Phil Coulson's card lay face-down on the counter like a polite secret. I should've been nervous; most people get a visit from S.H.I.E.L.D. and start practicing their "yes, officer" smile in the mirror. Instead, I kept grinning like a tourist who'd just taken a selfie with the world's calmest avalanche. That's Coulson for you—smooth as butter, cool as ice, eyes like a ledger that balances itself.
"Okay, enough about Coulson," I said, clapping once to reset the room. "Back to business. Rookie—your time has come."
Alpha-03 turned toward me. It wasn't just the pivot; it was the way his posture sharpened, chin settling a millimeter, breath finding rhythm. "Acknowledged."
The system's blue edge slid across my vision—tidy as a PDF, unavoidable as taxes.
Points: 1,500
Spartan-II Training Overlay (complete): 1,500
Advisory: External observation: elevated (S.H.I.E.L.D.). Maintain variance.
Advisory: Unknown organization correlation: +0.2 (airport event). Expect counter.
"System," I told it, silently and a little too happily. "Begin Spartan-II training for Alpha-03."
Ding.
The first time you watch it, you expect fireworks. The fifth time, you understand it prefers precision. A faint blue shimmer wrapped Alpha-03 like a second skin—no lightning, no heroic choir, just an almost-audible hum while the overlay threaded itself through bone, fiber, reaction, judgment. It didn't add anything messy; it made what was there true.
"Every time this happens," I said, rubbing my hands together like a kid who knows which box under the tree is the good one, "it feels like Christmas morning."
"Effective," Alpha-02 observed.
"Thank you for your deeply moving commentary," I deadpanned. Alpha-01 tilted his head in my direction—silent judgment or micro-approval, hard to say. If he ever laughed, I'd frame the sound.
The glow crescendoed, then thinned until it was just air again. Alpha-03 straightened and tested his hands, flexing like he was discovering a keyboard he'd always owned. Something in the room felt heavier—not a weight, exactly… a presence. That subtle shift you get when a rook becomes a queen and pretends nothing happened.
"Well, well," I whistled. "How do you feel, Alpha-03?"
He glanced at me, then past me, as if checking whether words matched reality. "Stronger. Faster. Clear."
"Welcome to the big leagues."
"He is ready," Alpha-01 said—flat, factual, a conclusion on a report.
"Damn right. Three fully trained Spartans. A proper fireteam. Enough to handle most of what this universe throws at us—and yes, I'm including New York traffic."
"Mission success rate: high," Alpha-02 added without looking up.
"See? Even the robot agrees."
"I am not a robot," he said calmly.
I snapped my fingers. "Progress. He objects to slander. Next step: sarcasm."
I pointed at Alpha-03. "And you—no excuses. If you mess up, Alpha-01 and Alpha-02 will make fun of you."
"Acknowledged," he said, absolutely expressionless.
"You guys have to learn how to talk trash," I groaned. "I can't be the only comedian on this tour."
We turned the living room into a training hall with a minimum of drama and a maximum of painter's tape. Alpha-01 rolled the coffee table aside with one hand and laid down lanes: door, hall, window, dead zone behind the couch. Floorplan as doctrine. We work in quiet—because moving softly is a kind of respect.
"Warm-ups," I said, and tossed Alpha-03 a rubber training pistol. He caught it left-handed, recalculated his stance, then shifted right because he'd learned his idle hand is a better feeder than a catcher. Micro-trait: he re-tests breath after every change. The overlay had taught his lungs how to stop panicking before they started.
Alpha-01 took the role of a problem arriving through a doorway; Alpha-03 became the hinge. First run: disarm sequence at quarter speed—wrist, elbow, slide to control, knee alignment, barrel pointed toward tile, not people. Second run: half speed. Third: full speed, then a freeze at the moment the barrel wanted to misbehave. Alpha-01 held still; Alpha-03 corrected the angle by a finger's width, not a fist's.
"Good," Alpha-01 said.
"Again," Alpha-02 murmured.
They did it again. And again. The second attempt smoothed like a wrinkle admitting it had been wrong to exist. Alpha-03 started adjusting a half-step earlier, seeing weight shifts before they announced themselves.
"Quick learner," I said. "Give it a week and you'll be showing off."
"Improvement rate: satisfactory," Alpha-02 said.
"Glowing praise," I clapped. "Practically a standing ovation."
We layered in noise—sink on, faucet hissing, AC humming. We layered in light—lamps off, blinds half-open, hard sunlight laying bars across the floor like a jail for shadows. We layered in interruptions—I tossed an empty water bottle toward the corner at random moments; it skittered and made just enough noise to invite a mistake.
No mistakes arrived. Alpha-03 shortened his draw. Alpha-01 tested him with an early elbow; Alpha-03 accepted the collision and turned it into a placement that looked like gentleness until you noticed he'd stolen the other man's ability to stand.
"Swap," I said. Alpha-02 stepped in, all angles and quiet violence. He doesn't hit first; he changes your shape and then physics takes your breath. He corrected Alpha-03's elbow by two inches, then his foot by half a shoe width. "Energy conservation," he said. "Waste is loud."
We closed the room and ran a blind corner drill down the hall—left, right, door frame, view collapse. Alpha-03's first pass was fine. The second was clean. By the fourth, his feet and hands had discovered each other's timing, and the transition between cover and view resolved into choreography.
"Again," Alpha-01 said.
"Again," Alpha-02 echoed.
"Again," Alpha-03 answered himself, voice steady, and ran it smoother.
The system purred at the edge of my vision.
Training (03): 5% → 7% → 9% (idle integration accelerated)
Advisory: Maintain idle periods for optimal overlay stitching (2h cycles).
"Break," I said, because rest is part of the work. We refilled water bottles. I taped a bandage over the tiny scrape on my forearm—a souvenir from the airport where some man's watchband had tried to autograph me. Alpha-02 gave me a look that translated to you are dramatic, then adjusted the tape for better adhesion. He taps twice when he's done with anything from bandages to hinges to arguments. He taps twice now.
"Outside," I said. "Touch some desert. Practice eyes in open terrain. Not everything here has walls."
We took it to the driveway. The sun did not apologize for existing; it pressed on the back of the neck like advice from a friendly giant. The rental's paint had the permanent squint of vehicles that live under this sky. Heat came up from the ground in slow-motion; the air smelled like tire stores and new dust.
"Vehicle entries," I said. "Two configurations. One, S.H.I.E.L.D. thinks we're installers. Two, S.H.I.E.L.D. knows we're not and watches anyway."
Configuration One: we moved like men who keep glass from breaking and contracts from dying: Alpha-01 front passenger, because long arms make maps; Alpha-02 behind me, because first aid lives where he can reach it; Alpha-03 behind Alpha-01, because the man who loves sky should learn to love seat belts. Doors opened close-quiet—pull to the hinge, not away from it; knees slid; bodies folded. No banging. No show.
Configuration Two: a little more paranoia without performance. Alpha-01 scanned the line of parked cars for uninvited antennas; Alpha-02 checked under the vehicle in three clean movements that looked like he'd dropped his keys; Alpha-03 faced away while the rest of us got in, then slid in last, closing the lane. It read as habit, not threat.
We ran it until Alpha-03's movements cost no attention to complete. Then we took ten seconds and looked at the horizon because he likes that and I like that he likes it.
"Sky is good," he said under his breath, and I filed it with the few other truths that belong on the top shelf.
We hit a diner at sunset because calories buy sense, and mine was getting low. The bell above the door did a resigned little tling, as if it had been trying to retire for years and the owner kept talking it out of it. The place smelled like coffee that had been telling stories since morning and a grill that had opinions about steak.
A waitress with a name tag that said ROSE and eyes that had seen two wars—maybe three—took one look at my walking recruitment poster trio and decided not to ask questions. "Burgers?" she said, pen already hovering. "Fries? You look like fry people."
"Ma'am, we are whatever gets us fed," I said. "Four burgers, all the fries you're ethically allowed to bring, and something green so I can pretend I tried."
She bark-laughed, wrote salad? with a question mark on her pad like she and the question both knew the answer, and left us to our corner booth. Alpha-01 took the chair with the view of the door. Alpha-02 placed the napkin exactly folded in front of him like minimalism had adopted him. Alpha-03 sat at the window, eyes on the dim edge of sky where the heat gives up and night starts negotiating.
We ate like machines with gratitude. I savored mine like a national anthem sung by a choir that didn't mind grease. "This," I said around a fry, "is America. Terrible for arteries, tastes like heaven."
"Flavor: adequate," Alpha-03 offered after a thoughtful chew.
"Nutritional value: sufficient," Alpha-02 added, grave.
"You're killing me," I told them, and glanced at Alpha-01. "Never change. Except maybe smile once."
He didn't. He did cut his burger precisely in half with the side of his fork, which I chose to read as flair.
A kid at the counter dropped a straw and launched into a quiet panic about it, the way kids do when they've decided gravity is out to get them personally. Alpha-03 rose, scooped the straw with two fingers like it was a delicate instrument, and handed it back with the exact amount of solemnity children recognize as respect. The kid blinked, then grinned too big for his face.
Ding.
Assistance (Child): +1
Ethical Multiplier: +1 (consent, non-intrusive)
"Trickle economy," I murmured. "Pennies make dollars."
Rose came back with the check and a look that said where are you boys from and are you trouble and if so, what kind. "Passing through," I said, because covers like storm chasers and installers are true enough if you squint. "Headed upstate a while."
She refilled our water and slid a slice of pie onto the table without asking. "On the house," she said. "For the way you treated that kid like a person."
"Thank you," I said, meaning it.
Alpha-02 extracted cash from his wallet like he was disappointed bills weren't arranged alphabetically. He left a tip that would make a manager suspicious and a waitress cry happy in the back where no one could see.
"Cover story?" Rose asked, casual as you please, just to see which lie fit our mouths.
"Installers," I said, patting the clip board that lived in our bag. "Solar. We chase weather on weekends. Storms make us weird."
Her mouth quirked. "Storms make everybody weird," she said, and moved on.
We sat a little longer because stillness is a skill and diners are training grounds. The TV over the counter murmured local news—low sound, big words crawling by. UNUSUAL METEOROLOGICAL ACTIVITY near a place that looked like nowhere if you didn't know better. A man in a cheap suit pointed at a field. A logo I knew too well—the S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle—appeared for half a second in b-roll, small enough to pretend you hadn't seen it.
"Weather looks bad," I said into my straw like I was narrating my drink.
"Sausage," Alpha-01 replied—medium. "Observation only."
"Observation is fine," I said. "We like observation. We don't like ownership."
We bussed our own corner, because leaving places better than we found them is branding I can afford. On the way out, a cooler by the front registers rattled like it was trying to eat nickels. Alpha-02 knelt, listened to it with the patience of a priest, then tightened a fastener and realigned the fan cage by one leaf. The rattle died.
"On the house," Rose said again, and didn't mean the pie this time.
Ding.
Assistance (Small Business): +2
Ethical Multiplier: +1 (consent, non-destructive)
"Points are points," I said, and held the door for two ranchers who looked like the desert had made them out of leftover sun.
We walked back to the rental under a sky where stars came on like switches in slow motion. Heat got off our backs and onto our memories. Alpha-03 tilted his face up like someone tracking satellites with muscle memory. "Tomorrow," he said. Not a question.
"Tomorrow," I confirmed. "Odin tosses Thor Odinson out of Asgard. He hits dirt. S.H.I.E.L.D. builds fences. Jane Foster keeps data alive while paperwork tries to eat it. Darcy asks the wrong question in the right way. Erik Selvig squints at the sky and pretends he hasn't seen one like this before. We do what we do: assist a person."
"Plan," Alpha-02 prompted, because he knows I like stories and he likes lists.
I walked through it while the desert did its quiet thing around us:
"Not complicated," I said. "We don't walk up to Thor while he's yelling at S.H.I.E.L.D. We don't touch Mjölnir like we've never seen a symbol before. We do appear casual, helpful, and coincidentally on the right scene at the right time, repeatedly enough that it stops looking like coincidence and starts looking like reliability."
"Vectors," Alpha-01 said. He meant approach angles. I gave them.
"Vector one: Jane's group. If their van gets stuck, we push. If a tripod gets blown over, we catch it. If S.H.I.E.L.D. tries to confiscate hard drives, we ask the rightquestions and slow the tide until Coulson shows up and makes it reasonable. Scientist priority. Don't let authority eat the science."
"Understood," Alpha-01 said.
"Vector two: Civilians. Puente Antiguo has a main street and six ways to get into trouble. We walk grandmas across. We clear an alley during a scuffle. We keep Destroyer-day from becoming disaster-day. We create corridors. We do not grandstand."
"Copy," Alpha-03 said.
"Vector three: S.H.I.E.L.D.. Play useful. We're not on their payroll; we are on their side as long as their side is people. If Coulson asks politely, we answer politely. If someone with fewer manners asks less politely, we offer charm plus no comment."
"Understood," Alpha-02 said, which for him meant he was already printing a one-page handout in his head of what to say when the government knocks on your van.
We hit the sidewalk by the rental. The house looked smaller than the sky but larger than our doubts. Inside, the AC welcomed us home like a dog that didn't bark. I stuck Coulson's card back under the chili pepper magnet—the refrigerator of destiny—and the system drifted into view like a well-trained ghost.
Points: 1,500 → 0 (Spartan-II training: Alpha-03)
Advisory: Replenish through: named-character assists (Thor/Jane/Erik/Darcy), civilian saves, controlled public safety ops.
Note: Ethical multiplier: active when science preserved from appropriation.
"Ledger's empty," I told the room, cheerful about it. "We spend. We earn. We spend again, but better."
"Budget," Alpha-02 said, and passed me a pen.
I drew three columns in my notebook: people helped, points earned, points spent. Under spent, I wrote A-03 training (1,500) and under earned I left a row blank with Thor (assist) and Jane (preserve) in parentheses. Under people helped, I wrote whoever's in front of us and underlined it twice.
"Tomorrow we meet destiny and deniability," I said. "We help without putting our names on everything. We act like hinges, not hammers."
"Hinge," Alpha-03 repeated, liking the feel of the word.
"Exactly," I said, pleased. "We make doors open for other people—and we only slam them on monsters."
We ran one last drill with our comms code because repetition teaches bones:
"If I say, 'The weather looks bad,'" I started.
"Eyes up," Alpha-01 answered. "S.H.I.E.L.D. proximity. Surveillance likely."
"If I ask, 'How's the slice?'"
"Pepperoni low, sausage medium, anchovy bad idea," Alpha-02 recited. "Threat level shorthand."
"If I say, 'Anchovy' without being asked?"
"Retreat with civilians," Alpha-03 said. "No heroics. Corridors first."
"And if I say, 'Jane's hard drive'?" I added.
"Scientist priority," all three answered.
"Good," I said, feeling that settle inside me like a coin finding its slot. "Rotation. Alpha-01 till midnight. Alpha-03, midnight to four. Alpha-02, four to eight. We roll at dawn. Treat tonight like idle integration time." The system hummed happy at those words.
They took their places with the ease of men who understand that peace is also a post. Alpha-01 fused with the door frame as if wood were grateful to have him. Alpha-02 ghosted through the kitchen, checking chargers and batteries and the virtuous alignment of flashlights in a row. Alpha-03 took the window, eyes on the line where sky stopped being concept and started being weather.
I sank into the couch and let the AC's hum be the day's last sentence. The desert outside didn't apologize for the heat it had been or the cold it intended. Somewhere out there, Mjölnir had a landing site and S.H.I.E.L.D. had a perimeter with the wrong number of cones. Somewhere above there, Odin had already made pride and lesson exchange rings. Somewhere Phil Coulson wrote a report that used the word unusual three times and the word promising exactly once.
"Tomorrow," I said to the ceiling and the men and the system and maybe to Thor wherever he was in the sky, "we run into him without looking like we planned it. We catch what we're allowed to catch. We carry what other people can't."
"Understood," Alpha-01 said from the door, where understanding lives.
"Copy," Alpha-03 said from the window, where sky lives.
"Affirmative," Alpha-02 said from the kitchen, where practical lives.
I let my eyes close. No countdown, no prayer, just the rules written in the soft parts of my head where they wouldn't shake loose even if the world did: 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 protect the timeline only insofar as it protects people. We treat Spartans as people. We assist a person.
Sleep came like a quiet agreement.
We had three Spartan-II, one borrowed house, Coulson's number on the fridge, and exactly zero points. We had drills, we had lanes, we had a plan that looked like coincidence and felt like consideration. We had New Mexico around us and Asgard above us and Hell's Kitchen in our rearview and all the roads in front.
Tomorrow, the fun starts.
And we'll make sure it ends alive.