Chapter 15: Math and Muscle (Reforged)
The ride back from the Mjölnir site felt like someone had turned the volume down on the world and left the brightness all the way up. New Mexico's sun flattened itself against the windshield in long panes of molten orange; the highway spun dust into gold thread that trailed behind us like we'd stitched the desert to the horizon. In Jane Foster's van up ahead, I could just make out the blocky silhouette of Thor Odinson—the Asgardian prince who had tried to lift his own myth and been told "not yet" by a hammer with opinions.
He didn't say much after that.
"Thor doesn't do silence," I said, tapping a rhythm on the steering wheel. "At least, not the word kind. That's a lot of quiet for one guy."
"Thor Odinson incapacitated," Alpha-02 observed from the back. Clinical as a lab report.
"Emotionally, yes," I said. "Physically he'll bounce. Big men with bigger destinies don't stay down long. But emotionally—oof."
"Assistance effective," Alpha-03 added, the soft gravel of his voice steady as a metronome.
"Exactly. Mission goals met. No casualties. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't get itchy with the triggers. And the golden guy learned he isn't alone on Midgard. Good day at the office."
Alpha-01 sat in the passenger seat like a polite statue, scanning the horizon as if the cacti might unionize. The SUV's AC fought the heat and lost politely; the road hummed; the desert breathed in that slow, huge way that makes human problems look small without saying they are.
Up ahead, Jane's van signaled and peeled toward the motel. I let her go. Thor needed space to sulk without an audience, and I didn't need to sit in a cramped van listening to a dethroned god mutter about Odin like a poet with a grudge.
We rolled into the drive of the rental house at dusk. The stucco walls caught the last light like they'd been painted with a memory of it. Inside, the AC's hum wrapped itself around us like competent hands.
"Home, sweet borrowed home," I sighed, throwing myself onto the couch with the theatrical groan that means I'm fine, I just want attention. The Spartans—Alpha-01, Alpha-02, Alpha-03—performed their ritual of nonexistent gear checks. (I swear they'd stage imaginary helmets in a neat row if I let them.) Boots set just so. Chargers aligned like compass points. It's soothing, discipline; it gives shape to air.
I flicked my eyes to the system, and the blue overlay slid into place like a well-trained ghost.
Points available: 3,000
Spartan clone: 500
Spartan-II training: 1,500
Ethical multiplier: active (named-character assistance, civilian safety, scientific preservation)
Advisory: Maintain low profile, high utility. Potential incidents: S.H.I.E.L.D. consolidation; Destroyer event; civilian corridors.
"Three thousand," I said aloud, grinning the grin of a man who has found a coupon for exactly his addiction. "You know what that means."
"Expansion possible," Alpha-01 said, because of course that's how his brain is organized.
"Bingo. Now comes the fun part: decisions."
"Options," Alpha-02 prompted, settling onto the edge of the dining chair like posture had a chance to be offended.
"Option one," I said, pacing the living room like a general in a shoebox. "Two fully trained Spartan-IIs—fifteen hundred points apiece. Instant excellence. We go from three perfect appliances to five, all factory-calibrated to 'nightmare for bad guys.' Option two: six brand-new recruits. Fresh clones. No Spartan-II overlay yet, but bodies on the board. More coverage, more presence, more chances to intervene and farm points wherever Marvel decides to throw chaos next."
"Decision required," Alpha-03 said.
"Lucky for you, I'm the one making it," I said, spinning on my heel and pointing at the imaginary war map only I could see. "You just get to stand there and look intimidating while I do math."
I started sketching with words, because that's how you build something you can't afford a whiteboard for.
"Case one: quality. Train two new Spartans. We'd be five-strong in fully upgraded Spartan-II capability. Smaller footprint, higher lethality, fewer variables. Alpha-01?"
"Fewer variables," he echoed, approving without smiling. (He saves smiles for the apocalypse, I think, when they count the most.)
"Case two: quantity. Summon six rookies. We expand fast—nine Spartans on deck if you include you three and the fresh half dozen. That's a wall you can build a city behind."
"Rookies are untrained. Effectiveness diminished," Alpha-02 said, not unkindly—just accurate.
I nodded. "Strong but rough. Raw horsepower without traction control. Numbers win some fights just by existing—but numbers also multiply mistakes."
"Training possible later," Alpha-03 offered. He likes solutions that arrive in stages; the sky taught him to be patient.
"Exactly," I said. "Buy rookies now, train them over time. Big payoff in a week or two of ethical grind."
"Weakness during training period," Alpha-02 counter-weighted. "S.H.I.E.L.D. observation risk increases with visible footprint."
"True," I admitted, throwing myself into the armchair and swinging one ankle over a knee. "You two are like the angel and devil on my shoulders. One says 'play it safe, minimize risk,' the other says 'gamble, scale fast.'"
They said nothing. The AC breathed. Night arrived at the windows one square at a time.
I thought of Thor falling to his knees in the dust, breath clawing at his ribs, the Mjölnir strap lying limp in his hands like a question he wasn't allowed to answer yet. He would need protection whether he admitted it or not. He would attract trouble whether he sought it or not. Agent Phil Coulson wasn't going anywhere; he'd keep eyes on us, file notes that said unusual and promising and monitor in equal measure, and learn to tolerate the fact that my three very large "brothers" made his agents try a little harder at posture.
"Here's the best part," I said suddenly, sitting forward as the idea clicked into place. "I can't lose. Quality or quantity, we get stronger in ways that matter. Either way, S.H.I.E.L.D. gets a headache and Thor gets a buffer zone."
"Commander satisfied," Alpha-01 observed, which, from him, is confetti.
"Damn right. Three thousand buys a lot of fun. The only question is what flavor we lick first."
"Decision now?" Alpha-02 asked.
"Not yet. We sleep on it. Points aren't running off to Asgard, and I'd rather not choose while I'm still buzzed from watching Thor try to deadlift destiny."
"Acknowledged," Alpha-03 said.
Dinner was takeout—burger stack for me, plain chicken and rice for the Spartans because fuel is fuel and they metabolize drama into glucose somehow. They ate in synchronized economy: cut, chew, sip, set fork, repeat. I compensated by talking enough for four people and a small dog.
"I could get used to this," I said around a fry. "Nice house. Working AC. Good food. Points in the bank. A growing army of supersoldiers at my back. What more could a guy ask for in the MCU?"
Alpha-01 did not answer—of course—and I grinned anyway. "Yeah, yeah. You'd say 'discipline' or something with a saluting emoji. But I'm saying it's nice. Don't ruin it."
"Commander content," Alpha-02 said, verifying the mood as if it were a battery level.
"Exactly." I pointed a fry at him. "Content. That's the word."
"Decision tomorrow," Alpha-03 added, dutiful as a note taped to a fridge.
"You're really stuck on that, huh? Don't worry, Rookie. You'll get a new brother soon—one way or another."
We finished the ritual of plates and napkins and the holy sacrament of wiping down the counter to calm Alpha-02's soul. Then I sank onto the couch, propped my feet on the coffee table, and called the system back up for one last flirt.
Points available: 3,000
Spartan clone: 500
Spartan-II training: 1,500
Projected returns (heuristic):
— +Quality Path (2 trainings): less visible footprint; higher success probability in high-intensity incidents (e.g., Destroyer event); lower onboarding friction with S.H.I.E.L.D.
— +Quantity Path (6 clones): increased surface area for named-character assists; higher civilian corridor capacity; increased PR footprint; increased OPSEC load.
"Two more trained soldiers or six more rookies," I murmured, a smile tugging. "Either way, the squad grows. Either way, we win."
But I didn't close the overlay this time. I widened it. If I was going to dignify the chapter title—Math and Muscle—I might as well earn the math.
"Okay," I said to the room and the system and whatever gods eavesdrop once they're bored of Bifrost glow. "Let's war-game."
Alpha-01 folded his arms; Alpha-02 angled to see the empty air I was reading; Alpha-03 took the window and the night simultaneously.
"Scenario A: Destroyer walks into Puente Antiguo tomorrow. We all remember that part of the Marvel Cinematic Universe—rolling furnace, Odin's insurance policy with legs, zero chill. Our mission, as always: assist people, lower temperature, build corridors, keep Jane, Darcy, and Erik alive, keep civilians behind hard cover, buy Thor time to be worthy. Question: is quality or quantity the better answer?"
"Quality," Alpha-01 said immediately. "Few assets with high reliability. Fire discipline. Controlled risk."
"Quantity raises evac throughput," Alpha-02 countered, because he can hold two truths without letting them fight. "More hands. More eyes. Corridors remain open under panic conditions."
"Quality hands make better corridors," Alpha-01 said, not as argument, just as physics. "Untrained assets increase noise."
"Rookie can hold tape," Alpha-03 said after a beat. "Can carry. Can guide." He liked the image of men shaped like him being used as signposts for frightened people. He likes useful more than he likes perfect.
I nodded. "Next scenario: Sif and the Warriors Three pop in to check on their boy. Friendly gods with loud armor and bigger footprints. S.H.I.E.L.D. freaks out, Coulson pretends not to, and downtown becomes a parade where all the floats carry spears. We'll need translators, buffers, crowd control that looks like hospitality. Quality gives us fewer mouths, fewer mistakes. Quantity makes the parade look organized."
"S.H.I.E.L.D. tolerance threshold," Alpha-02 said, which is how he says Phil can only take so much before he calls Fury and my life gets complicated. "Large group increases scrutiny. OPSEC risk."
"Noted," I said. "Next scenario: street-level work. Not gods, not doom engines, just people making bad choices in Hell's Kitchen terms brought to New Mexico. Petty theft, drunk fights, scared locals testing fences, the low-grade chaos that feeds our point economy without costing anyone blood. Quantity shines there. Six rookies could sweep a town without breaking a sweat. Quality can too—but presence matters. Reputation is a tool."
"Quality prevents escalation," Alpha-01 said.
"Quantity prevents opportunity," Alpha-02 countered. "Less space for wrong to begin."
I felt the decision tree grow in my head like a living thing—branches weighted not just with outcomes, but with optics. Because the truth inside a Marvel world is that what's true and what it looks like both matter. Coulson can tolerate three mysterious soldiers and a guy named Shredder who keeps saying words like assist and corridor. Nine soldiers? The word he'd use is paramilitary. The word that follows it is containment.
"Let's talk integration cost," I said. "Every Spartan added has a curve. The overlay makes training safe, but rookies still need culture, comms, code words, ethics. We've built a language: weather looks bad (eyes up), how's the slice (threat pizza), scientist priority, hinge not hammer. It's not just maneuvers; it's mood. Nine of us means herding more cats. Even genetically perfect cats."
"Herding cats is inaccurate," Alpha-02 said, deadpan enough to make me snort.
"Point taken," I said. "Still: quality lets me teach deeper, not wider."
I expanded the overlay to a fake spreadsheet because numbers deserve at least a napkin:
Path Q (Quality): Spend 3,000 on two Spartan-II trainings → Team of 5 fully trained Spartan-IIs.
Pros: High reliability under fire; minimal S.H.I.E.L.D. backlash; smaller logistics footprint; better interoperability; higher survivability under Destroyer-class threat.
Cons: Fewer hands for evac; lower presence; slower point accrual from low-stakes assists.
Path N (Numbers): Spend 3,000 on six clones → Team of 9 Spartans (3 trained + 6 rookies).
Pros: Wide coverage; massive deterrence; more corridor capacity; faster point trickle; redundancy for 24/7 watches.
Cons:OPSEC pressure; S.H.I.E.L.D. friction; training overhead; higher chance of rookie error in a Coulson-saturated environment.
Then there were the hybrids, the weirder shapes the system could make if I leaned into nuance:
Hybrid H1:One training (1,500), three clones (1,500). Net: 4 trained + 3 rookies (total 7).
Balance: Enough quality to anchor, enough quantity to presence.
Hybrid H2:Two clones (1,000), one training (1,500), bank 500 for contingency.
Net: 4 trained + 2 rookies (total 6), plus a spare to plug a leak fast.
Hybrid H3:Six clones now, do two trainings off the Destroyer event points (gamble on near-future jackpot).
Net: short-term risk, long-term avalanche.
I paced again because decisions like movement. "What do we want to be when Fury's eye blinks open?" I asked the room. "A rumor with discipline? Or a fact with too many boots?"
"Rumor," Alpha-01 said. It wasn't a word he used often. When he did, it meant not being the main character keeps people alive.
"Fact earns cooperation," Alpha-02 said. "Coulson respects usefulness."
"Sky is good," Alpha-03 offered, which I translated loosely to large shapes draw lightning.
We didn't have to choose tonight, but the decision had begun choosing us.
I dropped into the couch again and let the AC comb sweat off my brain. The house ticked in that small, settling way houses do when they're learning your shape. Outside, night finished convincing the desert to cool. Somewhere, a dog barked once to make sure nothing interesting was happening.
"Okay," I said, softer. "Let's not pretend math is the only part of Math and Muscle. How are we?"
"Operational," Alpha-01 said.
"Nominal," Alpha-02 said.
"Good," Alpha-03 said, because he tells the truth with the smallest words.
I let the humor drop for one of the few times I allow it. "Thor's hurting," I said. "He's loud when he wins. He's quiet now, which is worse. Tomorrow he'll want the hammer again. He'll try to sprint straight through the part of grief where you learn patience. We stand in front of him when he needs it, next to him when it helps, behind him when Coulson needs a photo of 'cooperation.'"
"Scientist priority continues," Alpha-02 said, as if I might have forgotten Jane and Darcy and Erik just because a god needed a hand.
"Always," I said. "Their data lives or I have failed."
The overlay pinged—a small, respectful chime.
Narrative Forecast:
— Jane Foster: threatened equipment (bureaucratic, not violent).
— Darcy Lewis: verbal conflict with agent (minor).
— Erik Selvig: increasing skepticism, protective action (bar scene probability: medium).
— Thor Odinson: attempted infiltration of compound (night).
Recommendation: Maintain low profile; prepare evac routes; keep Alpha-02 near Jane; Alpha-03 on sky/road; Alpha-01 on Thor shadow.
"Copy," I said. "PACE plan: Primary route south, Alternate through the lot, Contingency across the wash, Emergency through the alley behind the diner. Keep comms on plain unless we have to switch to pizza talk."
The Spartans nodded in their precise trio way. We were good at boring now. We took a strange pride in being hinges where the world expected hammers.
I set the system aside and reached for the normal human ritual that keeps gods from eating your edges: dishes in the sink; trash in the bin; couch reset; locks checked. Alpha-02 beat me to the locks, of course, and then pretended I had helped so I wouldn't feel useless. He tapped the deadbolt—once, twice—the way he taps everything when it's right.
On the coffee table, my mental** ledger** kept blinking its blue eye. I stared it down.
"Let's do some return math," I said, because I wasn't done being a nerd. "How many points per day do we think we can farm ethically with five trained Spartans versus nine mixed?"
"Estimate:100–300 from low-risk interventions. 1,000+ from named-character events," Alpha-02 said. "Variance high. Destroyer event yields 2,000–5,000 potential if civilian casualties remain zero."
"Okay," I said. "So training now is buying insurance against the high-variance thing tomorrow. More rookies now buys a trickle that turns into a stream. Which one protects Thor and Jane better?"
"Quality protects under fire," Alpha-01 said.
"Quantity protects under panic," Alpha-02 said.
"Hinge protects both," Alpha-03 said, and I could've hugged him if hugging weren't a rookie hazard.
We settled into night rotations with the ease of men who know sleep is also a post. "Alpha-01 till midnight," I said. "Alpha-03 midnight to four. Alpha-02 four to eight. If Thor goes walkabout, we don't stop him—shadow and cool the edges."
"Understood," said the door, because Alpha-01 was already there.
"Copy," said the window, because Alpha-03 had already made friends with Orion.
"Affirmative," said the kitchen, because Alpha-02 had lined the flashlights up like a choir.
I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and told the mirror it had been a weird day and I wasn't mad about it. On the way back to the couch (I pretend it's a bed so my pride doesn't get offended), I stopped and looked at the Coulson card under the fridge magnet shaped like a chili pepper. A polite knock with a logo on it. The man was a ledger with shoes, and for now the ledger liked my math.
I lay back, hands folded under my head, and let the house talk itself into sleep. Feet up on the coffee table, I allowed myself one last indulgence: the picture of two paths superimposed, the quality bright line and the quantity wide ribbon.
"Here's where I land for tonight," I said to the ceiling, to the system, to the All-Father if he was eavesdropping through the decorative moon. "We hold the 3,000. We don't spend in the glow of victory or the shadow of guilt. Tomorrow, we watch what Thor chooses and who Coulson sends to get in the way. If the Destroyer breathes, we push quality. If the town starts to shake at the edges, we grow quantity. We'll be the hinge either way."
The house settled. The AC purred. The desert's breath cooled the stucco. In its hum, I heard the only rule that has ever held: Assist a person. Don't hold the hero line if the civilian line is falling. Don't collect points like trophies. Collect people who are still breathing.
"Two more trained soldiers or six more rookies," I repeated, smiling because either answer is a kind of yes to a better tomorrow. "Either way, the squad grows. Either way, we win."
I closed the screen and let victory taste like salt and air-conditioning. Math and muscle. Marvel and method. The hammer would wait. The desert would keep its heat for the morning. And somewhere in a motel, a prince lay staring at a ceiling that did not belong to him, learning the hardest lesson any warrior ever does:
You can be worthy without winning.
Sleep came like an agreement.
Morning would bring its ledger. Coulson would smile that almost-smile and rephrase orders as requests. Jane would defend her hard drives like a mother hawk. Darcy would weaponize sarcasm with extra batteries. Erik would insist on a bar as a research facility. Thor would test every fence and then, somehow, the fence inside himself. And me? I'd open the system, see 3,000, and choose between math and muscle with the same rule I always use:
What keeps the most people alive?
I slept like a man who had already chosen, even if the button could wait one more sunrise.