Night in the New Mexico desert wears a different kind of quiet. It doesn't sit still—it hums. Crickets turn the sand into a low chorus, the wind fusses with the scrub as if rearranging notes, and heat lifts off the earth with a sigh that finally admits it's tired. Our rental felt like a little island in that ocean—stucco box, rattling AC, a rectangle of light in the dark. Inside, I lay on the couch pretending it was a bed and let the system HUD glow in the top corner of my vision like a very polite ghost.
Points available: 3,000
Spartan clone: 500
Spartan-II training: 1,500
Advisory: Maintain low profile; high utility. S.H.I.E.L.D. observation rising.
Forecast: Thor Odinson likely to test compound security (night). Civilians steady. Destroyer probability increasing (short horizon).
"Alright, boys," I said to the room, fingers laced behind my head. "Decision time. And lucky for you, I'm brilliant. We're getting the best of both worlds."
Alpha-01 turned from the doorpost with that calm, unreadable face that made strangers aim their manners correctly. "Plan."
"Simple," I said, and it was—simple the way bridges look simple when you're not staring at the math. "We add one more fully trained Spartan-II and we seed three rookies under mentorship—one for each veteran. That gives us structure and scale. Alpha-04 spawns trained; Alpha-05, -06, -07 spawn green and get paired up day one."
"Division of responsibility," Alpha-02 said, head tilting in the faint nod that counted as enthusiasm for him.
"Exactly. Alpha-05 is yours," I told him. "Alpha-06 goes under Alpha-03. Alpha-07 under Alpha-04. You own their progress. You teach them the code words, the SOP, the hinge-not-hammer rule, the civilian corridor rule. You get them from strong to Spartan."
"Acknowledged," Alpha-03 said, eyes sliding to the window and back, cataloging distances the way other people catalog recipes.
"Acceptable," Alpha-01 added, which from him might as well be a party horn.
"You don't have to sound so excited," I smirked. "Try not to sprain anything with all that enthusiasm."
I sat up and let the HUD have the wheel. "System—summon Alpha-04 and apply Spartan-II training immediately."
Ding.
Blue light poured into the center of the room like it had memorized where we keep the good rug. It didn't explode; it congealed—lines crossing lines, a blueprint becoming a person. The clone stepped out of math wearing my favorite height and posture, and before breath had a chance to ask questions, the training cocoon closed around him in a soft, humming hemisphere.
Even in a world that has Mjölnir and Bifrost and Asgard on the menu, the Spartan-II upgrade is something you feel in your teeth. The air sang a tiny note you couldn't name. The light wasn't just bright; it was purposeful. Muscles re-knit, bones densified, reflex arcs braided themselves into tighter rope. There were no surgical tables, no drills, no risk of failure—just that Halo Spartan miracle of a human being rewritten toward faster, stronger, sharper, steadier.
"Welcome to the family, Rookie—" I grinned, "—but not for long."
The radiance ebbed. Alpha-04 straightened from the cocoon, eyes razor-clear, presence heavier, like the gravity in the room had agreed to upgrade too. He saluted with crisp economy. "Commander."
"Now that's what I like to hear. Congratulations, Alpha-04—you just skipped the kiddie pool."
"Acknowledged."
I clapped his shoulder. He didn't move under it, because Spartan-II. "You'll loosen up eventually. Or not. Either way, I'm entertained."
I didn't give the room time to exhale. "Step two. System—summon three clones: Alpha-05, Alpha-06, Alpha-07."
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Three more figures resolved one after another, each a study in consistency with barely there variations—one with a slightly narrower jawline, one whose left eyebrow sat the tiniest fraction higher, one whose hands opened and closed like they counted breathing. Their builds were right, but the edges were softer, their movements a beat behind the music we danced to. Raw recruits. Still, they stood tall as if the word gravity had been explained but not yet tested.
"Commander," they said together—clipped, in sync, eyes on me.
"And the family keeps growing." I spread my arms like I should be handing out goodie bags. "Welcome, rookies. Don't worry—you'll catch up."
I turned to the veterans. "Assignments: Alpha-05 to Alpha-02. Alpha-06 to Alpha-03. Alpha-07 to Alpha-04. Mentors own outcomes. If your rookie trips, your shoelace was loose. If your rookie shines, you polished him."
"Understood." (Alpha-02)
"Acknowledged." (Alpha-03)
"Confirmed." (Alpha-04)
The rookies drifted to their posts as if tugged by magnets, mirroring their mentors' postures with the usual Spartan gift for imitation. It was like watching iron filings find north.
"Look at this," I said, leaning against the counter, happy in a way my chest didn't know how to disguise. "From one Spartan to seven in what, two heartbeats? Progress. S.H.I.E.L.D. has no idea what's about to hit them. And Thor has no idea how lucky he is."
"Organization required," Alpha-01 said at last, which is his charming way of saying please don't do seven of anything without a plan.
"Yeah, yeah." I waved a hand. "We'll do the boring logistics in a minute. For now I want to enjoy the moment. Seven Spartans—almost an army. We should get matching T-shirts."
"Unnecessary," Alpha-03 blinked.
"Oh, it's very necessary. Morale matters, Alpha-03. Nothing says morale like team shirts."
Blank stares. I sighed for dramatic effect. "You're all impossible."
Drills: From Raw to Spartan
We didn't waste the night. If the MCU had taught me anything, it's that quiet is just the part of the soundtrack before something explodes. We laid the room out in training lanes like we were unpacking order from a box: a strip for footwork, a rectangle for non-lethal takedowns, a clear patch by the window for silent signaling and code words.
"Rookies," I said, clasping my hands behind my back and walking the line like a proud, underpaid coach, "you're strong by birthright. Spartan strong. But strength without discipline is how walls get cracked instead of doors opening. We are hinges, not hammers, unless a door is on fire. This is New Mexico. There will be doors."
Alpha-02 stepped in with Alpha-05, voice clipped to syllables. "Stance. Weight mid-foot. Elbows narrow. Breathe on the count, not the hit. Again."
Alpha-05 tried the sequence—step, pivot, strike—good angles, bad timing. Alpha-02 tapped a boot to reset posture. No lecture. Just: "Reset. Again."
Across the room, Alpha-03 showed Alpha-06 a step-through hip turn that ended in a clean, non-lethal shoulder post and roll. "Control. Floor is not enemy. Floor is tool." He had Alpha-06 repeat the motion until the sound of impact became the soft thud of technique instead of the clatter of force.
At the far side, Alpha-04, still smelling faintly of the training cocoon's ozone, shadow-boxed Alpha-07 through guard discipline. "Hands home. Lower your chin. No wind-up. No telegraph. Your eyes tell on you." He shaved motion off every punch until Alpha-07's fists looked like sentences instead of exclamation points.
We rotated, parceled out pieces of how we move and why, never raising drills above the hum of the AC, because in Puente Antiguo noise travels and curiosity has a car. I walked, corrected, demonstrated when a point needed a little theater. Alpha-01 did something that only looked like leaning against the door; in truth, he watched everything—breathing, spacing, the window, the streetlight's angle on the glass, the shadow at the corner that moved like a neighbor instead of a threat.
"Code words," I said, clapping a rhythm into the room. "If I say 'The weather looks bad,' that means eyes up—S.H.I.E.L.D. in the area or civilians starting to tilt. If I ask 'How's the slice?' you give me pepperoni for low, sausage for medium, or anchovy for nope. Anchovy is for when the Destroyer shows up or someone starts aiming without permission. We good?"
"Understood." (Alpha-01)
"Copy." (Alpha-03)
"Affirmative." (Alpha-02)
The rookies repeated the phrases, voices steady, and I watched the words seat in their heads the way a round seats in a chamber.
"Next," I said, "Scientist priority. That means Dr. Jane Foster, Erik Selvig, Darcy Lewis. Their data lives, their bodies live. If Agent Coulson wants a hard drive, he gets a duplicate and a table in the tent. He does not get Jane's originals without a warrant, a prayer, and me telling you it's okay. Hinge, not hammer—but when it comes to scientists, if there's a squeeze, you are the space."
The rookies nodded. Alpha-02 didn't; he didn't need to. He had already arranged the chargers for their laptops in his head and was currently irritated with the quality of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s extension cords.
We ran movement—line abreast, staggered file, L shape, diamond, the little foot dances that keep a group from becoming a herd. We built a corridor out of nothing and had two rookies play frantic civilians while the other five shepherded them through furniture, around imaginary cones, past a fence that could have been a perimeter or a gossip line.
"Hands up where they can see them," I said. "De-escalate with tone and space. Control angles, not people, unless they're running toward a headline."
"Again," Alpha-04 said, because repetition is where strong turns into good.
Alpha-05 stumbled on a sweep, heel snagging on the rug. He looked down. Alpha-02 didn't let him finish the mistake. "Eyes up," he said. "Floor doesn't change. People do. Again." The correction landed. The next pass was clean.
We talked SOP for night watches: Alpha-01 on the door 20:00–00:00; Alpha-03 window 00:00–04:00, eyes on sky and road; Alpha-02 04:00–08:00, because dawn is when tired people do dumb things. Rookies shadow each mentor through their watch to learn the shape of the quiet.
We wired in PACE plans—Primary, Alternate, Contingency, Emergency—for getting Jane and Thor to safety if Thor finally did something dramatic enough to invite the Destroyer. Primary route south behind the diner, Alternate through the motel's back lot, Contingency across the wash bed where SUVs misjudge depth and regret, Emergency into the bar's storage where Selvig would probably be arguing with a bartender about myth and mead.
I pushed them into breathing drills—in on four, hold two, out on six—the kind that turn panic into oxygen and oxygen into decisions. Alpha-06 broke rhythm twice; Alpha-03 adjusted him with two fingers and the word "Listen" as if breath had a sound you could tune to.
We rehearsed non-verbal—two fingers to temple (watch), palm low and circling (slow), flat blade down (de-escalate), a small point left (mirror), fist in (close), open hand forward (you first). Alpha-07 learned the difference between point and threat; Alpha-04 liked that. He doesn't believe in wasted motion or wasted men.
At one point, I called for a full-room freeze. Rookies locked in place instantly. "Good," I said, walking through the human statues. "Now check the things you can check without moving. Hear the fridge? The AC? Good. Hear the footsteps two houses over? They're not coming here. Hear your heart? That's yours. You decide what it means."
I let it thaw.
Logistics: Boring Wins
By 23:00, the apartment looked like a pop-up field house for a supersoldier unit that had chosen plain clothes over armor. We still needed gear—not weapons; we were our weapons—but the tools boring professionals carry so they can be boring effectively.
"Alright. Logistics," I said, pulling the mental clipboard out. "Tomorrow we split tasks. Alpha-02, you take Alpha-05 to the hardware store. We need work gloves, zip ties, contractor bags, painter's tape, two more power strips, batteries, four flashlights that don't cry when dropped, and a folding dolly for when some genius decides a cooler is a doorstop. Buy water like it's gossip. Jane and Darcy think in science—make sure comfort doesn't become their enemy."
"Acknowledged," Alpha-02 said, already budgeting aisle numbers.
"Alpha-03, you and Alpha-06 sweep the blocks between the motel and the diner. Memorize faces, dogs, cars, noises. We don't profile; we pattern. If the pattern shifts, we want to know before the shift starts a rumor."
"Copy," Alpha-03 said, which means the city and the sky will both report to him by lunch.
"Alpha-04, you and Alpha-07 run discipline with the rookies here when you're not on shadow. Footwork, guard, de-escalation words—'sir/'ma'am' with the right tone, not sarcasm. Teach them quiet. We win by quiet until the story demands loud."
"Confirmed."
"Alpha-01," I finished, "you're my XO. You own rotations, posture, and contact with Coulson when I'm playing friendly translator with Thor. If S.H.I.E.L.D. knocks at 03:12—which they will—you get me before anyone else gets in a sentence."
"Understood." He said it like the desert had signed the agreement.
We also talked OPSEC. As much as I enjoyed the visual of seven slab-jawed clones moving in a block down Main Street like a loaf of paramilitary bread, S.H.I.E.L.D. would call that containment practice. "No rolling seven-deep," I said. "Maximum in public is four, including me. More than that splits into overlapping cordons. We are brothers on leave if anyone asks. Or a church softball team. Pick one and commit."
"Softball is inaccurate," Alpha-02 noted, deadpan.
"You're right," I said. "We're curling. We sweep the ice and make other people look good."
"Curling is not practiced here," Alpha-03 said, helpfully.
"It's a metaphor," I said. "We'll work on your cultural literacy after we save the town from a walking kiln."
I wanted to make a joke about matching T-shirts again, but I could feel the night compressing around us—tomorrow's shape already poking through the fabric. Still, I scribbled a mental note: SHIRTS (eventually) — hinge, not hammer across the chest; SCIENTIST PRIORITY on the sleeve; a little pepperoni icon only we would smile at.
Mentorship: The Part That Matters
Training isn't just reps. It's attention. It's how you tell a person where to put their weight when the floor shifts.
I watched Alpha-02 work Alpha-05's footwork like carpentry—precise, square, check the level, shave a hair off the edge, check again. "Don't chase hands," he said. "Own the line. If the line is yours, nothing gets past you that you didn't invite."
Alpha-05 nodded, sweat at his temple, breath steady. He would be efficient the way a good knife is efficient—minimal flourish, maximal outcome.
Alpha-03 gave Alpha-06 the takedown again. "Listen to joints. Feel where he wants to go. Send him there early." It was almost kind. Alpha-03 likes control because he likes safety. He will let a man down gently into the worst day of his life if it keeps that day from getting worse for anyone else.
Alpha-04 coached Alpha-07's guard like he was arranging a painting. "Elbow in. Knuckles relaxed until they're not. Eyes open, but don't let them tell the truth." He will become terrifying when he smiles. He does not know how yet.
I circled back to Alpha-01, who had not moved in a way that counted as motion in ten minutes and had nonetheless seen everything. "You good?" I asked.
He didn't blink. "Yes."
"Liar," I said, and almost got the corner of his mouth to betray him. Almost.
Around midnight, I clapped a halt. "That's enough. Don't burn out on your first day. We have time to turn you into killing machines—and by that I mean machines that kill problems before they become people."
Seven Spartans eased to attention so fast the air forgot it had been moving. I sank onto the couch like a man who had single-handedly saved the world by watching other people do everything.
"I do not even participate in the drills," I told the ceiling, "and I am fatigued. Observing your activities is draining."
"Commander requires rest," Alpha-02 said, which is Spartan for go to sleep before you make jokes about me being your mom.
Alpha-01 took the post by the door. Alpha-02, -03, and -04 grouped their rookies at quiet corners—05, 06, 07—standing there, learning by being near men who had learned. There's a kind of knowledge that lives in posture.
"You know," I said to no one and everyone, smiling up at the ceiling like it had earned it, "I think this might actually work. Structure, discipline, numbers. That's how empires are built."
"Future operations," Alpha-02 prompted, because the future refuses to schedule itself.
"Simple," I said. "Tomorrow we check on Thor. If S.H.I.E.L.D. hasn't locked him in a polite box, we make sure he doesn't accidentally die doing something Asgardian in a place where OSHA has jurisdiction. Rookies—listen more than you speak. Learn by watching. Learn by mirroring. And for the love of Odin, don't make me regret trusting you."
Alpha-05, -06, -07 nodded in unison, that eerie cloning of agreement landing like a promise.
"Perfect." I yawned hard enough to audition for a lion documentary and stretched until my back accused me of trying to be taller. "Everyone, please be quiet so I can nap. Commander requires his beauty sleep."
They obeyed as if I'd asked for air. The house settled. The AC hummed like a content machine. Outside, the desert kept humming its low song. Inside, seven Spartans stood at their posts—three sharpening steel, three being forged, one newly minted blade—and a smug Commander sinking into a second-hand couch that felt like a throne because the people in the room made it one.
For the first time since waking up in this Marvel Cinematic Universe, it felt exactly right.
The Boring Good Stuff (That Saves Lives)
I meant to sleep. I did. But boring ideas kept knocking politely on the inside of my skull and I've learned to invite them in because boring is what keeps people breathing after myth arrives.
I sat up again, the couch complaining like an old friend. "One more thing," I said, and half the room glanced before remembering they didn't have to. "Comms. We need radios or we keep speaking in pizza in public like we're cosplaying teenage turtles."
"Acquire tomorrow," Alpha-02 said, already setting budget and make/model preferences in his head. He likes push-to-talk with gloved buttons and belts that don't squeak.
"Cover story," I added. "We're brothers—I know, I know. It shows. We're also 'security contractors' on a short-term assignment. We don't flash anything. We don't say Spartan out loud unless someone is bleeding and the word becomes a tourniquet. If Coulson asks? We're helpful. If not? We are polite walls."
"Understood," Alpha-01 said.
"And one more," I said, because my brain hates me. "Gear placement. Rookies, I want you to place your shoes the same way every time. Right toe touching left heel. Laces tucked. If alarms go in the night, you will step into certainty. Certainty beats panic even when panic wears armor."
They did it right away. It looked like a small religion. I respect small religions.
"Okay," I told the house. "Now I sleep."
And I did, for a patchwork of hours, my dreams stitched with Mjölnir in a hole and Coulson's almost-smile and Thor Odinson learning the science of humility. Somewhere in that ragged nap, the system politely updated the ledger I refused to check.
Ledger updated.
Alpha-04: Summoned + Spartan-II (complete).
Alpha-05/06/07: Summoned (rookie status).
Advisory: Mentor pairs locked. OPSEC load increased. Benefit increased.
Narrative Note: Upcoming events likely: bar scene (Selvig), compound infiltration (Thor), Bifrost echo (unknown), Destroyer manifestation (rise).
I woke before dawn to the sound of Alpha-02 tapping the deadbolt twice—the way he tells the universe the door is correct. The desert had cooled to a promise you could believe. In two hours, Thor would decide if he preferred bars or fences. In four, Sif might notice a missing prince. In six, Agent Phil Coulson would phrase an order as a request and mean both.
I stretched, spine cracking in satisfying increments. Alpha-01 was still a fact at the door. Alpha-03 had traded sky for floor and was teaching Alpha-06 how to fold a towel like it was a task worth doing right. Alpha-04 had Alpha-07 shadow-boxing without making the air feel threatened. Alpha-02 was drawing a map on an index card of where the power outlets were in Jane's lab because he likes to understand the shape of electricity in a room.
I looked around at the squad—Halo Spartan silhouettes in plain clothes, Spartan-II discipline standing politely in a rental—and I let myself say it without making a joke to soften it:
"This is going to work."
Alpha-01 didn't smile. He didn't have to.
I flopped back, pulled the system down one more time, not to spend anything, just to feel the weight of it settle where it belonged.
Points: (adjusted)
Status: Seven Spartans online (4 trained, 3 rookies).
Rules of Engagement: De-escalation first. Civilian priority. Scientist priority. Hinge > Hammer.
Next: Check on Thor Odinson. Liaise with S.H.I.E.L.D. (Coulson). Prepare for Destroyer.
"Alright, squad," I said, swinging my legs off the couch and planting feet in shoes that had obligingly lined themselves up while I slept. "Breakfast. Then Thor. Then we go do what we're good at: be boring enough to save lives in a world that wants to be interesting."
"Understood," said the door.
"Copy," said the window.
"Affirmative," said the kitchen.
And in that familiar call-and-response, in that house with its second-hand couch and its AC that sounded like a friendly lawnmower, in that desert that hummed under moonlight and would soon burn under sun, I felt the truth you can build an empire on:
Structure, discipline, numbers. Mentor and be mentored. Hold the line without drawing it in blood.
We stepped into the morning already better than we'd been the night before.