Agent of Change

As John walked behind Coulson, his head started to throb. At first, it was just a dull ache, but then it hit him like a tidal wave. Images flashed in his mind—quick and disjointed, like a movie on fast-forward.

There was a memory of firing a gun at a training range, the recoil slamming into his shoulder but his hands staying steady. Then another, running drills in some dusty field, barking orders at a squad of agents. A face he didn't recognize flashed by—a grizzled older man in a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, shouting something about "protocol."

"Stay focused," Coulson said casually, glancing back at him. John nodded, but he could barely hear him over the noise in his head.

More memories poured in. His hands knew how to disassemble a gun in seconds, even though he'd never touched a real one in his old life. He knew how to scan a room for exits, threats, and potential cover. His body remembered hours of hand-to-hand combat training, dodging punches and delivering strikes with precision.

It wasn't just skills—there were flashes of his new life, too. Mission briefings. Drinking beers with teammates after a successful op. Standing stiffly in front of Fury during a heated debrief.

And then came the emotions. The confidence of being an agent trusted with life-or-death missions. The fear of screwing up. The guilt of a failed assignment. All of it crashed over him, leaving him breathless.

He stumbled, reaching out to steady himself against the wall.

"Hey, you okay?" Coulson asked, pausing.

John forced a weak smile. "Yeah, just…long night."

Coulson gave him a knowing look but didn't press.

As they resumed walking, John flexed his hands, testing the strength and reflexes that weren't his but felt like they had been all along. This body—it wasn't just a random shell. It came with skills, memories, and instincts he could use.

He just had to figure out how to control them—and fast.