Smoke hung over Puente Antiguo like a stubborn thought, slow to leave and determined to be remembered. Main Street looked like a Marvel Cinematic Universe set that forgot to cut: a pickup still hissing where the engine block had decided combustion was a lifestyle, a sedan melted into a new form of modern art, storefront windows spidered and sagging as if glass could sweat. Asphalt bore heat scars that would tell weathered stories months from now. Civilians peered out from alleys and behind torn blinds, whispering in the register reserved for miracles and accidents.
I stood in the middle of it with my hands in my hoodie pockets and a grin I hadn't earned but refused to misplace. Behind me, my Spartans were neat lines and clean edges—Alpha-01 through Alpha-04 forward like a wall that had decided to walk, Alpha-05 through Alpha-07 steady at their backs, buzzing with that bright hum you only hear after an evac goes right. Halo-grade calm in plain clothes. A tiny army that believed in hinge, not hammer unless the story asked for thunder.
Thor Odinson lowered Mjölnir, the hammer settling in his grip like it had never left. His armor caught the desert sun and threw it back in tidy pieces. For once he looked exactly like the god he insists Midgard call him, only missing the extra gloss of smug that had clung to him before humility arrived with a lesson plan.
He turned to me, and what lived in his eyes wasn't challenge, or pride, or even relief. It was gratitude—awkward in a princely face, honest anyway.
"Shredder," he said, voice steady enough to hold the street in place. "You and your warriors stood where others could not. You protected Midgard in my stead. For that, I thank you."
I widened my grin to full uncivilized. "The mighty Thor saying thank you. Somebody frame this. No, better—Darcy, do your influencer thing."
"Already on it," Darcy Lewis stage-whispered behind Jane Foster, phone up, angle practiced. "Somebody get this on a Hallmark card. 'Thank you for watching my town while I re-qualified for Mjölnir.'"
Thor ignored her, which is growth. His gaze slid to Alpha-01, then Alpha-02, Alpha-03, Alpha-04—taking the measure of four men who had just manhandled an Asgardian weapon that terrifies Asgardians.
"They fought with honor," he said. "I have not seen such strength outside Asgard."
"Yeah," I shrugged, casual because any other posture would be too much. "They're pretty good. I feed them well, too. That helps."
The Spartans continued not reacting, which is their version of blushing.
Sif limped closer, armor dented, hair wild in a way that only made her look more like a statue someone had carved to tell a story about duty. "Who are they truly?" she asked, eyes narrow and curious rather than hostile. "No mortal men fight as they did."
"I'll take that as a compliment," I said, tipping my head.
"A compliment indeed!" Volstagg boomed as he groaned upright, dusting his beard and checking whether his ribs intended to remain in the correct number. "Warriors fit for Asgard's tales!"
"Though possibly lacking in fashion sense," Fandral added, leaning elegantly on a sword that had found its way back to his hand despite earlier having a fling with the pavement.
Hogun said nothing, because of course he didn't. His eyes pinned Alpha-01 like he was solving an equation that didn't yet have symbols.
"Enough," Thor said gently, which is still a command when said by a prince who's learned to mean it. "They have proven themselves."
"See?" I said. "Even Goldilocks approves. And the man wears a cape. I'll take the win."
"Do you ever take anything seriously?" Jane asked, giving me the look, which is a thing scientists are issued in grad school alongside lab coats and the knowledge of how to sigh in metric.
"Only when my guys are in danger," I said, letting the grin soften into something with fewer teeth. "Otherwise, life's too short and pancakes exist."
S.H.I.E.L.D. arrived late but thorough. Black SUVs rolled in with the practiced choreography of a group that believes in cones, cordons, and paperwork. Weapons were slung low. Agent Phil Coulson led the way, calm iron under a crisp tie, face doing that polite neutrality that's two notches shy of a smile and three notches shy of suspicion.
"You missed the fireworks," I called. "I'll sell you the Blu-ray later. Deleted scenes include me telling Alpha-01 not to suplex an Asgardian furnace."
His lips twitched—Coulson for cackle. "I saw enough."
"It is finished," Thor said, stepping forward just enough to reassure crowds and unsettle agents. "The threat is ended."
Coulson studied him, nodded once—a little ceremony of acknowledgment—and then glanced past the armor and cape and myth to me. "And you?"
I raised my hands, innocent as sin and twice as charming. "What? I told my guys not to kill anybody. We played defense until Thor found his groove. You should be thanking us."
He didn't answer—he doesn't waste words—but he didn't disagree, and in S.H.I.E.L.D., that's gratitude with a badge.
"Are you… all right?" Jane asked Thor, voice small but steady. It takes spine to ask a god a human question.
"I am whole again," he said. Then he looked back at us. "Thanks to you—and thanks to them."
"Keep looking at me like that and people will think we're best friends," I said, because if I don't throw a joke at the moment, I might feel it too hard.
"You'd look cute on a Hallmark card," Darcy added helpfully.
Thor ignored her again; Jane didn't. She was busy losing a war against a smile.
Sif and the Warriors Three gathered again, exhaustion wrapped around pride like bandages. Sif stopped in front of me a second time, voice level, verdict reached. "Your warriors are strange—but loyal. I respect that."
"Now we're bonding," I said. "Next you'll tell me where you get your armor polished."
"A fine commander, mortal!" Volstagg declared, slapping my back with the kind of affection that nearly rebooted my spine. "You should drink with us when this is done!"
"Careful, big guy," I said, adjusting my ribcage. "You might not survive my kind of drinking."
He roared approval, which is the only acceptable response from a man who treats ale like a relative.
Coulson drifted closer while S.H.I.E.L.D. agents began the dance of containment—perimeter tape in the wind, radios purring like insects, EMTs moving with that unflappable urgency only professionals can afford. His voice dropped to a register meant for me and anyone with ears sharp enough to legally count as public.
"They're yours," he said, eyes on my seven. "All of them. I need to know how."
"Trade secret," I said with the kind of smile you laminate.
"One day I'll find out," he said. Not a threat. Not a promise. A fact ordering coffee and leaving a tip.
"Maybe," I conceded. "But not today. Today we celebrate not being melted."
I clapped once, loud enough to reset the scene. "Alright, crisis over. Who's hungry? Because I could demolish a stack of pancakes the size of Mjölnir."
Darcy shot her hand up like a student who'd been waiting to answer easy questions all year. "Yes. Absolutely yes."
Jane sighed and decided against objecting; triage favors carbs. Selvig muttered something about whiskey and the need to negotiate with reality. Thor tilted his head. "Pancakes?"
"Oh, buddy," I grinned. "You have so much to learn."
Diner Diplomacy
The motel diner had that lived-in smell of coffee, bacon, and stubborn optimism. The chaos outside eased into a rhythm in here—plates clinked, a fry cook cussed lovingly at a grill, and a waitress who'd seen everything decided to add "Asgardian in armor sitting in a booth" to the list with professional chill.
Thor squeezed into a booth with Jane, Darcy, and Selvig—Mjölnir resting beside him like a paperweight from an angry god. In the next booth, Sif and the Warriors Three crammed in with the enthusiasm of a rugby scrum, dented armor telling the story so their mouths didn't have to. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents took up shadow positions outside, pretending not to eavesdrop with the dedication of men who definitely were.
I took the table behind, my squad folding into booths like furniture made of muscle and discipline. Four on one side, three on the other, me at the aisle like a coach who knows the playbook is eye contact and a raised eyebrow.
"Now this," I said as plates landed—eggs, bacon, pancakes so fluffy they should have paid rent—"this is the real reward for saving the world."
"Fuel acquired," Alpha-02 intoned, lifting a fork with the solemnity of ritual.
"Inspirational words," I nodded, and dug in. I ate like a man auditioning for a documentary on happiness and cholesterol.
At the next booth, Thor eyed his stack like it might be booby-trapped. Jane cut into her plate with the precise efficiency of someone who believes in control variables. Darcy drowned hers in syrup like it owed her money. Selvig sipped coffee that had nothing in common with whiskey and tried to convince the brain behind the eyes that this counted.
"You eat them with… syrup?" Thor asked, suspicious.
"You can also try butter, fruit, or whipped cream," Darcy said, already applying all three. "This is Midgard, we stack choices."
"Midgard has good customs," Thor decided after the first bite, which is how you win hearts and Yelp reviews at the same time.
"Ale," Volstagg announced grandly when the waitress arrived. "And by ale I mean the largest drink this land allows."
"We have coffee and orange juice," she said, unfazed. "And water."
Volstagg slumped exactly one inch. "Tragedy."
"Coffee," Sif said. "Strong."
"Water," Hogun added, because of course.
"Darcy," Fandral said, testing out a grin that had injured civilians before, "would you do me the honor of—"
"Nope," she said without looking up, flipping her camera to front-facing to assess how smoke looks in natural light. "I only date guys who aren't trying to cosplay Robin Hood."
He grinned wider. It probably counted as a win.
I let the room breathe and kept my eyes doing the job. Alpha-01 mirrored the entrance without staring. Alpha-03 tracked Coulson's reflection in the glass as he pretended to admire a cactus. Alpha-04 observed Warriors Three posture with the academic interest of a man who counts angles for fun. The rookies ate and watched and learned, filing away the difference between loud and dangerous.
Eventually Thor stood and approached us, fluorescent lights picking out shine across new armor. He stopped at our table, towering even over men who treat ceilings like polite suggestions.
"They respect you," he said, eyes moving along the line of Alpha-01 to Alpha-07, then back to me. "And they follow without hesitation. I would know what binds them to you."
"Charisma," Darcy called from behind him.
"More like sarcasm," I said. "Hey—whatever works."
Thor weighed that, nodded once. "Regardless, you have my thanks. Truly. Without your aid, many would have perished."
I lifted my orange juice like a toast. "To teamwork—and to the guy who finally picked up his hammer."
The corner of his mouth moved. Progress logged.
He returned to his booth. Jane leaned toward him, and the conversation bent toward Einstein-Rosen bridges, Nine Realms, and how to explain Bifrost without making a scientist cry. Darcy heckled on principle. Selvig negotiated with his coffee until it agreed to stand in as a friend. Sif told Hogun and Fandral a soft thing in old Asgardian that made the edges of their mouths behave. Volstagg tried to convince the kitchen to invent mead in the next three minutes; the kitchen declined.
S.H.I.E.L.D. watched without poking, which is their version of a hug. Coulson hovered on the sidewalk like a polite ghost: present, quiet, entirely the center of his own story.
I took a breath that didn't taste like smoke and let the after-math line up neatly in my head.
Points: +2000 for the Destroyer incident, courtesy of Thor and every person whose morning hadn't included dying. A ledger update in the HUD I wasn't currently looking at because I prefer dessert after the main course. Spending could wait. The squad couldn't.
"Rookies," I said quietly, and three heads pivoted with eerie precision. "Top learnings. One sentence each."
Alpha-05: "Evac routes require visible anchors. People follow what they can see."
"Good," I said. "Keep planting signs and bodies at the corners."
Alpha-06: "Phones are gravity wells. Redirect with contact, tone, and a task."
"Exactly. Make a spectator a helper and you win twice."
Alpha-07: "Heat predicts panic. Prioritize shade and distance early."
"Love it," I said, and meant it. "You just saved me a paragraph."
From the veterans, I didn't need sentences. I got nods—tiny, meaningful, the kind of report only people who've fought together can read. Alpha-01: perimeter good, exits learned, agents cooperative. Alpha-02: two minor injuries triaged, no transport needed. Alpha-03: gas mains secure, no secondary explosions pending. Alpha-04: crowd compliant, no copycat heroics.
"Eat," I said, because leadership is 30% logistics and 70% tone. "Refuel. Debrief after the god finishes explaining astrophysics with crayons."
They ate. They watched. They learned. They were mine.
After-Action, Before the Credits
When the plates were mostly empty and Volstagg had conceded that the diner's water did not secretly turn into mead if you believed hard enough, I slid out of the booth and took a slow lap outside. S.H.I.E.L.D. had their salvage operation in full polite swing—winches flirting with the Destroyer shell, containment blankets looking official, a tech with a scanner making a face that said I don't have a category for this. Civilians had moved from whispering to staring to the far healthier activity of sweeping. A man watered the smoking edge of his hedge with a garden hose that took itself very seriously.
"Commander," Alpha-01 murmured when I returned, code for someone wants you who isn't a pancake.
Coulson slid up to conversational distance. "We'll need statements," he said. "Brief. Nothing classified. I'm aware none of you carry ID."
"We carry manners," I said. "That's more useful."
"I find both useful," he said, unbothered. "Your men move like they've done this before."
"They practice," I said. "You know how it is. Save the world, then save it neater next time."
His gaze ticked to Alpha-02, who emerged from the diner with two fire extinguishers he absolutely had permission to borrow, and to Alpha-05, who took one and moved toward a still-smoldering hood without needing to be told. "I'll add 'neater' to the report," he said, which from Coulson is stand-up comedy.
He lowered his voice a fraction. "The Destroyer will be transported to a secure location. If something about it… presents as relevant to your interests, I'll ensure the right ears hear it."
"Coulson," I said, "if you ever decide to run for Mayor of Common Sense, you've got my vote."
"I prefer paperwork to politics," he said. "Fewer speeches."
He drifted back toward his agents, and I watched him go with a respect I didn't dress up in sarcasm. The man was exactly what this world needed: boring where boring saved lives, brave where brave required silence, polite where polite prevented wars.
Back inside, Thor had reached the part of explaining the Nine Realms where hand gestures become mandatory. Jane leaned forward like a plant toward a window. Darcy was live-tweeting not live-tweeting. Selvig had resigned himself to the idea that this story would sound like a bar lie even when it wasn't.
Sif approached my table alone, movements measured. Up close, the dents in her armor told a quieter story: every nick a decision made at speed, every scrape a choice between angle and impact. She stopped at social distance and nodded once.
"You do not answer what your warriors are," she said. "I will not press. Loyalty is a better reason than any name."
"That's almost poetry," I said. "For what it's worth, we have a guiding rule."
Her eyebrow asked the question.
"Hinge, not hammer. We turn the door the story needs, not break it off in our hands."
Understanding flickered, and that's always satisfying when the person doing the understanding could put you through a wall and recite a ballad about it afterward. "A good rule," she said.
"Pass it on to Volstagg," I said. "Quietly."
The tiniest hint of a smile. "I will try."
Volstagg thundered up anyway and slapped my shoulder again because fate loves circles. "Friend! When this battle is written, your name shall be a line even I can remember!"
"Two lines," I said. "Make it memorable: The mortal who told the god to eat his pancakes."
He howled, delighted.
Fandral tipped an imaginary hat. Hogun inclined his head a full millimeter. Sif returned to her friends.
Thor found me again later, Jane in tow—because whatever Asgardian version of public relations exists, it knew where to put her. "Coulson says your warriors will not be detained," he said, a hint of something like pride when he said warriors. "He says you will be consulted."
"That's Coulson for I like you but paperwork is my love language," I said. "We'll answer fair questions. We'll skip the ones that misunderstand the premise."
He studied me. "I do not yet understand you. But I owe you."
"Keep Jane alive," I said, flicking my gaze to the scientist who had stumbled into myth and refused to lose herself on the way. "That'll square it."
He looked at Jane, and the nod he gave me wasn't for me at all. Good.
Points, Plans, and Pancakes (Again)
By the time coffee cooled and plates were scraped into neat trusting piles, the town's pulse had settled into normal enough to reopen gossip. A kid with a Spider-Man T-shirt asked Alpha-03 if he could touch the big guy's arm; Alpha-03 said "Gently" and let the kid push, which became a physics lesson and a grin his parents would frame. A firefighter thanked Alpha-06 with the clipped sincerity of one pro to another. The waitress slipped an extra pancake onto my plate and didn't charge me; I slipped an extra tip under the saucer because civilization is built in little gestures you don't Instagram.
I pulled up the system in the back of my head like a man checking his savings after payday but before impulse buying a jet ski.
Points available: 5,000
Recent credit: +2,000 (Destroyer incident)
Opportunities: Spartan-II training (1,500); Spartan clone (500)
Advisory: Maintain low profile (S.H.I.E.L.D. attention). Asgardian departure likely shortly. Loki variable: high.
Plenty to go shopping in my private armory. Plenty of reasons not to do it in a room where Coulson might be three reflections away. For now, I chose the boring good stuff: rotations tighter, shadow lines layered, rookie mentorship doubled down. Quality and quantity are great. Structure is king.
"Game plan," I said softly to the table. Alpha-01 looked; the rest heard it in his shoulders. "We go back to watching. We let S.H.I.E.L.D. drive the salvage. We walk Jane back to the motel. We escort Thor if he insists on waving at crowds. No heroics until the story asks politely."
"Understood," Alpha-01 said.
"Copy," Alpha-03 echoed.
"Affirmative," Alpha-02 added, tone so dry Darcy would've laughed if she were listening.
And then—because the universe likes timing—Coulson eased into the doorway with a look that suggested he'd decided not to interrupt, but also that his job description included interrupt when necessary. "We'll be moving the Destroyer within the hour," he told Thor, then included me with a fractional shift of the chin. "We'd appreciate space while we work."
"You got it," I said. "We'll run soft cordon from the shadows. Consider it a complimentary service."
His eyes did a quick inventory of my sincerity and found enough to sign for. "I appreciate that."
"Look at us," I said. "Friends. Next we'll be swapping recipes."
"Only if they're for pancakes," Darcy chimed in, startling three agents who'd forgotten she can teleport through conversations.
Thor reached for Mjölnir and then didn't lift it, which is how you know he's finally comfortable again. He looked between me and Jane, then out the window to where Sif and the Warriors Three tried not to loom. "There is more to fix," he said. "Not with hammers, but with words."
"Buddy," I said, standing, "welcome to Midgard."
The Part You Frame
We stepped back into the sunlight and its blunt honesty. The breeze had gotten brave enough to move smoke aside. S.H.I.E.L.D. trucks hummed. Civilians took pictures of holes and heroes and the way heat lingers on a street after the Avengers level of weird rolls through, even if the Avengers aren't officially a thing yet.
"Shredder," Thor said behind me. I turned.
He didn't go for pomp. He didn't square his shoulders like a painting. He just stood there—a tall man in armor who had chosen better. "I will not forget this," he said. "You have my thanks. And if there is a call you make that reaches Asgard, I will answer."
"Good," I said. "I'll save that for when we need to borrow a rainstorm or scare a space goat."
He tried not to smile and failed like a gentleman. Jane rolled her eyes and then looked at me with something like regard she didn't want to label.
"Take care of him," I told her, nodding toward the human thunderhead.
"I have been trying," she said, deadpan. "It's like teaching a golden retriever about lab safety."
"Valid," I said.
Sif lifted her spear in farewell. Fandral flourished without moving a muscle. Hogun blinked the blink that counts for intimacy in his book. Volstagg raised a glass of water with the sorrow of a man who refuses to give up hope.
Coulson gave me that single nod again as his agents tightened the straps on a myth turned cargo. "Later," he said.
"Later," I agreed.
We walked back to the SUV, seven Spartans falling into position the way the horizon falls into the sky. As I opened the driver's door, a little voice piped up from near my knee.
"Mister?"
I looked down. The Spider-Man kid. His hands were sticky with syrup and hero worship. He held out a drawing—crayoned fast, lines eager. A stick-figure me. Seven taller stick-figures behind me. A hammer in the corner. Fire that looked like flowers.
"For you," he said, as if I were trustworthy.
I took it carefully. "Thanks, kid. You draw fast."
"My mom says to say thank you," he whispered, then ran off like he'd stolen something.
I tucked the art into the visor next to a jumble of receipts and a tiny roll of painter's tape Alpha-02 insists on keeping around. I sat. I breathed. I started the engine.
"Alright, squad," I said, the grin coming back because it lived here, where it had room. "We earned this one. Debrief at home. Then someone tell me when the diner starts a loyalty program."
"Commander requires pancakes," Alpha-02 said, and I swear Alpha-01 almost smiled.
We pulled away from Main Street and left the scene to S.H.I.E.L.D., Asgard, and a town that would be telling this story in diners for the next twenty years. Behind us, the air shimmered. Ahead of us, New Mexico unspooled like a road that didn't mind being driven twice.
My squad. My soldiers. My family.
Everyone else?
Bonus points.