"Heart rate is average for your age." The doctor peers over at the monitor, watching the numbers fluctuate steadily as she checks something off on her clipboard.
I don't respond. Frankly, it's a little hard to when you're running on a treadmill with a respiratory apparatus fitted around your nose and mouth.
I watch her calibrate the equipment as she increases the speed, then turn my attention to the view beyond the glass.
The strike team guys are out there, killing time. Wonder what brings them so far from their usual training base. Maybe they're here for Pierce.
"Just give it a few more minutes. The blood tests will be back in a while, but I have your old charts from your last physical. If nothing has changed you should be okay on the check-up." The doctor folds her arms and watches me.
She looks about forty, but judging by the grey streaks in her frizzy orange hair, I could be wrong.
Maybe working at Shield does that to you. She's probably seen her fair share of combat injuries.
"Anyone caught your eye around here yet?" She smiles, and I notice the wrinkles that appear at the corners of her eyes.
I shrug, then I remember the man I'd run into on the steps. Well, he was certainly easy on the eyes.
"You're still young, you know? There aren't a lot of ladies at this facility. You'll be bound to catch the eye of someone special." She types something into her laptop before turning off the treadmill. I begin removing the respiratory gear as the conveyor slows to a gradual stop below my feet.
"Let's just say the people in my field of work aren't exactly flirtatious." I reply flatly as I get off the machine, grabbing for the towel on the examination table.
"Well, maybe you need a little exposure to people outside your field." She smiles, raising her eyebrows. "Last thing for today is your sparring test."
Oh lord, no.
The look of disgust must be obvious on my face, because she's laughing now.
"I know, it must be horrible after all you've been through today. Unfortunately our guy for the test is off sick for the week. I'll need to grab another brute to be your sparring match." Her gaze strays to the guys chatting outside. "It'll be hard with your weight class though, those strike team guys are monsters."
"Hold on a minute Dr. Jones, I'm not at the same level as any of those…"
"Well, I'll find someone." She winks, putting her clipboard down decisively.
"…guys." I finish my sentence, but there's no point; she's already at the door.
Damn. I'm going to make such a fool of myself. I'm in research, not special ops. We got combat training in my last division, but having to do my test with a sparring partner who is elite class is just unfair.
Well, whatever. In the real world, you don't get to choose your enemy's level.
I grab a roll of boxer's tape from the table and begin wrapping my right hand.
After a minute, Dr. Jones re-enters the room.
"Found you a sparring partner. You get the best of the best today." Her smile is suspiciously wide and I'm beginning to think she's anticipating my humiliation.
I'm still taping my left hand when I step out of the examination room and into the sparring facility, my eyes scanning the room for my challenger.
Three men in the corner chatting. Not them. One using a punching bag on the left side. Probably not him.
My gaze settles on a man at the center of the room, standing on the safety mats. He's taking the ammunition out of a shotgun. When he looks up at me, I mentally recoil.
"Elise, this is agent Brock Rumlow."