Jane's van rattles down the dusty road like it's trying to shake off yesterday. The rear window is streaked with horizontal fingerprints of sand; through them I catch flashes of Thor compressed into the back bench, shoulders eating the space while Jane and Darcy pin themselves into the corners to avoid stray princely elbows. Selvig has the passenger seat and the expression of a man negotiating a truce between physics and a legend.
I keep our rental SUV tucked a car-length behind, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming a beat I can feel in my teeth. Alpha-01 rides shotgun, gaze locked ahead like the horizon owes him money. Alpha-02 and Alpha-03 fill the back, perfectly still in that way that reads as eerie until you realize it's discipline—breathing shallow, eyes moving, nothing wasted.
"You know," I say, because somebody has to, "our new buddy's already having the time of his life. First a taser, now a road trip with strangers. Welcome to Earth, your royal thunder-ness."
"Unfamiliar environment," Alpha-02 answers flatly. "Thor Odinson unadapted."
"Exactly. Fish out of water. Or… god out of Asgard. Either way, we've got front-row seats."
"Objective remains protection," Alpha-03 adds, tone even as bedrock.
"I know, Rookie. We'll keep him safe." I grin at the windshield. "There's no rule against enjoying the entertainment value along the way."
The highway bleeds into a two-lane blacktop, then into a single long stripe that slices through Puente Antiguo—one main street, a handful of shopfronts with sun-faded signs, a gas station where the canopies double as shade therapy, and a diner wearing the proud neon of Best Pancakes in the County. The kind of place where coffee knows your name and the grill has opinions about bacon.
Jane swings the van into a spot, brakes squeaking, dust looping up behind like applause. I back our SUV into the space behind her so we can leave in a hurry if the world insists. As soon as we step out—me and three men who look like a special forces recruiting poster that learned the word statuesque—the attention hits. Heads turn. Forks pause mid-flight. Two old guys on the bench outside stop arguing about the weather and start arguing about us. Someone across the street decides this is a great time to wash a very clean window.
"Instant celebrities," I stretch, bones cracking in pleasant complaint. "We should charge for photos."
Alpha-01 does not blink. His default expression is polite granite.
"Tough crowd," I sigh.
Inside: that blessed AC sigh, the kind only diners achieve—part Freon, part ghost of uncounted cups of coffee. It smells like bacon fat that has read poetry, like hash browns atoning for last night's sins. We thread the narrow aisle between booths, my trio's shadow stretching over a floor that's already seen four generations of boots.
Jane does what all professionals do when dropped into chaos: she seeks infrastructure. She guides Thor to a booth near the back, the one with a view of exits and a little extra elbow mercy. Darcy takes the opposite bench with a protective grip on her taser like a sheriff holstering authority. Selvig sits at the end to intercept any arguments that try to escape.
"Four more over here, please," I say to the waitress with my best smile. "Big table if you've got one. These three need extra legroom."
She clocks the Alphas—tall, broad, quiet—and blinks once the way people do when their brain hits a wall labeled unfamiliar. Then she nods and leads us to the booth directly behind Jane's. My Spartans slide into the bench in perfect unison, eating the space and somehow making it look like courtesy. I drop in last, elbows out, the familiar itch of surveillance tickling between my shoulder blades even before the door's bell gives away the next customer.
Two tables over, Thor sits like a dethroned king—hair wild, clothes torn, posture regal anyway. He can't help it; some men are architecture even when they try to slouch.
"You'd think he'd realize he's not blending in," I murmur.
"Thor Odinson stands out," Alpha-02 says, insultingly factual.
"Understatement of the year."
Menus arrive: laminated, a little curled at the edges, honest. The Alphas look at theirs like museum plaques describing artifacts from a civilization that boiled oil for sport.
I pluck Alpha-01's. "All right, lesson time. This is called a menu. You pick a thing and then you eat it. You don't stare at it like it owes you money."
"All options sufficient," Alpha-03 says, which somehow manages to be both true and a cry for help.
"Of course you'd say that." I look up at the waitress. "I'll order for them. Three stacks of pancakes, extra bacon, and a side of eggs for each of these charming refrigerators. And for me, the biggest burger you've got."
She scribbles, smirks—some people appreciate confidence as a seasoning—and moves off.
Across the aisle, Thor attempts the most Asgardian order possible. He sits up straighter and announces to the immediate county, "I require sustenance."
Darcy flinches, nearly baptizing herself in coffee. "Dude, you don't have to yell. They can hear you; the next town can hear you."
"Just order coffee," Jane says, pinching the bridge of her nose in the way of women resigned to shepherding brilliant disasters.
"I do not drink your coffee. Bring me ale."
"Uh—we don't serve alcohol before noon," the waitress manages, eyes flicking to the clock like she'd give it a push if she could.
"Hey, Goldilocks," I call over the divider, sugar in my voice. "Start with pancakes. Work your way up to ale."
"You mock me again," he frowns.
"Yep," I say cheerfully. "And I'm going to keep doing it until you lighten up. Pancakes, Thor. Almost as good as lightning."
Darcy snorts into her drink. Jane gifts me the patented exasperated scientist look—the one that says I do not approve and secretly keep going, it's working.
The food arrives in a parade: plates stacked like hills, steam lifting off eggs, bacon glistening the way only sin and breakfast do. The Alphas eat with mechanical precision, not fast, not slow, just efficient—cut, bite, chew, sip, repeat. I make indecent noises at my burger because grease and chaos pair beautifully.
"This," I say after a heroic bite, "this is life. Burgers and chaos. Perfect balance."
"Fuel acquired," Alpha-02 reports between bites.
"You guys really know how to ruin a moment."
Thor demolishes his plate with surprising speed, like a labrador who has rediscovered joy. He finishes, slams the dish down with a satisfied grunt, and bellows, "Another!"
The whole diner jumps. Darcy sloshes coffee; Jane groans into her hands; Selvig mutters in Swedish, which I don't speak but feel in my soul. Somewhere the cook laughs like it's the best thing he's heard all week.
I clap, delighted. "Oh, I like you. You're going to fit right in."
The waitress—with the reflexes of someone who's dealt with oil crews and high school teams—swoops to scoop the plate and promises a second stack with the speed of a woman who knows tips scale with spectacle.
The bell over the door tlings again—lighter, practiced. A black SUV slides into the space across the street, windows tinted, paint job with that officially unremarkable shine. No markings. It parks like it has an alibi.
"Well, well," I murmur, leaning back so the booth's vinyl squeaks. "Friends from S.H.I.E.L.D."
Alpha-01's eyes tick toward the glass panel at the front, a micro-movement no one else would catch. "Observation confirmed."
"Surveillance active," Alpha-02 says, dabbing at a drop of syrup with unnecessary precision.
Alpha-03 simply nods once—acknowledgment without appetite.
"Don't worry about them," I say. "Coulson knows we're not here to start a war. They'll watch, take a few photos, then crawl back to base and write unusual on four different lines."
Across the diner, Thor follows my gaze, frown sharpening. "Who watches us?"
"Government types," I say, keeping it light. "Think of them as Midgard's palace guards. With worse fashion sense and more paperwork."
"They're going to freak out when they see him," Darcy mutters, trying for casual and landing on delighted.
"Oh, they're already freaking out," I say. "You just can't hear it through the tint."
A kid at the counter—maybe eight—turns on his stool to stare at the Alphas like they're astronauts who forgot their helmets. His dad murmurs something about manners; the kid ignores it with the boiling confidence of childhood.
"Hi," he says to Alpha-03 because children can smell the kindest wolf. "Are you superheroes?"
Alpha-03 tilts his head, considers the philosophical nuance, then answers with the gravity of a judge. "We assist."
The boy beams, satisfied with that as a definition worth living with. His dad relaxes enough to sip coffee. Somewhere in the kitchen a spatula claps a griddle in applause.
Second stacks arrive. Thor tests a forkful like he's checking a shield edge, then decides joy is a worthy weapon and eats with vigor. The plate returns to wood with less of a slam this time and more of a declaration: this, too, can be good.
I let the room wash over me—the low talk, the clink of flatware, the waitress' special talent for being in four places at once. NYPD has a word for it—situational awareness. Mine has extra tabs: exits, angles, reflections; who has eyes, who has hands, who has intent. The black SUV has one driver twice glancing down, one passenger scanning. S.H.I.E.L.D. or men who wish they were. Pepperoni on the threat pizza: low. We eat and let them eat their curiosity.
"Weather looks bad," I say softly.
"Pepperoni," Alpha-01 agrees, low enough to be a thought, not a word.
Selvig clears his throat, braving the divide between booths. "If S.H.I.E.L.D. is present, this is a poor time to make grand gestures."
"Luckily," I say, "we specialize in small ones that matter."
Jane gestures toward Thor with a fork, trying to orchestrate a more human way of being with simple prongs. "You are not running anywhere until you get your strength back. And even then—there are procedures."
"Procedures?" Thor repeats, baffled and offended, like he's been told to take a number at the Gate of Valhalla.
"Guidelines," Darcy translates. "Rules so we don't die. Or get sued. Also so we don't trend for the wrong reasons."
"Trending," he says, tasting the word as though it might be a weapon.
"Kind of like a bard refusing to shut up about your mistakes," I say. "Only the bard is everyone with a phone."
He grimaces. Progress.
When breakfast is safely on board and the plates have been cleared, Thor stands in one fluid, towering motion that makes three separate conversations falter mid-sentence. He squares himself like a man about to argue a case with physics. "I must go," he declares. "My hammer calls to me."
"You can't just storm out like that," Jane protests, sliding out of the booth so fast her bag snags and she has to spin to rescue it. "We have to plan. There are agents out there."
"Agents?" he echoes, half-laugh, half-snarl.
"S.H.I.E.L.D.. Coulson's people," I say. "They're still deciding whether we're a problem or a solution."
"I do not wait while others hold what is mine," he growls, and there he is—the prince, the end of a spear of a long family line, the certainty of birthright.
He moves. Thor rarely listens; he acts, and later the story tries to keep up. I'm already on my feet, cash on the table—more than the bill, because Rose (says her nametag) ran triage for us all morning.
"Field trip, boys," I say, rolling my shoulders. "Let's make sure Goldilocks doesn't get into trouble alone. S.H.I.E.L.D. would have a field day."
"Protective detail engaged," Alpha-01 says, rising like a decision.
Alpha-02 and Alpha-03 stand in sync behind me; their presence rearranges the room's geometry. Conversations flatten to whispers. Darcy groans into her empty mug. "Great. More chaos."
"Chaos is my specialty," I assure her.
We step out into the white glare of noon. Heat presses a hand against the backs of our necks. Thor is already three storefronts down, striding the centerline of Main Street like a man who owns the deed, hair catching the desert wind, pride radiating off him like a weather front. People pause, phones lift, someone's dog decides to declare an opinion and then thinks better of it.
"Maybe pace yourself," I say, catching up in a few long steps. "You'll want all your strength for when you see that hammer again."
He scowls but doesn't shove me away. Progress in the language of princes.
Behind us, Jane's van coughs back to life, the engine's protest swallowed by the AC's promise. Down the block, the black SUV slides into motion with the slow grace of a chess piece that knows all the endgames. It keeps a respectable distance—S.H.I.E.L.D. polite even in curiosity.
"Weather looks bad," Alpha-01 says from my shoulder, eyes not leaving the forward line. The code is comfort now, not warning.
"Sausage," I answer. Medium. "Observation only. No escalation."
We pass a barbershop where a man with half a haircut watches his reflection change around Thor's passage. We pass a hardware store where an apprentice stands in the doorway holding a coil of rope like it might turn into a lasso if the day gets much stranger. A pair of teenagers lean on BMX bikes and stage a conversation for social media that collapses into gawking as the god goes by.
A boy in a Spider-Man t-shirt—Peter would laugh—whispers, "Is that a superhero?" His mother hushes him gently and takes a picture anyway.
"Don't pose, big guy," I murmur to Thor. "We're not selling posters. We're buying time."
He growls something like agreement. The van rolls behind us, Darcy hanging out the passenger window to yell directions at Jane who absolutely does not need them. Selvig rides shotgun with his phone out, pretending he isn't documenting the exact security posture of a small town on a very weird day.
The black SUV mirrors our pace. Another car joins it—white sedan, unmemorable on purpose. Alphabet soup agencies love triangulation. My HUD pops in at the edge of my vision like a helpful ghost:
Advisory: External observation (S.H.I.E.L.D.) sustained.
Advisory: Unknown org correlation: minimal (no aggression).
Ethical Multiplier: active (civilian calm maintained).
"Pepperoni trending sausage," I tell the air.
"Copy," Alpha-02 says. He's counting plates in shop windows because the reflection will tell him what eyes won't.
We reach the end of the block, where Main Street becomes desert again. In the distance, where heat shivers the horizon into watercolor, cones and fences have sprouted around a crater like mushrooms after rain. Mjölnir sits dead center—the world's fanciest paperweight—glinting like a story in sunlight.
Thor slows. Not because of us; because the sight outpaces his feet. His breath changes—two in, two out, settling to a drum he learned long before Midgard. The weight of it hits him in the chest: home in sight, home out of reach.
I stand beside him and let the moment be his. No jokes; even I have a line. "We'll make corridors," I say eventually, because plans are easier to wear than grief. "We'll keep the crowd from getting stupid. We'll talk to Coulson and not the guy three ranks below him who thinks your name is a threat. We'll get you as close as the day allows."
His jaw flexes. Pride and humility spar behind his eyes. He nods once. It's not surrender. It's strategy wearing the face of agreement.
Behind us, Jane pulls up, parks with surgical precision, and hops out with a notebook and unwilling patience. Darcy shoulders her bag like she's ready to tase a mammoth if someone invents one. Selvig closes his door as if it has feelings. The black SUV idles a stone's throw away; the white sedan nestles behind it like a duckling. People gather at the far end of the cones, making lines of curiosity—orderly, for now.
"Game's officially on," I say, more to myself than anyone.
"Understood," Alpha-01 replies.
"Maintain pepperoni," Alpha-02 adds.
"Sky is good," Alpha-03 says softly, eyes counting clouds that have decided to be ornaments instead of warnings.
"Then let's go be boring and brilliant," I say. "We're the hinge, not the hammer—until the door's on fire."
Thor squares his shoulders, the sun catching in his hair, pride hitching a ride. Jane falls in at his side like common sense with sneakers. Darcy walks backward to film the horizon and not trip at the same time, proving multitasking is real if you're stubborn. Selvig murmurs to himself about bridges and storms and boys who won't listen to math.
We step into the street, into the heat, into the story that's been waiting for us since Odin decided he loved his son too much to let him never learn. And as the S.H.I.E.L.D. SUV eases forward and the cones gleam and Mjölnir sits quiet in the middle of a hole like a king in exile, I feel the city we left behind—Hell's Kitchen—and the sky above us—Asgard—fold into the same rule:
Assist a person. Keep the temperature down. Leave the place better than you found it.
"Walk," I say.
We do.