Shameless Note from a Shameless Author 😎
Alright, here's the deal. I think I'm going to slow down the release frequency for a bit. I really need to take my time to think through the next arc—it's a big one, and I want it to turn out great. Who knows, though? Maybe I'll get hit by a sudden wave of inspiration and go back to rapid-fire uploads.
That said, if you notice the writing quality drop a little… I'll be honest: I'm going through a bit of a creative block. It happens to all of us, right? One moment, you're riding the motivation wave, and the next, BAM! Blocked. Today was one of those days for me.
Anyway, you know the drill: comment, share your thoughts, and let me know what you think. And hey, feel free to throw some Power Stones if it makes you happy—because it sure makes me happy. 😜
P.S.: I'm still playing around with the book cover because I'm just not fully sold on it yet. What do you think of this one?
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Fury stopped looking at the cameras and slowly turned toward Clint, furrowing his brow.
"What?" he asked in a dry tone, emphasizing each word as if he couldn't believe what he had just heard.
Clint swallowed, realizing too late how ridiculous he had sounded.
"No, no... forget it." He tried to change the subject with a nervous smile, looking away as if that would be enough to calm the growing tension.
Fury didn't say anything for a long second. His frown deepened, and his lips formed a tight line. It was rare to see Clint Barton stumble over his words or try to backtrack in a conversation, and it puzzled him.
"Is that the best you've got, Barton?" Fury finally shot back, his voice sharp as a knife. "Ghost jokes?"
Clint raised his hands in surrender, a casual gesture that clearly didn't soften Fury's mood.
"It was a moment of inspiration, okay?" Clint responded, trying to sound confident, though it didn't quite come across.
Fury shook his head and crossed his arms.
"Cut the crap. Go to the training field and meet the kid. Make sure he's not doing anything stupid."
Clint raised an eyebrow but didn't protest. "And if he is doing something stupid?"
Fury stared at him as if that question didn't deserve an answer. Clint clicked his tongue and nodded. "Alright, alright. I'm on it."
Without waiting any longer, Fury returned his focus to the screens as Clint turned to leave the room. But before he crossed the door, he threw one last glance at his boss.
"Let's face it, the kid's got style. Disappearing like that on his first day... not bad."
Fury didn't even bother to turn.
"Just make sure he shows up again."
Clint let out a brief laugh as he exited, leaving Fury in a silence that wasn't entirely comfortable. No matter how much he denied it, something about the kid's ability had caught his attention, though the last thing he would do was admit it aloud.
Fury watched him leave with a deep gaze, as if evaluating the situation and making his own calculations. He knew Clint had enough experience to spot potential, and Max had definitely grabbed his attention. He couldn't stop thinking about what that kid could do if he kept going down this path.
POV Max. One Hour Ago.
Max had reached his mental limit. After countless failed attempts to pass Fury's test and make it to the training field without being detected, his nerves were on the brink of collapse. Constant shocks every time he was caught, the humiliation of trying over and over again, and the increasing pressure to prove he could do it had pushed him to the edge of desperation.
Finally, an idea struck him. If he couldn't avoid the cameras, he would use them to his advantage. He spent hours throughout the day memorizing the blind spots in the surveillance network: corners out of sight of the cameras, blind angles, the precise times when patrols passed by. With that information, he crafted his strategy.
The hardest part was getting into the complex. After a couple of failed attempts, he found a ventilation grate just big enough to squeeze through. With quick, precise movements, he forced the grate open and crawled through the narrow duct, his heart pounding as he heard the vibrations of footsteps and voices beyond the metal walls. Covered in dust and cramped, he managed to make his way inside the complex.
When he emerged from the ventilation system, he was awestruck by the place he found himself in. The training field was massive. A vast expanse of synthetic grass stretched before him, dotted with combat simulators that looked straight out of a futuristic movie. There were structures for physical training and perfectly organized shooting zones, but what caught his attention the most was the sky projected on the giant dome above his head. It was so realistic that for a moment, he forgot they were underground. Max couldn't help but wonder how much Fury had spent building something like this.
As he was recovering from his awe, a guard passed by. Max reacted instantly, diving behind a nearby structure. He took a deep breath. He had learned to move undetected; it was second nature to him. He blended into the crowd of agents and recruits training and slipped into the chaos. He was good at camouflage, almost instinctively, but he wouldn't waste his chance by getting too comfortable.
As he explored the area, a familiar sensation returned: a prickling at the back of his neck, as if someone were watching him. It wasn't paranoia; it was a skill he'd developed after years of surviving on his own. His movements became faster, more calculated. He tried to lose his potential pursuer, if there was one, slipping between group trainings and hiding behind combat simulators. But that feeling never disappeared.
The stress was starting to weigh on him. He remembered the electric shocks he'd received in his previous attempts. "Maybe I'm losing my mind," he thought. He took a deep breath and prepared to keep moving when a chill ran down his spine.
Suddenly, he heard a voice behind him—deep, calm, with a hint of amusement:
"Not bad, Max."
The scare made him jump. "No, not again," he thought frantically. "I did everything perfectly. How the hell did they know I got in?"
Max quickly turned around, ready to defend himself or, if necessary, run. But what he saw wasn't a guard, as he had expected. It was a man he'd never seen before.
From Max's perspective, the man looked to be around 35 years old. He had light brown hair, short and slightly messy, as if he didn't care much about fixing it. His face was framed by a strong jawline and piercing blue eyes that seemed to analyze every detail with surgical precision. His expression was relaxed, but there was something about him that exuded authority and experience, as if he had nothing to prove to anyone. He was dressed in fitted training clothes that revealed an athletic physique—strong but not exaggerated. He didn't look like a fighter but rather someone who knew how to win without ever entering a fight.
For a moment, Max was bewildered. Despite the man's calm posture, his eyes seemed to pierce through him. It was as if he were evaluating him, reading every movement and breath.
"Who... who are you?" Max asked, his shoulders tense.
"Don't you remember me?" the man asked, a slight smile on his lips.
Max studied the man in front of him. After a few seconds, he finally responded hesitantly:
"Should I?"
He remained silent, trying to recall something that would connect him to this stranger. His mind ran through various possibilities until suddenly a light bulb went off in his head.
"Wait!" he exclaimed, pointing at the man. "You... you were the voyeur watching me when I was trying to get into the training grounds, weren't you?"
Clint, who had maintained a serious expression until then, looked slightly embarrassed but didn't lose his composure.
"I wasn't watching because I wanted to," he said with a slight smirk. "But I must admit, I had a lot of fun watching you try to sneak in without getting caught."
Max stared at him, unsure of what to think, still a little unsettled by the situation. Clint, noticing his reaction, took a step back and cleared his throat.
"Relax, kid. I'm not your enemy. I'm Clint Barton. Fury sent me to be your instructor." He paused, assessing Max's distrustful expression before continuing. "I imagine this is... a bit confusing, but listen carefully because I don't like to repeat myself."
Max barely relaxed his shoulders, though he still kept some distance. It wasn't the first time someone had tried to gain his trust only to betray him later, and he wasn't about to let his guard down so easily.
Clint gestured casually at the training grounds around them.
"This is S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy, the place where we train agents in the making. Here, you'll learn everything you need to survive in the field." His eyes narrowed slightly, as if carefully choosing his next words. "We're not a social club or an ordinary school. If you're here, it's because Fury saw something in you, something that could be useful for what we do."
Max crossed his arms, still suspicious.
"And what exactly is it that you do?"
Clint let out a soft laugh, though his tone remained serious.
"We protect the world, Max. Sometimes from threats no one else can handle. Aliens, terrorists, dangerous technology... you name it. And if you want to be part of this, you'll have to prove you've got what it takes."
Max raised an eyebrow.
"And you? What do you do here besides watching me try not to get electrocuted?"
Clint smirked, amused by the remark.
"I'm part of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s elite squad, the best of the best. But here..." he gestured to himself with an ironic smile, "...you've got me as your instructor. My job is to prepare you and the other recruits so you can survive out there."
"Other recruits?" Max repeated skeptically.
Clint nodded and pointed toward a group of people training on the other side of the field.
"Look, you're not alone in this, but I need to be clear with you. Unlike them, you're at a disadvantage. Most of them have military backgrounds, combat experience, or at least some formal training in strategy."
"You've got none of that. But this isn't a competition... at least not always. You'll have to learn to work as a team, and trust me, it won't be easy. Fury wants to make sure each of you can back each other up in the field. And if you're going to be here, Max, you'll have to work twice as hard because they've got a head start on you from day one."
Max stared at him silently, processing his words. It wasn't something he hadn't heard before. He'd always felt he had to work harder than everyone else to survive, but this time it was different. He wasn't on the streets anymore; now he was surrounded by professionals.
"Great," he finally replied, his tone defiant. "So, what do I have to do?"
Clint cracked a slight smile, as if he had been expecting that response.
"First, let me clarify something else. S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't usually recruit young people like you. We're not a high school or a daycare. Most agents start in their twenties or thirties, after proving themselves in other fields."
Max raised an eyebrow. "So, what am I doing here?"
"Good question." Clint nodded. "Sometimes, we make exceptions. But those exceptions are usually geniuses, prodigies who have been trained in combat, espionage, advanced technology... You don't fit into any of those categories."
That hit Max's pride, but before he could respond, Clint looked him directly in the eyes.
"But," Clint continued, emphasizing the word, "Fury saw something in you. Something that made him take a risk and give you this opportunity. And let me tell you something: Fury doesn't give opportunities to just anyone. If he thinks you belong here, then there's a reason for it. But you have to prove to him that he wasn't wrong."
Max clenched his jaw. He wasn't used to being underestimated so openly, but there was something in Clint's tone that didn't feel like an insult, more like a challenge.
"So, what? I'm going to be the squad's punching bag?" he asked with a hint of sarcasm.
Clint let out a small chuckle. "No. You're going to be the one who bleeds, sweats, and works harder than anyone else here. And if you do your job well, one day, they'll respect you for it. But that day is still far away."
A tense silence fell between them. Max didn't know whether to feel insulted or motivated, but something in the way Clint spoke made him think that he actually believed in him, even if just a little.
Clint took a step back and gestured toward the main building.
"You're going to register, go to your room, and tomorrow at five sharp, you'll be here. And, Max..." he added, turning slightly. "Be punctual. The others already have a head start on you. Don't give them more reasons to look down on you."
Without waiting for a response, Clint turned and began walking toward the other side of the field.
Max watched him leave, clenching his fists tightly, letting out a long sigh. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to deal with challenges. It wouldn't be easy, but if Fury and this guy thought he could do it, then he had to prove them right.
Max walked toward the main building, which was smaller than he had expected. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the empty hallway as he headed to the reception desk. The air was dry, and the only visible decorations were kept to the bare minimum. The receptionist, a serious-faced man, quickly handed him a key.
"You're registered. Room 3C, third floor," he said curtly, as if he was used to dealing with people who didn't ask questions.
Max climbed the stairs to the third floor, where the hallway was narrow and the doors were lined up side by side, each with a simple number. It wasn't hard to find his room. The door marked "3C" was at the end of the hallway.
Max pushed the door open, letting it swing with a metallic sound followed by a faint creak. Instantly, the cold, dry air enveloped him, as though he had stepped into a space cut off from the outside world. There were no windows, only ceiling lights that cast a harsh, direct glow. The concrete-gray walls made it feel like he was trapped in a box with no room for comfort.
There were two bunk beds lined up on each side of the room, with the beds in disarray, and a single bed in the center. Four guys were already there, each engrossed in their own activities. One, on the top bunk on the left side, was absorbed in his phone, scrolling mindlessly as if nothing else around him mattered. Another lay on the bottom bunk of the same bed, arms crossed behind his head, as if waiting for time to pass. A third was on the top bunk opposite, eyes closed, seemingly silent. The last one was by the only single bed in the room, doing push-ups, focused on his workout near the wall opposite the door.
The room was in a peculiar state of disarray, a chaos that somehow seemed organized, as if each person had adapted their space to their own style. Max dropped his backpack on the empty bottom bunk on the right side and quickly glanced at the guys occupying the other beds.
"What's this? S.H.I.E.L.D. recruiting kids now?" asked the guy on the lower-left bunk, arms still crossed behind his head, staring at the ceiling with a nonchalant attitude as if time didn't matter to him.
Max felt his jaw tighten, the comment stinging more than he wanted to admit. He remained silent, his gaze fixed on the bed as he clenched and unclenched his fists, as if that small release of tension was enough to ignore the provocation. But the guy didn't seem ready to leave him alone.
"Relax, rookie. Nobody bites… at least not on the first day," the same guy added, his tone now more relaxed but still tinged with that mocking smile that begged for a reaction.
Max hesitated for a moment, wondering if it was even worth responding, when the man on the top bunk of the same bed lifted his gaze, visibly irritated.
"Knock it off, Maverick. Don't scare the kid before he unpacks," he said, his voice sharp and authoritative. He immediately turned to Max, his tone shifting to something more serious, though not hostile.
"You look like you've been in trouble, but things work differently here. I'm Jackson," he said firmly, leaving no room for doubt. He made no move to shake hands or wait for a reply. Once he finished, he went back to his phone as if he'd done his part in the conversation.
Maverick, slowly sitting up from his bunk, finally stopped staring at the ceiling and fixed his gaze on Max. With a slightly condescending tone, he said: "Relax, man, I'm just messing with you. I'm Luke. But everyone calls me Maverick," he added, flashing a smug grin that left no question about his laid-back attitude.
Pointing toward the opposite top bunk, he continued "And that guy up there sleeping is Eagle."
His eyes shifted again, this time toward the guy who had been doing push-ups near the single bed. Maverick watched him as he stood up, now directing a serious gaze at Max.
The guy, dark-haired and well-groomed, shirtless and glistening with sweat, stretched and exhaled deeply before speaking.
"I'm Grant Wart," he said in a deep, authoritative voice. "As long as you pull your weight during training, there shouldn't be any problems."
His tone sounded more like a veiled threat than a simple warning. Without waiting for a response, Grant turned on his heel and quickly headed toward what Max assumed was the room's bathroom.