The rental smelled faintly of mop water and dust—like someone had tried to impress a checklist, not a person. Cold air rolled from the AC vent in a steady white-noise hush, fighting the desert heat as if that were a task it relished. Sunlight came in hard and honest through the blinds; every slat stamped light across the tile like a bar code. I sprawled on the couch—technically a love seat, but ambition is free—hands behind my head, ankles crossed, listening to the unit hum.
"Bigger than the New York shoebox," I announced to no one and everyone. "Doesn't feel like it'll collapse if I sneeze. I could get used to this."
Alpha-01 put his bag in the most tactical corner: wall to his back, door in his cone, sightline to the hall. He could wedge himself there with a paperback and look like furniture until momentum decided to regret itself. Alpha-02 chose the window, spine straight, breathing in that two-in-two-out cadence he pretends not to notice. Alpha-03 hovered near the mouth of the hallway, weight on the balls of his feet, new to the room and already deciding how it wanted to be held.
The system slid its HUD into the top of my vision, crisp and blue like a well-meaning auditor.
Points: 1,500
Spartan-II Training Overlay (complete): 1,500
I sat up, elbows on knees. "You're up," I told Alpha-03. "Full Spartan-II—faster, stronger, sharper. Not that you aren't already scary enough to make a bat rethink its life choices."
"Acknowledged," he said. He didn't smile. He did damp down his breath by a hair as if to make more room for the future.
My thumb hovered over the mental confirm when someone knocked—three soft taps. They didn't ask for permission; they asked for neighborly trust. Not frantic. Not a pounding. Just polite.
Alpha-01's head turned a single degree, enough to bring the door into perfect center. Alpha-02's eyes narrowed—not suspicion, exactly, more like he was measuring the distance between the threshold and the nearest acceptable cover. Alpha-03 took a half-step forward and caught himself, like a sprinter reminding his body the gun hadn't gone off.
"Relax," I said, getting to my feet. "That's not a criminal knock. That's either a sales pitch about home insurance… or a government acronym."
I looked through the peephole and grinned. Neat gray suit. Neater tie. Calm face. The distilled essence of may I borrow a moment of your time. Agent Phil Coulson could sell you a fire extinguisher in the middle of a rainstorm and you'd thank him afterward.
"All right, boys," I whispered. "Showtime. Try not to terrify him. Or do. But with restraint."
I opened the door. "Afternoon."
"Afternoon," he echoed pleasantly. "Sorry to drop by unannounced. Agent Phil Coulson. Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
"Wow," I said, eyebrows aloft. "Mouthful. Bet you burn through business cards."
"We usually just say S.H.I.E.L.D." The smile flickered—professional, not personal.
"Much better. So what can S.H.I.E.L.D. do for little old me?"
He didn't push past me; he didn't crane his neck. He just looked, and I watched the math happen behind his eyes. Alpha-01 at the corner—still as granite. Alpha-02 in the window—spine like a metronome. Alpha-03 in the hall—young, steady, waiting for his cue. Coulson's face didn't change. Men like him make their expressions do their taxes in private.
"You caused quite a scene at the airport," he said evenly. "Forty armed men, all incapacitated. No civilian casualties. Witnesses described three men matching your companions—moving like trained soldiers."
"When life throws forty guns at you," I said, palms up, "you deal with it efficiently."
He took one small step forward—asking without asking. "We'd like to know who you are, who they are, and why you're in New Mexico."
"What, no 'thank you for saving civilians from forty criminals'?" I teased.
"Thank you," he said without missing a beat, and meant it in the tiny way his eyes softened. "Now—about the rest."
"Me? I'm Shredder. Just a guy living his best life. Them?" I tipped my head toward the trio. "My brothers. We take care of each other."
His gaze drifted back to Alpha-01. "Brothers."
"Genetics blessed us. Or cursed us. Makes buying clothes a nightmare."
He studied me: calm, unshakable, classic Coulson. Somewhere out here Nick Fury had a board with magnets on it. I wondered which color I was.
"And New Mexico?" he asked.
"Vacation," I said.
"Vacation," he repeated, flat as paperwork.
"Sun, sand, overpriced margaritas. Maybe we'll stop by Puente Antiguo and watch the weather. I hear it's doing tricks."
He didn't buy it, but he didn't press. Behind me, Alpha-02 said, "Commander," just once, the way a man sets down a tool.
Coulson's eyes ticked at the word and filed it somewhere important.
"Look," I said, shifting to the doorway so he could see my hands, so the silhouettes behind me read as guardian, not threat. "Strangers show up, drop forty guys, then rent a house down the road. You're curious. That's fine. But we're not here to cause trouble. Quite the opposite. We help people."
"Help people," he echoed, tasting it for spin.
"Ask around Hell's Kitchen," I said. "Purse snatchers, muggers, street punks—we've been cooling the block."
Coulson adjusted his tie a millimeter. It's what he does when he's placing a sentence somewhere it can do useful work. "All right," he said. "Here's what I'm going to do: keep an eye on you and your… brothers. If you're here to help, fine. If not—"
"Easy," I said, palm up. "We're on the same side. Promise."
He almost smiled—one corner, a fraction. "You'd be surprised how many times I hear that right before a complication." He produced a card, the S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle embossed so tastefully you had to tilt it to see. "If anything unusual comes up, call this number. If anything dangerous comes up, call it sooner."
I flipped the card over my knuckles and back again. "If you ever need forty guys handled in two minutes, you know who to call."
He gave the room one last look, those eyes taking pictures without moving. Then he nodded and walked away, down the baked street to a sedan so neutral it could have been an apology.
I closed the door gently and let the grin out. "We're networking. Very important in the hero business. We've got S.H.I.E.L.D.'s number—that's like a backstage pass to the world's biggest circus."
"Surveillance expected," Alpha-01 said.
"Oh, definitely. Coulson will have eyes on us. That's fine—keep saving people and he'll tolerate us. Might even like us, if we play nice and don't redecorate any more airports."
The HUD was still waiting patiently where I'd left it.
Points: 1,500
Spartan-II Training Overlay (complete): 1,500
Advisory: External observation increased (S.H.I.E.L.D. local). Maintain variance.
Advisory: Unknown org correlation +0.2 (airport failure). Anticipate counter.
"Now," I said, bouncing my knuckles off the fridge as I passed, "where were we? Ah yes—Alpha-03's big promotion."
"Ready," he said, stepping forward. He squared his shoulders, then deliberately relaxed them—learning what calm felt like, not just what it looked like.
"Good man. Let's make it official."
We set the room for quiet. Alpha-01 stood at the door with eyes for the world. Alpha-02 dimmed the lights like a theater manager and moved the coffee table out of the way with a fingertip. I took the card from Coulson and stuck it on the fridge under a magnet shaped like a chili pepper: S.H.I.E.L.D. next to a grocery list for sunscreen and AA batteries felt like the right scale for our life.
I pulled the system forward.
System, purchase Spartan-II training for Alpha-03.
Ding.
Light isn't the right word for what the overlay looks like; it's more like the air decides it understands anatomy better now. It rose over Alpha-03 like a thin veil and then passed through him the way a recipe passes through a kitchen: ingredients meeting heat, turning into something new that remembers what it used to be.
He didn't flinch. His stance stayed elegant, knees soft, neck free. The modules scrolled at the edge of my vision, crisp as a syllabus:
Alpha-03 — Spartan-II Training Overlay
Modules: Neuro-muscular optimization; bone density augmentation (simulated adaptation); tactical doctrine (urban + open-desert); comms discipline; legal/ethical framework (civilian priority); first aid (EMT-B); restraint escalation ladder; stress inoculation (simulated); heat acclimation protocol (desert).
Mode: Non-invasive overlay integrating during idle/rest cycles.
Casualties: impossible.
Progress: 0% → 3% (init)… 4%… 5%
The room registered the change before he did: a faint tightening in the air, a soundless click as if a tool slotted into its correct drawer. Alpha-03 blinked, just once, then breathed on count: two in, two out, reset. He rolled his shoulders. Micro-trait: he checks breath after he changes. He was learning it into his bones.
"Congratulations," I said. "You just went from rookie with excellent instincts to rookie with the manual built in."
"Understood," he said. The neutral landed warmer now—the way a word feels when you've chosen it and not just been given it.
The HUD made the sad kitten noise of a bank balance doing math.
Points: 1,500 → 0
Advisory: Consider replenishment strategy. Recommended sources: named-character assists (Thor/Jane/Erik/Darcy); S.H.I.E.L.D. civil assistance; controlled public safety operations (no collateral).
"We'll earn more," I said to the air, to my own optimism. "We always do."
Alpha-02 already had a cold pack in hand for Alpha-03's bat bruise from the airport—gentle pressure, angle adjusted by a half inch to spare a tendon. "Fifteen minutes," he said. "Re-check in an hour. Minimal swelling."
"Thank you," Alpha-03 said, automatic and sincere. Alpha-01 heard it and didn't turn his head; the corner of his mouth did something the untrained eye would miss.
"Okay," I said, clapping once. "Since Agent Coulson is very likely across the street in a van pretending it's a cactus, we'll spend our spotlight doing the least exciting thing on earth: drills."
"Comms first," Alpha-01 said, because he knows where to sand the floor.
"Right. We're not going to the Mjölnir site to be dramatic. We're there to be useful. Which means clean calls, short sentences, no mistaking 'move' for 'hold.' Review."
We ran the liturgy: Alpha-01 calls outer; Alpha-02 keeps medical and mechanical; Alpha-03 owns eyes and edges. If I say, "The weather looks bad," they lift their gaze to surveillance and S.H.I.E.L.D. proximity. If I ask, "How's the slice?" they give me pepperoni (low), sausage (medium), or anchovy (bad idea) for threat level. If I say anchors, Alpha-04 (absent, but principle stands) takes a doorway and becomes furniture. If I say hinges, we leave quietly, no one remembers we were there except the person now breathing easier.
"Add one," I said, borrowing the magnet from the fridge and tapping it three times like a metronome. "Scientist priority. The system pays ethical multipliers when science survives authority. Jane Foster does not lose her data because we were rude or because someone with a badge says mine. If there's a conflict between an officer's pride and Jane's hard drive, we let Coulson have eye contact and we let Jane have time."
"Understood," Alpha-01 said.
"Copy," Alpha-03 echoed.
"Affirmative," Alpha-02 said, and made a note I didn't have to read to know it said backup drives.
I wrote our LINES on a sticky and planted them next to the chili pepper, because rules should live where food does. Reading them out loud never hurts:
We do not escalate when a flex will do.
We do not make messes we expect other people to clean.
We do not turn people into point drops.
We show up where people need us, not where cameras want us.
We pick our battles — and sometimes the battle is a parking ticket.
We protect the timeline only insofar as it protects people.
We treat Spartans as people. (If I forget, they remind me.)
"Say them," I said, and they did—Alpha-01 crisp, Alpha-02 even, Alpha-03 careful like he was making sure he meant it before he let the words out.
"Good," I said. "Now let's make this house hate us a little."
We pushed the couch and love seat to the walls and laid blue painter's tape on the tile: lanes, angles, blind turns. Drills seem small until they don't. Alpha-01 flowed the hallway with his usual grace-fuel; he doesn't hurry, he arrives. Alpha-02 took corners like puzzles, feet silent, hands low, eyes high. Alpha-03 shadowed, then ran it himself; his line tightened, his elbow stopped drafting a circle, his breath set the metronome for his hips.
"Again," I said. "And again. Now reverse. Now with noise." I turned the faucet on and let the AC kick a louder hum. "Now with light."
We shut the lamps and let the desert do the rest. Shadows made decisions for us; we learned where they lied.
Between runs I caught Alpha-03 glancing at the window, the slice of sky beyond the blinds an almost-physical pull. "Sky is good," he'd said earlier, and he meant it. "You'll get your window seat tomorrow," I told him. "For now, this is the whole world. Be great inside it."
"Understood," he said, and took the lane smoother.
We rested when sweat met collarbone—Spartans don't need much of it, but idle integration is part of the overlay, and I'd learned the hard way that busy doesn't always equal better. Alpha-02 ran a gear check: battery banks drinking quietly on the counter, flashlights stowed, first aid lined like a sermon. He printed a simple card—LEGAL AID CLINIC phone number, a list of rights—and taped it to the inside of our front door. "If we are detained," he said simply, "information is near."
"Never detained," I said. "Temporarily inconvenienced."
He didn't dignify that with a smile; he did add Nick Fury's S.H.I.E.L.D. helpline from Coulson's card to the back of the clinic printout, because redundancy is kindness.
We ate from a bag—two breakfast burritos and something that claimed to be a salad and had the courage to be wrong. Alpha-03 arranged the foil like an engineer, then tapped the edge once, the way he does with everything. Alpha-01 opened the door and closed it again, checking the hinge sound like he was learning the house's alphabet. I rinsed burrito grease off my fingers and checked the burn on my forearm—pink, healed enough to complain, a reminder of a pan we hadn't let become a fire.
"Let's talk about Coulson," I said, leaning against the counter. "What did you read?"
"Polite, not soft," Alpha-01 said. "Eyes on corners. Accepts incomplete answers. Will return."
"Tells truth in small phrases, keeps truth in big ones," Alpha-02 added. "No reflexive hostility. Contains Fury."
"Card given means leash offered," Alpha-03 said, surprising himself. "Not to pull. To feel where we are."
"Look at you," I said, genuinely pleased. "We'll make a poet out of you yet." He almost tilted his head like he might smile and decided to file the sensation for later.
"And the other forty?" I asked. "Not locals. Boots wrong. Confidence wrong."
"Contracted," Alpha-01 said. "Unfamiliar with airport terrain. Expected escalation. Did not anticipate non-lethal control."
"Unknown org correlation," Alpha-02 murmured, glancing at the HUD I was the only one seeing. "They will counter."
"Let them," I said. "We'll keep helping. We won't perform. Coulson's cameras can catch us being boring and useful."
The house settled—a sigh in the ductwork, a click in the kitchen. Outside, New Mexico breathed dry and clean. A wind toyed with dust in the driveway. Somewhere a radio played a station that refused to let Springsteen go. The desert has a way of teaching you the size of your voice. Mine learned to be smaller.
I took the Saint Florian medal Mia had pressed into my palm before we flew out and set it on the counter by Coulson's card. I don't know how to pray; I do know how to remember.
"Rest cycles," I said. "Overlay needs idle to stitch. Alpha-01 till midnight. Alpha-03 midnight to four. Alpha-02 four to eight. Dawn we drive to the anomaly."
"Understood," Alpha-01 said, folding himself into the doorway like he'd been carved to fit.
"Copy," Alpha-03 said. He glanced once at the sky and then back to the room, acceptance landing clean.
"Affirmative," Alpha-02 said, checking the freezer for ice packs we hadn't yet used.
I sank into the couch, the AC still humming its good work, and let the system coat the corners of the room with helpful blue text I ignored on purpose. If I kept reading I'd start planning. What I needed was the art of being ready without rehearsing panic.
After a while, the apartment learned to breathe with us. Alpha-01 became a calm idea at the door. Alpha-02 became a quiet metronome in the kitchen. Alpha-03 became a hinge at the window between inside and sky. I closed my eyes and let the desert press its warm hand over the day.
We were packed for gods. We were packed for people. We had Coulson's number on the fridge and rules on a magnet. We had no points left and all the intention in the world to earn more the right way.
When sleep angled toward me, I said—because saying it makes it stay true—"Tomorrow we assist a person."
"Assist a person," Alpha-02 echoed, soft as a yes.
The knock had left fingerprints on the rhythm of the day. Polite. Patient. Coulson. In the quiet afterward, I wrote a single new line under our LINES—not numbered, not capitalized, like a promise you tuck into your boot:
— we will be the hinge, not the hammer, unless the door is on fire.
That was the work. Not to grab Mjölnir when it fell and hold it up to the camera, not to be the man in the center of the Avengers shot when the Battle of New York someday ripped the sky open like bad paper, not to become a myth who forgot who kept air in his lungs. To be the part of the story that lets other stories end with people alive.
I looked at the men the system called Spartans and I called by numbers until they earned names. Alpha-01: the anchor who trusts plans because plans have never betrayed him. Alpha-02: the craftsman who taps the edge of a compress the same way he would the edge of a knife, a shelf, a rule. Alpha-03: the sky man who aligns his breath with crowds and his yes with new skills.
"Gentlemen," I said to the room, to the world we were about to walk back into, "let's keep it boring and brilliant."
No one answered. The AC did. The desert did. Somewhere, a man who was once a god fell a little closer to ground.
The mission continues.