going 'wuh wuh' und 'thuh thuh' like I am some sort of small child. I know how to make the sounds. See? Wuh. Wuh."

"Then why are you fighting this? You wouldn't need… I wouldn't have to waste my time here, if you just spoke like that all the time!"

Kurt sat up straight in the chair. "Ja. Because it is really zhat easy. You can't understand; you are a native speaker."

"You're right: I am. But I've trained dozens of men and women who were destined for secret ops to disguise their speech, and you are neither the most difficult case, nor the most stubborn. So don't bother telling me about how your mouth or ear simply aren't used to it. I've heard it all before."

Kurt glared up at her like he was a boy half his age. She leaned back with a triumphant smile. It was a long lesson, as were all speech lessons that followed.

Of course, it would take him many years to master any one of the subjects they tried to drill into him. But that didn't stop his instructors from trying to cram it all into him anyway, expecting him to internalize all the information immediately, and punishing him if he didn't. By lunchtime, he was always mentally exhausted.

He therefore went through lunch like a blue-furred zombie. His usual table regularly gave him knowing looks and sympathetic pats on the back. "Yeah, I remember Basic Training," said Agent Wilkes one time, as he helped a functionally brain-dead Kurt cut his meat platter. "It'll get better, kid." Of course, that was all that was ever said on that matter.

After lunch, it was back to physical training. Every day, Kurt spent at least an hour in weapons' practice. For melee, he took to blade weapons quickly, still a little stuck in the romance of swordsmanship. It didn't seem quite so romantic when he was cutting the practice androids to bits, but at least they didn't bleed.

He proved to be generally terrible with guns. Not only did his fingers fit oddly around the triggers, he simply found something inherently distasteful about the idea of killing someone without ever actually coming near them. Was this how Magneto felt? Or maybe Scott?

Still, they trained him anyway, because it was one of those things he simply had to know. They paid special attention to training him on a sniper rifle ("Gott im Himmel… I'm not an assassin or somezhing, am I?" "Settle down, birichino. Do not worry; we know you don't have the right temperament for that kind of thing."). The idea was that his teleporting would provide unparalleled chances in stealth sniping, and his night vision and ability to blend into the shadows were added bonuses.

There was also a somewhat disturbing conversation between Sgt Bianchi and the large Moroccan sergeant regarding his potential with automatic weapons that Kurt was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to overhear.

"Really, he just pops in there, bambambambam, and pops out again. They wouldn't even know what hit 'em."

"Perhaps he could start firing before he 'ports. Give himself a head start."

"Yes! Just pop right into the middle of 'em with an MMG, turn in a circle, and pop out again. That's a squad down, right there."

That one gave Kurt nightmares.

His weapons training also included hand-fighting. He had to pin Sgt Bianchi to the mat before she finally admitted that, yes, Kurt was actually a passing decent hand-fighter, maybe just a little, now get off. Kurt felt a little better after knowing that his fighting instincts from his time in the X-men hadn't completely disappeared.

After his first week, they started him on powers training. It did not go smoothly.

"I don't know vhat's wrong. I think I'm just rusty."

"That is completa idiozia, and you know it."

He couldn't look at her. "I just can't. I try, but I can't."

"Try harder. Use a little discipline."

Kurt tried again, closing his eyes and willing himself to the other side of the room… right next to where the scientists were standing. "Ich… I can't do zhis. I'm going to be sick."

"You are over-reacting!" Sgt Bianchi stalked up to him and positioned herself right in his face. "You did it less than two weeks ago, so it is nothing wrong with your powers, only with your mind. Siate forti! Pull yourself together!"

Kurt struggled to pull himself away from the edge of panic. Be calm. Be disciplined. Be a secret agent. Secret agents don't have panic attacks. At least, they don't in the movies.

After a quick, silent prayer, he felt calmer, and was able to look his sergeant in the eye and say, quite gravely, "I can not do it vith them here. Zhey vill have to leave."

After a long moment looking into his eyes, reading something in them, she gave a curt nod and turned to the cluster of SHIELD researchers that had gathered in the training room. "You heard him. You can watch it on the cameras." She glanced back at him to check that that was all right, and he nodded gratefully.

Disappointed, the researchers filed out.

Kurt sighed, feeling some of his tension leaving with them. "I'm sorry. It's just zhat, all my life, I've been afraid zhat someone might ship me off to a-"

"There is no need to explain. You talk too much as it is." She turned back too him and put her hands on her hips. Still, there was something almost soft about her expression. "So, can you teleport now?"

A spike of nervousness returned. "I… I should be able to. Like you said, I did it zhe veek before last. Three times, even."

"But it was life-or-death," the sergeant said skeptically.

"Ja, gnädige frau."

"English," she snapped absently. "But you did not for two years. This is a long time. I assume there was a reason."

"Yes ma'am."

"A good one?"

"I think it is."

She looked at him, twisting her lips in sudden distaste. "Tell me, birichino, what happened."

Despite himself, Kurt burst out laughing. At the sergeant's put out expression, he quickly sobered. "Sorry, sorry. It's just… you don't exactly look eager to listen to my problems. Maybe zhere's a base doctor or somevun like zhat who I could talk to instead?"

"Yes." She tried valiantly to hide her relief at the touchy-feely-conversation near-miss. "Yes, I think that is a good idea. We will try this again later."

The next afternoon, he was sent to the medical ward, where one of the doctors—one specializing in mental health—took him into a private room and listened to him while he spilled out everything… the deaths of his foster parents, his guilt over leaving the Institute after the attack, Stefan, and all the repressed angst of the lonely teenaged mutant boy who had wanted nothing more than to be normal.

Kurt spent the rest of the day in that room, just crying.

When Sgt Bianchi took him back to the training room the next day, he teleported without any problems, even with the researchers in the room. They tested his endurance and his carrying capacity, and started making plans to improve both. Kurt just nodded and accepted their instructions, like he did everyone else's here.

During the first couple weeks, the hour before dinner was always spent running drills and reviewing SHIELD procedures. It made Kurt feel like he really was part of the military.

However, after two weeks—after Kurt had become comfortable with procedures and washed the rust off his old X-man skills—that time slot was filled with something different, and much more fun.

Scenarios.

It was like being back in the Danger Room, except the technology wasn't quite as cool. The drill sergeant would set up a hypothetical scenario in a part of the base specifically for such things—often a retrieval or reconnaissance mission, and always stealth-based—and Kurt would be sent to handle it. At first, they walked him through the missions step-by-step, their whispered instructions over his headset a constant buzz in his ear.

But then, as they noticed that Kurt's experience with field work was not just a note on his agent profile, they collectively backed off and let him work through the situations on his own. Occasionally, he failed—like when he forgot to take a thermal scanner into account during that lab infiltration scenario, and ended up very much busted. However, he took each failure as a learning experience—just like they'd been in the Danger Room—and was always eager to try again.

This quickly became Kurt's favorite part of the day. The sergeants enjoyed it more, too, since a happy elf was an agreeable, no-snarky-comments elf.

Dinner was at 17:00 GMT. After that, Kurt was taken back to his "classroom" for a final review. Usually, he was asked to repeat what he could remember from that morning's training, and anything he'd forgotten was reaffirmed. He was also given feedback on his progress. Any remaining time before 21:00 GMT was free time. He often spent it in a commons area with other off-duty agents, watching TV and talking about nothing. He was always utterly spent by this point, so wasn't very good company. But then, neither were many of the others. SHIELD was hard work; it was what made them elite.

Through it all, time did a strange thing. The hours dragged by, as it seemed Kurt yearned for a rest as he was constantly pushed to his limits. But at the same time, weeks passed without his knowledge, crossing into months that he never thought to track. It was all one continuous haze of exhaustion, punctuated by small personal victories and hours and hours and hours of training.

By the end, he fancied he felt the way a knife must feel when it's been set to the whetstone. After enduring vibrations and a long, exhausting sensation of grinding, it is pulled away, sharper and deadlier than ever before.