I stepped out of the airport into the night air, scanning for the next ride when a yellow cab pulled up. The driver leaned out the window and called, "Agent John!"
I frowned but walked over. "Yeah, that's me."
"Smith asked me to drop you at your place. Hop in."
I slid into the passenger seat. My instincts buzzed—too neat, too easy. I studied him. Strong shoulders under the jacket, the kind of posture you don't get from cab driving. "You don't look much like a taxi driver."
He grinned without taking his eyes off the road. "That's because I'm not. Borrowed it for the hour."
"Thought so."
He merged into traffic smoothly, like he'd been doing surveillance runs his whole life. "Gotta say, today you were something else, John. How the hell did you move like that? I've got friends in the Bureau, good agents, but they don't fight like that. Hell, I went through the Academy myself, and you were a couple of steps ahead of me."
I shrugged, keeping my tone flat. "Training. adrenaline. Right place, right time."
He chuckled. "Come on, don't give me the humble routine. That was more than adrenaline."
I stayed quiet, watching headlights streak past.
He let it drop, but after a beat, he added, "You're probably wondering how many people even know about S.H.I.E.L.D."
"Yeah. Seems like something hard to hide."
"Not as hard as you think. Presidents know. Certain cabinet members, the FBI director, and a few generals. Beyond that? We stay in the shadows. Public doesn't get a say."
"Why the secrecy?"
He shook his head. "Not my clearance. All I'll say is: the world's messy enough without people knowing what really crawls under the bed." He glanced at me. "Someone will come by and brief you properly. My job's just the taxi ride."
The rest of the drive turned lighter. He told me he grew up near Baltimore, enlisted young, did a couple of Navy tours before S.H.I.E.L.D. picked him up. Logistics mostly—extraction driving, some low-profile infiltrations. He joked that his dog ate his first S.H.I.E.L.D. badge.
When he asked about me, I gave him the cleaned-up version: Detroit kid, worked private security, night shifts, studied when I could. Nothing they couldn't already pull from my file.
The cab slowed in front of my building. He parked and turned toward me. "Good meeting you, John. You'll do fine."
I shook his hand. "Stay safe out there."
He pulled away and vanished into the streetlights like he'd never been there.
Across the street, a bar glowed in dull neon. I stood for a moment, then muttered to myself, "I deserve a drink."
Inside, it was dim, all wood and brass, the kind of place where people drank to forget, not to be seen. I hung my coat and sat at the counter.
The bartender—a stocky guy with sleeves rolled up—looked me over. "Long day?"
"You could say that. Whiskey. Neat."
He poured without a word. I took a sip, let the burn crawl down my throat.
"You look like you've been through hell," he said.
"Something like that." I slid a bill across the counter. "Keep the change."
He smirked. "Not gonna ask questions. That's our policy here."
For the first time that day, I let myself breathe.
The bar was half-full, the low murmur of conversation mixing with the clink of glasses. I was halfway through my whiskey when a college-aged girl peeled away from her group and leaned against my table.
"So," she teased, tilting her head, "what's the plan? Drink alone all night, or are you taking applications for the company?"
I gave her a small smile, shaking my head. "Appreciate it. Just not tonight."
She studied me for a beat, like she could tell it wasn't rejection so much as… weight. Then she smiled anyway, light and easy. "Fair enough. Maybe next time." With that, she slipped back to her friends.
I watched her go, then glanced down at the rim of my glass. It wasn't that I wasn't tempted. It was just the coat hiding dried blood, the echo of gunfire still ringing in my head. First night in this world — I needed silence more than company.
I drained the glass, left a few bills on the counter, and stepped into the cool night air. The city lights didn't ask questions. They just burned.
I finished the whiskey, left cash, and stepped back into the night.
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S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters
Deputy Director Nick Fury sat behind his desk, a fortress of files stacked high around him. His one good eye scanned the paperwork without pause when a knock came at the door.
"Enter."
An agent stepped in, a slim case in hand. "Sir, the prototype drone recorder from Operation Red Mist. Exactly as requested."
Fury didn't look up. "Anyone clock it?"
"No, sir. Completely covert. I didn't access the feed—beyond my clearance."
"Good." Fury finally extended a hand. The agent placed the drive on the desk and slipped out without another word.
Fury slotted it into the console. The screen flickered to life—static, then fire, screams, the chaos of battle. Gunfire tangled with bursts of raw, unearthly power. Energy sigils flared and collapsed, men shouted, and walls burned. Fury's gaze sharpened.
Kamar-Taj. Sorcery. That was the point of sending the drone—to catalog the mystic tricks, get something R&D could dissect for strengths and, more importantly, weaknesses.
But then something else cut through the noise. A figure. Moving too fast. Too precise. Not magic—something else. Fury froze the frame, rewound, and leaned in closer. The man tore through trained guards with surgical efficiency, every strike placed like a metronome.
And then it jumped.
One frame: Harland bracing, surrounded.The next: half the guards already down, bodies crumpling in perfect sequence, smoke curling from their weapons. Harland stood in the middle, posture unchanged, only the faint twitch of breath betraying exertion.
Fury rewound. Played it again. Same thing. seconds of carnage compressed into what looked like an instant. No blur, no streak—just impossible.
His jaw tightened. "Well, hell."
"Well, I be dammed," Fury muttered.
He split the feed, pulling up a file on the side screen. John Harland. FBI training, clean record. Nothing in there explained what he'd just seen. Except—Fury scrolled further—Agent Smith's Level 8 recommendation.
Fury leaned back, drumming his fingers against the desk. Smith didn't hand out praise like candy.
He picked up the phone. "Coulson."
"Sir," came the steady reply.
"I've got someone new for you to brief. Name's John Harland. You'll know him when you see him. Keep it quiet."
"Yes, sir."
Fury ended the call, his eye drifting back to the frozen frame of Harland mid-strike, body blurred, eyes locked with lethal intent.
"We came looking for sorcerers," he muttered, almost amused. "Instead, we might've found something faster. Question is… does he bend, or does he break?"
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3:00 A.M.
The nightmare came like a storm.
I was running through endless streets, shadows chasing me. Faces twisted in the dark—men I had shot, broken, left bleeding. Their mouths opened in unison: Why did you kill us?
More faces. A woman clutching a child. "We wanted to live!"
The air thickened. Cold hands clawed at my arms, dragging me down. Murderer. Thief. We had families.
I tried to fight, but the crowd pressed in, endless and suffocating. Their voices grew sharper, tearing into me. "Save us! Take us back! You stole our time!"
I drowned in them.
My eyes snapped open. My chest heaved like I'd run miles. Sweat soaked through my shirt.
The clock on my phone read 3:00 a.m.
I stumbled to the kitchen, drank water until the glass shook in my hands. Back in bed, I lay staring at the ceiling. For the first time since the op, the faces returned. No adrenaline now, no Bourne instincts to carry me. Just guilt.
I sighed and rolled onto my side. Sleep crept back, heavy and merciless. Somewhere, in the distance of my mind, the whispers followed.
--------------------------------------------------------------
The knocking dragged me out of bed like nails on my skull. I squinted at the clock — 9 a.m. Too late to pretend I was still asleep.
"Coming!" I groaned, stumbling to the door in nothing but shorts.
I pulled it open — and froze. Agent Phil Coulson, in the flesh. Neat suit, calm face, the kind of man who looked like he'd walked straight out of a classified file.
He gave me a quick once-over and deadpanned, "Sorry to disappoint. We didn't send a female agent."
I rubbed my face. "…Right. Give me a second. Come in."
While I threw on a T-shirt, Coulson wandered the apartment, gaze flicking over the bookshelves, the framed photo on the wall, the coffee table clutter.
"Nice place," he said casually. "Most recruits we approach live in shoebox apartments, usually with neighbors who don't own curtains."
"Perks of not being broke," I muttered. "Coffee?"
"Coffee's fine. Black. No sugar." He gave a small smile. "I've learned never to trust field agents who take it with six creams."
As the machine hissed, my thoughts buzzed harder than the caffeine. Why is Coulson here, personally? He's too high up to be knocking on doors like a deliveryman. That only leaves a few options — none of them casual.
Smith must've reported what I did. That means Fury knows. And if Fury knows, then this visit isn't about pleasantries. This is either an invitation… or a test.
And that was the problem. Tests have answers — but in S.H.I.E.L.D., they never tell you what the right one is until it's too late. If I slip, if I reveal too much, I could paint a target on my back. Hydra is everywhere in S.H.I.E.L.D., crawling in the shadows, waiting for someone careless.
But — if I play it right, this could be good. This is the doorway into the bigger board. The world I've dropped into is massive, full of gods, monsters, heroes. Walking alone in it would get me crushed. With S.H.I.E.L.D., I'd have cover, connections, and access. Leverage.
I just need to hold back some cards. Keep the system hidden. Keep bullet-time hidden — at least until I can defend myself alone.
I carried the mugs out. Coulson was already thumbing the back cover of one of my books, like a man killing time in an airport lounge.
"Appreciate it," he said, setting the book aside and taking the cup. Then, in that trademark even tone: "Phil Coulson, Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. Bit of a mouthful, I know. S.H.I.E.L.D. is easier."
I sank into the chair opposite. "Alright. What's S.H.I.E.L.D. really about?"
Coulson didn't answer right away. He studied me over the rim of the mug, eyes sharp but not unkind. Finally, he set it down.
"So," he said evenly, "how are you holding up? According to the file, yesterday was your first confirmed kill."
My jaw tightened. Figures they'd have it logged.
"You did better than most first-timers," he went on, calm, matter-of-fact. "But I can tell you didn't sleep much. That's normal."
I didn't reply, just tapped the side of my mug, waiting.
Coulson leaned back, expression steady, voice low. "Mine haunted me for days. First time's never clean, no matter how it looks on the file. I won't lie — it doesn't just vanish. But if it weighs on you, that means you're still human. The day it stops mattering? That's when you should start worrying."
His words weren't meant to cheer me up. They weren't soft. But there was a weight to them, like someone setting the ground rules for the life ahead — rules I'd already stepped into, whether I liked it or not.
"Protection," he said simply. "From things most people aren't ready to believe in. Aliens, enhanced individuals, tech you can't buy at RadioShack." He let that hang, then added with a straight face: "Well, not anymore. RadioShack's closing down everywhere."
I blinked. "…Was that a joke?"
He sipped his coffee. "It was a test. You passed. You laughed internally."
I smirked despite myself.
His gaze softened, but only slightly. "The world's bigger than you think, John. And it's getting stranger by the week. We need people who can keep up. You've already proven you can."
"You're saying you want me."
"You're Bureau-trained. That saves us time. With S.H.I.E.L.D., you'd get clearance, tech, and mobility. Travel anywhere, use gear years ahead of the Pentagon, work with people who've seen the impossible." He tilted his head. "Downside is, you'll also see the impossible. Sometimes too close."
I leaned back, feigning thought. "And the perks?"
"Health coverage that actually covers," he deadpanned. "Vacation days you'll never get to use. And, of course, the privilege of Fury yelling at you directly instead of through three layers of bureaucracy."
"Sounds… motivating."
"Honestly? It's a dangerous job. But it's one that matters."
He slid a slim, futuristic-looking laptop across the table. "Consider this a welcome gift. Not a bribe — just a preview. Secure portal, recruitment modules, and encrypted tightly. It'll give you a taste of the sandbox we play in."
I brushed a hand across the casing. Advanced. Way beyond standard issue.
Coulson stood, straightening his tie. "So. What do you think, John? Care to step into a bigger world?"
I paused, then smiled faintly. "You paint a colorful picture."
His handshake was firm, assured. "Fifteen days. Pack up, tie off loose ends, see family. After that — you're S.H.I.E.L.D.. Enjoy the downtime. It's harder to come by once you're in."
I walked him to the door. "Until next time, Agent Coulson."
"Next time," he echoed, and with that, he was gone, vanishing down the hall like he'd never been there.
I lingered a moment, hand on the doorframe. My body still ached from the last mission, but my mind was already spinning with possibilities. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s network, their tech, their reach — useful, until Hydra showed its face. Until then, I'd play along.
For now, let's see what New York has to offer.