Death didn't feel the way I expected.
No choir, no tunnel of light—only a flicker, resembling a bad frame drop. One moment, crosswalk stripes were beneath my feet and a podcast played in my ears; the next, a horn sounded, unfinished in its apology. Weight, air, bones. Then… emptiness, like a TV fading to black.
What followed wasn't necessarily better, but it was different: a breath that didn't cause pain, a mattress that wasn't mine, and a ceiling the shade of old chalk, marbled with fine cracks resembling unnamable continents. A fan lazily spun in thirds and groaned with each turn. The air was filled with warm dust and the scent of detergent struggling to fight mildew. At some point, someone smoked here and lost that fight as well.
I lay there, listening as the building seemed to speak: pipes clacking inside the walls, a radio muffled behind the plaster, and the thud of a toilet tank upstairs. I wiggled my toes, and they moved willingly. My fingers followed suit. Pain felt like a distant memory rather than an immediate sensation.
I sat up, and the bed springs emitted a sound like a sigh. A tall mirror with a cracked frame, often called "included' by landlords, was tilted on a dusty dresser, its surface bearing faint phantom fingerprints. The man reflected in the glass did not belong to me.
Sharper jawline. Dark hair buzzed short, like a military haircut that didn't need permission. Shoulders widened into a triangle; my old T-shirts never fit me right. Skin clear. Eyes bright in a way I hadn't seen since coffee still seemed to work wonders. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. A young athlete on the verge of growth spurts and good fortune.
I raised a hand. He complied. I touched a cheek that wasn't mine. Warmth. Stubble like fine sand.
A laugh rose in my throat and got stuck on the way up. Then, out of nowhere:
Ding.
The sound wasn't in the room. It was in me—crisp as a glass rim struck with a fingernail. After the chime, a voice bloomed. Not a person's voice: cheerful, precise, and perfectly synthetic, like a luxury GPS that had never tasted disappointment.
Hello, Shredder. I am your system. I am here to help you.
I looked around purely out of habit; nothing to see. The voice continued anyway, unbothered by my failure to find a speaker.
Your system functions are now active. You are the Commander, responsible for creating Spartan-II soldiers. These Spartans are invincible during training, and their survival in combat is assured. You can use earned points to produce more Spartans. Spartans earn points by helping others, and you also gain points when you assist people. Do you understand?
The laugh finally escaped. "You're kidding."
No.
I rubbed my face with this stranger's hands and felt the unfamiliar strength in my forearms. "Spartans? As in Halo Spartans? Power-armor, augments, the whole 'sixteen ways to ruin a Covenant cruiser' vibe?"
The Spartan-II designation is used for your supersoldiers. Details are optimized for this reality. Training casualties are impossible. Completion is guaranteed.
"Completion is guaranteed," I repeated, allowing the words to settle. Unbidden, my heartbeat quickened—exhilaration riding on disbelief. The ceiling fan groaned, and the building seemed to exhale. I sensed a grin forming, but restrained it before it could take over my face. Giddiness makes a poor first impression, even with that voice echoing in your mind.
"We should… orient," I managed. "Am I where I think I am?"
You are in New York City. The year is 2008.
I slid off the bed, my feet hitting the worn, dull floorboards that had lost their satin sheen with age. The calendar pinned crookedly above the TV wasn't just for show; the month was correct, with days crossed off in pen until three days ago, then nothing. In the corner, a torn scrap of newspaper was tucked away. It featured Stark Industries in bold, with Tony's goatee mid-smirk.
The world shifted as if puzzle pieces finally fit together. A press conference podium. "I am Iron Man." S.H.I.E.L.D. is hidden behind sunglasses. A Norwegian hammer is feeling nostalgic. A green man striving to avoid making headlines. A purple problem counting to six.
I exhaled. "Marvel," I said quietly. "The Marvel Cinematic Universe. The MCU. Of course."
Correct. Tony Stark has recently revealed his identity as Iron Man. The timeline is active. You are now within it.
I clapped once, and dust flicked off the dresser like startled fleas. "All right," I said to the empty room and the not-quite-there voice. "Okay. Deep breath. This is like a gamer-isekai speedrun into a progression fantasy with a LitRPG HUD. You give me a supersoldier program, drop me into pre-Avengers New York, and set the scoreboard to 'help people level up.' That's either benevolent or the wildest tutorial ever."
It is effective.
"Great. Let's see the interface."
A translucent panel unfolded into existence at my mental tug—like a HUD from a triple-A title, perfectly legible no matter where I looked. Tabs arranged themselves along the top: Summon, Points, Training, Status, Log. I thought open Points and one tab pulsed, sliding forward.
Points: 100.
Earning Methods: Direct Assistance (dynamic), Spartan Assistance (ongoing), Story Anchors (limited), City Stabilization (scalable).
Modifiers: None.
Notes: Ethical deviations reduce multipliers.
"Ethical deviations?" I murmured. "So the more I act like a decent human, the better the XP. Copy that."
Correct.
"Summon?"
The tab bloomed.
Summon Spartan-II — Cost: 100 points.
Result: One Spartan-II clone (baseline), immediate designation available.
Training: Initiates immediately (simulated). Training casualties are impossible.
Combat Survival: Guaranteed (see Terms → Survival Clause).
Limitations: Resource constraints, legal exposure, operational Risk.
"Legal exposure," I repeated. "So it's not all soda and pizza."
Correct. Your actions have consequences.
I stood very still and listened to the wires humming behind the walls—a siren called to someone, not me, a dozen blocks away. I thought of Iron Man 2 hearings, of cameras, of Fury's eye narrowing from across a table, of the word asset said with a cordial smile that never touched the skin around the mouth. Helping people in the MCU was not just about lifting debris off ankles.
This was going to be big; this was going to be messy. It was also—irresistibly—exactly my kind of fun.
"Run it," I said. "One Spartan."
Ding.
Blue light shimmered across the room, resembling a folded sheet of water transforming into a man. The figure's form solidified as the shimmer faded: young, tall, with a buzzed haircut, clad in plain fatigues sans patches or name. His stance drew focus as surely as a magnet pulls north.
He lifted his eyes to mine. They were steady and the color of old glass.
"Commander," he said.
The word landed in the center of my chest and sank there like a lodestone. I let the grin come, small and under control. "I could get used to that."
I approached him the way you'd examine a newly uncrated machine—respectful, curious, alert for imperfections and surprises. Shoulders squared, hands relaxed yet prepared, feet evenly planted. However, a small telltale sign revealed itself: when he paused, he slightly shifted his weight more onto his left heel than his right, a subtle habit ingrained from day one in this rainy season as an officer—a tiny personal trait hidden within his uniform.
"Names?" I asked the air.
The Commander may assign designations or names.
I studied his face again. He could have been anybody's son. Or no one's. "Alpha-01," I decided. "First of many."
"Yes, Commander." His voice was uncolored but not empty, like a radio tuned to precisely the right frequency.
"Are you feeling all right?" I asked, as someone needed to check. "Any dizziness, nausea, or existential dread?"
"No symptoms that impair function," he said after half a beat. "I am mission-capable."
"So the paperwork says." I didn't look away from him. "Are you… you? Do you know what you want?"
He blinked once. "I want to execute your objectives."
"My objectives are to help people," I said carefully. "Not as cover. As objective."
He dipped his chin. "Acknowledged."
The Training tab lit on its own. A bar progressed from 0% to 1% and stopped. A sub-panel opened.
Alpha-01: Baseline Neural-Muscular Optimization, Tactical Doctrine (Urban), Moral-Legal Framework (Civilian Priority), Fire Discipline, First Aid (EMT-Basic). Mode: Simulated overlay when idle; minimal in-room latency. Note: Training persists even when the system is at rest.
"So you can be here while the system feeds you the months you're supposed to have already earned." I nodded. "We'll call that another miracle and move on."
Alpha-01's gaze didn't wander. He stood there the way statues want to be, but his attention wasn't blank. It was the attention of someone who had learned not to look like he was looking unless ordered to. Another micro-trait: two fingers of his right hand flexed once, then stilled. Not fidgeting. Calibration.
"Relax," I said. "I don't do stand-at-attention unless someone's filming."
He eased five millimeters. Progress.
"I'm going to try humor on you, by the way," I warned. "Purely for my own entertainment."
Silence. Somewhere downstairs, someone banged a door and swore in a language I didn't speak well enough yet.
"All right," I said on an exhale. "Logistics. We have exactly zero dollars, a body with a gym membership baked in, a Spartan who can learn while he breathes, and the MCU rolling toward its first assembly. Stark has said the line. Fury is collecting baseball cards. S.H.I.E.L.D. is pretending to be the DMV with knives. Bruce Banner is trying to be unfindable and failing. Thor hasn't discovered gravity. Avengers is a few big disasters away."
I approached the window. The sash jammed but gave way after a second tug. Heat emanated from the street in waves, carrying scents of summer trash, hot dog water, and sunbaked asphalt. Sirens echoed through brick canyons, rising and falling like whalesong. A vendor's bell chimed somewhere nearby. In 2008, New York felt like it always does: vibrant and alive, indifferent to whether you notice.
A kid on the corner tried to do ollies, but failed, his knees rough and his determination stronger than his skateboard. An older man sat reading a newspaper in a folding chair, as if the day needed guidance. A woman in scrubs rested on a stoop, pinching her nose, overwhelmed by exhaustion. I felt I could help any of them, and I knew I should support all of them. Not because the Points tab prompted me, but because the number was the least interesting aspect of what the work could accomplish.
The system chimed again, softly, as if it had decided to respect the window's opinion.
Advisory: Cameras exist. Law enforcement exists. National security agencies exist. Armor does not exist for you. You are not, at present, Iron Man.
I laughed—quick, clipped. "Duly noted."
Secondary advisory: Questions of personhood will arise.
The words chilled me in a way the fan couldn't fix. "Because my squad looks like me and answers to me."
Because they are sentient.
I faced Alpha-01. "If I tell you to do something, and you believe it's wrong, what will you do?"
Another half-beat. His stare stayed level, but the flex in his fingers came back, a smaller motion that felt like the body's version of clearing a throat. "The Moral-Legal Framework persists even under direct orders," he said. "I will request clarification. Failing that, I will disobey to protect civilians."
The bar in the Training tab ticked to 2%.
"That," I said softly, "is good."
The fan complained again. The room felt less cramped, as if four honest words had pulled a nail out of one of the walls.
Here's the rule: we don't turn into a problem to solve. Instead, we focus on fixing issues. We never hurt bystanders. We don't escalate conflicts just to show strength. And we avoid creating messes that others will have to clean up.
"Understood."
"And if I get clever and try to write around my own rules?"
"I will remind you."
The laugh this time escaped clean and surprised me, because I hadn't expected to feel relief. "You're going to be a real pain, Zero-One."
He didn't smile. The set of his shoulders loosened anyway, as if he'd recognized the cadences of a nickname.
I returned to the HUD. The Status tab displayed my new body's vitals—an impressive resting heart rate that athletes would admire, a VO₂ max high enough to make my high-school gym coach reconsider his career, and reaction time approaching unfair levels.
I asked the system, "Do I have anything else?" Could it be a magic hammer, an arc reactor coupon, or a 'Get Out of S.H.I.E.L.D. Interrogation: Free card?
You have agency and foresight.
"So, the rare drops."
Correct.
A sharp bang startled both of us—fist on wood two rooms over, a woman's voice rising in accusation, a man's voice responding with a wordless snarl. Alpha-01 turned his head halfway toward the sound; I was already moving.
"Hold," I said reflexively, hand up. "You do not knock down doors for our first ten minutes on the timeline."
I stepped into the hallway. Paint here was more speculative. Someone had tried for eggshell and gotten regret. The yelling belonged to 2B, a woman I didn't know yet, a nd a man I didn't want to. The door was closed; I could see the frame vibrate with each thump. The hairs on my arms rose for reasons that had nothing to do with paranormal anything.
I knocked. Not a threat, not a flourish—just a human knock.
The voices stopped, as if someone had cut the power. I heard breathing, then steps. The door opened a few inches. The chain stayed on.
The woman behind it had hair that escaped from a bun and eyes that catalogued everything in the hall at once. "Yes?"
"Hey," I said, my hands visible, my posture relaxed, because that matters. "I'm new next door. Your door sounds like it's taking damage. Everything okay?"
A man's voice came from deeper in the apartment, sour with adrenaline. "Who the hell is that?"
"A neighbor," she said, not looking away from me.
I tilted my head toward the frame. "If it helps, I have a screwdriver and a wedge. The bottom hinge looks stripped; you'll keep fighting it every time it swells. I could tighten it and brace the jamb. Takes ten minutes. Free."
She studied me for another long second. People in big cities, risk-reward calculations are as natural as breathing. She nodded. "One minute."
The chain slid back. I fetched my multipurpose tool from the junk drawer the apartment had thoughtfully stocked with crumbs and receipts from someone else's life. The hinge was what I'd said it was; so was the jamb. Wood has a way of telling you the truth if you ask it with the right driver bit. I shortened a long screw from the strike plate side, gave it a new home where it could bite deeper, then improvised a little brace from a piece of trim someone had tried to hide under the radiator. Ten minutes. I didn't talk. The man in the kitchen didn't either; his breathing slowed. The woman watched without pretending not to.
When I finished, I opened and closed the door three times. The thump was gone.
"Okay," I said. "Less fight, more close. If it sticks on humid days, rub a wax candle on the edge." I nodded at the man behind her without making eye contact, a challenge. "No charge."
He found the decency to look sheepish; he saw the wisdom not to speak. The woman's mouth warmed half a degree. "Thanks, neighbor."
"Welcome," I said. "I'm—" The name paused on the lip of my mouth. Shredder, the system had called me. That was a handle, not an introduction to an apartment. "Call me Shane," I finished. Not a lie, not the whole of it. Good enough for first impressions in a building that needed screws more than names.
Back in my place, the system chimed twice, quickly.
Direct Assistance (Domestic): +3 points.
Collateral Risk Avoided: +2 points.
The Points tab ticked to 105.
"Five points for a screwdriver," I murmured. "And we didn't kick a door to do it."
Alpha-01 had not moved. His eyes tracked me as if he'd never stopped. "Local goodwill," he said, not quite a question.
"Better than pizza coupons," I said. "Though we'll get those too."
He didn't ask why. He'd learn.
I spent the next hour on a crash course that wasn't: tapping through every tab, prodding every menu, reading the fine print that most Commanders in my position would ignore because I recognized the shape of all the ways that kind of confidence gets you killed. The Survival Clause read like a trick performed honestly: Spartan-II soldiers under your command will not die in combat. No weasel words about "unless you're stupid" or "if a writer needs drama." Injuries? Yes. Capture? Rare but not impossible. Collapse? Temporary. Death? No.
"So they can be broken, but not lost," I said.
Correct.
"And me?"
You are mortal.
The words didn't scare me as much as they steadied me. Limits are handrails; they teach you where to lean.
I ran calisthenics in the rectangle of space between the bed, dresser, window, and wall until sweat slicked the new body in a way that made it feel like mine. Push-ups faster than I remembered. Squats that didn't complain. A plank that held and held and held until the room's geometry felt different. Alpha-01 followed—not the movements, but the habit of turning a place into a gym. When I finished, he unfolded a set with machine efficiency and perfect form, not because he needed it but because doing it wrote a story into his muscles that the system's overlays couldn't replace.
He was left-dominant. He always chose to plant the left heel first when he shifted from rest. He checked corners with his eyes before he moved his head. Tiny preferences that, taken together, whispered a person.
"Do you have a favorite number?" I asked him when my breath returned to normal.
"No," he said, then paused like the thought surprised him. "Not yet."
"Good answer." I tossed him a towel. He caught it without looking like he had eyes in his palms. "You'll get one. And a nickname. Those aren't assigned. They arrive."
"I understand," he said, which meant he didn't yet, but expected to. That was also fine.
We inventoried the apartment. Two bowls, three forks, a knife that had likely met a credit card terminal more than an onion. A TV with a missing remote back and a strip of electrical tape that had retired from holding anything together. A mattress that could be turned and improved, if not redeemed. No air conditioning and only one fan, which was in dire need of repair. A window that would treat a portable AC like a religious conversion if I could afford one, which I could not. Yet.
A knock sounded like a private joke: three quick, the kind of rap people use when they're hoping whoever answers is not on parole. I exchanged a look with Alpha-01. He took one measured step to a position where he could cover the door without alarming it.
I opened it to a woman in a faded camp T-shirt and a bun that had lost both argument and gravity. She held a casserole dish with both hands, the way people carry offerings to gods they aren't sure about. Failed to be subtle about looking me up and down. Decided it was fine.
"You're new," she declared. "I'm Carmen. Welcome to the building. I made too much ziti."
That was a lie—no one ever accidentally makes too much ziti—but it was the kind of New Yorker's tell when the truth is I noticed yelling and a man's voice and then no yelling, and I want to know who moved in next door so I can rerun the numbers and figure out whether to worry. I smiled with my eyes, nodded with my chin, and accepted the dish like a civilized person.
"Thanks, Carmen. Shane. And this is—" I thought Alpha-01 and heard how that would land in a stairwell gossip network. "Al," I finished. Not a lie. Short for a lot of things. "We appreciate it."
Her gaze flicked over his posture, filed something, and moved on. "Need anything? The super is useless after six. Electricity is fine unless it rains on a Wednesday, and then it isn't. Garbage day is Thursday, which is more a suggestion than a promise."
"Borrow a candle?" I asked. "For the door."
Carmen grinned, sharp and delighted. "You fixed Mia's?" She didn't wait for agreement. "Welcome to the block, handyman. You're ours now."
"Happy to be owned," I said, deadpan.
She snorted, handed me a stub of wax in a Ziploc bag like a precious artifact, and disappeared. Points chimed: +1 Community Link. I didn't need the number to know we'd done the right thing, but the system was going to gamify kindness until I didn't have to think about it.
"See?" I told the room and the Spartan in it. "No pizza yet, but we're on our way."
Alpha-01 glanced at the casserole as if it were a mission parameter. "We will need a refrigerator."
"You're already learning the most important logistics. Good."
I ate at the tiny table. Alpha-01 watched the window as if it might decide to be a door. The ziti was better than it needed to be. Food is like that when it comes tied to a door chain, sliding off for the first time in too long.
When the light outside shifted from hot to gold, I took a shower in a bathroom that believed first and asked questions later. The mirror fogged. I leaned my forehead against the cool tile. The person in the glass, when it cleared, was still the person the system had handed me, but the eyes were mine now: that old, ridiculous mix of curiosity and caution, joy and grief that people like to label "resilience," when the truth is that most of us don't get a vote.
There is a moment—after you almost die, after you do die and get up again, after a voice tells you that you are both Commander and mortal—when the math of your life sharpens. Your constants get clearer. Your variables glow. You look at the future like a street with smoke down it and decide whether to walk.
I toweled off, pulled on a clean shirt that someone else had left in a drawer, and sat back on the bed. The fan pitched its complaint to a new key and soldiered on.
"Okay," I told Alpha-01, the system, and myself. "Here's the plan."
I sketched it out aloud because sometimes hearing a plan makes it more real than seeing it written on a HUD.
"Phase One: Invisible Good. We do neighborhood work that doesn't leave capes flapping. Fix things. Learn to establish a reputation that is appealing and trustworthy. Earn points without attracting the kind of attention that comes with a badge and an NDA. We keep an eye on S.H.I.E.L.D. and make sure we aren't a blip."
"Understood."
"Phase Two: Proof of Concept. We quietly resolve small real-world problems that the Avengers would ignore, such as a reappearing missing person. A neighborhood crew terrorizing a block—disbanded with zero headlines. We record nothing we don't intend to defend in court. We make no claims we can't retract."
"Understood."
"Phase Three: Infrastructure. We get a workspace. We get gear that won't scare anyone until it has to. We build you a team. Each Spartan gets a micro-trait respected, a role that fits, a voice at the table. They aren't numbers; they're people. I don't care what the system says—we treat them that way."
He didn't say "Understood" this time. He said, "Acknowledged, Commander," like the words were heavier than routine.
"Phase Four," I said, and looked out the window to the city that had no idea what it was going to become. "We pick our moments when Tony Stark lands in court with ten senators trying to own him. When a Hulk-sized problem threatens a wake of bystanders. When a god of thunder forgets to ask for permission, we show up where help is needed, not where cameras are."
I took a breath and let it out slowly. The room smelled like soap, pasta, old wood, and something that could be hope if you squinted.
"We also built a line," I added. "We don't cross it. Power creeps. Temptation creeps faster. The voice in my head—no offense—will give us buttons to push. We push them when it saves lives, not when it makes us feel large."
Advisory: Line recorded.
"Good. Keep it. Repeat it to me when I look like I'm about to be clever."
I will.
I lay back, folded my hands under my head, and stared up where my day had started: at a ceiling that had outlived three coats of paint and was still here doing its job without applause. Alpha-01 took up a position that covered the door and the window, which is what soldiers do when their orders are abstract: they stand between their charge and everything else.
"Question," I said into the fan noise. "If I told you to take a day and not think about orders. To walking. To pick a block, discover what's good on it, and come back with one observation that isn't tactical. Could you?"
The pause lasted long enough to be an answer. Then, carefully: "I could try."
"Try," I said. "Not tomorrow. Not until your training overlay provides you with the necessary framework. But soon."
"Yes, Commander."
The Training bar moved to 4%. I suspected it would take the time it said it would, not a minute less, not a day more. Some systems keep their promises because promises are the only currency that matters.
The fan ticked. The building shifted in its sleep. Somewhere down the block, a radio station was found. Carmen's casserole dish sat cooling on the counter like domestic proof we belonged here.
The MCU was a road leading to disaster. Aliens would fall. Portals would open. A purple titan would count to six and dare the universe to argue. Nick Fury would stand in front of telephoto lenses and smile like a lion does when he is already bored with the hyenas. Phil Coulson would knock, polite as a warrant. Wilson Fisk would build an empire out of fear and real estate. Heroes would become headlines. Headlines would become leverage.
Me? I had a point total of 105, a plan that could take a punch, one Spartan with a left-heel preference, a moral-legal framework worth trusting, and a voice that said, 'You are mortal, like a blessing.'
Tomorrow, I'd start buying screws for a city that came apart at its edges. Tomorrow, I'd place my first quiet bet in a game that loved noise. Tomorrow, the Commander would take a walk and make the map smaller.
Tonight, I stared at the cracked ceiling and let the last shape of the truck dissolve for good.
I could survive this world.
Better—I could help it survive itself.
And if the system insisted on calling that a game?
Fine. I intended to win without forgetting why I was doing it in the first place.