Night in Hell's Kitchen has a different texture from daylight. The air thickens with fryer oil and cab exhaust; neon sticks to brick like wet paint; the sidewalks hum with half-restrained energy that morning pretends doesn't exist. Somewhere, a vendor still believes a louder voice sells more hot dogs. Somewhere else, glass breaks, and no one asks if it fell or was thrown. You learn to hear the difference.
We took the long way because I like to map neighborhoods at walking speed. Alpha-01 on my right, Alpha-02 on my left—two tall men in hoodies who moved like gravity had given them a private tutorial. You wouldn't call them inconspicuous, exactly, but the hoods and the quiet bought us a margin. Heads still turned. Curiosity has good peripheral vision.
A low, ugly rhythm cut across the block: fist/bonee / wall. The kind of percussion you don't mistake for music. A groan. Shoes scuffed in panic—a wheeze where breath ought to be.
I lifted a hand. Both Alphas stopped without looking to appear as if they have done so. "Hold," I said, because speed is how you get killed in alleys and patience is how you keep fights small.
We took the corner shallow. The alley was a black throat with a burned-out sensor light, the dumpster rowed up like fatigued bison. Ten men radiated bad math in a rough semicircle, bats and knives and confidence out of proportion with talent. Their focus was on one man in plain clothes who did not belong in this equation and refused to be solved.
Lean, compact, shoulders set like a boxer who grew up shadowboxing in church basements and rooftops. No billy clubs. No red leather. No devil horns. His stance was wrong for a civilian and exactly right for someone who'd decided force was a language worth learning.
Matt Murdock—not the Daredevil the tabloids would one day argue about, but the man who would give the name meaning. He had the head tilt of a person who listens with everything, the way you do when sight isn't your primary data feed. He slipped a punch, cut an elbow into a sternum, pivoted, and put a heel into a ribcage with clean power. He wasn't panicking; he was working. Precise. Professional.
"Well, what do you know," I breathed. "The future devil of Hell's Kitchen, pre-branding."
"Ten targets," Alpha-01 said, voice a calm inventory. "Hostile. One ally. Skilled."
"Assist," Alpha-02 added—no heat, just the answer to a question I hadn't finished asking.
I let the rules scroll through my head like a checklist: We do not escalate when a flex will do. We keep bystanders unhurt. We don't make messes that other people must clean. We stay out of the camera's field of view when possible. Then I pointed with two fingers, casually, as if ordering lunch. "Alpha-01. Alpha-02. Go say hello."
They didn't sprint. Sprinting is for people who want applause. They closed like doorways. Alpha-01 took the left flank and borrowed a bat mid-swing—palm to wrist, twist, release—then reintroduced its owner to the concept of pavement in a way that would not require dental work. Alpha-02 slid right and chose economy: a palm heel to a knife wrist, a forearm to a clavicle, a sweep that laid a second man down with the tenderness you reserve for friends you don't like.
One of the ten tried heroics with a knife, his adrenaline debt coming due. He slashed sideways. Alpha-01's hoodie sleeve whispered as he pivoted, caught the knife arm at the elbow, and rotated the man into the wall just hard enough to encourage cooperation. The knife kissed concrete and considered retirement. Alpha-02 let a third man charge him and met the momentum with a full-body redirection that put the man on the ground, wondering whether he'd tripped or rethought his life.
I counted heartbeats because Matt would be doing them same. Eight hostile spikes turned chaotic, then smoothed into groans; two stayed clever enough to feint for exits that didn't exist; one in the back decided to fish a pistol out of a waistband where no gun belonged.
"Gun," I said, and my voice did not change, because changing your voice tells the alley you're worried.
Alpha-01 moved before the syllable finished. Not a tackle—the opposite. He stepped into the man's frame, put two fingers on the web between thumb and index, and stalled the draw with a pressure that convinced the wrist it had other plans. The pistol stayed halfway to useful; Alpha-01's other hand guided it to the ground like a teacher who won't let you drop a violin. He nudged it aside with his toe and slid a boot onto the man's shoulder—not neck, not spine, not cruelty, just weight where weight meant surrender.
The alley changed its mind about chaos. We didn't break bones. We didn't perform. We ended things.
Matt's breath sawed once, twice, then steadied. His head snapped toward me the way people do when a new voice arrives in a room they didn't authorize. He held his fists high for another beat, reading the air, logging the silence.
"What the hell just happened?" he demanded. His voice came out rough, adrenaline merely layered over midnight.
"That," I said, strolling in with my hands in my pockets because presentation matters, "was called backup. You're welcome."
Ding.
Assistance: Matthew Murdock (+2,000)
Collateral Avoided (Bystanders 0): +0
Ethical Multiplier: +1 (non-lethal suppression; weapon control)
Attention (Local Org): +0.5
Attention (NYPD): +0.2 (noise complaint potential)
Two thousand points. The number landed and tried to wag its tail. I let myself feel the hit of relief—for the training overlay I'd been planning for Alpha-02, for the sight of ten men breathing instead of bleeding—and then put the scoreboard back where it belongs: indicator, not gospel.
Matt's head turned, tracking Alpha-01's boot on the gun man's shoulder. He took in Alpha-02's stance—a doorframe's calm—and decided he'd rather engage me than test either of them. "Who are you?" he asked. Not "what," not "what is this." He likes names. Names are leveraged in court and alleys alike.
"Shredder," I said, bright and almost chirpy because it disarms men who expect gravel. I offered a handshake like we were at a coffee shop, not standing in the middle of ten groaning regrets. "These are my boys: Alpha-01 and Alpha-02. Looked like you were in over your head, so we helped."
"I didn't need help," he said, a reflex that tasted like pride and policy.
"Sure," I said, unbothered. "But ten-on-one isn't a fair fight. Make it ten-on-three, check the tape—look how fast it ended."
He hesitated, then took my hand. Firm, calloused, the grip of a man who trains more than he sleeps and makes arguments for a living when he's not punching. "Matt."
"I know," I said, because subtlety is overrated and seeing a man truly is a gift even when it unnerves him.
His eyes—behind plain lenses, not the red-tinted ones tabloid artists love—narrowed. He doesn't see me like other people do. He hears me: breath, heart rate, how my shoes talk to the concrete, how my pulse settled instead of spiking when chaos arrived. He hears the Alphas too: breath control in pairs, cadence aligned, a discipline that doesn't occur naturally in men our size.
"Military," he said, not asking.
"Something like that," I said, because debating taxonomy in an alley is a good way to meet sirens. "Top of the line. Strong, fast, disciplined, handy in a fight."
"You don't just walk around with men like that," he said, arms crossing like he could make a barrier out of forearms and doubt.
"Well, I do," I said. "Perks of the job."
One of the downed men began an exploratory crawl toward the gun with the cunning of a toddler and the reflexes of a drunk. Alpha-01 didn't look up; he shifted his weight and pinned the man's shoulder with a careful boot. Not a threat; a fact.
Matt clocked the control and didn't like the implication. "They're dangerous."
"Only to bad guys," I said. "To everyone else, they're teddy bears." I half-turned. "Right, Alpha?"
Two grips on reality stayed calm. Silence isn't agreement, but sometimes it's mercy—Alpha-01 has not yet downloaded my humor DLC. That's on me.
"Be cautious walking around here with them," Matt said after a beat—no humor in it. A neighbor offering a caution. "People tend to notice."
"Good," I said. "Let them notice. It makes my life easier." Also harder. Also, more interesting. S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't actually live under your bed; it lives at the edge of patterns.
We let silence do what silence does—cool the room, let everyone's adrenal glands polish their exits. He adjusted his jacket; his fists flexed once, as if leftover electricity were looking for a socket.
"Anyway—thanks for the cameo," I said finally. "I'd stick around, but I've got places to be. Try not to pick fights with ten guys."
"I didn't pick the fight," he muttered, principled even in alley grammar.
"Details," I said, grinning because I like him. "Good to meet you, Matt. You're going to do good things here."
He frowned at the certainty, because men with ethics don't trust prophecy from strangers with soldiers. He didn't press. Alpha-01 and Alpha-02 peeled off their pressure like professionals and fell in on me as if formation were comfort.
We left the alley to the groans and the slow, embarrassed process of men standing up when they've been introduced to their limits. Matt stayed, listening to the city tell him about us as we receded into the distance. Suspicion weighed more than curiosity on his face; that's healthy.
We turned the corner. The city swallowed our scene.
Receipts, Risks, and the Scoreboard
Back on the cracked sidewalk, I rolled my shoulders and let the kinetic residue shake off. The neon from a diner sign stuttered, promising pie it didn't have. A radio from an upstairs window played a Springsteen track about highways and hope; Bruce always sneaks in when you don't expect him.
I called up the system interface with a thought.
Points: 3,000
Summon Spartan-II (baseline clone): 500
Spartan-II Training Overlay (complete): 1,500
Advisory: Local Org correlation +0.5 (Fisk network).
Advisory: NYPD correlation +0.2 (noise, disturbance).
Note: Visibility is low (alley), with minimal bystander footage (0–1). Ethical multiplier intact.
"Okay, plan," I said, speaking softly because the night likes to carry sentences to eavesdroppers you don't intend to feed. "As soon as we're home, Alpha-02 gets the full Spartan-II training package. Then we summon Alpha-03."
"Understood," Alpha-02 said. He didn't smile; his breath cadence ticked up by a hair. Pride, for a man who had been alive less than a day, looked like anticipation you could mistake for standing still if you weren't paying attention.
"Acceptable," Alpha-01 added. He kept scanning—fire escapes, windows, rooflines—like a man who expects counters. He's right. Ten-on-three invites an answer from people who don't enjoy being embarrassed on their own block. Kingpin men keep ledgers, too.
I clapped Alpha-02's shoulder, the way you do when you're teaching someone what encouragement feels like. "You've been alive a few hours and you already get an upgrade. Lucky."
He didn't answer. He didn't have to. The tiny straightening of his spine—one vertebra deciding on ambition—said more.
"Don't let it go to your head," I added, because competition is healthy if you keep it under your ethics. "Alpha-01's still top dog until you prove yourself."
Alpha-02's chin lifted a millimeter. Challenge accepted in a language only people with lungs and pride speak.
We cut through a block where the lights went slack and the sidewalk narrowed. A man leaned against a lamppost with a cigarette and watched us like he was trying out theories. Three doors later, a woman dragged a reluctant terrier down the steps and laughed when it gave up and asked to be carried. The night had a way of revealing tenderness when it wasn't busy being loud.
At the car, I twisted the cap off a bottle of water and threw half of it down my throat. The fan belt complained like it had opinions on our route home. Alpha-01 checked the mirrors out of habit; Alpha-02 took the passenger seat and lined the water bottle with the cup holder's edge, then tapped it twice. Micro-trait: cadence bleeds into everything.
"Not bad for one night," I said. "Stopped some thugs, saved Peter Parker, met Matt Murdock, stacked enough points to double our squad. Productive evening."
"Mission successful," Alpha-01 said.
"Mission successful," Alpha-02 echoed, slightly out of phase, like a harmony that hadn't found the chord yet.
"Robots," I muttered, smiling. "I'll get you both to an exclamation point yet."
The system threw one more note into the cab of the car, the conversational equivalent of a raised eyebrow.
Advisory: Pattern risk increasing. Vary time/place/method. Engaging named figures yields points and heat.
Advisory: Legal exposure possible (vigilantism statutes).
Suggested Counter: Involve institutions selectively after an incident, e.g., (911 report, clinic referral), to create a clear trail.
"We'll call in the alley as 'disturbance, ended,'" I said, already dialing with a blocked number and the voice I keep for dealing with bureaucracy. "Anonymous tip. Let uniforms get the paper. We don't leave messes."
Alpha-01 approved this with silence. Alpha-02 listened, committing the cadence of my lie that wasn't a lie to memory.
After-Action and a New Upgrade
Back at the apartment, the hallway smelled like boiled cabbage and floor cleaner. Carmen's door was ajar; her TV murmured baseball like a lullaby. The fan in our place had learned to behave after my sermon with the screwdriver, so the air came across calm and honest. I locked the door because habit is how you keep promises.
"HUD," I said, sitting on the edge of the bed like a man ordering dessert he'd earned. "Initiate Spartan-II training overlay for Alpha-02. Full package."
The system obliged.
Alpha-02 — Spartan-II Training Overlay
Cost: 1,500 (deducted)
Modules: Neuro-muscular optimization; bone density augmentation (simulated adaptation protocols); tactical doctrine (urban); comms discipline; legal/ethical framework (civilian priority); first aid (EMT-B); fire discipline (civilian environments); restraint escalation ladder; stress inoculation (simulated).
Mode: Non-invasive simulated overlay integrated during idle/rest cycles.
Casualties: Impossible.
Duration: Accelerated, continuous while idle.
Progress: 0% → 3% (initialization) … 4%.
Alpha-02's eyes unfocused for half a heartbeat, the way eyes do when a HUD inside your skull tells you it's time to grow. He blinked, refocused, breathed two-in, two-out, and said nothing. Micro-trait: when he absorbs, he hums that three-note melody under his breath so soft it feels like you imagined it. Tonight the melody tilted brighter. I decided it sounded like anticipation with boundaries.
"Now summon," I said. "One more. Alpha-03."
Ding.
The blue light arrived obedient and impressive as always, folding into someone with the same lines as his brothers and his own undertow. He steadied at attention immediately—programming meets pride—and let his eyes find me.
"Commander," he said.
"Welcome, Alpha-03," I said, smile riding high, exhaustion politely waiting its turn. "You showed up at a good time."
His gaze ticked to Alpha-01, then Alpha-02. He clocked the hierarchy in a second: not run; experience. He nodded.
Alpha-01 stepped forward and offered a hand—bridge, again. Alpha-03 shook it. Grip: firm, a hair shorter than Alpha-01's, less of a squeeze, more of a check. Micro-trait: he shifts his balance from balls of the feet to the whole foot before initiating motion—a sprinter's tell. Filed.
"Quick rules," I said, because men who can break walls with their shoulders should learn ethics before furniture. "No escalation when a flex will do. No messes we expect others to clean. People aren't point drops. We show up where we're needed, not where cameras ask us. We pick our battles—sometimes the battle is a parking ticket. We protect the timeline only to the extent that it protects people. And we treat you as people."
"Understood," Alpha-03 said, crisp. He watched my face while he said it, like he wanted to learn why the words mattered, not just the syllables. Good.
Points dropped to 1,000 after the purchases; the system purred like a cat that has eaten and will nap when it pleases.
Points: 3,000 → −1,500 (Training) → −500 (Summon) = 1,000
Training (Alpha-02): 4% → 6%
Training (Alpha-01): 13% → 14% (ongoing overlay)
Training (Alpha-03): 0% (baseline optimization initializing)
"Tomorrow," I said, peeling my hoodie off and hanging it on the last remaining corner of dignity the room owned, "we teach you all about slice."
"Slice," Alpha-03 echoed, bright like the word had a future he intended to meet.
Alpha-01 took the doorway post, eyes on the hall, hands loose, the way he says goodnight to a building. Alpha-02 drifted to the window and did his three-step offset before he stopped. Alpha-03 found a place where he could cover the kitchen and the fire escape at once with a half-turn. I let a stupid tide of fondness roll over me and recede.
"Debrief," I said, because one good habit begets another. I wrote on the back of a pizza flyer because good stationery is for people who don't know how to live.
Positives:
— Matt Murdock assisted without injury to civilians.
— Ten hostiles neutralized non-lethally; weapon controlled.
— Heat manageable; visibility low (alley).
— Points: 3,000 earned; expenditures complete for Alpha-02 training and Alpha-03 summon; bank: 1,000.
— Lines held (no escalation past necessity; no spectacle; no property damage).
Costs / Risks:
— Local org (Fisk network) correlation up +0.5. Expect counter.
— NYPD correlation up +0.2. Expect questions if the pattern persists.
— Legal exposure if incidents stack without daylight trail.
— Named figure cluster (Peter → Matt) in one day increases timeline turbulence risk.
Mitigations:
— Vary routes/times; skip Hell's Kitchen twice this week; work Chelsea or Hell's Kitchen west of Eleventh with low footprint acts.
— Post-incident daylight: tips to dispatch, clinic referrals, cameras in community hands.
— Keep hoodies. Keep hands visible. Keep words sparse on camera.
— Don't farm named characters. If we cross paths, we help. Each other. We don't orbit.
I underlined the last sentence because temptation is tidy when it looks like a list.
"Question," I said into the soft fan noise, eyes on nothing. "How did that alley feel to you?" I didn't specify which Alpha. Let them take it.
"Compressed," Alpha-01 said. "Brick at both shoulders. Ladders above. Bottleneck. Weapon draw predicted. Good for us if we move first. Bad if gun fired before contact."
"Copy," I said, then to Alpha-02. "You?"
"Heartbeat patterns," he said slowly, surprising himself. "One ally steady-fast. Ten hostiles spiking. Three faked retreats. One… contempt." He frowned at the word he'd chosen, tasting it like a math problem that needed re-checking. "The gun man."
"Good read," I said. "Hold onto that."
Alpha-03, new as sunrise, waited one respectful beat, then: "We need non-lethal restraints," he said, voice neutral. "Zip ties. Tape. Rope. Better than boot weights."
I laughed, short and bright. "God help me, you're practical." I made a note: hardware store. The review I'd once given myself had teased me about "zip-tie and deliver" habits; the trick is to use them as tools, not as ritual.
We ate the last of Carmen's cookies in a silence that had earned the name comfortable. The system ticked Alpha-02 up another percent while he pretended not to be proud of learning in his sleep. The city outside practiced being loud, then remembered it didn't have to be. Matt lay on his bed a few blocks away, not sleeping yet, listening to the neighborhood file us under complicated. Peter did homework, then Googled "fast reactions training how to" and fell into a forum rabbit hole he'd one day rewrite. Wilson Fisk signed something with a pen that cost more than our rent, and he didn't think about us because he didn't know about us yet. Phil Coulson wrote a memo that was so polite as to beg for a weapon.
Me? I checked the burn on my forearm—pink, harmless—and let it stand in for the cost column so I didn't get drunk on point values. Progression systems will tell you you're a genius if you ask them the right way. New York will remind you you're mortal if you forget.
I lay back on a mattress that had opinions. "Tomorrow," I told the ceiling, "we buy a fridge that doesn't declare war on milk. We get zip ties, hinges, and a camera for Mrs. Fon, three blocks over. We give Alpha-02 eight hours of idle overla,y and we teach Alpha-03 how to carry a ladder so grandmas don't curse at him on the stairs."
"Understood," Alpha-01 said from the door—night watch established like a promise.
"Copy," Alpha-02 said from the window—three-note hum very quiet, the alley replaying in his head and resolving to a lesson, not a legend.
"Understood," Alpha-03 said from the kitchen—already aligning the dish rack with the counter's edge as if order were a way to say thank you.
The room went soft around the edges. The HUD dimmed to a purr. I let sleep bargain for terms.
Before I gave it the signature, I said one more thing to the darkness, to the system, to the men the universe had somehow decided belonged to me:
"We keep the lines," I said. "Even at ten-on-three."
The fan breathed. The city answered. The mission continues.