Agent of Change

The next day, John found himself in a sleek, minimalist office at the Triskelion. Barton was seated across from him, flipping through a thin file of notes from the New Mexico mission. Despite the casual air Barton carried, John could see the sharp attention in his eyes.

"Alright, Miller," Barton said, setting the file down. "You showed some decent instincts out there, but let's see if that was a fluke or if there's something we can build on."

John smirked. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Barton leaned back in his chair, studying John with a small grin. "Confidence? No. I'm just wondering how long it'll take before Fury chews you out again. You've got potential, but this job's not just about shooting straight. It's about staying sharp, reading between the lines, and knowing when to move."

John nodded, absorbing Barton's words. He wasn't just speaking as a mentor—this was coming from a seasoned agent who had survived more than a few close calls.

"So," John asked, "what's our next move?"

"Intel," Barton replied. "That tech we found wasn't random. Someone's building something, and it's our job to figure out who and why."

Information Gathering

Their first stop was a tech lab deep within the Triskelion. Scientists buzzed around, running tests on the components recovered from the missile silo. Barton and John approached one of the lead techs, a wiry man with thick glasses.

"Agent Barton," the scientist said, nodding respectfully. "And you must be the rookie everyone's talking about."

John bristled slightly at the label but managed a polite smile. "That's me."

The scientist gestured to a table filled with dismantled pieces of machinery. "This is cutting-edge stuff—materials we've never seen used like this before. Whoever built this knows their way around advanced tech."

"Any idea what it's for?" Barton asked, leaning over to examine a metallic core that hummed faintly with energy.

"Not yet," the scientist admitted. "But these energy readings suggest it's part of a power source. Something small, portable, and surprisingly efficient."

John exchanged a glance with Barton, who nodded subtly.

"Keep us updated," Barton said. "Let's go, Miller."

Field Follow-Up

Back in a quiet corner of the Triskelion, Barton and John reviewed a list of possible leads—contractors, suppliers, and other groups that might be tied to the mysterious tech.

"See this guy?" Barton said, pointing to a name on the screen. "He's a low-level arms dealer with a history of dabbling in experimental tech. Runs his operation out of Arizona. We'll start there."

John frowned. "Arms dealer working with that kind of tech? Feels like overkill."

Barton smirked. "Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D. Nothing's ever simple. Let's prep for the trip tomorrow."

That evening, Barton found John in the training gym, working through basic drills.

"Still at it, huh?" Barton said, walking over with his collapsible bow. "Figured you'd be tired after today."

"I don't have the luxury of slacking," John replied, wiping sweat from his brow. "If I'm going to keep up with you, I need to be better."

Barton chuckled. "Flattery won't save you from getting your butt kicked. Come on. Let's see what you've got."

They moved to the sparring mat, where Barton immediately took the lead. His movements were quick and calculated, forcing John to stay on his toes.

"Don't just react," Barton said as he dodged a punch and countered with a quick sweep. "Think ahead. Plan your moves."

John adjusted, focusing on Barton's rhythm. He managed to land a few hits, but Barton's experience kept him firmly in control.

"Better," Barton admitted as they paused for a break. "You've got decent instincts. Now you just need discipline."

They moved on to ranged combat. Barton handed John a training bow, his signature weapon.

"Why not a gun?" John asked, inspecting the sleek weapon.

"Guns are loud, predictable," Barton explained. "A bow? It's silent, precise, and versatile. Plus, it looks cool."

John laughed, then focused on nocking an arrow. Barton guided him through the process, correcting his stance and grip.

"Breathe," Barton said. "Steady yourself. Let the bow do the work."

John released the arrow, watching as it hit the outer ring of the target.

"Not bad for a first try," Barton said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Keep practicing. You'll get there."

As the night wore on, John stayed in the gym, repeating the drills Barton had taught him. Every strike, every shot felt like progress—small steps toward becoming the agent he needed to be.

By the time he left, the halls of the Triskelion were quiet, and the weight of his new reality pressed down on him. He wasn't just training to survive; he was preparing to face threats most people couldn't imagine.

And with Barton's guidance, he was starting to believe he could do it.