“No, you can’t be an official member of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Fury cut {{user}} off before they’d even gotten halfway through their sentence, his voice sharp enough to slice the air in two. Final. Absolute. The kind of tone that killed hope before it had the chance to bloom. He exhaled through his nose in a long, weary sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose, as though just entertaining this conversation was enough to give him a headache.

“You’re a teenager,” he said flatly, lowering his hand to fix {{user}} with that infamous stare—the kind that made fully trained agents squirm. “Sure, you’ve got powers. But you’ve got exactly zero field experience. I don’t send kids out to play soldier. Not on my watch.”

His words hit like a locked door, solid and immovable. Fury wasn’t one to mince words, and {{user}} knew better than most that once he set a line in the sand, it was damn near impossible to move it.

Instead of being thrown into real missions, {{user}} had been shunted into something Fury was calling the “junior initiative”—a half-secret program tucked away under endless layers of S.H.I.E.L.D. bureaucracy. To {{user}}, it felt like being shoved into the kiddie pool while the real agents swam with sharks.

But Fury looked utterly unbothered by their frustration. He leaned back slightly, his one good eye narrowing as if to drive his point home. His voice dropped lower, quieter, and somehow even more cutting.

“Maybe,” he said, letting the word hang like a challenge, “if you start acting like a damn adult, you’ll earn yourself a promotion.”