The sky went wrong before anyone had words for it. Clouds didn't roll in; they shivered, as if someone had pulled a sheet of glass over the desert and then breathed on it from the other side. The air got that taste—dry metal on the tongue—that only shows up when the Marvel Cinematic Universe decides the plot needs a bigger budget.
Jane Foster felt it first; her eyes went wide, that scientist-focus snapping into place like a lens cap pulled off in a hurry. Darcy Lewis didn't ask questions—she just raised her phone like she was deputized by the internet. Across the block, Erik Selvig took off his glasses and cleaned them in that way professionals do when they'd prefer not to rewire their worldview just yet.
Thor Odinson froze mid-sentence. It wasn't posture; it was recognition. His bones knew before his brain admitted it. And on the town's edge—slicing out of the shimmer like an answer carved into the sky—Sif and the Warriors Three came to a stop, all four turning in unison toward the horizon. Faces grave. Weapons already deciding how they'd be used.
I leaned against the SUV, took a sip of lukewarm water, and tried out a joke to keep my pulse from writing checks. "Well, that doesn't look like a thunderstorm."
Volstagg's voice boomed back without any of its usual comedy. "It is the Destroyer."
"The what now?"
Sif's jaw set like a locked door. "A weapon forged in Asgard."
Thor's face shed pride and found something heavier. "Loki."
I let out a low whistle. "There it is. That explains the background radiation of doom."
Behind me, Alpha-01 drifted just a hair closer. Alpha-02, Alpha-03, and Alpha-04 mirrored him, three shadows hugging a fourth. The rookies—Alpha-05, Alpha-06, Alpha-07—hung back half a step, eyes on me for the call like they were reading a teleprompter only I could see.
"Alright, everyone," I said lightly, tossing my empty bottle into the cup holder because I'm environmentally conscious when the apocalypse isn't staring at me. "Deep breaths. It's just a big, shiny suit of armor. How bad could it be?"
The answer walked into town.
The Destroyer came down Main Street like a lawsuit: tall enough to need its own zoning, sleek and polished as a mirror, each footfall rattling the pavement into new opinions. Vents hissed. The faceplate irised open with a whisper that made the hair along my arms stand up. Behind it lived heat—not just fire, but judgment warmed up and ready to go.
"Oh my God," Darcy muttered, not quite breathing. "It's Iron Man on steroids."
"Nah," I said, because if I stop being me, we're already losing. "Iron Man is cuter."
The beam lanced out without preamble. A parked sedan became a bright lesson in kinetic art, flipping into a storefront and retiring from the workforce. Screams outran the heat by inches.
"We have to get everyone out of here," Jane said, grabbing Thor's arm like she meant to move a mountain one inch left.
"Right. Civilians first." I flicked my gaze to the rookies. "Alpha-05, -06, -07—you're evacuation duty. Pull bodies out of the splash zone. Keep them moving. No heroics. Doors and corners."
"Acknowledged," they answered in one neat chord—and then they weren't there anymore.
They poured into the chaos like they'd been poured out of the mold for exactly this. Alpha-05 lifted a kid clean off the ground, spun on his heel, and returned the boy to a mother whose scream shut off mid-note. Alpha-06 turned a guy who wanted to film the apocalypse around with one palm to the sternum and the word "sir" pronounced like a spell. Alpha-07 interposed a shoulder between a collapsing awning and a bewildered tourist, then shepherded the man and his dog in a line that read safety even to people who couldn't spell it.
I watched my veterans. "Stand off. Let the Asgardians go first," I said, voice normal and precise. "We intervene if they fail. Contain; don't kill."
Alpha-01 dipped a nod, and the four of them became stillness sharpened to a point.
Sif and the Warriors Three were already in motion. Volstagg roared like a promise and brought his axe down at a seam. Hogun slid low, blades flashing toward the knee like he meant to teach it about leverage. Fandral vaulted—a golden blur aiming for the neck. Sif drove her spear in a line that would have won any argument not made of metal.
For a heartbeat, it was gorgeous. Steel on steel, movement like a sentence diagrammed by a poet.
The Destroyer didn't care.
Vents flared. Heat boiled out. A beam drew a bright line straight through Volstagg's center of mass; he left the ground and entered a truck by the express lane. Hogun went down hard and didn't bounce. Fandral landed wrong enough to misplace his sword, which pinwheeled into a nice new friendship with the sidewalk. Sif found one more thrust—and then got backhanded into a car so hard the car apologized.
Thor shouted. I was already moving.
"Alright, Spartans," I snapped, the joke stepping aside so orders could pass. "Your turn. Engage, but don't kill. Contain only. Move."
Alpha-01, Alpha-02, Alpha-03, Alpha-04 hit as a unit. The ground noticed.
Alpha-01 took point—fist into the chest plate with a crack, the pavement spider-webbing under the Destroyer's heels. The machine rocked. Not hurt—interrupted. Alpha-02 stepped through and chopped a kick into the knee joint; metal groaned like it remembered gravity is a rule, not a suggestion. Alpha-03 went high, latched on to the head assembly, and cinched his forearm in what would be a choke on anything with lungs. Sparks skittered as the face tried to swivel; Alpha-03's weight said no. Alpha-04 scythed low and stole balance; even gods' toys live or die by it.
They moved in a rhythm that made sense if you'd ever been trained to hear it. No chatter. No extra motion. Hinge, not hammer—turn the shape, don't smash the door. For the first time, Asgard's favorite furnace looked less like inevitable and more like negotiable.
"Now that's teamwork," I said, hands sliding into my hoodie pocket because there's a ceremony in pretending to be relaxed.
Thor stared—eyes wide, pride doing math. The Warriors Three groaned where they lay. Sif planted a knee, grit and will making a combined argument for standing up.
"What are they?" she asked, the breath of it almost stealing the word.
"Mine," I answered, cheerful like I was talking about a set of golf clubs. I didn't look away from the thing trying to melt my day.
The Destroyer vented like a furnace discovering music. Its faceplate snapped toward Alpha-01. Light spooled behind the iris.
"Alpha-01—move!"
He dropped flat so fast the beam probably felt insulted to miss. Heat shaved the air where his head had been and carved a known-bad line across Main Street. Alpha-02 stepped in with an elbow across the jawline; the plate slammed shut with a hiss. Alpha-03 tightened his lock until the metal protested. Alpha-04 yanked an arm into a joint that didn't have one; the screech didn't come from pain—it came from physics.
The Destroyer answered with a backhand that hauled Alpha-04 airborne. He rolled through the landing, came up balanced, and reset like the world owed him a better punch.
Dents. Scorch marks. Still plenty of murder left in the machine.
"They're holding it back," Jane said, awe sanded down to the soft truth.
"Of course they are," I said. "That's what I pay them for."
"You don't pay them," Darcy said, not looking away from her screen.
"Details."
"Impossible," Selvig whispered to his glasses.
The Destroyer's free hand swept Alpha-02 off his feet and slid him ten feet. He planted a boot, stood, and went back in without the drama. Alpha-01 and Alpha-03 bracketed the torso and hammered a metronome into it—left, right, clamp—keeping the face from finding a clean line. Alpha-04 dove for the legs a second time and found the mechanical equivalent of a tendon; the machine staggered, weight distributing to regret.
Then the air changed. Heat didn't just rise—it spiked. The light behind the faceplate didn't just glow—it loaded.
"It's going to blow," I snapped. "Pull back—pull back!"
All four Spartans disengaged in the same breath. The beam scythed a molten signature across the street. Cars whoomped into fire. Windows cried themselves to pieces. The town turned oven-hot, air moving like a hand pressed on you from every direction.
"Enough!" Thor's voice cut through it. "Stop this madness!"
The Destroyer turned to him.
"Spartans—protect civilians," I said. "Do not re-engage."
They flowed back to the perimeter and slotted in with the rookies, becoming corridors where chaos had wanted crowds. Alpha-05 took two firefighters' extinguishers and built a foam line between a flaming SUV and the sidewalk, then handed the tools back with a nod that taught cooperation. Alpha-06 rerouted foot traffic away from a propane cage behind the hardware store like a man who can smell headlines. Alpha-07 used a diner's wet floor sign as a directional arrow and nobody laughed because everybody understood.
The hiss of burning became the town's lungs. Thor stood in the center of it—unarmed, pride filed under later. He spread his arms. He didn't look like a king. He looked like a man who had finally learned the difference between winning and saving.
"Brother—if you hear me—take me. Spare them."
The Destroyer cocked its head a fraction. Then it hit him like an answer.
Thor flew and stayed down. The sound Jane made shredded me in a way I'll joke about later because I can't not, but right then there wasn't a punchline good enough to bury it. Darcy clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes glassy. Sif surged two steps and then folded to a knee, respect keeping her from breaking the moment's shape.
I clenched my fists and kept watch because I understood this part. The MCU loves a lever called sacrifice, and if you pull it cleanly, the machine does the right thing.
Jane knelt. Dust turned her tears into tracks. The Destroyer loomed, heat building for the final sentence.
Mjölnir moved.
Miles away, under S.H.I.E.L.D. scaffolds, the hammer shuddered in its crater and then chose violence in the direction of home. A silver comet ripped the sky, ripping a storm open with it. Clouds didn't just part; they obeyed.
The hammer met Thor's palm with the sound of a promise kept.
Lightning called the world to attention. Armor flowed over him like the memory of a better version of himself; the red cape snapped like punctuation in an All-Father sentence. Thor stood whole again, power bright behind his eyes and something new sitting beside it that looked an awful lot like humility.
"Well," I said, because habit is armor. "About damn time."
The Destroyer fired; Thor answered with Mjölnir and thunder sang backup. He rose into the storm and then fell like a gavel. Metal crumpled; light guttered. The shell folded inward like a cathedral closing for renovations no one would approve.
Silence came back wearing mercy. Cooling metal hissed in short sentences. Smoke found reason and reorganized.
Thor settled to asphalt, breathing steady, hammer easy in his grip. Jane stared like science had just invited magic to her lab and the data was still replicable. "Muscles," Darcy muttered, because consistency is a virtue. Selvig polished his glasses one more time and then stopped pretending they were dirty. Across the way, Sif and the Warriors Three dragged themselves upright, relief drawing soft lines over fresh bruises.
I slid my hands deeper into my pockets and grinned. "You finally got your toy back, Goldilocks. Took you long enough."
Thor turned—and for once, he smiled back. No smirk, no swagger. Just thanks spoken in the only language some men allow on their faces.
Ding.
Reward: 2,000 points
Targets: Thor Odinson; civilians of Puente Antiguo
Reason: Provided containment and support during the Destroyer incident.
Oh, that was pretty. The number slotted into my mental ledger with a satisfying click. I bit back the laugh trying to climb out of my chest; the moment didn't need confetti—it needed follow-through.
"Good work, boys," I called as the Spartans regrouped at the perimeter. The rookies had civilians corralled into safety like they'd been hired by common sense. The veterans looked like they'd just finished a jog and were considering brunch. "Clean fight. Nobody died. Thor got his powers back. I just scored two thousand points. That's a win."
Alpha-01 gave the tiniest nod—the kind that means the door is still the door. Alpha-02 reset his stance because form is comfort. Alpha-03 flicked a scorch off his sleeve, annoyed at entropy. Alpha-04 opened and closed his hands once, satisfied the joints still understood their job. Alpha-05, -06, -07 exhaled in sync—a trio learning how to file experience without shaking.
We didn't break formation to high five; we executed the boring that saves lives. Alpha-05 checked on a sprained wrist and a scraped knee, pointing a teen toward the triage corner S.H.I.E.L.D. medics were setting up beside the diner. Alpha-06 and Alpha-07 moved a propane canister carefully out of a hot zone because fun fact: fire plus gas equals new skylights. Alpha-01 stepped in with two cones and a look, turned a gawk-hungry crowd into an orderly line, and then handed the cones back to the agent like he was tipping a valet.
Speaking of S.H.I.E.L.D.—Agent Phil Coulson materialized with a clipboard in spirit if not in hand, tie at regulation, expression pitched at we're all friends here, please be useful.
"That was… contained," he said, eyes tracking from the Destroyer's cooling carcass to Thor to me and then to the wall of polite muscle I brought as a conversation starter.
"We aim for boring," I said. "The good kind."
He almost smiled. "If you ever decide to fill out an application, I'll misfile it somewhere safe."
"Flattered. We're happy to stay independent and helpful."
One eyebrow twitched—Coulson for belly laugh. "We'll want to… debrief. Later."
"Later sounds right," I said. "Let the god have his spotlight."
He nodded, tapped the earpiece he pretends doesn't exist, and flowed back into the dance of cones and reports, all quiet competence and survivor's grace.
Across the battlefield-turned-street, Sif reached Thor first. They clasped forearms like warriors and hugged like friends. Fandral found his sword, kissed it because of course he did, then tried to pretend he hadn't. Hogun declined a stretcher with a look that convinced the medic he had never believed in stretchers in the first place. Volstagg declared he could fight another twenty men as long as those men were sandwiches.
Jane stepped in and the edges of the world softened. Thor bent his head toward her and said something quiet that didn't need me in it. Darcy captured the last hiss of smoke with her phone and added a fire emoji because history apparently demands it. Selvig leaned on a fender, breathing like a man relearning how.
More boring, more saving. "Alpha-02," I said, "grab a couple of fire extinguishers from the diner's kitchen. Clear that engine block before the oil decides to audition."
"Acknowledged." He was already halfway there, Alpha-05 ghosting him like a shadow that does chores.
"Alpha-03, double-check the gas mains behind the hardware store. Alpha-06 with you. I don't want a sequel explosion."
"Copy."
"Alpha-04, Alpha-07, walk the perimeter with S.H.I.E.L.D. and move anyone who looks like an audience back two storefronts. Smile if you must. Don't bare teeth."
"Confirmed."
They went. It looked like choreography; it was just discipline wearing jeans.
Thor finished being hugged and hailed and turned toward me. "Your warriors," he said, Mjölnir easy in his fist, "are formidable."
"Hinges, not hammers," I corrected, because someone has to be tedious about doctrine. "But we can swing when we have to."
He lifted the hammer a fraction in agreement. "As can we."
I tipped an imaginary hat. "In the future, a little notice before the family weapon comes to visit would be great."
He almost laughed. "I will… try."
Behind him, Sif eyed my Spartans the way professionals eye other professionals—cataloging angles, estimating weight. "They are… not of Midgard?" she said, making it a question so nobody had to lie in front of God and all these people.
"They're of mine," I said. "That's enough for today."
She accepted that, because sane people triage mysteries and handle the ones that bleed first.
Coulson reappeared, glanced at Thor, then at me. "We'll be removing the Destroyer shell," he said, polite as a fence. "If you have… insights, my team would welcome them."
"Here's an insight," I said. "Put the hot part where it can't touch anything flammable. And maybe don't let Loki borrow the keys again."
He didn't blink, but the corner of his mouth traded secrets with gravity. "Duly noted."
The town's heartbeat found itself again. Sirens finally arrived late enough to feel performative. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents moved with the clean efficiency of a group that practices on weekdays. Locals peeked out of doorways, saw Thor dressed like a poster and holding a hammer that should weigh more than a Buick, and decided they were believers in whatever religion that implied.
I did one more lap of boring and then gave the team the Nod. They collapsed back toward the SUV like a tide going home.
"After-action in ten," I said. "Then food. If we saved the town without diner pancakes, did we even save it?"
"Commander requires calories," Alpha-02 said in a tone just dry enough to make Darcy snort if she'd heard it.
"Exactly," I said. "Tell the Destroyer I said thanks for the cardio."
We didn't take a bow. We don't bow. We assist. That's the whole game, the whole trick: be the hinge the story needs so the door swings the right way, and then step out of the frame while the light finds the people who earned it.
Thor and Jane took center; Sif and the Warriors Three formed a geometry of relief; Coulson built paperwork out of smoke and courtesy. We faded to the edge of the shot, seven Spartans and one smug Commander in an SUV that smelled like dust and victory.
"Celebrate later," I told them as the first S.H.I.E.L.D. truck backed up to the Destroyer with a winch and two good intentions. "For now, we let the god have his spotlight."
They didn't answer. They didn't need to. The day had been loud enough already.