Morning came in hot and unapologetic, the kind of desert brightness that doesn't just arrive—it declares. The Desert Star Inn neon still blinked out of pure stubbornness, a tired pink tongue wagging at the sun. Main Street wore last night's Marvel Cinematic Universe aftermath like a badge: heat-warped asphalt, a glinting crust of melted glass, and two twisted cars that looked like modern art exhibits sponsored by Oops, All Fire. The smell of cooked rubber and dust clung to the air like a rumor that didn't want to move along.
I stood beside our rented SUV, nursing a cup of gas-station coffee that tasted exactly like hot cardboard for people with optimism. Around me, my Spartans made a quiet perimeter—Alpha-01 at a shoulder's breadth to my right, Alpha-02 settled just behind the hood, Alpha-03 shepherding rookies 06 and 08 with unobtrusive hand cues, Alpha-04 positioned with 07 like punctuation at the end of a sentence. Alpha-05, newly minted Spartan-II, stood close to Alpha-02, both of them breathing in the steady cadence of people who could run sprints between heartbeats and call it rest.
Eight of us now: five veterans, three recruits. A small, self-sufficient platoon that did not belong to this world and yet already fit inside it with unnerving ease.
I grinned into the cup because sometimes you have to taunt fate. "Well, boys, looks like our Asgardian buddy's packing up. Let's go say goodbye before he flies off to hammer his problems somewhere else."
"Proceed," Alpha-01 said, voice even. His posture shifted two degrees—readiness disguised as stillness.
Alpha-02 adjusted his stance without a word, seamless after last night's brawl with the Destroyer. Alpha-03 kept rookies 06 and 08 near his left shoulder; Alpha-04 bracketed 07 on his right. Alpha-05 moved like he'd been born trained—footfalls quiet, angles right. We made a tidy shape moving through the motel's courtyard: calm, precise, a rolling hush.
Thor Odinson stood with Jane Foster, Darcy Lewis, and Erik Selvig under the shade of the second-floor walkway. The Bifrost hadn't arrived yet, but the world already felt like it was inhaling in preparation. Sif and the Warriors Three—armor cleaned, bruises already fading the way Asgardians do—clustered nearby, the geometry of their formation pure muscle memory. Mjölnir rested casually against Thor's shin, which is the kind of flex only a god can pull off.
Thor looked different in the light. Not just re-armored—recentered. Last night's sacrifice had sanded off the sheen of arrogance and replaced it with a weight that looked good on him.
I let the grin lead. "Well, look at that. Goldilocks, all shiny again. About time."
He turned, and for once the scowl didn't arrive before I did. Thor smiled—a small, honest thing. "Shredder. You came."
"Of course I did," I said. "Had to make sure you didn't trip over your cape on the way out."
"Honestly," Darcy put in, leaning on the railing like a queen of sarcasm, "I was waiting for that too."
Sif gave me the look she'd perfected: cautious, measuring, not quite hostile anymore. Volstagg rolled a laugh in his chest; Fandral found a smirk—a man never one grin away from performance. Hogun remained the patron saint of monosyllabic judgment.
Thor stepped closer. "You and your warriors—I owe you more than I can say."
I waved it off because funerals and thanks make me itchy. "Don't worry about it. We had fun. Besides, it was worth it just to see your face when the hammer wouldn't budge."
Darcy lost the fight against laughter and clapped a hand over her mouth when Thor cut her the look he keeps for frost giants and poor timing. Jane tried not to smile and failed in a way that made the day five degrees better.
"See?" I said, delighted. "I am not the only one who thought it was hilarious."
"Once," Thor said, deadpan, which meant he'd learned the joke module. "Only once."
The air trembled on the horizon, a far-off shimmer that wasn't heat. Rainbow light feathered across the desert—Bifrost Bridge preparing its exit wound. Sif straightened. Fandral squared his shoulders like a painting. Volstagg sighed for mead he would not be allowed to drink here. Hogun blinked.
"You're leaving," Jane said, not asking.
"I must," Thor replied, voice roughened by duty. "My father calls me back. But know this—" his gaze held hers with the patience of a tide, "—I will return."
"That's what all the guys say," Darcy muttered, because comic relief is a public service.
Selvig shot her a dad-look over his glasses; Darcy shrugged, unrepentant. Thor ignored her like a professional; his eyes lingered on Jane—soft, hopeful, a man who had learned what he didn't want to lose.
I stepped in before the mood slipped into pathos. "He'll be back," I promised. "Someone's got to reimburse me for babysitting a thunder god. Also, I've got a pancake tab with his name on it."
Thor chuckled low. "You are relentless."
"Part of my charm."
We walked them to the edge of the parking lot where desert turns to stage. The Bifrost glow coalesced—a brilliant veil that made the earth hold still. Thor turned to me one last time.
"Shredder, may your path be strong, and may your warriors always stand by you."
I smirked because sincerity deserves a counterweight. "Don't worry. They're not going anywhere—unlike you."
A real laugh this time, fast as summer thunder. Thor lifted Mjölnir. Light took them like a promise. One breath, two—gone. The parking lot flooded with ordinary heat again, ordinary sun, ordinary silence. If not for the ripple in the air and the hair on your arms standing at attention, you could pretend it hadn't happened at all.
Darcy let out a long exhale. "Well. That was dramatic."
"He does love his exits," I agreed.
We stood with the quiet a moment: Jane hugging her elbows, Selvig running calculus in his head just to feel in control of something, Darcy already turning the memory into a story with better lighting. Then I clapped my hands once, bright as a cymbal.
"Okay. If the god is done stealing the scene, we've got logistics."
The Soft Exit (S.H.I.E.L.D.-Style)
S.H.I.E.L.D. had the good taste to pull back to a polite distance. The black SUVs remained parked on legal asphalt, agents in shades doing their impression of decorative cacti. Agent Phil Coulson did not appear; which is Coulson for I'm letting you have this moment.
We swept the town the way we always do after a storm: checking on the old man with the hardware store, the diner staff dealing with extra "Thor sat here" requests, the kid in the Spider-Man tee still clutching his crayon masterpiece like Mjölnir. People smiled at us with that new brand of gratitude we'd accidentally patented—thank you whispered through the careful distance you give big men who moved a Destroyer and didn't break anyone doing it.
By mid-afternoon, the heat had bounced from punishing to committed. With the town's pulse settled and S.H.I.E.L.D. purring in its corner, we dug back into the only thing that scares trouble: routine.
At the rental house I claimed the couch like a throne someone had left on the curb. "Alright, boys," I said, popping open the laptop that booted like it hated hope. "Field trip planning."
Alpha-01 stood sentry at the window, scanning as if Loki could fit himself into a tumbleweed. He turned his head just enough to cover the briefing. "Destination."
"New York City," I said, letting the grin in. "Thor's gone. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s going to be busy cataloging a myth in pieces. We won't rack up points babysitting this postcard. Big city means big opportunities—and bigger names to help. Hell's Kitchen is practically sending me a Christmas card."
"Confirmed," Alpha-02 said, the word shaped like a green light.
"Civilian transport," Alpha-03 noted. Translation: we do this the normal way. No black helicopters. No SHIELD favor tokens. Commercial.
"Yep," I said. "We're booking nine tickets. One row if the gods of seat maps love me. Two if they're vengeful. Prepare for economy class to take a personal interest in your shoulders."
"Logistical challenge," Alpha-04 murmured, which is Spartan for this will be hilarious and also difficult.
"Oh, absolutely. And I plan to enjoy it."
I pulled up flight searches like I was hacking Stark Industries, and by hacking I mean typing my credit card into a website that sold hope in two-hour increments. Options slid by: red-eyes, multi-stops, thinly disguised punishments. I wanted JFK because Newark is for people who like pain and LaGuardia is a dare. "Okay, look at this—straight shot to JFK tomorrow morning. Enough seats if we split across two rows. We'll block a window, an aisle, and pray for mercy."
One click, two, four, and a warning about "are you sure?" like I hadn't committed enough errors in life already. Then:
CONFIRMED.
I leaned back, stretching until my shoulders clicked. "Done. We're officially tourists. Pack your most intimidating T-shirts."
Alpha-05—new shine, new steadiness—set his jaw like a promise. "Prepared."
Alpha-06 and Alpha-07 traded a quick glance; rookies still figuring out how to hide that their learning curve made a sound. Alpha-08, mirror-image to Alpha-03 by habit now, adjusted his stance an inch to match his mentor's. Eight men, one plan, zero doubts.
Pancakes, Policy, and Packing Lists
Dinner was the same brand of bliss we'd earned yesterday: burgers and fries and a sacrilegious mountain of pancakes I ordered out of spite and tradition. I raised my soda like a chalice. "To progress, to pancakes, to New York. May the TSA forgive us our widths."
Alpha-01 nodded, the small gesture that passes for a standing ovation.
"Acknowledged," Alpha-02 said.
"Confirmed," Alpha-03 added.
"Ready," said Alpha-04, which always sounds like he's telling the rest of the world to catch up.
We ate like people who had burned a town's worth of adrenaline. No one spoke unless the words were necessary or funny. The rookies focused on the plates like students who'd just discovered food is also fuel; the veterans ate with the easy efficiency of machines that remember joy.
When the last plate was empty and the syrup had been persuaded to surrender, we got practical.
"Policy refresh," I said, tapping the couch arm like a podium. "We keep priorities in order. One: if we can afford Spartan-II training, we buy it—quality first. Two: if we can't, we summon a new clone—presence matters. Three: any rookie is paired with a veteran until signed off. Four: public doctrine stays the same—hinge, not hammer. We turn the door the story needs. We do not rip the wall down to prove we lift."
"Understood," Alpha-01 said, without a beat.
"Copy," Alpha-03 echoed.
"Affirmative," Alpha-04 added, already making a mental spreadsheet that would shame JARVIS.
"Packing lists," I said, clapping once. "No weapons—you don't need them. No blades—if the TSA sees steel we all meet new friends in a room without windows. Carry-ons only. Clothes that say men who can move couches in one trip. Headphones if you must but we're not missing instructions because you wanted to watch The Incredible Hulk on a six-inch screen. Alpha-02, you own seat assignments on the plane. Rotate aisles so everyone gets a shot at pretending the drink cart isn't a battering ram."
"Task accepted," Alpha-02 said, which doubled as a threat to any airline algorithm that thought separate seats were an option.
"Alpha-04," I continued, "you're on logistics—check-in times, boarding passes, snacks that won't get us flagged as suspicious lumps. Rookies, shadow your mentors. No wandering off in the terminal—Coulson's probably got three cameras watching to see if we buy People magazine or Popular Mechanics. Spoiler: we're buying neither."
"Acknowledged," Alpha-04 said, already sorting problems by what they'd weigh.
"Alpha-01," I finished, "you're front watch at every threshold. Door in the motel now; gate in the terminal later. If something smells wrong, we smell it with you."
"Copy," he said, which is Spartan for it was done before you asked.
We packed: spare shirts that would pass for uniforms without logos, jeans built like the men wearing them, chargers for the devices we rarely used, the System humming quietly in the back of my head like a satisfied cat. Alpha-03 ran a ten-minute silent hand-signal rehearsal—Stop, Split, Anchor, Peel, Breathe—and then we repacked because drill is the point, not the gear.
We drilled, lightly, to bleed out the last of the day's electricity—breath ladders, touch-flow, off-line steps, pivot corrections for rookies 06-08. Alpha-05 ran a micro-spar with Alpha-02, the rhythm between them already becoming muscle hymn. Alpha-07 found the breath cue on four-and-six without counting—Alpha-04's chin dipped in approval. Alpha-08 surprised Alpha-03 by not biting on a fake; it won him a millimeter of nod, which is a trophy and a half.
Outside, the desert practiced being loud with crickets and then forgot halfway through. Somewhere down the road, a S.H.I.E.L.D. drone hummed politely to itself and decided we were still boring in a way that saved lives. I allowed it.
By the time the clock tangled with midnight, movement tapered to stillness. The house fell into that comfortable Spartan quiet: posts assigned, lanes covered, no one telling the room they're in charge because the room already knew.
I stretched until my back applauded. "Alright," I said around a yawn. "That's enough. Rookies, rack time. Veterans, eyes on. Commander will be here dreaming of bagels and yelling at a taxi."
The System flickered up one last overlay, neat as a receipt:
Points available: 0
I smiled at the emptiness. Spent isn't broke when you traded for a future.
In Which We Play Tourist (and Win)
Sunrise in the desert is a gold blade—sharp, bright, and interested in cutting you into the shape of a silhouette. We were up and moving before it cleared the horizon; Alpha-01 checked the property line, Alpha-02 ran a three-minute warmup because he believes joints deserve foreplay, Alpha-03 set the vanishing points of the day on a mental map. Breakfast was protein bars that taste like compressed regret and water that tasted like victory. We left the house cleaner than we found it because discipline doesn't clock out.
At the airport, we became a mobile rumor. Nine bodies moving with the kind of cohesion you usually see in parades and nightmares. People made space without knowing why; security eyes tracked us like their retinas had been trained by nature.
Check-in was a negotiation with technology. The kiosk tried to scatter us across three time zones; Alpha-02 coaxed it into surrender via patience and a stare that might have ended wars. Alpha-04 managed the baggage tags like a quartermaster from a better movie. Alpha-01 stood where standing meant no surprises came through.
Security did not enjoy us. No weapons, no liquids, no belts with metal—just men shaped like they invented gravity. The metal detector beeped at Alpha-07 for daring to exist; he spread his arms, patient, polite, and earned a "you're good" that sounded suspiciously like "I don't want to touch you." We moved on with the quiet satisfaction of making normal procedures feel miraculous. Coulson would be proud.
At the gate, we found a corner with sightlines to everything that mattered: jetway, exits, the guy in a Stark Industries tee who kept sneaking photos and pretending he was texting. The rookies sat in textbook posture; the veterans took turns closing their eyes without sleeping. I went to buy snacks and returned with a bag full of things I pretended were for the team.
"Commander requires calories," Alpha-02 said, dry as New Mexico.
"Commander requires gummy bears," I corrected, and tossed him almonds because I am a benevolent tyrant.
Boarding called the zones that never make sense. We waited until the clogged artery of humanity cleared and stepped down the jet bridge in sequence—Alpha-01, Alpha-02, Alpha-03, Alpha-04, rookies surrounding me like punctuation. Flight attendants did that rapid blink you do when a marching band shows up at your book club.
We'd managed two rows: six in the first (aisle-window-aisle), three in the second behind me. I took the aisle seat so my knees could live free or die trying. Alpha-01 took the opposite aisle, guardian of both the row and whatever calamity thinks it can sprint down a tube at 600 miles per hour. Alpha-02 and Alpha-05 bracketed a window each; Alpha-03 and Alpha-04 played anchor. 06, 07, 08 filled the row behind without sighing about legroom because we are Spartans, not complainers.
"First one to break the tray table buys pizza in New York," I said, fastening my belt.
"Mission constraint accepted," Alpha-04 said, deadpan enough to break the cabin into secret smiles if they'd been listening.
The flight lifted. Engines hummed. The world shrank to cloud and wing and a cabin pressurized for bad coffee and worse jokes. I pulled my hoodie up and let the rhythm of nine men breathing in sync convince me I could nap.
We were tourists—for the length of a flight—armed with discipline, doctrine, and an inbox that would light up the moment New York City remembered it needed a hinge more than a hammer. Peter Parker lived there, a kid with curiosity that could power a city. Matt Murdock kept Hell's Kitchen honest when the law forgot how. Pepper Potts ran Stark like a symphony. S.H.I.E.L.D. made a home out of secrets under Grand Central and wherever else they could find sturdy walls. Points would arrive the way they always do when you help the right people at the right time without asking for your name in lights.
We'd done good work in New Mexico. We'd kept a town safe, taught a god about being human, and learned how to turn a street into three lanes of mercy. Now the board had changed. The pieces were bigger. The eyes were everywhere. The System waited with its invisible ledger open, and I had a budget plan that fit on a napkin:
Train when possible.
Clone when not.
Build the squad.
Stay boring where boring saves lives.
Hinge, not hammer.
I cracked an eye as the plane banked east and the desert fell away. Alpha-01 had his gaze fixed down the aisle, calm as a locked door. Alpha-02 pretended not to catalog the rhythm of the engines. Alpha-03 watched me in the reflection on the window, because watching the watcher is part of the job. Alpha-04 had already sorted the snack bag by protein-to-fun ratio because of course he had. Alpha-05 sat as if he'd been born in row 27. Alpha-06 and Alpha-07 practiced micro-breathing behind me; Alpha-08 mirrored Alpha-03's posture until it fit like a suit tailored by repetition.
New York City waited—JFK first, then highways into boroughs that wear their grudges like jewelry, then Manhattan, then Hell's Kitchen, then whatever the day decided to be. I could almost hear the city's voice through the fuselage: a thousand stories and ten thousand mistakes wanting help from people who knew the difference between saving and winning.
I smiled into the hum. "Goodbye, New Mexico," I murmured. "Hello, New York."
And somewhere behind my eyes, the System stayed dark and quiet, a satisfied ledger with zero at the bottom and plenty on the way.