A/N: Hey guys! WE! ARE! back in business!
It's been a crazy last couple months, and I wish I could say it was all good. Unfortunately, life isn't always like that. Still, it's been an interesting experience.
Been hunting for a more stable job, and that hasn't been going great. I've applied to virtually everything but fast food (trying to avoid doing that again), which is weird, since I've heard that virtually every place is hiring in my town; but then when I apply, suddenly, no one is hiring. At this rate, I might just have to sell pictures of my jawline or start selling my organs to make sure I can eat more than just ramen packs and oatmeal.
All seriousness though, if I can't find any additional work, I'm considering utilizing P-treon (regular spelling isn't working for some reason) and/or Discord. Honestly, I have no idea how to do any of that, but some of you have made the suggestions, I enjoy writing stories, and I wouldn't mind doing it as a source of income. And who knows, it might be the thing that tides me over if IRL is going to keep screwing me, since I'm just desperate enough to not worry about legal issues any more. Just gotta figure out how to work this stuff, and what's needed to make it work. I know there's a tiered reward system in place, so that means I'd need to find ways to reward subscribers without being a dick. If nothing else, I'll have to develop a new skill, which I'm always down for.
Anyway, I had hoped to have this new Arc started sooner, but I got caught up in the details and trying my best to simplify down a large chunk of exposition; it's only partially my fault, but there are a bunch of new OC's, and writing them was a little difficult since the MCU is big enough to warrant a bunch of OC's, but I still had to build them from the ground up. Fair warning, some of the Gamer-esque features are going to take a temporary backseat for the next couple chapters, just because there's a lot of new people, so don't expect much - if any - grind.
Don't forget to check out the Forum at Fanfiction: "/forum/Resonance-a-SteinMon-Forum/240008/". I love reading your guys questions and suggestions.
That being read, I welcome your Reviews. If you have criticisms, I welcome those too. Please keep them constructive. I want to grow as an author, and I can't do that if people aren't willing to critique, or only want to tear me down. I'm not here to please everybody, but I am here to learn. There is a method to my madness, even if I don't always fully understand it. 90% of what I write, I don't write baselessly. If there is something not canon or changed from canon, there is generally a reason. If something doesn't make sense, feel free to let me know (constructively), and as long as it doesn't creep into SPOILER! territory, I'll do my best to explain it.
Also, please realize that I enjoy responding to the Reviews I receive. Unfortunately, it does inflate the word count quite a bit, but I don't have a lot of options otherwise. This is part of my process, and I enjoy connecting with readers, even if it's only briefly. Each chapter (save for earlier ones) should be over 10,000 words minimum; if that helps at all.
If you don't like it, DON'T CONTINUE READING IT!
Review Responses:
A/N: I'm skipping Review Responses this week, mostly because... there were a lot. Mostly from responding to my Author's Updates. Plus a lot of them were just people getting on to me about posting it at all and not reading what I was trying to convey, so I'd rather just avoid the slog of trying to justify myself. And responding to them all would take far too long, so I'll try to sum it up.
Firstly, thank you everyone who was kind enough to mention some mistakes I had made in previous chapters and in my edits. I really appreciate it. I'll have those fixed ASAP, but I wanted to post another chapter first.
A few of you had suggestions, but I think most of them were from "Guest" Reviews. I have gone over them and seen about about either applying them or setting them aside. If you were looking for a response... maybe another Review? But that would inflate Review counts, so I'm not exactly sure how else to respond to the "Guest" reviews from the past few months. Sorry 'bout that.
Secondly, there are over 1000 Favorites now! Like, Holy Snap! For me, that's a lot. I'm trying to wrap my head around that number, and I can barely comprehend a few hundred people. But 1000?! 1K?! It's awesome! I wish I knew how to thank each of you who've tolerated me and my rampant writing schedule. So again, thank you.
Thirdly, thank you all for your encouragement. I couldn't have done it without you.
I had plenty more to say, but honestly, I'm feeling better than I was a few weeks ago. So only calm, positive thoughts from me for today.
*End of Responses
Disclaimer: I don't own the Gamer, or the Avengers, or any of their subsidiaries. Those rights belong exclusively to whoever owns them, and anyone else who had a hand in their creation. I just get to have fun with it all. I do however own the OC's. Those are mine.
I would also like to point out that I don't own any other media or content that may be mentioned as further enrichment to the story.
If the story isn't to your liking, I can respect that. But I'm not concerned with writing a surface level story with a surface level character and surface level plot that makes things easy to explain or understand. I want to read a story with depth, about a character with depth, so I'm going to write depth. I'm gonna write stories I would want to read. And if other people like what I share, then I've already done more than I set out to do.
Without further ado. *Que the dimming of the lights*
ARC 2: Trainee of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Chapter (2.1) 13: My S.H.I.E.L.D. Academia
{…Holland Tunnel, New York … June 30th, 2007…}
Today was the day! Today was the day he finally started training as an agent!
"No problems. No issues. It's aaaall good," Marcus said with a nervous breath. And not for the first time. It wasn't so bad, being stuck inside for a whole week while they put together his identity, slowly making him a somewhat passable existence in this Universe, and only occasionally poked and prodded at him to see if there was any indication of lingering affects to whatever "anomalous energy" he'd been "exposed" to.
That wasn't to mention the pile of documents he'd had to read over – thoroughly – and sign. Including whatever constituted his "in-writing" agreement with Fury, and something he assumed was an NDA. Basically, it all boiled down to the conditions Marcus had asked for in the Black Curtain (Marcus had checked each point thoroughly), and agreeing to not expose any of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s… well, anything really. Not that anyone would believe him anyway.
While most of the points had seemed reasonable, it still felt like he was signing his life away.
It was the long pauses in-between each prod and test that made him miss Matt and Foggy, even though it had only been a few days.
The room they had set him up with had been comfortable, if not a little stifling and bare. At least it had its own bathroom, and no agents were required to escort him when he had to use said facilities.
It was rather anti-climactic all things considered. They'd handed him a manilla envelope with all his doctored papers and credentials (that he'd hidden away in his 'Inventory' the first moment he could, since it was safer than any firebox), including a name tag laminated in hard plastic for his S.H.I.E.L.D. I.D.
'Marcus Ezekiel Kendrick, S.H.I.E.L.D. Trainee, Operations Division.' It even had an emblazon of the S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle; along with a barcode on the back that Marcus assumed was for verification purposes. And he assumed it probably had a chip in it too. Couldn't risk the guy with "limited precog" having a moment to himself, now could they?
Huh? Could they still track him if he put it in his 'Inventory'?
Still, assuming the worst was probably in his best interest. It gave him an advantage. Or at least, partially negated the potential disadvantage.
Coulson sat in the drivers seat next to him in the stereotypical black SUV they were taking; quiet, still, and somehow looking content to just sit there as he drove them both out of New York and into New Jersey. Though he had occasionally popped a smile when Marcus started muttering stuff to himself over the course of the last week during his "baby-sitting" duties; something that happened frequently when Marcus was nervous. Something he was doing now, eyes still locked firmly on the road.
But who could blame Marcus? Nevermind the weird machines some of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s white-coats had been scanning him with, and the fact no one liked answering questions. He was operating with very little information, constantly being reminded that what he knew of the MCU was more personable and in passing, and anything technical blew straight over his head. It hadn't been that much different in his own world; if he didn't work with it personally, he didn't know what he was doing 93.68% of the time.
He was hands-on that way.
However, it did net him an extra level on both 'Observe' and 'Inspect'. Without the constant daily grind and drain on his 'MP' and 'SP', Marcus indiscriminately spent his time scanning everything: the bed, the nightstand, the bedside lamp, the bathroom sink, the toilet, the carpet. EVERYTHING! All the machines used on him, all the new people he'd seen and ignored their higher levels and stats.
[Observe 22 = 23]
[Inspect 21 = 22]
The machines were obviously meant to analyze radiation residue. While he was no scientist himself, an [Alpha Wave Analyzer] was kinda on the nose. Speaking of, those guys needed to get a sense of humor. Marcus had started giving the machine's nicknames out of boredom, "Cutie" for the 'AWA' ('Awww!'), "Henchmen" for the Beta version 'BWA' ('Bwa-haha!'), and "the Guac" for the Gamma version 'GWA' (for "guacamole").
He knew he his sense of humor was kind of… broken. Like some people, he occasionally enjoyed a tasteless fart joke, and could appreciate the tasteful broach of the more macabre without getting offended. But he hadn't thought it was that bad. He was just trying to lighten the mood.
Not a peep; just unyielding stoicism. If anything, Coulson seemed to take their lack of reaction as more hilarious than anything Marcus had done or said. Typical. And here he thought science was supposed to fulfill the inherent sense of fun and wonderment. Shows what he knew after building a "hovercraft" out of balloons and cardboard for a research report in 7th Grade.
They had also conducted a physical to make sure he was relatively healthy. Non-intrusive, thank God. Marcus had been adamant about that; he didn't find himself fond of getting a stick up the bum. While 'Gamer's Body' was a massive boon in many cases, it made it very hard to avoid telling – much less showing – them that he not only didn't sweat (which had become obvious the more and more they had tried pushing him on a treadmill), but that he apparently didn't build up lactic acid in his muscles anymore. They didn't tell him the results of their tests. Just cold calculation as they marked stuff down on their clipboards.
As Sys had repeatedly told him, he was completely and painstakingly average, both in blood tests and in any detectable radioactive residue. Although, it was reassuring to be told he had a clean bill of health as far as anyone knew. Small favors.
Other than those? It had been rather boring all things considered. He tried to keep at least a little physical activity, meditate, and work on improving his sensory and manipulation of 'Qi' and 'Mana'. But being cooped up in the same room for days on end hadn't exactly made achieving any of those things easy.
No books, no movies, no recreation. Nothing – and no one – to engage with regularly (agents didn't count since they just stood there like sentinels).
Thank God for Sys and his (her?) 'Music' feature. It took a few tries, but it was becoming minusculy easier to drown out everything else. It could have been a much, much worse scenario. And that went double for waiting out the week for his 'Inflictions' to FINALLY! time out. While he was glad there were no more random twitchy pains, it hadn't made doing his physicals any easier; much less trying to maintain his 'Pugalist's Conditioning' 'Trait' despite having to limit his physical exertions (which subsequently timed out and disappeared from his 'Traits' page).
Heh. Bright side was, at least now he could exert himself without wincing every half-flex.
"So, where exactly is this "academy" at?" he asked, eyes drinking in his surroundings beyond the tinted vehicle windows. He was tempted to roll them down, but he was riding in a government endorsed vehicle, that seemed like a good way to get shot; overthinking at it's finest. It was actually a pretty nice day out. Still, he didn't stare out too long, lest he tempt a bout carsickness. His new 'VIT' stat might've reduced the effects, but why tempt it. "Are all three just in one big academy? Or is it three separate ones on the same campus? Or is it three completely separate plots?"
There were three S.H.I.E.L.D. Academies as far as he was able to find out. Operations, trained up the field agents; the guys that did the dirty work. The secret, secret agent guys. The infiltration, saboteur, steal your secret files, shoot 'em, and seduce 'em types.
Science and Technology, your typical computers, chemist, engineering, and mechanical folks; the ones who stripped down and rebuilt alien tech, made questionable serums, and otherwise were the 'Q's' to the few '007's'. They built and tested the gear and the gadgets. He'd love to pick their brains… when they weren't being so tight-lipped. Which… would probably be when he officially became an agent. Hopefully?
Communications, dealt with data, analysis, and – as he'd quickly come to realize – was also were most of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s handlers and team leaders came from. Not just compiling info, but sorting it, and making the most efficient use out of it. And that included with people. Made sense, since Coulson was from Communications, and Coulson was… well, Coulson.
"They're each located at separate locations," Coulson responded cooly, still dressed to the nines in his Men in Black suit. How did he not get stuffy in that? "In the event of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s discovery, it wouldn't do to have them all bunched together."
"Strategic separation? Harder to attack them all if they're all in separate places?" Marcus reasoned aloud. Made sense. It would be easier for S.H.I.E.L.D. to rebuild if they were harder to take out; albeit, the remaining branches rebuilding might change the entire internal structure. The 'Unless each one was slowly infiltrated over the last sixty years,' part was left unspoken. And judging by the side-eye Coulson was giving him, he knew it too.
"If you weren't aware of their locations prior, then I'm not authorized to disclose them," Coulson stated with finality. "Not until you're on the up anyway."
Marcus gave Coulson cheeky grin. "Just one of those things I get to experience myself."
"Would it be fun if you knew it all already?" Coulson asked, sparing him a brief glance.
"Knowing something and experiencing it are two different things," Marcus commented easily. "But no. It wouldn't be as fun if I knew it all. But it would certainly take the edge off my anxiety."
Coulson hummed. Like… with a smile on his face. And not quite like his usual plastered smile. Did that count? Did he actually make Agent Coulson smile?
'Whatever! Fuck it! I'm counting it!' he declared. It was official! He was growing on Coulson! Like a fungus maybe, but it still counted!
For the most part, it was a quiet drive. Once they hit the smoother road of the I-95 South, Marcus had slipped into his 'Meditations' while Coulson remained an ever-present sentinel. Didn't even turn on the radio.
'~Breathe. Just breathe~' he hummed to himself. '~In with the air… hold… refine… process… out with the old~'
Slow. Meticulous. Intentional. Just let it all flo–
"A word of advice…."
Marcus inhaled sharply, briefly 'Stunned' as his 'Meditations' were interrupted by the direction in Coulson's voice.
"…if you're looking to be a Field Agent, you're gonna want to start being aware and alert at all times," he stated. He flexed his brows in a "if you want" manner. "Just a tip."
Marcus took another deep breath to oxygenate his brain back from the lull and into and present. "Good point," he admitted appreciatively, already missing the lulled hum. "Thanks Phil." Road trips were their own kind of beast; a combination of ruthless boredom, minor confinement, and sitting on his ass for an extended period of time.
He nodded in acknowledgement, never taking his eyes off the road.
Well, at least in the passenger seat, Marcus had plenty of leg-room.
{…2 hours and 03 minutes later…}
Barring the parts of the ride where Coulson had insisted on being a completely law-abiding citizen by maintaining the exact speed-limit in 'Cruise Control', while they were likewise passed by virtually everyone on the freeway. Marcus wasn't sure whether to admire his insistency on consistency or not. Even when Marcus pointed out that anyone going the speed-limit only looked more suspicious (especially in a black SUV like theirs).
Among other things, instead of meditating, Marcus spent the time watching his surroundings and liberally using his dynamic duo of 'Observe' and 'Inspect' the whole way, as he periodically kept an eye on the 'Map' he'd set up. There were a few towns they had brisked through, and Marcus could admit to a passing curiosity as they drove by. Being this far east was still unique experience, and he still had a hard time imagining just how big the world was.
It had basically been a straight shot down the I-95 with no deviations, until they entered another city.
[!Welcome to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania!
If you're looking for tourist options…]
.
'Which I'm not,' Marcus interjected. He'd never been really interested in tourist stuff, even if it held significant historical value. He was a homebody, and he was perfectly fine with that. And even if he wanted to (which he didn't), it was more fun doing touristy stuff with someone else.
Plus he preferred science museums where he could play with stuff.
[…then I suggest visiting the Liberty Bell, and Independence Hall.
There's also the Philadelphia Museum of Art.]
.
Of course Sys was ignoring him. 'Didn't they do a shot of Rocky around here or something?'
But given that Sys was even making tourist suggestions, Marcus figured this was the place where the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy of Operations was located. "Ol' Philly, huh? Didn't think I'd be walking onto a National Treasure set."
"A what?" Coulson asked.
"You know! National Treasure? Nicholas Cage?" Marcus offered as though it was self-explanatory. It should be fine timeline-wise; it came out in… what? Early 2000's? He'd watched it a lot as a kid. Coulson's brows just furrowed, still locked on the road and mindful of the other drivers as they continued south. "Guy realizes there's a treasure map on the back of the Declaration of Independence left by the Founding Fathers? Hatches up a plan to steal it to protect it when some of his old co-workers are attempting to steal it too? Ring a bell at all?"
"Can't say that it does," Coulson answered dispassionately. "Film from your world?"
'Holy shit! Does National Treasure not exist here?' Marcus thought to himself numbly. Huh. With how similar the world was, it was actually kind of surprising that something so simple hadn't been similar in both his old world, and this one. 'Unless Nick Cage is actually the Ghost Rider in this world.' He wasn't sure if that translated over to this world since he was pretty sure that had been a Columbia Pictures kind of Marvel film, and those kinds of crossovers were sketchy at best unless you were any version of Spider-Man or Ryan Reynolds.
"Yeah," he answered quietly. "Great. I'm gonna have to make sure all my favorite movies and shows still exist." Not to mention which actors from his world were no longer available to make movies in this one since they were taken up by… not characters, but… how else should he put that?
That wasn't to mention all the other stuff he'd need to look out for. "Probably means I'm gonna have to check books as well. Add that to the crash course I'll need in this world's high school curriculum; I need to know what's current and trending."
He paused as yet another thing crossed his mind. "I know you guys gave me a highschool diploma, but am I gonna need to do a GED test or something?"
Coulson sighed in exasperation. "You should be fine. Just do your best."
Marcus snorted. "Inspirational." He got the feeling there was more left unsaid, like that S.H.I.E.L.D. – or maybe more specifically, Nick Fury – didn't expect much from him in the first place. And who would really? Marcus didn't exactly have the stature, personality, or mentality required of a secret agent. Plus he was starting a little late in the game, given he was… what? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven? Years old. Never mind his lackluster resume.
It was just too damn bad Marcus was armed with a System and unbreaking levels of perseverance, and a questionable – somewhat fluctuating – level of self-preservation. Just another sacrifice to this Universe.
Phil turned off the Interstate, in south Philly, not far from a railyard by the looks of it, given the sheer number of train tracks. And while he'd expected the Academy to be more encompassed by the more bustling parts of the city instead of on its outskirts, from what he could see, the Academy was right on one the inner-bend side of the Delaware River.
It was a surprisingly big campus, given the more remote nature of the buildings themselves, making it stand out like a sore thumb. And from the outside, it looked clean. Largely blocky buildings that reminded him more of a highschool campus, with several tower-like structures that reminded Marcus of small lighthouses or lookout towers. The paintjob was mainly gray, trimmed with white, and virtually no windows from what he could see. It was gated by tall concrete walls, which had to be strong, given the entrance looked like one of those steel compound doors you only see in space movies.
[Welcome to 'S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy of Operations'.]
[…pinning…]
.
As Coulson pulled up to the front gate security check-in, he was already pulling paperwork and orders out of the center console while Marcus was drinking in the place, and only glancing occasionally at the security features he noticed; cameras namely. Phil smoothly pulled off his sunglasses and slipped them in his front pocket as they came to a stop, rolling down the window and resting his elbow on the sill.
The security guard didn't even have to ask for I.D. as Coulson presented everything in short order. Marcus made soft clicking sounds to himself, making a show of being distracted as the guard took the paperwork and began silently looking over everything. If he was shorter, he would have kicked his legs to entertain himself.
{Herbert Hughes lvl ?
Security Guard, S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy of Operations}
'Well damn. Remind me not to mess with him.' Not surprising since Marcus was still so low-level.
It would have been nice if they actually clarified what was going on. Instead, Marcus was left with a completely expedited interaction with no audible cues whatsoever.
The guard grunted something, which meant everything was… good? Maybe?
With click on whatever button or console he used, a signal was sent to the other side, and just like that, the steel doors began opening. Completing the quiet exchange, the guard handed Coulson back his paperwork and waved them along.
Pulling forward into the Academy, Phil was already putting his things away when Marcus piped up. "You'd think he'd say more with how boring his job looks."
"Boring, maybe. But important," Phil stated. "He's protecting future agents, and it's a job that needs to be taken seriously."
Marcus just kept his mouth shut. While he'd never condone slacking off on the job, it just seemed so stiff and awkward, but he couldn't refute Coulson's statement either. He'd thought he took his previous jobs seriously. Evidently this government stuff was even more so.
.
[S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy of Operations
Masquerading as a Private Military School
890 Kitty Hawk Avenue, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Serves as the primary education center for S.H.I.E.L.D. field operatives. It is occupied mostly by S.H.I.E.L.D. trainees, trainers, and a handful of agents.
NOTE: This area is occupied mainly by medium-level enemies.
Recommended Lvl: 30-35, and better everything (be that Skills, Gear, etcetera).
Consists of Main Building, Gymnasium, Barracks, and Motor Pool.
Floors: 3 Floors visible, '?' Basement Floors
Occupants: '?'.]
.
The building he had seen before hand seemed to be the Main Building, with a large copy-n'-paste airplane hangar with normal vehicle-sized garage doors that he assumed was the Motor Pool given the small lineup of uniform black SUV's in front of it. The Gymnasium was smaller than the Main Building at two floors, and lacked the distinct arching roof he was used to seeing on gymnasiums.
The Barracks were what held his attention a little longer. A lineup of miniature cabin-like buildings were set up on a lower shelf of ground next to the river bank compared to the other buildings. He wasn't sure how steep it was, or how high, but it seemed enough that there should either be stairs, or anyone would have to climb to get out.
There were also people out and about, some more at leisure than others, most of them appearing to be in small groups of no less than three, though he did see the odd straggler or two at more hurried paces. Nowhere close to crowded, just… enough people to be occupied.
Some were hanging down by the river, others carried conversations as they walked between buildings. Some appeared drawn to the sight of the new vehicle, which didn't help Marcus keep calm at all when it felt like their eyes were on him, even while safe from scrutiny behind the tinted windows. This felt like some "new kid on the block" shit.
Coulson pulled in front of the Main Building, quietly bringing it to a stop and shifting it into park before shutting off the engine. He was already unbuckled and out of the car before Marcus had even reached his seat belt.
'Focus,' he had to order himself, having to physically fight himself to curb his curiosity. 'You'll get to explore all you like later. Meet new people. Make new… friends?' Though he deadpanned to himself in the next moment. He wasn't the most outgoing, inviting, or socialable of people. And even then, he hadn't quite forgotten about the whole HYDRA thing, not even for a moment. Anyone could be a counter-agent, so he had to wait until he could make friends with people he knew were trustworthy. 'Ffffine,' he bit out bitterly. 'I'll just focus on busting my ass.'
Well that sucked. It was hard enough to be friendly, even before everyone was under suspicion of being a super-Nazi-spy-terrorist.
Sighing, he stepped out of the car, no luggage save for what he had stored in his 'Inventory' and the backpack he slung across his shoulder. Which meant all his "fancy" cookware was probably getting appropriated or donated by his former landlord. 'Fuck, wish I thought a little further ahead.'
[Pity too. You didn't even get a chance to use your new crockpot to make chili.
Homemade. Five beans. Extra spices. Extra meat.]
.
Marcus pouted at the teasing. 'Why ya gotta poke it where it hurts?'
[Diced jalapeño. Chopped green onion. Sliced olives.
You being weird and adding minced cilantro and parsley.]
.
'Why didn't your parents raise you right?' Marcus shot back as Sys continued undaunted.
"You ready?" Coulson asked as he put on his stereotypical agent shades back on, having walked around the SUV to his end, and ending Marcus's short-lived pity party. Which was a shame, because the nervousness came back full-tilt in the absence of self-distraction.
"Why? You taking me dancing, Coulson?" he teased back a little too quickly. "And here you are, all dressed up. Wish you'd told me beforehand, and I would've worn my Sunday best."
"I'll take that as a "yes"," he stated dispassionately, though Marcus detected a note of exasperation. "Follow me."
Marcus chuckled weakly, readjusting the straps of his pack before following him. God, why did this feel like going to high school all over again? It hadn't been exciting the first time around (he'd argue those days were some of his worst). Now Marcus was a decade older both mentally and physically, and he was pretty sure he'd rather take a bullet than actively relive any of those years.
Of course, he didn't know what taking a bullet felt like, so it was an unfair comparison. So far anyway. So... to be determined.
Entering the building behind Phil, Marcus noted that everyone – even the people outside – were wearing the typical S.H.I.E.L.D. black-blue for their tactical or cargo pants, and white or light gray t-shirts. Very… militaristic.
It was quieter than Marcus expected as he followed Coulson down the halls, where Marcus was almost certain he spied what appeared to be classrooms, much larger looking than he was used to seeing if the brief glance he caught was any indication. At the end of the hall was a set of concrete stairs covered by thin-sheet carpet and metal railings leading upwards, and Coulson wasn't stopping.
They didn't disembark from the stairwell until they were on the third floor, and once more a series of hallways continued, though this time, the present rooms appeared more like offices as opposed to classrooms, little brass plaques next to the doors and everything.
Each office had a cubicle across from it, manned by a secretary; some of which – to Marcus's brief amusement – appeared less like your stereotypical office gal or coffee lad in their business-like suits, but were dressed like many of the other agents-in-training down below.
Coulson quietly stepped up to one of the secretaries; a young man in a crew cut, white t-shirt, similar black-blue cargo pants, and heavy boots. He appeared hard at work, organizing something on the desktop computer he sat in front of. That, or he was playing Solitare, Marcus wasn't sure. It seemed important, given he was typing away unimpeded. It was early enough in the millennia, maybe he was playing Pinball?
He continued as Coulson waited patiently in front of him, the clacking of keyboards not ceasing for so much as a moment. It took a few extended seconds before he paused, looking up. "Can I help you?" he asked with some hint of annoyance at being interrupted.
Immediately, Coulson was all easy tight-lipped smiles, reaching into his jacket pocket to pull out his I.D. "Good morning. My name is Agent Phillip Coulson. I believe I have a meeting scheduled with Director Whedon." He held up his S.H.I.E.L.D. I.D. keeping it up long enough for the secretary to read it over.
Sighing tiredly, as though he was expecting to be bullshitted, he picked up a business phone, quickly dialing in an extension before holding it up to his ear. "Yessir, I have an Agent Phillip Coulson here to see you, sir."
There was a brief return over the phone.
"Very well, sir," the secretary confirmed, gently hanging up the phone. Immediately, he ignored Phil and Marcus, returning to his duties at the computer. "Director Whedon will see you now."
"Thank you," Coulson stated with nod, returning his credentials to his jacket and turning towards the Director's door.
It was only as Marcus was turning to follow that he noticed the secretary putting away a weapon, not-so-subtly averting his gaze when the secretary flicked his eyes towards him. Clearing his throat, he quickly stepped in behind and to the side of Coulson.
Phil didn't hesitate to quietly turn the door knob, pushing it inward and stepping in. Marcus purposefully hesitated a step or two before following, ignoring the secretary's eyes boring into the back of his skull.
The office was large, immaculate, with that same sleek look that Marcus had come to associate with S.H.I.E.L.D. A large, seemingly hand-carved and stained desk took up a large portion of the center of the room, complete with thin, easily vacuumed carpet, a large bookshelf, and a number of tv screens built into one wall.
Marcus was honestly curious how they maintained acoustic integrity with the offices so close to each other. Did they build something into the walls, floors, and ceilings? He'd think the security was tighter, but he couldn't claim to be an expert by any stretch.
"Agent Coulson," an elderly man grunted out a greeting as he pushed up from his seat. He reminded Marcus of those old Generals from old Hollywood films: bald on top with light gray and whiting sides of his head, firm posture, dressed to the nines in military uniform, shoulder stars, a handful of cords and medals that served as distinctions, and rounded with a service cap set gently and neatly off to the side.
The only reason Marcus could think that he was missing the lanyards and official military lapels was that the everyday grind wasn't a social or festive function. That, and Marcus wasn't sure how military transfers into S.H.I.E.L.D. worked on an official level.
Sys acted automatically.
{Josiah Allen Whedon, lvl '?'
"S.H.I.E.L.D. Director of Operations" …
Notes: Retired Brigadier-General of the United States Army…}
.
'Huh. Neat.' That must've meant… one-star General? Just judging by the shoulder stars. So that's what a Brigadier General was.
"Director Whedon," Coulson responded back, both men briefly shaking hands.
"Agent Coulson. And you must be the fresh cut Director Fury sent over," Director Whedon stated, briefly glancing over Marcus. When Marcus didn't answer immediately, shifting nervously, he chuckled. "Typically, you'd answer back when spoken too, son."
"Sorry. Still getting used to this whole… thing," he answered, before quickly tacking on. It didn't help that he felt something distinctly hollow and pressing at being called "son". "Sir."
"Not a soldier I take it?" he asked, seemingly out of curiosity, but it seemed like less of a question and more of an observation.
"No sir," Marcus answered promptly. The simplicity and lack of things to tack on made it a rather dull response.
"Hmm," he hummed, briefly shifting a few papers on his desk. Some of which appeared to be Marcus's file. He sparred a brief glance at Phil, but the agent appeared to be content to watch and wait. "Were you here for some other reason, Agent Coulson?"
"Just to inform you that Mister Kendrick's training schedule will be sent in later today," he answered with his usual ease. "It's been customized, so it may fall outside the usual parameters."
"Isn't it for the Academy to worry about that?" the Director asked. "A custom schedule is highly unusual."
Coulson just took the demand in stride. "Fury's orders."
Director Whedon let loose a sigh that clearly demonstrated his frustration at having his affairs meddled with. "Very well. If there's nothing else, you're dismissed, Agent."
As Coulson nodded and turned to leave, Marcus offered a hand to him, "Take care, Coulson. Hopefully, I'll be seeing you sooner than later, and not from a hole in the ground."
Coulson paused a moment before exhaling softly through a smirk. He clasped Marcus's hand in his own. "And you, Kendrick. And… good luck."
"Thanks. I'll need it." And he was gone. Honestly, it was two seconds, and Marcus already missed him. Phil had that quiet and assured presence about him that, now gone, left Marcus feeling like the shy kid whose parent had just dropped them off at an unfamiliar daycare with a bunch of strange adults and rowdy kids.
It wasn't a nice feeling.
Both him and Director Whedon waited until Phil had departed before they got down to the meat of the matter.
"Now, as a cadet, how blunt do you want it?" Whedon turned to ask, offering Marcus a seat across from him.
Out of both curiosity and necessity, Marcus asked as he took a seat, "How blunt can you make it?" He was just glad the Director had asked. "I'd rather there not be a misunderstanding."
That earned another chuckle from the aged Director.
"Very well. Bluntly put, I don't have high hopes for you, Mister Kendrick. And you having a custom schedule solidifies it," he answered honestly. Unfortunately, Marcus wasn't very good at hiding how much that actually kinda hurt. "I don't know what all you said to convince Fury, but most of those who pass through my Academy end up washed out. And plenty of those that do, had some inkling of formal training, and started years younger than you are right now."
[Oof! Age burn.]
'I'm not that old,' he complained quietly.
As if reading some of his demeanor, Director Whedon continued. "However, given your… unique situation – and mostly by Fury's insistence – I'm willing to offer you the chance," he stated matter-of-factly, if gruffly. "Do you have any questions so far?"
"None off the top of my head, sir," Marcus answered carefully. "Not yet, anyway."
"Hmm. Just to cover the basics, you'll be placed among a small troop of trainees, where you'll be mandated to perform in several exercises required of a S.H.I.E.L.D. field agents," he informed. "Evaluations are conducted quarterly, and we are very firm in our standards. Those showing excellent work and progress are permitted to take part in assignments outside the Academy for more hands-on experience. Those who still need a swift kick in the pants in some areas are made to continue. And of course, those who don't show begin showing the necessary qualifications are booted from the program."
Before Marcus could ask a question, the Director continued.
"While I'm not expecting you to catch up to the other recruits before the next Evaluation, if no significant progress is made, I will be ordering you to leave," he stated unyieldingly. "I don't care who you have for backing, if I deem you a waste of time and resources, that's it. No begging, and no do-overs. If anything, because you're here on recommendation from so high up, I expect much, much more from you. So no slacking off. Do we have an understanding, Mister Kendrick?"
Nodding, Marcus couldn't help the weight that had settled into his gut over that, his hands pulling tightly at the shoulder strap of his backpack. "Understood, sir." Now he had two spears to his neck; one from this guy, and one from Nick Fury.
Lovely. Just lovely.
"Good." Director Whedon pulled up a small notepad, briefly picking up a pen and writing quickly across the surface. "You'll be assigned to Agent Thomas Calhoun and his troop in 'Squad E'. You are to report to him effective immediately, and consign yourself to whatever orientation he deems appropriate."
'That doesn't sound particularly hopeful,' he intoned, barely keeping the deadpan off his face. 'Sounds like unnecessary hazing. Great. Just… great.' But what did he know about military – much less super-secret agent – shit.
But all he made vocal was an unsure, "Yes sir."
"Good," Director Whedon ordered, ripping the paper he'd been writing on out of his notebook, and holding it out to Marcus. "Dismissed."
He took the paper, looking it over. Brief and not exactly clear instructions on where he was to head.
Without much else, he returned his gaze back towards the Director, who had immediately delved into his work. His mouth opened uneasily a couple times before his shoulders went slack, backing away and opening the door to exit, unaware that Whedon's gaze followed after him.
Marcus closed the door behind him, looking at the paper again. A simple 'Barracks 5' stood out, which narrowed things down significantly all things considered.
Reshouldering his pack, he uneasily retraced the way he and Coulson had come from, now alone but focused as he went. He had an idea of where to go, and that was more than he usually had. Though, to be fair, he usually had a map of whatever campus he was on for navigational purposes.
[Forget something, have we?]
.
Sys promptly made his day with a 'Map' pop-up laying out what he'd seen of the Academy so far. Honestly, they probably should've provided him with an escort, but he preferred it this way. He already felt an uncomfortable heat on his neck as was. The 'Map' wasn't overly detailed, but outlined enough to give him an idea of where things were positioned. 'Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you?'
[You could stand to tell me more often.]
.
He snorted aloud, briefly flushing with embarrassment at the sound he made as he looked around to make sure no one was around to hear him. He made his way back down the stairs, through the building's first floor, and back outside, doing his best not to get distracted by some of the rooms that reminded him of college classrooms.
Not among his worst memories, but none of them happy per say; just… frustrating mostly. Like he'd wasted his time and money.
He stepped out of the Main Buildings without any notable issue, immediately squinting from the sun as he turned in the direction he'd seen the Barracks set up. It was an awkward if quick walk, given he felt (and looked) out of place compared to everyone else.
'This is how it usually begins in most Teen romance books, right?' he queried to himself in boredom. 'Insert the new kid that feels completely out of place in a new school, and super uncomfortable in their own skin, trying to find their clique as they navigate their oddities that somehow make them outlandishly and unrealistically unique, while being actively pursued by two (possibly three) completely similar, and yet completely different, love interests. Because I'm clearly not like other guys. And I'll have to choose between them? Oh! The drama!
'Plus, the MCU already has the supernatural and sci-fi elements. All I'm missing now is the dystopian future, and I'm in my own teen drama book.'
[You mean the "dystopian future" you're bending over backwards to prevent?]
.
'Touche,' he conceded. 'God, I hated school.' Except History. He'd never had a History class he ever disliked.
Nervous anxieties aside, at least his dull sense of humor was intact. It sucked too, 'cause he thought he'd gotten used to that ugly, uncomfortably warm crawling feeling that skittered up his back whenever he'd stepped out onto the boxing ring. Either he had been lying rather successfully to himself, or this was a whole 'nother issue at play here.
Then again, it was one thing to ignore a crowd of people yearning for entertainment, and another to feel so outlandishly inadequate for the position he was in. That wasn't even to mention that he had been dumped into a much bigger pond with much bigger fish; so maybe this wasn't just a "him" thing.
He had to put those thoughts on hold though as he came to the edge of a drop off near the river, where the Barracks were set up on a lower shelf at what looked about eight or so feet down? A bunch of small cabins on stilts above the grassy sands of the riverside.
Marcus eyed the slope warily. Even with his experience hunting along mountain hills, and hiking forest trails, he didn't like his odds. No paths to guide his way down. And worse yet, he wasn't seeing any stairs leading down. Then again, the embankment stretched for quite a ways, with it's own bends and turns.
"You gotta climb down."
Starting slightly at the intrusion, he turned to see another trainee looking at him in amusement. And Marcus couldn't tell if he was bullshitting him or not.
"No ladders or ropes? I assume I'll have to climb out by hand too?" he retorted back.
"We all do. Every day," the trainee replied, watching him intently to see what he would do.
Marcus let loose an exasperated sigh of 'why did I sign up for this?'… but with far fewer questions and far more expletives implied. "Fan-tastic." But, like he'd just thought, he was the one who signed up for this. Maybe not as a direct implication of his initial plan, but as a natural consequence of it none-the-less.
'I mean… it's only a few feet deep,' he considered. Shrugging, he slipped his backpack from his shoulder, tossing it nonchalantly down with a thud into the sand.
[Mark, I don't think that's a good–]
.
'My 'Stats' are higher than my old world. It can't be that bad.' Infamous last words, by Marcus Ezekiel Kendrick before he jumped.
He had the briefest moment to adjust how he landed before the vertigo of freefall hit him, only to startle him as he landed the next moment, knees bending to absorb the impact. The recoil jolted up and through his body as he stood back up, disturbing the sand while making him open and close his mouth in confusion.
'Oh shit! It was bad! I'm getting old!' he panicked at the uncomfortable feeling seemed to settle on his whole body. Especially in his knee joints. Which was odd, because he remembered jumping off of much taller perches, and landing on much harder ground in much weirder positions as a kid.
He leaned backwards to stretch out his back, groaning at the sound his spine and the conjoined muscles seemed to make. It seemed even 'Gamer' powers didn't do much about physical age, but that might take time to test.
Or maybe that would improve with his 'VIT'? Hopefully? Please? He liked having good, solid knees.
Groaning again, he reached down and picked up his pack, just glad he had range of motion without too much of the odd ache. Dusting it off, he shouldered it again, turning back to look back up the bank.
"Thanks!" he called out to the trainee that had told him, pulling out the paper the Director had given him as he searched for the Barracks 5 that had been written on it.
Meanwhile, said trainee was just looking at the bank's edge, frowning and pursing his lips in confusion.
"I know you wanted to fuck with the newbie, but you could've told him about the stairs before he jumped," his nearby squad-mate commented.
"I didn't think he'd actually jump!" he retorted, still not quite believing it himself.
…
…
Unaware of what was happening back on more solid ground, Marcus trudged through the sand, kicking absently at granules and tough patchy grass as he searched for where he'd be setting up shop. Unfortunately, the cabins themselves weren't exactly advertising which was which, and he wasn't seeing any brass numbers like one would expect to be present for address plaques.
They were all uncannily similar looking too, and he wasn't sure how they were ordered; be that right-to-left, or left-to-right. Or maybe there was an order of operations that he didn't understand.
'Sorry to ask, but… 'Observe' and 'Inspect' please,' he asked. While he'd like to think he'd improved his social skills, even by just a smidge from his short boxing career, there… was no way he wanted to ask some random person which barracks was which.
[Not a problem.]
.
Each cookie-cutter cabin lined up, labelled with their proper numbers in his vision as he swept an eye over them. It wasn't hard to find Barracks 5, but… there seemed to be no particular order in which the Barracks were organized. At least, none that he could find. They were lined up like someone had used a random number generator, and hit the 'Mix' option.
'Thanks,' he sighed in frustration at the set-up. All things considered, he'd rather ask Sys than some random stranger. Did that make him a twenty-six year old anti-social weirdo? Or was he twenty-seven?
[I don't think you want me answering that sweetie.]
.
Groaning to himself and scrunching his face, he walked towards Barracks 5, which was directly between Barracks 2 and 8 oddly enough (whoever built it like that was an utter nut in his opinion). He walked up the stairs, noting the even coating of rustic green that was painted over the weathered wood, before pausing in front of the door.
[Followed 'Unclear Directions' Successfully
+35 EXP.]
'Eh. I'll take it.' No sense in complaining about free XP, even if it was miniscule. Certainly better than the single-digit of 'EXP' he'd normally get for doing simple chores.
Marcus took another deep breath, readjusting his backpack on his shoulder before raising a knuckle to knock. He made sure it was firm, not wanting to risk being missed because of a weak knock.
"Chhh. Ch-ch-ch-chh," he clicked patiently under his breath, looking back and forth across the small but empty porch, distracting himself with notches in the wood to keep himself busy while he waited for someone to answer.
He had to keep from counting down to his next attempt to knock as he rolled back and forth on the balls of his feet.
Once more, knock-knock-knock.
It was another four… five… six seconds of waiting.
[I don't think anyone's here.]
.
"You think they're out doing push-ups or drills or… something?" he asked aloud. Which would have been odd, since he was directed here under the pretense of meeting the group he'd be joining. Did they not get the memo? Was he presuming too much?
He certainly wasn't going to question Sys's navigation capabilities.
[Beats me.]
.
Krk.
[!'Danger Sense' flaring!]
.
Something in the peripherals of his spacial awareness lit up warningly with [Danger Sense]. Without hesitating, he threw himself to the side, almost bodying into the porch railing as his whole body swung around with the momentum, eyes widened and pupils darting rapidly to find the source.
[A potential threat has activated 'Adrenaline Rush'.]
.
Marcus only had a moment to register a vaguely human shape rushing at him, a threat registering and affirming a new surge, before he kicked up and off, hitting the solid softness of flesh as he leaned back over the railing and let his body flip over and drop heavily to the sand below.
He was already scrambling to his feet, heart pumping and sending his thoughts racing faster than his blood was as it reached for any action that would preserve his well-being.
His hand was half-reaching behind his back to draw the 'Bayonet' from his 'Inventory', prepared to injure – if not critically wound – whoever had jumped him.
"Jumpy little guy, isn't he? Should we call him 'Froggy'? 'Grasshopper'?"
"To be determined. Not bad for fresh off the cut though."
Marcus's eyes darted towards the intrusion, meeting a small gathering of people approaching, all dressed in white or gray, and S.H.I.E.L.D. blues, all looking at him with amusement. His eyes darted up at the person who had set off his 'Skill', noting a young woman walking down the porch steps, rubbing her jaw with one hand while carrying a coil of… rope? Wire?
There were six of them, and one of him. Two gals, four dudes; including little miss attempted murder. And Marcus wasn't sure who was what, or what was how. But his body was coiled and limber, prepared to act at a moment's notice, while they were as relaxed as could be.
Seeing that he wasn't going to make the first move, and tense as a bowstring, one of the guys stepped forward. "You Marcus Kendrick?"
{David Reagan, a.k.a. "Homeplate", lvl '?'
"Trainee of S.H.I.E.L.D.", "Troop Leader of Squad E", …
Notes: From Illinois. Dislikes being responsible for his Squad.}
.
Marcus was caught between answering with a seething bitter snark or simple genuine honesty. Nevermind his heart playing his ribcage like it was a xylophone – which hurt like a bitch, FYI – he hated getting the absolute shit scared out of him for someone else's entertainment! Not only was every survival instinct prickling at the roots of his hair, which was causing his head to itch like crazy, but now he was forcing himself to take slow, deliberate breaths to try and tame down his fear addled brain. Not to mention that trying to unclench his body felt like it's own workout.
Suffice to say, his mood had taken buckshot like a brush grouse, and even the inkling of 'Meditation' for calm was long and far removed at that moment.
[Mark? Sweetie? Don't kill any of them. Think happy thoughts.
About 'Skills', 'Traits', and any new content you can dream of.
I know! DLC's! Games focused around taming and summoning! Beating Fromsoft games!]
.
That uh… … …. Huh? That actually worked. Seeing as things were operating for 'realism', and the MCU was merely a fanciful extension of said 'realism', did new content even drop? Or was that a 'Feature' reserved for worlds that operated in that way? Wait! Damnit! He was too easily distracted!
With a sharp inhale, he let loose a heavy exhale, feeling as the tension eased. He wasn't a violent person. Honest. He was just sorely tempted to lay someone out like a mattress sheet. Or a picnic blanket. Didn't happen often, and the last time he'd lost control like that had been his cousin constantly jabbing him in the throat with his fingers; which had resulted in his family getting mad at him for knocking the little shit on his ass despite both of them being grown, and Marcus having already told him to stop… thrice.
He wasn't bitter about it, but that didn't make the memory any less unpleasant, or unexpected.
"No. I'm Phineas Flynn, and I know what I'm gonna do today," he stated sarcastically. In the end, he'd settled for something in-between, as any more ran the risk of emotional word-vomit, and too little ran the risk of grinding his teeth. And like his knees, he preferred having good, strong teeth.
"I… don't understand that reference," one of the guys stated, and the first thing Marcus noticed about him was his crew-cut orange-red hair, freckles and large ears. Tall sucker almost reminded him of the Weasleys from Harry Potter. His confusion mirrored in the rest of the squad. Just as well, since Marcus didn't know when Phineas and Ferb came out exactly either.
{Brandon Williamson, a.k.a. "Bubba", lvl '?'
"Trainee of S.H.I.E.L.D.", …
Notes: From Alabama. Ironically, allergic to shellfish.}
.
It didn't stop him from deadpanning at them though, doing his best not to shiver as 'Adrenaline Rush' ceased, and left a cold quaking ache in his muscles. It might only be a few moments, but he really hated how weak he felt coming off the biochemical high.
"You guys, Squad E?" Marcus asked back.
"Huh, so he's got a brain," one of the gals stated. Hispanic or Latina chick. She was pretty he supposed, but her attitude and general demeanor reminded him of thatone actress… what was her name? The deadpanning one from Fast and the Furious? But… real? Hell if he knew. Either way, it was off-putting.
{Heather Torres, a.k.a. "Hats", lvl '?'
"Trainee of S.H.I.E.L.D.", …
Notes: From California. Not all that interesting, but kind of a bi– I mean… kind of a jerk.}
.
Marcus deadpanned, whether at the chick or Sys, no one would know. 'Mmhmm.'
"Guh a likkle easy pan 'eem, Hats," another guy stated in an accent that Marcus assumed was Jamaican (sue him, he'd only seen Cool Runnings twice, and that was as a kid). He had a darker complexion, and the only thing he was missing was the frizzy dreadlocks in favor of the same crewcut "Weasley" had. "Pinky dun give 'eem a gud fright."
{Charles Campbell, a.k.a. "Shoeshine", lvl '?'
"Trainee of S.H.I.E.L.D.", …
Notes: From Mississippi. Family is originally from Jamaica.}
.
"A simple yes or no wouldn't have been remise," Marcus retorted smartly to… what was her name? Hats? Was that one of those weird military nickname things? Beat being called "Fresh Cut" at least.
"Sooo? How'd ya know this was 'Squad E's' shack?" the chick he'd kicked in the face asked, still nursing her jaw somewhat. At first glance, she had what he assumed was the typical bubbly California girl look, minus the tanned skin, blonde hair, and bimbo personality and… assets… but the way she talked threw that assumption off. He couldn't place her accent.
{Jennifer Greene, a.k.a. "Pinky", lvl '?'
"Trainee of S.H.I.E.L.D.", …
Notes: From North Carolina. Has a gnarly scar on her pinky.}
.
Marcus blinked, not expecting he'd have to explain himself. "I was just told to report to an Agent Thomas Calhoun and Squad E."
"Let's save introductions for the Mess, yeah?" the troop leader, David, stated. All model sandy blonde hair and blue eyes, with a smile perfect for the Disney Channel (old-school Disney that is). Marcus wasn't sure if he wanted to punch him or not. Still, mister model lifted a hand. "Well Marcus, welcome to Squad E. Sorry for the rough introduction, but all the newbies get it. I'm sure you understand."
"Not really, no." And he was honest. He didn't, in fact, understand. Call him stuck up, or having a stick up his ass, but hazing was for the immature, and for those who needed an excuse to vent out their frustrations. All for the sake of giving themselves a permissive excuse to cause destruction and then blame the victim for being too sensitive when it inevitably went too far, and absolve themselves from any guilt or reimbursement for damages they might have caused. Because calling it "hazing" was somehow acceptable.
Marcus had been left with the ruins of what had once been good and expensive work boots in the name of "hazing". And that was just his last job in his old world. And his bosses hadn't done anything about it, and they'd even had a good chuckle at his expense. At least, until he had worked his way into a position where he could retaliate against anyone who tried that shit with his underlings and those he trained.
Because of course wasting $300 just for someone to take a grinder to his tread and soles could be considered a(n) (in)practical joke.
He swore, basic human decency was a lost art. He'd rather not participate, but if he did have to choose one, he'd take someone ripping his carefully managed ego a new one over having to needlessly spend extra money.
Regardless, he failed to see how a petite woman (who was an established Agent trainee at that), with a rope, sneaking up behind him, counted as hazing? Especially if it triggered his 'Danger Sense'? "Hazing" his ass! If he wasn't so unsure about who was H.Y.D.R.A. or not… he wasn't sure he could do anything about it either way. His level wasn't as big of an issue as having several high-clearance individuals with their eyes on him. One eye in Fury's case.
As Marcus returned his handshake warily, mister model looked a little flustered, not having expected such an… apathetic and dismissive response. "Oh."
[Easy there little eaglet. Don't bite any little birdie heads off.]
.
"And what do you woodchucks think you're doing, just standing around?!"
At the loud intrusion, Squad E immediately stood rigidly at attention, boots stomping audibly in the sand, startling Marcus as another person came into view. "SIR!"
'Great. More new people,' he moaned to himself. It was already hard enough to keep track of a few new faces.
Marcus was honestly expecting someone decked to the nines in a camo short-sleeve and khakis, combat boots, and a campaign hat. You know, like Major Payne.
What he got was as close to Daniel Craig's "James Bond" dressed in a S.H.I.E.L.D. slate-blue bodysuit as possible for the MCU movies. Just… not Daniel Craig. And American. And Southern… possibly Texan. And more filled out in the weight-lifting department. Honestly, he was a lot less "Drill Sergeant" than Marcus was expecting. He did still have that suave look one would expect of James Bond though.
{Thomas Calhoun, lvl '?'
"Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D." – CLEARANCE '?'…}
.
Marcus was honestly more interested in the bodysuit. Was the S.H.I.E.L.D. bodysuit typical Operations gear? It was different than Coulson's suit. What was the item quality on it? And did it have a decent 'Armor' stat?
Before he could spend a moment 'Inspect'ing it though, "Just welcoming the new recruit! Sir!" Mister Model shouted back firmly. Marcus could detect the nervousness though.
Their apparent CO took a look at the "welcoming party" – pausing briefly on 'Little Miss Bruise on the Face – before calmly and methodically stepping towards Marcus. To Marcus's own surprise, he had a good inch or two on the man. 'Well this is… weird.'
"Are you Agent Thomas Calhoun?" he asked, rather redundantly.
"I am. And?" said agent responded.
"Sir." Marcus did his best impression of standing at attention. Given the snickers he got from the rest of the squad, it was probably… pitifully lackluster. "Director Whedon told me to report to you."
"And?" he continued.
"Um… this is me, reporting to you… sir?" Marcus offered uneasily.
"Hmm."
Marcus barely registered anything as he suddenly found himself flipped onto his ass, the air driven from his lungs with a grunt as a boot pressing down into his chest.
[You took 57 points of 'Subtle' Damage.]
.
'Oh shit!'
What little reflex he had took over as he clawed to remove it, only for the boot-heel to dig in.
['Impact Diffusion' has gained a level.]
['Danger Sense' was momentarily bypassed by a rival 'Skill'.
'Danger Sense' active.]
.
He didn't even have enough thought process left to complain to the System about the delay as he struggled to push the boot away.
[You have gained a Status 'Infliciton'
[Status Infliction – Pinned: – seconds
+ Pinned: All Speeds Reduced by 100% for duration. Most DEX based skills are rendered useless.]
.
"So, looks like you can put up the bare minimum of a fight," Calhoun stated dismissively, before turning to the company present. "So, who bruised up Pinky?"
"That… would be 'Fresh Cut', sir," Mister Model stated, gesturing vaguely to Marcus.
"And how did that come about?" the agent asked firmly, sparing Marcus a glance.
"Startled him during introductions, sir," said 'Pinky' explained, looking almost… chipper? "Noticed me before I could rope him too. You should've seen him jump."
"Threw himself off the porch without hesitating to push some distance," 'Hats' added.
Agent Calhoun turned his full attention to Marcus, pressing harder with his boot for a moment before letting up. "Get him a bunk. Introduce yourselves, and lay down the ground rules. You have until evening to get 'Fresh Cut' situated. He'll be joining us for drills. Dismissed."
Without further comment, the agent walked away, leaving Marcus laying on the ground with a prompt that his was no longer 'Pinned'.
Marcus briefly leaned up from his prone position, before groaning, smacking his head back into the sandy ground. It was only morning, and Marcus already wanted to take a nap. 'Hey Sys? Can I die of embarrassment?'
[I dunno. Haven't encountered a 'Vicious Mockery' that powerful yet.
If it happens enough times, you might get a 'Jester' -based Trait.
I've heard around the office that some of those are pretty good.]
.
'Ha. Ha,' he retaliated weakly. 'Just what I've always wanted: to be a clown.' Engorged red nose, funky hair, big-ass shoes, and everything.
He peaked an eye open when he felt something tap his leg. The only guy not to have spoken so far was gently nudging him with his boot. Marcus actually had to take a moment to process. He was huge! Ripped! Shredded! He figured this guy was as close to John Henry as an American Tall Tales would ever get. His arms looked like jackhammers for Christ's sake! And much like 'Jamaica', he too was a black man. Just much… much larger. Like… "dual-wield sledgehammers" huge!
{Paul Lewis, a.k.a. "Barber/Barbara", lvl '?'
"Trainee of S.H.I.E.L.D.", …
Notes: From Wisconsin. Doesn't talk a lot.}
.
When he noticed Marcus's eyes open, he reached out his hand, offering to help him up.
"Thanks," Marcus muttered, reaching out and gripping the offered hand in a strong-arm clasp. With combined effort, he was brought to his feet in a single motion. As soon as he was on his feet, he began absently smacking the sand that clung to his pants. "So what now?"
"Alright, let's go and get you settled Kendrick," Model stated, leading them back around to the barracks porch.
Marcus hesitated for a moment, his suspicions already primed, but slowly followed after them; only stopping to pick up the pack he'd dropped in his haste.
"Welcome to Barracks 5!" mister model stated cheerily, sweeping his hands across the room.
It was sparce. Though Marcus had expected that. Worn and simple wood flooring that made Marcus feel like he'd stepped into the belly of an old-timey ship. Walls that retained their cabin-esque look of stacked logs. There were six bunk beds in tight quarters that seemed to made of that sturdy, pipe-looking aluminum; the mattresses appearing thinner and firmer than normal. And each bottom bunk seemed to have a pair of small trunks shoved under them, as if to preserve space.
Honestly, he was just surprised nothing seemed to be made of driftwood. The surrounding beach had the aesthetic for it. It was simple, but at least it seemed clean.
And completely devoid of anything necessary.
"Is there a coffee pot anywhere?" he asked, taking a brief gander of the place.
"Coffee's served at the Mess Hall," the Weasley guy informed. "And only in the mornings. You'll be lucky to get a cup or two."
Marcus froze at that, already feeling a headache coming on. 'And I bet it's fucking French roast too.' Having worked in the service industry, that was the coffee most places seemed to use. He wasn't sure if it was just easier to bulk order, or what, just that he'd gotten tired of drinking it in the same vein college had ruined peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for him.
[Don't forget the part about limited intake.
In case you forgot, you need 700mg of caffeine to function properly.]
.
Oh right, that was a thing, courtesy of the [Caffeine Addict III] 'Trait' he possessed. That left him with one conclusion.
'I'm gonna die,' he slumped. It might not be today, it might not be tomorrow, but the sheer tank his 'Stats' were gonna take would probably be too much to bear.
"Uh-oh, someone needs his go-go juice," Fast'n'Furious smirked.
He ignored her. That seemed to be the necessary response. "Which bunks are available?" Marcus asked, having to hold back the twitch in his eye. Yeah, he had a headache already. New people and lack of coffee were a terrible combination.
Everyone began spreading out, taking seats along their bunks. "Just pick any of the others," Mister Model instructed.
It seemed all the bunks closest to the door were empty, so Marcus chose the closest, flopping his pack down on the mattress. He vaguely heard a "You're funeral" from someone, but willfully ignored it since it provided a little distance from all the new faces. He might eventually warm up to them, but he preferred as much sense of solitude as possible, even if the only barrier between them and him was just another bunk bed.
Plus there was the whole H.Y.D.R.A. thing to think about too. He didn't want to feel like he had any more knives at his back. No thank you. Two Directors was already enough.
It took a moment or two longer to realize that the girls had taken up residence on a single bunk together, furthest from the door. "This isn't co-hab, is it?" he asked in confusion.
"Oh? You just noticed?" the gal he'd kicked chirped teasingly.
Marcus just blinked as a bunch of very embarrassing, very inappropriate scenarios ran through his head unbidden. All he could do was turn toward the wall and stare at it intensely. "Shit."
"Don't get too excited 'Fresh Cut'," the Hispanic chick stated blandly, "We have separate changing rooms and showers."
"Mercies great and small," he muttered, keeping the thankful portion of his tone down to a minimum.
"And coincidentally, you've walked right into one of the universal ground rules here," Mister Model/David stated from his bunk. "Since units are generally cohab in the field, they get us used to it right off the bat. Medications are regulated here, and inspections are random, so there's no contraceptives. As such, both sexes are strongly encouraged to keep their pants on. We get it's Operations, and most people washout anyway, but no sense in killing another career on top of your own."
"No problems here," Marcus stated, completely unbothered by what should have been odd information, before turning to the girls. "Just keep the threats of permanent mutilation to a minimum, and we'll be fine."
"Why? Ya scared?" what was her name? 'Hats'? asked smugly.
Marcus deadpanned at her. He honestly didn't have a good, well-balanced response to that. On one hand, returning the threat seemed excessive and ungentlemanly. On the other, being a passive little daffodil in the face of such a threat was arguably worse than getting walked all over. And then there was a very distinct part of how his God-fearing mother raised him that he had to tamp down quickly, even as it broiled to the surface.
And it was telling as a sharp hum echoed through his chest, reverbing audibly as it granted him the brief respite he needed to begin calming down.
"We'll see," he opted for, neither here nor there, nor anywhere.
She just snorted in response. "Whatever 'Fresh Cut'."
"Anyway," Mister Model drew out pointedly, giving what's-her-name a hard look. "Have you eaten Kendrick?"
Was that even a question? Of course he had. But… "I could eat," he responded, perking up slightly at the mention of food.
"Cool," he responded. "You eat, we'll get introductions out of the way, and we should even have time for questions."
'Oh yay. Socializing,' Marcus cursed internally. He couldn't wait!
Honestly, he was looking forward more to the brutal exercises he was bound to be subjected to in training, than he was to chatting up this new clique he was made a part of.
Name: Marcus Ezekiel Kendrick, a.k.a. "Fresh Cut"
Race: Human (standard)
Occupation: Trainee of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Level: 15 (10236/12000)
Title: Masochistic Gamer (+5 STR, VIT, DEX; +25% Cash and EXP)
HP: 1050
– HP regen: 8% (84 HP/hour) (1.26 HP/minute)
MP: 1010 (170)
– MP regen: 8.2% (82.82 MP/minute) (1.24 MP/second)
– Magic/Mental resist: 6.2%
SP: 1100 (170)
– SP regen: 10% (110 SP/minute) (1.66 SP/second)
STR: 30 (+5) = 35
VIT: 25 (+5) = 30
DEX: 35 (+5) = 40
INT: 26 (+0) = 26
WIS: 31 (+0) = 31
LUC: 20 (+0) = 20
SKL: 111 | EVO: 68
Currency: $51014.48
– Trainee of S.H.I.E.L.D. (pending…)
Hunger: 13/300
– Standing Drain: 4/hour (96/day)
Thirst: 32/300
– Standing Drain: 6/hour (144/day)
.
.
Passive Skills:
[Vehicle Mastery, novice lvl 8]
[Mechanics, basic lvl 5]
[Firearm Mastery, novice lvl 4]
[Fishing Mastery, novice lvl 11]
[Information Processing lvl 13]
[Cartography lvl 21]
[Empathic Reception lvl 17]
[Inconspicuous lvl 11]
[Danger Sense lvl 9]
[Critical Hit lvl 4]
[Unarmed Mastery lvl 11]
[Pugilism Style lvl 17]
[Knife Wielding lvl 3]
[Blade Guard lvl 8]
[Fire Retardant lvl 5]
[Pain Mitigation lvl 9]
[Impact Diffusion lvl 12 = 13]
[Qi Rooting lvl 2]
[Mana Sensitivity lvl 2]
[Eye of the Storm/Tranquility of Water lvl 1]
.
Active Skills:
[Blade Sharpening lvl 12]
[The Zone lvl 4]
[Adrenaline Rush lvl 3]
[Power Strike lvl 10]
[Charge Attack lvl 6]
[Block Guard lvl 6]
[Counter Strike lvl 4]
[Oxygen Circulation Breathing Technique lvl 1]
.
Passive & Active Skills:
[Pushing Limits lvl Max]
[Climbing lvl 6]
[Sprint lvl 18]
[Inspect lvl 21 = 22]
[Observe lvl 22 = 23]
[Harmonic Meditation lvl 12]
Author's Note: Don't forget to READ and REVIEW!
Let me know what you guys think. Keep it constructive. And any help balancing or reinventing certain skills would be most help.
Just to recap from above, I'm considering opening a Discord or P-treon page for my work. Like I mentioned before, finding a source of stable income hasn't been easy considering I've been all over job sites looking for one. I honestly don't know what I'm doing, or why I'm even considering it, but if I'm getting too big for my britches, tell me. I'd rather hear it here than stick my neck out just to get it chopped off.
Until next time.