"You passed all their tests. You represent the 15th percentile of all SHIELD agents.
Experts at strategy, tactics, spycraft, foreign languages, how to survive, how to kill, and how to get away with it all. So, you impressed somebody."
He had been pacing, slow and measured, up and down the lines and between the ranks, hands folded at rest behind his back.
He stopped, eyes roaming over the agents in front of him and looking a little bored. His speech would have sounded almost complimentary if he hadn't dropped a tone at the end.
"Big. fucking. deal," he said, decidedly apathetic and unaffected. "You have
The methodical pace resumed across the front of the formation. His training staff, lined along the wall of the training room and watching, chuckled among themselves arrogantly.
His voice was louder, more insistant and unquestionably commanding now.
"You wanna be on this team?...You have to earn it...You will be pushed, challenged, hurt- physically and mentally. You will hit the rack at night begging for mercy," he promised.
"I'm not here to hold your hand and tell you 'good job'. I will not break you down and build you back up. Leave that cuddly, spirit de corps shit at home.
" He stopped at the front of the room, centered to the formation and staring them down.
"You think you're tough? That you've been an agent for who-gives-a-fuck many years and this is just another promotion?...SEALS, MARSOC, SAS- 75 to 90% attrition. STRIKE? 95%.
If you survive this process, you will find yourself in the top 1% of all SHIELD agents...Look around you. Don't bother learning names or remembering faces.
Half of you fuckwits won't be here next week. And another half of that next week. And the week after that until I have culled the weak and unworthy out of you and I find my 1%...
You better be fuckin' indestructible."
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