A/N: Hey guys! Finally back with another one!
I know it's been a... a very long while. It's been... it's been. That about sums it up. I'm doing okay, it's just been really hard to care or focus on doing anything. Been mostly trying to get myself back in functioning order. Managed to get out and reconnect with some people, so I've just been trying to get out of my own head for while, and have been hanging out with friends.
Got into a good rhythm with my current job. Enough that they gave me a raise. Still doesn't pay much, but it keeps the bills at bay.
Shameless Plug: I have been managing a Ko-Fi page (info on my Profile page) for the past couple months. I'm not gonna ask for subscriptions. Given how long it's taken me to come out with additional chapters these last couple times, it's purely donation.
The only benefit I've come out with is that the Chapter 15 will be available for viewing the pre-edit for anyone that donates. From what I can tell, access is open for up to a month after donation, so you can one and done it at 5 cents if you like, and still get the edited, revised, and free version here. All good either way.
Anyway, Chapter 15 took too long to do because I scrapped and restarted it a few times, and I got caught up on the details and research, so I'll get through this quicker.
Don't forget to check out the Forum at Fanfiction: "/forum/Resonance-a-SteinMon-Forum/240008/". I love reading your guys questions and suggestions, no matter how long it takes me to get back to you guys.
That being read, I welcome your Reviews. If you have criticisms, I welcome those too. Please keep them constructive. If something is wrong, or weird, inform me with appropriate information. 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 the story, DON'T CONTINUE READING IT!
Review Responses (Extra Long):
joseph2005 - Thanks, I appreciate the enthusiasm.
Cranium9 - Gotcha.
uchiha-rune - All good man. Stuff like that happens.
Riiiiight.
FieldTested - Kept your suggestion in mind, so I appreciate the recommendation.
InsightfullyDepressed - A faceless NPC that is higher level, better trained, and better stats? Yes.
M2R - That is the question, isn't it.
REDwolf28 - The whole Arc will have multiple dedicated chapters, yes. Still trying to figure out the whole content stuff.
HpFaN2o0r - "Sparse" and "Sparce" have the same meaning and definition. They're just spelled slightly different, but both are technically correct.
arawiguM - Both utilize radiation of some sort so... who knows. Though I will admit, I'm not keen to make Marcus another Spider-Man.
Revan439 - I appreciate all the info. You make a fair point, commitment is a necessity.
DaLadyofSouls - Still figuring out the whole process if I'm honest. Figure I'd best start with something simple and worry about more later down the line. Two is a bit much for me.
NumeralFuture11 - That would be funny. Got myself a good chuckle out of that one.
theQmaster - Yeah, gotta keep them at least 10k words (in content). Just kind of chilling with my current job at the moment.
Solti - No problem, and here's another one.
truck-kun1999 - Thanks. I appreciate the support and effort.
landonfalls - Indubitably.
travis99 - The skill books were absorbed.
BloodStarGeneral - And 'this' is next.
nealrm - Indeed indeed.
Asumodeus - Okay. Was there something constructive in there?
jgschultz15 - Here you are then.
Clyde-Kun - She got under your skin that fast, huh?
bigwoof - Thank you.
"Paniless" - Sorry to hear that man. Hope you're doing better.
"Unknown" - Appreciate it. That was kind of the point. Those particular skills illustrate where he was at in life, enough so, that he got some useless skills out of it. I'm also not sure what you mean by 'denotes'.
"Just guessing" - Spoilers :)
"Mr. E Guest" - Hmm, interesting thoughts, but Spoilers.
sorashinny - Thank you very much.
crazybeebee - Thanks, I love it.
Now Account - Glad you like it, and it's all cool man.
Pat20 - It's in the same vein as no lactic acid build up, which is one of the body's way of telling you that you're not getting enough oxygen. The point is that his body doesn't need to (courtesy of 'Gamer's Body'), not that the function has been removed.
"RY" - Yeah, one of my better scene transitions.
"Figgy" - Lovely indeed.
WHOstEist - Well there's another chapter now.
ShadowGlimpse - Given how limited the time Fury has with the Black Curtain protocol is, and the risk assessment cross-checking the information, keeping the informant (in this case, Marcus) close is the better option, especially since future knowledge will either prove true or false. Knowing what he does, Fury wouldn't be beyond believing it, but a lot of the methods of verifiability are either beyond human capability or aren't measurable. The simple fact Marcus knows is indication enough. But I do get your point.
Yeah, I find those a lot, everything I read through my stuff. Happens with my 'there', 'their', and 'they're's too.
And yes, I mowed lawns at one point, for several years. Had to quit because the strain on my body was causing me crippling pain (literally couldn't get up and walk).
"Nobody" - I did think about it when I first started, but the that requires a great deal of setup, and with how on point I was trying to keep it, would end up more of an estimate of where he should be rather than exactly where I wanted him. This was just the way I preferred it.
gearhead2177 - Thank you.
DarkGabriel0 - I'm glad to read it.
etenightstar - I appreciate it. I'd love to do that some day, but this is where I'm at right now.
- Glad you enjoyed it.
naedinefebruary2.0 - Your offer is appreciated, and while I love the idea, as I've told several other offering artists, I'm not in a place to order commissions. If the opportunity arises in the future, I'd love to reexplore that option, but as of right now, it is not viable for me.
"Chris" - I get what your saying about the Author's Notes, but it's the most concise way I have to just put out what's been up, why I've been delays, or even just trivial stuff. I haven't found a more concise way to approach those things yet, and no one's offered solutions yet. Resonance is based on both the movies and the TV series (as they occupy the same Universe).
I'm all for other story suggestions, but... why?
Webbs555 - Appreciate it. I read ya, and as I've mentioned to a couple others before, Marcus isn't starting off as a blank canvas. And when any decision he makes could completely alter someone's fate (intentionally or otherwise), that is a lot of power to have to deal with for someone who's default setting is survival. But, I am developing him, either through trial, error, or because Sys said so.
theMerryMonarch - If you have an viable alternative, I'm all ears. And I'm answering to the individual, so it stands to reason that the individual is the one who would understand the context of my answer. Case and point.
Dezzel - O-kay? It was a scene serving to introduce new skills and how they worked, in a setting that most anyone would be familiar with.
arocora - My pleasure, and this is part of what's next.
TheHamtaro - Not sure if we're reading about the same person or not, but I suppose it is open to interpretation.
ColeslawJoe - Now updated.
*End of Responses (breathes a sigh of relief)
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 (2.2) 14: Fresh Cut
{…S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy of Operations… Philadelphia, Pennsylvania… June 30th, 2007…}
Marcus gently ran a fork over the food he'd been provided. Honestly, he'd expected worse from a super-secret spy agency. He'd anticipated something along the lines of trying to become accustomed to field rations or hardtack – maybe eating jerky so often he became sick of it – provided he was going to be in the field. If he actually made it overseas, maybe street vendor food to add to that "American tourist" disguise; assuming that he wouldn't have to chase down any bad guys right after eating; or… you know… flee for his life.
But right then, in front of him, was an actual food: a sausage patty, hashbrown, a biscuit lathered with gravy, and scrambled eggs. Pepper and salt at his discretion. Unfortunately… no coffee.
"What's the matter? Food not up to your standards?" Mister Model hummed, sitting across from Marcus with his chin propped up by his hand.
"Honestly, I'm more surprised that it actually looks edible," Marcus responded, continuing to poke at the food with his fork. "This isn't some "set their expectations high, so they have a deeper hole to fall into", is it? Am I gonna wake up tomorrow, and its mystery slop?" A redundant question, considering he could see a few others eating their breakfast as well.
He could probably handle the "mystery slop" though, as long as he knew if the course was grains, vegetable, fruit, meat, or some pureed mixture there in. Provided he could season it with salt and pepper, and that there wasn't too much flavor overlap.
Some chili powder or hot sauce wouldn't hurt either.
Tasty food was a privilege, and he was trained from a young age not to complain about his meals when there were starving children in Africa and China; his mother had seen to that, Lord bless her.
Conveniently, Model talking allowed him to ignore the ache that thought brought up.
"Haven't been given the Slop yet," he stated. "Though… the gravy does come pretty close at times."
Marcus hummed at that before finally digging in, starting with the hashbrown. Crispy on the outside, soft on the inside. He lathered any excess gravy on it as he paid attention.
"Well, time for introductions," Model stated, unaware that Marcus had already clocked the whole group with his 'Inspect' and 'Observe' Skills. Just as well, since he couldn't address people by nicknames he made up on the spot.
…
…
Or could he?
If it worked for Tony Stark…. Then again, that sometimes made Tony seem like a major prick. Ugh! Decisions, decisions.
"Name's David. But everyone will just use callsigns anyway, so I'm "Homeplate"."
"How'd you get that nickname?" Marcus asked between bites. His dad had been hunting buddies with an older former pilot in the Air Force who'd been given the callsign "Barf"… let's just say his first official flight had pulled enough G's to have him filling up his oxygen mask.
Weasley was the guy to answer with a sharp laugh. "Davy here," he stated with a slap to said man's shoulder, "tripped and slid in some skat during field drills."
"Looked like he was sliding into Home with a streak of shit all up his pants," Fast'n'Furious commented with a smirk. "He wasn't allowed in the SUV's, so the CO had him jog back here from the field."
Marcus did his best to hide his amusement at the story. Chances were, he'd be in an equally terrible situation soon that got him an equally terrible nickname with an equally terrible backstory.
"I'm "Bubba". Like Bubba-Gump Shrimp," formerly Weasley stated. "You watched Forest Gump?"
"Who hasn't?" Marcus asked. No. Seriously. Who hasn't? Classic. Lieutenant Dan was one of his favorite characters. And the less said about… well, if you know, you know.
"Well, these guys thought it would be something of ironic, on account I ate something that had come in contact with some shrimp, an' I'm allergic to shellfish," he stated, completely unabashed. If anything, he seemed proud of it. "Face swolled up like a pufferfish."
Oh. Oh dear. On one hand, Marcus felt something of sympathetic. On the other hand, "Bubba" didn't seem all that hung up on it, so… no harm, no foul he guessed. Ironic indeed.
He was just starting on the biscuit and gravy as they continued.
"I'm Heather," Fast'n'Furious stated smugly. "But everyone calls me "Hats"."
She didn't seem keen on sharing the story so Marcus turned to everyone else in confusion. He only needed a quirked eyebrow to earn Cheshire grins from the others.
"Hats" glared at the rest of their troop. "Don't even think about it."
"Most of us gals usually keep our hair in a short ponytail or braid," Miss Murder stated in an overly cheerful tone, completely ignoring the death glare she was receiving, while also gesturing to the bob cut she had down for the occasion. "But Heather here, decides she's gonna show up to drills with a mess of bedhead. CO had her shaved down to a crew cut, and she wore a hat until her hair grew back enough to put up."
'Doesn't explain the thumb she has up her ass,' Marcus thought. Then again, he was a guy. Sure, he usually kept his hair a little longer, but he wasn't that – figuratively – attached to it. Finding a good – yet affordable – barber though? He'd rather just cut it himself; at least then he'd have saved some money as an excuse for why it hadn't turn out good.
"Mi Charles," Jamaica offered, friendly enough. "But dem call mi, Shoe-Shine. Fos day pan di drills, mi be emptyin' mi guts pan di CO's boots."
It took Marcus a moment to follow along – a long moment… or three – but he actually had to hold back a laugh at that. "So, you're from Jamaica?"
"Nah man. Fambly from Jamaica," he answered with a large smile. "Grow up wid di accent. Also make it mo' hilarity when– I star' talking like I'm from the backwoods of Mississippi." The flawless transition between a Jamaican accent and a deep American-Southern one had Marcus almost spitting up his eggs. Scratch that. He was pretty sure some of that egg had made it half-way up his nasal cavity, primed and ready to fire at the slightest errant exhale through his sniffer.
"Dude!" he exclaimed, holding a hand in front of his nose. Groaning and holding back a nasally cough that threatened to torpedo egg, he grabbed a napkin. Just as the very back of his nasal cavity started to itch like a mother, he blew his nose. Sweet relief. "Man, warning next time."
"Apologies, but eet ees more fun dat way," Shoe-Shine returned to his Jamaican accent. "Be learnin' tuh chat Jamaican wid di family– and switch to more American-English for when I'm at school."
[Trippy.]
.
"Trippy," Marcus echoed in agreement, scratching his nose gently before folding and pocketing his new snot rag for later use. Real blue-collar stuff that.
Little Miss Murder decided it was her turn at the plate. "Hi," she waved. If Marcus hadn't had his 'Danger Sense' triggered by this chick, he might've thought she was shy. "I'm Jen. Well! You can call me Jen. Or Jennifer… or Jenni."
"Is that Jenni with an 'I' or 'Y'?" Marcus asked. Because people spelled their names in all kinds of weird if given the choice, and God knew, some people threw an absolute fit if you didn't spell it just right.
"Um… 'I'? I think?" she… sort of answered, before visibly shaking it off. "But everyone calls me "Pinky"."
It went quiet for a moment in the Mess Hall before Marcus looked back and forth uncertainly, his lips thinning at the awkward silence. "And… why do they call you that?"
"Hm? Oh! Because I took off my pinky practicing with garrot wire," she stated sweetly enough. She quickly leaned over the table, almost landing in Marcus's second breakfast as she presented her right hand. More specifically, the pinky of her right hand. Sure enough, there it was encircling her pinky finger, a darker fleshy pink bump encircling the entire digit.
"See! Doctors had to completely reattach my finger! What do ya think?! Cool, huh?!" she asked, seemingly genuinely excited about… having lost a finger.
Honestly, Marcus was just getting headache by how genuinely excited and energetic she seemed, which only served to feel like his own mental energy was tanking. And quickly at that. Still though, it seemed genuine, if not a little morbid. "Yeah… cool."
He was going to need twenty minutes in a secluded bathroom to recharge his batteries, and he'd only heard her talk for thirty seconds, more or less. Still, it wasn't enough to put him off finishing his second breakfast.
"And you?" he asked the last guy, admittedly intimidated by his size and stoic demeanor.
"Paul," the formerly John Henry stated simply. Marcus kinda expected a little more, but that seemed to be all he had to say.
"We also call him Barber," Bubba (Weasley) stated. "Got startled when they started shooting during the wire crawl. Jumped to his feet and got tangled in some barbed wire. Cut up his head pretty good, but they managed to untangle 'im mostly intact."
Dubbed "Barber" just nodded, looking uncomfortable by the reveal, but otherwise stayed quiet. If Marcus didn't know any better, Barber was more uncomfortable with people than he was, which… was super weird seeing it from the outside.
"Now your turn!" Jen chirped, just as Marcus was halfway through a bite to the sausage patty.
"Huh?"
"We all introduced ourselves. Now it's your turn," David directed, gesturing for him to take it up. Like they hadn't already learned a fair bit about him.
Not what he was expecting, given they seemed to have been told about his arrival. Then again, half of Marcus's file was chalked with bullshit to make him fit into this world. Thank you Fury. But he shrugged, gently chewing and swallowing before starting.
"Um… I'm Marcus," Marcus offered, unsure what to offer exactly. "Friends call me Mark. Uh… wasn't really given a call sign, and I only know a little of how that works."
"All newbies are 'Fresh Cut'," Hat's offered matter-of-factly. "Rule of thumb is that you only get another callsign if we like ya."
"An' yuh duh sup'm note-worthy," Shoe-Shine (Charles/Jamaica) offered.
Homeplate (David/Model) quickly tacked on, "And even if you get a cool sounding nickname, the story behind it is often something stupid." Case-in-point.
"And if we decide to let the time run out, you become "Spoiled Meat"," Hat's offered helpfully, giving a half-smirk at him that made her look snooty. Nothing new there.
"Yay," he droned dully. He quickly polished off his food. Despite consuming it with the speed of a vacuum, he could in-fact taste it; quite pleasantly at that. He had a big mouth, and it was best rendered full if he wasn't going to talk. Though, he did wonder if he could ask for a bread roll or something to lap up the remains of the gravy and crumbs. 'Thoughts?'
[Nothing new. Focus on raising your level so you can actually read their 'Stats',
work your 'Stats', figure out what you're going to do with all your 'Points',
grind 'Skills', and learn new ones.]
.
[And make some friends. God knows you could use some.]
.
That last one would have been a nice thought, if he wasn't acutely aware of H.Y.D.R.A. infiltrating S.H.I.E.L.D. He wasn't itching to get close with someone just so they could stab him in the kidneys once his back was turned. He liked his kidneys unstabbed, thank you.
No matter how nice, or how much of a prick any of them were, it wasn't a secure way to judge their allegiance. People were too naturally diverse – and all-round deceptive regardless – to so easily label them based on their attitudes.
'At this rate, the majority of people I can trust are going to be naturally suspicious of me,' he mused. Given that majority consisted largely of American heroes, billionaire playboys, paranoid scientists, international assassins, and a god with a hammer; plus pending side characters. And he had to somehow let them develop without completely crippling their characters because of this nasty little thing called 'Foreknowledge'. He had his work cut out for him.
His brooding thoughts were interrupted by Homeplate (Mister Model/David). "Any questions?"
Marcus brushed his hands over a napkin, quickly wiping away any crumbs that might have been lingering on his face.
He had a few years at best until the "Battle of New York". Not long in the grand scheme of things. For now though, he just had to remember everyone's names. Which sucked, 'cause he remembered the nicknames he gave them better than their actual names.
"Where do we start?"
David gave an easy go-lucky smile, oozing a natural charisma that Marcus envied. "For starters? Well, normally we'd wait until you were sleeping before pinning you down and giving you a shave…."
A chorus of moans and groans arose from the others, collectively disappointed that whatever "surprise" they had planned was effectively spoiled. Except for Paul (Barber); his features just tightened in silent disappointment.
"…but we've all seen how jumpy you are. And personally, I don't want to write up the report should someone end up with a shiner over a prank," he continued in good humor.
Marcus nodded so-so in understanding. "Just as well, since I sleep armed. Hate to "accidently" stab any of you first night here." And what's more, concealed carry. Having an 'Inventory' was a convenient thing, to pull a weapon out of nowhere. And that convenience was just one more thing to keep him valuable in the long-run.
Upon his statement, it grew quiet amidst his new teammates.
"Good habits aside, where were you from again?" Murder-chick asked, a reminder that they had his – albeit partially false – information.
"Was in New York beforehand," Marcus stated easily enough. "Grew up in Idaho though." 'Wait a second. Good habits?' He may or may not have started leaning away from her.
"'Tato country?" Bubba asked.
Why did everyone think of potatoes when they heard about Idaho? Sure, the state grew the most potatoes in the country, but now it was just getting ridiculous. It was almost enough to make him sigh; but he had to save those for the truly exasperating matters. "So they tell me."
"Right. Let's go and make you presentable for Agent Calhoun," David interjected, standing up from the table, and everyone else began following his lead.
While Squad E was heading for the Mess Hall's exit, Marcus quickly deposited his dishes in a dish bin before jogging after them.
"So… is there anything else I need before getting run into the ground later?" Marcus asked as he followed, glancing around periodically. A nervous habit he'd picked up since his fight in the alley.
"Got your bunk, did introductions," Model (David? Homeplate? He really needed to memorize their names) listed off as they walked. "Haircut… … what else?"
"Uniform," Fast'n'Snooty stated.
"Right! We'll get ya squared away with uniforms," he affirmed. "Should also have some toiletries to go with 'em. Might also do a lap or so around the Academy just to show you where everything's at."
[Collection Quest time, baby!]
.
Marcus nodded in understanding. Normally, it was about this time he'd make a comment about being geographically challenged. But then again, that's what Sys and 'Maps' was for. Suffice to say, it was one of his greater weaknesses that he was more than happy to have circumvented by the 'System'.
"You guys have a boxing bag or two?" Marcus asked as he trailed behind the group, mentally going over what his routine had been in New York. Suffice to say, being cooped up in a S.H.I.E.L.D. guarded room for a week – even for tests and questions – had him itching to let loose some restless energy.
"Yuh sure?" Jamaica (Charles? Charlie? Chuck?) turned back to ask. "They 'll wuk yuh tuh di bone eff dem tink yuh 'ave duh en'uh'jee."
Marcus frowned as he had to do a couple mental flips to string that all together coherently. After he got the gist of it, he just shrugged. "If I have the time, it couldn't hurt." He may not have time in the future, seeing as he had a full freight truck of stuff to catch up on, 'Stats' to grind and 'Skills' to develop; but if he had a spare moment or two, why not?
As it was, his time might be better spent in self-study to polish his ochen' uzhasno Russkiy.
The Mississippi-Jamaican just shrugged. "Suit yuhself."
As they stepped out into the sun, Murder-chick (he was keeping her nickname) started walking backwards as she faced Marcus, keeping up with the group without tripping over her own feet. Enviable. "So, you said you came from New York?"
He nodded, head cocking slightly as he waited for her main question.
She didn't disappoint. "So what did you do there?"
"Worked in a bar," he stated. Had he been more attentive, he would have noticed the others sharing glances between themselves. "Just started rookie boxing on the side."
"You box?" Bubba commented. "Were you any good?"
"Dunno," Marcus stated in thoughtful confusion. "I think I did okay."
[Gee. Tone down on the humility there Mister Ego.]
.
Marcus had to hold back from rolling his eyes. It honestly was just "okay", considering he'd been pitted against other rookies. Was it an accomplishment for him? Absolutely! But stuff like that usually didn't mean much to other people.
"What, like… no military experience?" Hat's asked, clearly befuddled how his presence there even came about.
"Nope." There was curiosity, and then there was fishing for info. Marcus was just suspicious enough to believe it could go either way. Or both.
"You're what? Thirty?" David asked. "How'd a bartending boxer manage to land here?"
[Everyone just loves hitting you with those age jabs, huh.]
.
"Twenty… seven?" he muttered bitterly. Right. These guys were probably earlier in their twenties. All bright-eyed, with a plan, and just unhinged enough to make intelligence and operative work a career. What did that say about him and his goofy ass being here?
To them, he probably seemed like an old man. Joke's on them though; all people got older. It was inevitable, and he was just self-aware enough to be very much conscientious of this fact.
He still wasn't sure exactly how old he was, much less how that translated over to this world. His age normally meant very little to him; so little in-fact that he rarely bothered with doing the necessary math to properly put a number on it (and math was one of his better subjects). But it meant the world to his mom, and she could pull the number out of thin air. Just one of those seemingly pointless little things he didn't notice he missed, until he started thinking about it. Then he missed it with all his heart.
Before he could dwell on it though. "And it's simple really. I just blackmailed Nick Fury." And technically, not a lie either. Ah, deflection at its finest. Box, shelf, attic.
And they were most definitely fishing. Future super spies and all that.
[!'Information Processing' skill has gained a level!]
.
The collective stop almost had Marcus barreling into them. Seeing as he was just behind Paul (John Henry), he'd have probably stumbled back on his ass if he had.
"You…?" Snooty asked in question, unable to finish.
"Fury? As in, Director Fury?" Jamaica asked, his island accent greatly muted in favor of his southern one all of a sudden.
Marcus just shrugged, as if it wasn't that big of a deal. His nonchalance must've really sold it, because they were giving him wary looks.
"And you're not in a hole?" Paul's voice had a deep timber to it that Marcus half expected, but wasn't prepared for.
"Or in an unmarked grave?" Miss Murder asked before frowning. "Which is also a hole I suppose."
"You seriously blackmailed Director Fury?" David asked, looking shooketh about it.
Now to really fuck with them. "No," he answered walking around them, looking just as impassive as when he told them otherwise. "I accidently got ahold of some classified info, and S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't happy about it. The choice between which Hole I wanted was the alternative." Also the truth.
Lesson for All People: Context was everything, and he was under no obligation to provide any.
Super Spy Lesson: Sowing discord and misinformation – or in this case, tell the truth, "from a certain point of view" – and let them tear themselves up about the details. He wasn't planning on telling anyone from S.H.I.E.L.D. his story, and he got to harmlessly fuck with H.Y.D.R.A. a little bit, under no completely certain terms.
"Which hole?" Miss Murder asked, both curious, concerned, and confused.
"Yes," Marcus stated simply. He suddenly clapped his hands earning everyone's undivided attention at the sharp sound. His mom would be proud. "Now, where do I get that hair cut?"
Box. Shelf. Attic.
Director Whedon's Office
Among the countless responsibilities he had to observe and cover, Director Josiah Whedon could honestly say, he hated the paperwork most. Resupply, maintenance, billing, personnel, the works; it was all one big circus, and he was the ringleader that had to keep it running smoothly.
While he could work through proxies or get a watering down synopsis from his secretary, delegating tasks – even as a younger Officer – had been a personal weakness of his. He read each page word for word; sometimes two or three times to make sure he understood everything.
And what he didn't understand, he set aside to look into later. A habit his ex-wife hadn't appreciated spilling over into his home life.
But who else could do it? It wasn't a matter of trust, but capability. His diligence become his flaw.
'And Nick Fury gets the most capable of them,' he begrudged bitterly before shaking it off. He didn't even entertain time to be upset; not only was it bad for his blood pressure, but he knew there were plenty of capable men and women under his command. The Academy trained people for a specific purpose, and it would be a waste if they didn't see that purpose put into action.
As was, he was also too busy making sure the numbers matched up and that they weren't over-budget. If anything, he seemed to be aiming for under-budget.
Considering he was setting aside a rain fund to make sure there was a coverage for over-budget expenditures was just in his character. He didn't like spending unnecessarily, and that applied double for tax dollars. He'd been raised frugal, and the most he'd overspend on is a proper cuppa joe.
Whedon had been born into the Great Depression, from a military family. His grandfather was a veteran of the Great War, and had marched alongside his father and uncles once World War II had struck, while he and his older siblings were rummaging through the dumps for the scrap drives, and their mother worked in the local automobile factory turned airplane parts manufacturing plant. And when his older brother was old enough, he joined her.
Only his father made it home alongside an uncle that would never walk again. And within years, being old enough at the time, his father, him, and his brothers had volunteered for the Korean War. His father died during the War's height. And while the battlefield had left bitter tastes in the rest of his family's mouth, he himself had gone on to fight in Vietnam.
As was expected, he distinguished himself on and off the field. And rose quickly. Years of dedicated service to his country had seen him elevated to commanding positions, positions that in hindsight, should have gone to more established men. But he'd accepted, and did his best to find himself a good steward of the position and responsibilities granted unto him. Even if it meant stepping on a few toes or kicking a few shins.
He'd established himself enough to have the privilege of speaking with President Kennedy, and even participated in many talks to prevent official military establishment and reinstatement of the Super Soldier Program during the Cold War; though he knew there was nothing he could do about the covert operations that were already underway.
Power corrupted the best of men, and they had been fortunate that Captain (awarded the rank of Lieutenant Colonel posthumously) Steven Rogers – even as exemplary and dedicated of a man and soldier as he was – hadn't lasted the end of World War II.
God only knows what the desperate warmongers of that era, or the subsequent eras would have done to an American Icon just to replicate the formula that made him. His legacy would have been tarnished by men of lesser caliber, fortitude, and most importantly, humility. And that was just from those in the United States, never mind attempts made by the world at large. An opinion that, while it hadn't made Whedon as popular with his peers, it had been an honest one.
S.H.I.E.L.D. had tried to recruit him three times. And it was only the third time, he excepted, and only after he'd had a good long look at all the wars and micro-wars the country had been in. He didn't want to send men shoulders deep into a war, where their numbers would be shaved down. He wanted the dynamite cleared before the fuse was even lit.
And thus, he oversaw the recruitment and training of young men and women to do just that. Was it a perfect system? No. But the alternatives weren't much better, or were significantly worse.
Whedon ran a tight ship, and anyone who'd met the man knew it. He left the policing and politics to those who were suited to it, while he made sure the recruits that came out of his Academy were top-notch. He expected nothing but excellence, because it was a responsibility that required no less than excellence.
It was shame really. Some top talents had stepped out from under his wing, but the vetting process hadn't gotten any easier. If he could cut the fodder before they even stepped foot in the Academy, he'd have rested easier, and maybe with a finger or two of cheap scotch in the evening.
No such relief.
He was sent plenty of potential Agents, and within a few weeks, they were refined to a handful left. For most, it was the mindset that separated the chafe from the wheat; be they too rigid, too sadistic, too timid, but especially so little independent thought and adaptability.
Not to mention the necessary psychological resilience to function under prolonged high-stress and tense situations.
Whedon couldn't complain too much when some of his best recruits had come from the Military Branches. As long as they hadn't been whipped into frenzied war dogs.
The mission was second priority; and only after remembering what they were fighting for. If they lost sight of that, the mission was just another black op that any other infiltration agency could commend to.
He had to take a moment away from the papers and pages to sip a glass of water. Sometimes the words started to swim when he got too focused, and a moment or two of stepping back helped refocus. Just another gentle reminder that he wasn't as young as he had been.
Unfortunately, he had another matter to focus on, and it came in the form of a profile.
Marcus Kendrick. Fury's new mouth to feed.
While he respected the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., he didn't always agree with him. And this was especially one of those cases.
'Marcus Ezekiel Kendrick,' he started off, not even vested enough to observe the details. 'Middling high school grades, quit college early, worked blue collar.' He observed the more recent physical work done. 'Decent stamina, endurance, strength, speed. But just decent. IQ seems middling. No military priors. No combat experience. Only fight this kid had seen was regulated to TV sports. No known special or applicable skills.'
He sighed, leaning against his chair rest as he rubbed his brow. No matter how much he tried to wrap his head around it, he couldn't find what made this kid (well into the higher age average of most recruits) flip Fury's eyepatch. And why at his Academy. He'd have just picked up the phone and called Fury if he thought he was going to get an actual answer.
'Psychological profile… Jesus Christ.' Whole immediate and extended family lost, friends gone. Complete sociological minefield. Relocated to get away and start over. Surprisingly stable all things considered? Yeah. Sure.
Kid was a claymore waiting to go off. It was just a matter of 'When?'.
'Suggested training…'
"…Are you out of your fucking mind?!" he spat aloud, half choking on air and spittle. It was official: either Fury wanted this kid dead, wanted him to suffer more, or wanted him washed out. Or all three.
A quick calculation revealed an approximation of the physical and mental toll that would be extracted. No one trained rookie soldiers like this, and he was dealing with what effectively amounted to a civilian. Whedon's expectations were high for the recommended recruit; but they weren't this high.
A knock at his door sounded.
"What is it?" he called, glad that he had a moment to cool off.
His secretary peeked his head in. "Was something the matter, sir? You shouted."
"No. Carry on," he dismissed. The soft click of the door closing allowed his mood to foul back up again. He shook his head in disbelief.
He set the file aside for now. There was too much work to do, and as much as he'd love to throw darts at what Fury was possibly thinking, he had to make sure his own house was in order first.
Barracks 5 – Squad E Cabin
Marcus tried his best not to tense up as Miss Murder cut his hair. Thankfully with a regular electric trimmer, not a straight razor in sight. Had he seen a pair of scissors in her hands, he'd have made a bolt for it. With her, he was taking no chances after the "stunt" she pulled.
He could feel his head not only get breezier, but also lighter as his hair was sheared away. It was an odd feeling. He was the last person to cut his hair, and it hadn't turned out very good, but it still beat what the last barber had done to his hair in his old world. He hadn't been keen on going to another barber ever again thanks to that experience, but now, he had no choice.
Even in the boxing ring, he had kept the scraggily look.
"Hmm. You want a hand shaving?" Pinky asked, a look of pure concentration on her face as she evened out the hair along the back of his neck. "Some of those areas along the chin can be pretty hard to see." She said it like she knew how hard it was to catch some of those errant chin hairs.
"Old boyfriend?" Marcus asked inquiringly.
"My dad," she answered a little tightly. "He didn't have the most steady hands, and mom used to do it for him." There was plenty unsaid that was clear neither of them wanted to unpack.
"Fair enough," he replied in kind. "But considering our last encounter with my neck, I'd rather not have you anywhere near it with a sharp object."
"Fair enough," she mimicked back, giving a short smirk that Marcus was both at ease and wary of in the same breadth. "What about you? Got anyone waiting on the outside?"
He wasn't sure if she was fishing for information or not, but he could feel the others were figuratively leaning in. He immediately thought of Matt and Foggy; and his thoughts even trickled down to Josie and ol' McKinnon. And then his… his family; closing his eyes as he let loose as tense breath.
"A couple friends," he deflected gently. "But no one else. They're all…." There. If he focused on that feeling. He could hopefully keep Matt and Foggy out of the crosshairs, but also remain truthful. It was a hard balance to strike, but they were safest outside of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar, even if it picked at the scab over Marcus's heart.
He let out a shuddered breath, absently reached into his back pocket, naturally accessing his 'Inventory' to pull out but two of the many photos he held dear, and kept most sacred. He lifted a pair of them up to show. "These are my little sisters."
Two wallet-sized pictures in worn condition: one with a much younger Marcus, Elaine when she had still been with them, and Addison as a chubby little toddler, the old kodak giving them all an intense red-eye-glare like most old photos had; and in the other was high school him, and middle-school Addison, holding an infant Amelia.
The Squad huddled up behind him as he held them up. If they noticed the difference in the quality of photos, or the years apart in them, they thankfully didn't mention it.
"The cheery one is Elaine. The grumpy one is Addison. And the bewildered one is Amelia," he stated with smiling, watery eyes. Trying to get a good photo of Addison was worse than pulling teeth, even as an adult.
Or at least, she had been. Aaand there it was again. 'Fuck.'
He lowered the photos so he could look at them. He had other photos of course. A whole line up of them that had thankfully translated over to this world with his wallet. "It's just me now." And for all intents and purposes, it was just him.
He lived, breathed, and worried, and longed. And they were all outside of his reach in every sense of the word. It was its own, special kind of Hell.
"Sorry to hear that," Pinky stated, her ministrations with the trimmers having ceased. She quietly resumed evening out his hair, the buzz against his head briefly distracting. "How long ago?"
"March 3rd," he answered. Had really only been a few months? It felt like years sometimes. Or at least, lost in a fog. A fog he was desperately drawing into a box.
To stuff on a shelf.
In the attic.
He took a deep breath, gently releasing it in practiced control. If he noticed the somewhat sympathetic looks, he ignored them.
Life sucked. For everyone. Some people more than others. It wasn't a competition though; and to those who thought it was… well, he pitied their existence.
"There," Pinky stated with a bit more chipper than was wholly appreciated, holding out a hand mirror for him to look at. "What do you think?"
Marcus opened his eyes, gently taking the offered mirror and looking at his shortened hair. The crew cut was an odd look on him, what with his large forehead and big ears (in his opinion). But….
"It looks good," he stated, turning his head this way and that to catch all the angles. He looked like he was getting ready for a hot date. Just for good measure, he added, "You even caught my good side."
He got a chorus of snorts for his efforts. A good sound in his opinion.
"Easy there, Casanova. Remember what we said about seducing people in the Academy," David cautioned light-heartedly.
Marcus would've made a less-than appropriate sex joke, but company aside, it just wasn't in him. "Keep it tucked, and behave," he paraphrased. "Yeah, yeah." Not like he was interested in knocking-up some random gal.
And even then, he fully believed his bitterly divorced parents would work together (God forbid) to reach across the ides of time and space and dimensions, just to smack him upside the head if he conceived a kid out of wedlock.
Plus, shame, conviction, and self-control, were some Hella strong deterrents.
Marcus set down the mirror, standing up as he brushed the errant strands of hair off his shirt. He'd be needing a shower to clear the rest of it away, but first, he needed his uniform and toiletries to get squared away. "Ya guys have a broom?" he asked.
"Here!" Bubba-Weasley exclaimed, handing him a broom.
…
The cleanup was quick (though Marcus would've preferred using a vacuum over a broom and dustpan). And they'd stopped by what amounted to the Supply Room back in the main building to grab his uniform and toiletries.
As far as his facial hair was concerned, he'd taken off as much as could be taken off with the hair trimmers, but now his face just itched from all the short hairs until he could clean it up with a razor. Not to mention the stray itchy fuzz that would remain in his hair and around the rim of his shirt until he could properly shower it off.
So there he was, carrying his stuff in a couple plastic bags – despite being tempted to throw it in his 'Inventory' – as Squad E showed him around. Two pairs of S.H.I.E.L.D. blue (Dark blue? Navy blue? Black-blue?) pants, coupled with white shirts (Why white? They'd get dirty so fast.), a couple pairs of dark blue boxers, a couple pairs of black socks, and settled on top was nestled a pair of thick extra-extra-wide boots and a S.H.I.E.L.D. blue cap.
Top it off with a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a bar of cheap soap. Everything the body needed to stay zesty and minty fresh.
And it had taken a brief explanation – and an exhausted sigh from the guy manning the Supply desk – to get the boots. For some reason, extra-wide boots would still end up rubbing blisters raw into his toes if he stayed in them too long, and he wasn't looking to get too many unnecessary blisters from Day One. Big ol' Hobbit feet were a staple in his family line.
Unfortunately, it didn't come with a laundry day schedule, so he'd have to figure that out, and regularly air out his new shoes. Preferably with some baking soda (lifehack) if he was going to be working up a sweat in them all day everyday – with no room for his toes to breathe – for God only knew how long.
It was very little, but he assumed these were the uniform (without a jacket). Which meant he needed to figure out where/when to pick up casual clothes, or find a time to go to a… shiver… a mall, to get some. Ugh, he felt gross just thinking about clothes shopping.
Thankfully they had a tour to subvert his thoughts.
They'd naturally started from the Supply in the Main Building as soon as he'd gathered his stuff. A reintroduction to the Mess Hall, several of the large classrooms where they'd be studying varies necessary subjects; including indoor stuff like… bomb diffusion (dope!), small arms maintenance, foreign language courses, what looked like some hacker courses given the computer lab, um… he was pretty sure one of the classes was bug-work or something given the phones on desks, some bookwork stuff he couldn't decern, and that one there looked like they were covering disguises. A lot of the "behind-closed-doors" stuff.
Marcus tried to keep engaged. Honest. He was just growing more and more exhausted the more and more David chattered on and on and on… and on… and on.
It probably wasn't that bad in reality, but he could feel his internal battery draining away; it felt like a visible weight was settling on his body, even though he knew he was technically fresh as a daisy.
Thankfully, Sys had 'Maps' actively updating, fleshing out and filling in the buildings as they 'Observe'd them. Otherwise, he would have forgotten where everything was after two seconds.
They skipped the likes of the management offices and such on the upper floors, and headed for the Gymnasium.
The Gymnasium was… well, a gymnasium. Save for a class that covered a large area for field-stripping and large weapon maintenance (particularly rifles), there was the typical weightlifting room, and even a handful of people playing basketball recreationally. What really got Marcus's attention was–
"You guys have a pool?!" he demanded, looking out at the very, very large body of water. On one hand, you'd figure they'd just use the river, on the other hand, rivers were forces of nature. And you needed more predictability when training people because…, "And there's even scuba classes."
He wasn't smiling. Honest. He was absolutely beaming.
He'd seen all those interesting videos about underwater maintenance jobs and high-levels of stress and danger they presented, or those ones with the sheer drops into darker abyssal water. Normally, that would have been a proper deterrent for Marcus, but right now, he just wanted to learn how to swim with some sea turtles. He wanted to see an octopus in its natural habitat. Could he honestly pet the forbidden fanged water puppy?
[Marcus, no.]
.
'Marcus, maybe,' he returned back. He loved the water. He just didn't like how tired he got after being in it, but it was lots of fun anyway. Water 'Skills' sounded awesome.
The real question: How long could he hold his breath with time and vested interest in those specific 'Skills'?
"Looks like we found your new favorite place," 'Hats' commented easily. He could be reading into it, but her tone made it sound like if he did end up drowning under mysterious circumstances, his ghost would know who to haunt.
But fuck that! He wanted to pet a shark! Jaws be damned! "Is it just for classes, or…?" he trailed off.
"Pool parties are rare, but there've been a couple," Bubba-Weasley placated.
Ugh! But that meant other people. He'd rather float on the surface with only himself for company. "Fair enough," he muttered. It'd take one Helluva spread to get him to go in that case; maybe surf'n'turf.
Marcus tensed unconsciously when Paul placed a hand on his shoulder. "One more place," he stated simply, reassuringly; understandingly.
And Marcus didn't have a response to that, instead letting the others lead while he followed.
…
The last place to visit was the Motor Pool before they returned back to the Barracks and the beach.
Surprisingly, it wasn't all just black SUV's. There were red, white, blue (pretty on the nose), grey (or was it silver?) and even a forest green he found appealing. Most of the vehicles were lined up and parked, while a few were pulled off to the side, jacks lifting their ends and electronic lamps hanging from the propped up hoods.
.
[Toyota Highlander, 2007 (Modified)
A combination of quality and reliability in the latest model. Each Toyota has undergone modification to fit to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s advancements.
NOTE: Because this is a machine/vehicle, it contains a number of individual parts, weaknesses, and varying materials. As such it is difficult to render a singular stat bracket for 'Analyze' or 'Observe' to simplify.
Vehicular Overall Integrity: 99.9%
Modifications: …]
.
'Makes sense I guess.' Given that the wheels, tires, frame, siding, windows, engine, internals, and such would all have their own stats that overall affected the efficiency and integrity of the vehicle.
Other recruits were doing some form of maintenance on the vehicles. Marcus honestly didn't understand the broader aspects of vehicular mechanics since the majority of his work with cars had been changing oil, sparkplugs, and batteries, airing tires, and lifting his old boss's wife's car after she tore the skid plate under and forward after hooking it on a piece of rebar. That had been an expensive car too.
The rest was lost on him. Though, he was curious how much of the modifications applied to being official S.H.I.E.L.D. certified; like, were there built-in gadgets and armor-plating and such. Or did those goodies only go to official Agents? At the very least, the vehicles were improved upon.
And while it wasn't as high on his priority list, it couldn't hurt to pick up a thing or two dealing with vehicle mechanics.
'Assuming I have the time,' he admitted. He wasn't sure what all Fury had planned for him, but like Marcus had told the Director, he intended to be useful.
"So? Wha' do ya think?" Miss Murder asked cheerily as David wrapped up his rather… informative… tour. Honestly, Marcus wasn't sure how much he'd retained.
"Pretty cool," Marcus answered honestly, stretching his arms and back to get some blood flowing properly through his body. And hopefully tame down some mental exhaustion by falsely attributing it to physical exhaustion. Curiosity reared its head though as he thought about it. "How long does it usually take to train recruits anyway?"
"In a hurry to leave already?" Hats smirked. Marcus ignored her.
"Dat bi dependin' pan di person," Charles stated. "Sumtime eh tek ah likkle bit a week dem. Oddah-wise eh cyaah tek months." Marcus understood even less of that than was usual, and it must have shown on his face.
"Depends on the person," Charles restated in his Mississippi accent, sighing. "Sometimes a couple weeks, sometimes months. The less trainin' someone needs, the quicker they become Agents."
"Thanks." Marcus appreciated the translation. With the assistance of the 'System', Marcus had no doubts about his own training regarding 'Skill'-based attributes, or even getting his 'Stats' up to snuff. It was stuff like learning other languages where he'd suffer setbacks, since they didn't seem to translate into 'Skills' at all. 'Might have to be prepared to spend a few points into 'INT'.'
It also meant that anyone with any physical or military training and experience was at a distinct advantage; and those who possessed appropriate skills all-round would test out of varies subjects rather quickly.
And Marcus had – realistically – none of those.
"Now that all that's out of the way, we need to head back to the Barracks," David trailed off.
['Danger Sense' has been activated.]
.
'Oh shit. Not again,' he muttered weakly, his feet instinctively planting apart for stability, boxing training forefront as he glanced attentively around. Problem being… he had all his new clothes and stuff on him, which limited his movements.
Some of his squad had let him walk ahead, boxing him in. It was a bitter feeling when Paul effortlessly picked him up, practically bear-hugging him.
"I'll take those," Hats stated, smirking at him as she removed the clothes he was carrying. "Wouldn't want you to get them wet."
Marcus had a few choice words that he had to bite down on. He sucked in an angry breath before pushing as hard as he could against the hands that held him. Seeing as his arms were pinned, he didn't have any leverage to struggle all that hard, a given Paul was built like a cathedral, Marcus didn't stand a chance.
"Sorry, Fresh Meat, tradition is tradition," David shrugged.
Yeah. Marcus didn't care. "No. You're not," he retorted simply. Marcus already had an improvised plan to escape. Unfortunately, it involved exceeding the threshold of violence he was accustomed to. He'd never heeled someone's kneecaps before.
The question was, did he escape, or play along? It was a tough choice; since either way, he'd alienate himself from them. Either way, his barely sprouting faith in them was already trampled underfoot. All that was left was how he wanted them to perceive him: as too violent, or maybe as too jaded.
He almost wished there was an indicator for himself. There was whenever he changed someone else's story. Why couldn't he have some pop-up from the 'System' to tell him if he was at a crossroads?
[Sorry sweetie, but this portion is your part in the story.
Your role here is yours, and yours alone.
Whatever you choose, I'm here.]
.
'So… no pressure,' he grumbled, even as Paul easily carried him. The sun was bright as the doors were held open by Bubba-Weasley, and the others chatted animatedly among themselves.
Marcus didn't listen or resist; he was too busy coming to a decision. Though, having Sys was its own kind of comfort.
But make more friends? He didn't care how powerful 'One More Light' became, if the System itself could decern between authentic and counterfeit as its understanding pierced the nature of this world, then it would only be a waste of time to cultivate something that wasn't real in the first place.
And these guys? They may have backed off their initial hazing, but it was only so they could set up a second. A stab in the back once they had his guard down. The worst kind in his opinion; setting a boundary, and having them march over it so blatantly.
Friends? With these guys? What a joke.
Marcus didn't trust easy. He might have at one point – not that he could remember being so young – but those days were long gone. He'd dealt with too much shit and too much betrayal from people he'd considered friends and confidants. That was his old world though, and he was lucky to have met people that were reasonably chill and didn't need to prove anything, in Matt and Foggy. And he supposed old McKinnon and Josie. They all pushed him in the best, but more importantly, the right ways.
But that was there. This was now. And he, ultimately, had to keep his eyes on the End.
'Pick your battles,' he decided reluctantly, before opening his eyes apathetically, a cold weight settling on his chest as something dimmed.
['Heart of Stone' Trait hardens.]
.
They had gathered a crowd, unfortunate enough, other trainees keen and eager to see someone get hazed, as though they didn't have entertainment elsewhere. Who knew, maybe they didn't. It didn't matter either way.
Squad E continued onward, the number of people gathered plateauing as the approached the Barracks and beach. It was here, Marcus learned something else new for the day.
'There were stairs,' he thought, his jaw setting in an attempt to keep from grinding his teeth together. 'There were God-damned stairs.' Lo and behold, stairs did indeed lead from the higher ground to the sandy embankment. A fact that had him struggling to screw the lid of his forced apathy a little tighter.
The march was a short one as boots tread the sands and riverside grass, and Marcus just waited.
"Don't toss 'im too far out, Barber," David ordered gently.
"Hmm," Paul nodded with a hum.
The only grace provided by the event was the lack of a wind-up and a countdown; as if Marcus's anxiety wasn't already at an all-time high. Paul simply heaved once, and tossed Marcus into the shallows. He looked like a limp ragdoll as he hit the water, almost immediately slipping beneath the surface.
He hated the moment his air cut off, water attempting to rush into his nostrils as he sank face up, only staved by how brief the moment was.
Even with summer in effect, the water still shot a sharp shock throughout Marcus's body, the familiar fluid weightlessness of his clothes flowing around him following his eyes vicing shut on instinct as he submerged.
.
[Status Attained – Diving Reflex
+Diving Reflex: Improved Oxygen Efficiency. Extends time you can remain submerged without needing to come up for air. Oxygen Efficiency may be improved by up to an additional 90% (x1.9 max).
NOTE: Naturally occurring buff upon facial submersion in cooler water. Pretty common in most mammals as vascular circulation is prioritized to the brain, heart, and lungs.]
.
For a brief moment, he considered just staying there for an extra moment or two, just to gather his composure. Maybe a hum a few bars underwater. Try developing a new 'Skill' too, just while he was at it. Unfortunately, he gathered his composure best when he could breathe properly, and humming would just make bubbles, and any 'Skill' that developed could come later.
[Marcus?
…
Mark?]
.
'Yeah, I know,' he replied to the pop-up that appeared behind his sealed eyelids.
He lurched his body upright, almost immediately finding his foothold, feeling the semi-firm sand and muck of the shallows bed. His first action upon finding air again was to snort the water from his nose, left with the ache at the back of his sinuses where the water had tried to breach into his airway.
Those on solid ground were cheering, and clapping. Marcus wasn't sure if it was for Squad E, or for him. He didn't care.
He cleared his nose again before shaking the water from his hands, gently wiping the water from his face and trimmed hair, rubbing his eyes in the process. At least the itching from his newly trimmed hair was gone. He stood up, and began wading back to bank. Not the baptism he would have preferred by any stretch of the imagination.
"Welcome to Squad E!" David stated cheerily, offering a hand up.
Marcus fought the temptation to pull his new Squad Leader into the water, briefly looking at the proffered limb before ignoring it and climbing out himself. He kept it as impersonal as possible, but simple fact was, he didn't trust him to not push him back in before he'd found his footing. That trust was now drowning in the river.
David pulled back awkwardly, even as Marcus received hard slaps on the shoulders and congratulations on his awarded initiation from other recruits. As if it meant anything, given the washout rates of the Academy itself. He just marched up to Hats, ignoring everyone else.
"You guys had your fun, can I have my clothes now?" he demanded softly, not meeting anyone's eyes. He reached for the bag, only for her to pull it back just out of his reach.
"You could ask nicely," she stated with a scoff.
His muscles tensed and bunched in restraint, locking up his movement as he seriously considered grabbing her by the collar and throwing her in the river. Niceties weren't the problem right then. It wasn't even because of her usual attitude.
It wasn't a great leap in logic, but the demand for respect after participating in hazing him just…ohhh-hoho-ho! God help them. And him. Especially him.
A silence slowly took hold of the crowd, be it from smelling the blood in the water, or the palpable tension between Marcus and Hats (her name was Heather, but who's really keeping track at this point?) coming to a head.
Marcus could feel it; a tiny prick of how he'd been raised, peaking out from beneath the dirt he'd buried it under. His mom wouldn't be proud, but then again, she had known it was necessary. "My respect for you guys is running negatives," he stated, the frown on his face starting to glower. "You don't get to demand anything from me."
Before he could make a move again, he felt a firm hand plant itself on his shoulder. "That'll be enough of that."
['Danger Sense' activated.]
.
Once again, Marcus was startled by the delay in 'Danger Sense' alerting him; even if he really shouldn't have. He wasn't sure how many official agents were in the compound, but that made it all the more imperative that his 'Skill' wasn't working to it's full potential.
His head whipped around, half-glad it wasn't his would-be CO. Still, it was an agent he didn't recognize.
[Say less.]
.
{Caleb Zuckerman, lvl '?'
"Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D." – CLEARANCE '?'…}
.
And another name he didn't recognize. Then again, his knowledge of the MCU was severely limited, and even if it weren't, the world was a lot bigger than just what the franchise had to offer.
"Welcome aboard and all that, Fresh Cut," he stated blandly, dispassionately, and – for all intents and purposes – insincerely. Marcus had honestly seen more emotion from a rock. He quickly ordered in the most even-keeled voice, "And the rest of you! Break it up! You all have training this evening. I suggest you get to it."
Super weird. Like he was watching his own, very American, Mister Aizawa. With sandy-brown hair and square-rimmed glasses. He couldn't place the accent though.
"Does someone want to explain?" Agent Zuckerman demanded, holding out his hand. Hats was quick to hand over Marcus's clothes.
"Just initiation into the Squad, sir," Davy tried explaining.
"Clearly," the agent responded, as though he were speaking to the slow. "And I'm sure Mister Kendrick feels wholeheartedly welcome. Isn't that right?" Evidently, he was addressing him.
Marcus could feel the Squad's eyes land on him. "Yessir," he gritted out, attempting to reel in what was already expressed and apparent. "Welcome as a rash."
"Hmm." His clothes were pressed into his chest, and he didn't hesitate to encapsulate them. "Get changed. You'll be starting drills tonight."
Not a moment was wasted as he quickly walked away, intent on doing just that. If there was anything else stated, it certainly didn't reach his ears. He was half tempted to bypass Barracks 5 completely and find another place to change, but a more rebellious part of him refused to imply that he'd been chased away first day in.
He opened his 'Inventory' with an errant thought, threw his clothes in, and quickly dragged the newly acquired "digitized" clothing over to his 'Avatar'. His wet clothes were immediately stripped away, and replaced with the current Recruit Uniform in the span of an instant.
It was snug, which made him feel weird, since he leaned more towards clothes that were loose and baggy. Plus, having boots that suffocated his feet like he was mowing lawns again wasn't a great feeling. Then again…
.
[Military Combat Boots (unspecialized)
'Tactician' Brand (American-made)
A pair of combat boots made with military deployment in mind. The materials used in their assembly are rigorously tested for durability, water-resilience, and insulation. This unfortunately doesn't leave a lot of space for breathability.
Shoe – Boot, Combat
Armor: +5
Damage Reduction 45 to Slash, Bludgeon, and Piercing (boots only)
Improved Traction II
Improved Durability II
Improved Wear Resistance II
Reduced Weight I.]
.
Note-to-self: you want as close to magical as mundane equipment can get? Get top-notch Artisan-made gear evidently. For a world like the MCU, this was excellent for his level. Almost enough to make him forget the bullshit from just a few moments ago.
He wasn't sure what "unspecialized" meant though.
"Changing doesn't get rid of the wet feeling though," he commented. He didn't take it personally though, since he'd done similar things when showering after training and boxing matches. Then had been out of zeal to get into something more comfortable and less sweaty. Now?
Now was 'cause even the brief moment between changing clothes was way too vulnerable for him in this place.
…
…
…
"FASTER! DID I SAY YOU COULD SLOW DOWN!"
[You are being subjected to a new form of training,
your STR and DEX increased by 1.]
.
Rather than express the tired groan that lodged in the back of his throat, Marcus grinned at the pop-up message that showed up. No additional 'VIT', thanks to his frequently reduced 'Acquisition', but he'd probably see it in after a bit more work. His 'SP' was nearly in the tank, and he'd been alternating between it and his 'MP' (thanks to his 'Pushing Limits' skill) to stretch it out.
Running back and forth across thick, dry sand was a unique experience, and not one Marcus would have chosen under normal circumstances. But he could admit, it was effective.
Agent Calhoun was overseeing his training, watching him closely. While 'Squad E' had been apart of the training, they were let go… however long ago that was. Marcus may not sweat anymore, but even his head could feel like he was leaning against a hot car window, and keeping track of time right now wasn't a priority.
Calhoun kept him running, be it part of some plan to get him up to snuff, to make him sweat, or an attempt to break him. Marcus didn't care. He was just happy he could dedicate all of his attention on growing stronger!
…
Okay, maybe like, 99% of his attention, right? Which was made a lot easier when any desire he had to get to know people was taken out back and shot, like Old Yeller. Sure, he was adamant about the excuse that H.Y.D.R.A. had already infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D.; but if he was being honest right now, he didn't care so much about that, as he did about their individual trustworthiness.
Hard to come back from that when everyone in his vicinity was netting negatives at the moment.
That left him with the blue-boxed chatbot that occasionally flickered across his vision, and hopefully a couple phone calls a week to his friends so he could recharge his faith in humanity.
That being said, Philadelphia had some nice sunsets along the river. Reminded him a little of his grandparents place; just more highway road and forest, and less country steeps. It certainly complimented the nice ache that was taking up residence as he pushed his body.
"Alright Kendrick! That's enough for today!" Agent Calhoun ordered.
Marcus almost tripped over his own feet as he tried to come to a stop. Groaning, he leaned back to expand his chest and stretching his back, ignoring the burning heat in his legs and in his lungs as he sucked down large inhales of breath.
His tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth, and his throat thick as he tried to swallow back non-existent saliva. The river water was looking mighty tempting at the moment, he was so parched.
A stack of stapled papers smacked him in the chest, and he instinctively cradled it as Calhoun walked past. "This is your weekly schedule. Learn it, live it, love it. Don't know what you did to piss the higher-ups off, but I suggest keeping it to a minimum while you're here."
Marcus briefly looked it over. Just from an initial glance, it was packed. He had a lot more to learn and make up for, and it appeared Fury had taken him up on his offer of making his workload whatever he thought was necessary. Between core classes and exercises he'd be participating in with his Squad, his schedule was almost back-to-back, non-stop fun for the whole family, and plenty of elective-like and remedial classes to get him to the bare minimum requirement for functional Field Agent.
"Cool," he huffed, still breathing hard. He'd have to go over it with Sys to get it memorized and categorized. Maybe he should ask about getting another 'Tab' or 'Menu' for calendars and dates and stuff, just so he had something that could keep track of it for him. A personal planner of sorts. He'd never used one before, but he couldn't deny the convenience of it all being "digitized", in his head, and a mere thought away.
[!System has added an additional feature to 'Menu', 'Schedule' Tab!]
.
[Looks at you! Being all responsible and stuff.
Not sure if I should be worried or proud.
Eh. I'll flip a coin.]
[For making an intelligent and wise addition to your menu, your INT and WIS increased by 1]
.
'Well that was easy. Yay,' Marcus cheered weakly, only imagining how fudged his schedule was going to be.
"I suggest you rest Fresh Cut," Calhoun suggested, already walking away. "Your days are only going to get harder."
Marcus gave it a moment or two, waiting until he was alone before he slumped. He didn't doubt for a second that he was going to get his bell rung (Boxing puns. Yay!). He was going to need some sturdier mental shelves, stuffing away all his anxiety as much as he was.
He plopped his butt down in the sand, subtly flicking at his 'Inventory' screen to remove his boots and socks. The sudden exposure to the air had him wiggling his bare toes into the sand excitedly after several hours of suffocation inside his boots. He still felt nasty, and probably smelled it too, but it was nice to take a load off.
'But I can't do that either,' he admitted. He probably wasn't going to get many opportunities like this.
Casually, he slipped into the lotus position, and began meditating, focusing on the ebb and flow of his breathing. With the sun setting, the feeling of sand underneath him, the wind gently trickling at his face as the day wound down, and the sound of the river creeping by, he could already feel himself being pulled in deeper to his 'Meditations'.
And with a world of natural, empty stimuli, he meditated deeper and deeper still.
Name: Marcus Ezekiel Kendrick, a.k.a. "Fresh Cut"
Race: Human (standard)
Occupation: Trainee of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Level: 15 (10476/12000)
Title: Masochistic Gamer (+5 STR, VIT, DEX; +25% Cash and EXP)
HP: 1050
– HP regen: 8% (84 HP/hour) (1.26 HP/minute)
MP: 1020 (180)
– MP regen: 8.4% (85.68 MP/minute) (1.43 MP/second)
– Magic/Mental resist: 6.4%
SP: 1110 (170)
– SP regen: 10.2% (113.22 SP/minute) (1.89 SP/second)
STR: 31 (+5) = 36
VIT: 25 (+5) = 30
DEX: 35 (+5) = 40
INT: 27 (+0) = 27
WIS: 32 (+0) = 32
LUC: 20 (+0) = 20
SKL: 111 | EVO: 68
Currency: $51014.48
– Trainee of S.H.I.E.L.D. (pending…)
Hunger: 8/300
– Standing Drain: 4/hour (96/day)
Thirst: 48/300
– 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=14]
[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 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 22]
[Observe lvl 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.
Might start putting Review Responses down at the bottom here, but I'm not sure yet. Had a few folks complain about all of it being at the top, but I'll leave that up to the regulars to decide.
Again, the next chapter will be available on my Ko-Fi page (see Profile for link) for donators, be it $1, 25 cents, or a nickel. I'm not asking for subscriptions, because, like I mentioned, I haven't been super consistent, and I'm not gonna ask anyone to pay regularly for something they're not getting consistently.
Warning ahead of time, the next chapter is going to be pretty filler heavy. Couldn't really find away around it in my own head, so apologies ahead of time if its not really your pouch of Caprisun.
Until next time.