Chapter 23: Nine Seats in Economy (Reforged)
The desert sun came hunting early—yellow blade, no apology. By the time we shouldered open the rental-house door, heat was already pooling on the driveway like a trap. Eight Spartans filed past me and into the SUV with the quiet efficiency of well-trained gravity. I took the driver's seat and tried not to yawn like the world's least intimidating commander.
"Gentlemen," I announced to the cabin as I keyed the ignition, "this is what's commonly referred to as traveling in style. Eight giants and a remarkably handsome commander crammed into economy class. The Marvel gods are not ready."
"Acknowledged," said Alpha-01 from shotgun, because he'll agree to anything that doesn't compromise the perimeter.
"See?" I grinned. "He agrees with me."
From the middle row came Alpha-02's steady correction. "Not acknowledgment of humor."
"Oh, don't ruin it. Let me have this."
The rookies—Alpha-06, Alpha-07, and Alpha-08—rode in back, shoulders squared, expressions arranged into perfect Spartan quiet. From behind, they looked like a row of armored statues being transported to a museum—if museums accepted exhibit pieces that ate thirty eggs for breakfast and learned footwork for fun.
The highway unspooled toward the airport. We passed a diner sign I had bullied into loving me, a billboard trying to sell happiness with less sugar than a smile, and a S.H.I.E.L.D. SUV that pretended it wasn't pretending not to tail us. If Agent Phil Coulson was on the other end of that chain, I hoped his coffee was better than the stuff I was about to buy at the terminal.
"Last chance to turn back," I said. "We could stay in New Mexico, become legends, open a food truck called Mjölnir & Pancakes—"
"Objective New York City," Alpha-01 reminded me, a polite cattle prod.
Right. New York—city of Avengers and sirens, Hell's Kitchen and hotdog carts, Peter Parker's future and Matt Murdock's secret. Points on every corner if you knew which people to help and when to keep your elbows tucked. The System still showed 0 points, but that was simply a budget waiting for income.
We turned into long-term parking and joined the migration of rolling suitcases and early regrets. I killed the engine, stepped out, stretched until my spine applauded, and looked up at the terminal's mirrored glass. The building glared back like it had seen too much and wasn't done yet.
"Alright, boys," I said, slinging my carry-on. "Single file. No glaring at security unless they touch me. We are ambassadors of public safety and extremely polite shoulder width."
"Understood," six voices replied. Alpha-05 and Alpha-02 simply nodded; they are brevity and biceps.
We moved as a unit. Heads turned as if yanked by the same string: a man froze mid-step; a woman tapped her husband's arm like I'd taught her; a kid abandoned his juice box the way you abandon a sinking ship. Phones rose like sunflowers tracking a light source. Someone whispered soldiers, someone whispered robots, someone whispered Avengers? with the hopeful excitement of a person who desperately wanted a selfie with a lawsuit.
"See?" I said under my breath. "Instant attention. If this whole hinge, not hammer thing ever fails, we can make a fortune standing in lobbies looking imposing."
Check-in tried to be routine, bless it. The agent behind the counter had the thousand-yard stare of a person who had already said, "Yes, your email confirmation is sufficient," six hundred times before noon. Then she looked up and met Alpha-01's torso.
"H—how many in your party?" she asked, voice kangaroo-hopping an octave.
"Nine," I said brightly, sliding our confirmation forward with the suave confidence of a man who once booked tickets for four and now thought nine was a personality trait. "Me and my eight brothers. Booked online last night."
"Brothers?" Her eyes did a quick inventory—Alpha-03's blank stare was not helping—and then swiveled back to me with the expression of a person wondering if genetics could be contagious.
"Yep," I said, teeth out. "Family trip. Don't we look alike?"
Behind me, Alpha-02 adjusted a zipper. Alpha-04 stacked our IDs like cards in a magician's gentle hands. Alpha-06 practiced not breathing too loudly.
The agent typed like speed would save her, printed nine boarding passes like she didn't want to argue with fate, and slid them over without another word. Alpha-04 gathered the stack, fanned them once, and redistributed with the grace of a quartermaster who knows seating charts are also safety plans.
Security was next. Shoes off. Belts off. Bags on the belt. The line's ambient grumbling paused to watch the parade of Spartan feet. We placed our shoes identically—heels aligned, toes pointed like compliments—and stepped forward one by one.
A TSA agent watched Alpha-04 duck beneath the metal-arch like a tall man apologizing for architecture. "Uh… sir," he ventured, "is he… tall?"
"Runs in the family," I said, cheerful. "Great cardio for doorways."
The scanner beeped at Alpha-06 because of course it did. The agent put up a shaky hand, and Alpha-06 obliged with arms out, patient as a streetlight. The wand stuttered at his shoulder and decided to be reasonable. I clapped the agent on the shoulder like we were old friends. "Don't worry. He's harmless. Probably."
He paled but waved us through with the universal gesture for please take your human tanks and keep moving. On the other side, Alpha-04 distributed belts and shoes like medals. I took a sip of water and resisted the urge to buy gummy bears; Alpha-02 would file a complaint with the Department of Nutrition.
At the gate, we drew the kind of polite crowd usually reserved for pandas and celebrities. Travelers stared from behind their phones. Kids gawked with the honesty adults pretend they've outgrown. A man leaned over the aisle and whispered, "Are they soldiers?"
"Depends who you ask," I said, because that answer is always true.
He wisely did not press.
We chose a corner with sightlines to everything that mattered—jetway, exits, the coffee kiosk with a line of people falling in love with caffeine. Alpha-01 stood where he could see both the boarding door and my bad ideas forming. Alpha-03 kept rookies 06 and 08 close, drilling silent hand signals with a flick and a glance. Alpha-04 did a quiet inventory of everyone's bags as if he could weigh them by looking. Alpha-05 aligned his posture with Alpha-02's without needing to be told; synchrony is a language.
Boarding time arrived with the practiced optimism of airport announcements. The gate agent called zones in an order that will never make sense to mortals. We waited until the human knot loosened, then approached like a storm front with manners.
The flight attendant at the door had a smile that could keep a fuselage in the air by itself—until she looked up. Her smile stumbled, caught itself, and kept going because professionalism is a superpower. "Sir," she said, eyeing the stack of tickets Alpha-04 presented and then the eight walls of man behind me, "are… are they all with you?"
"Yep," I said, offering my most harmless look. "Row 22 and friends. We promise to tuck elbows and not challenge the drink cart to a duel."
She breathed in, made a decision about her life, and stepped aside. "Welcome aboard."
We squeezed down the aisle in single file: Alpha-01, Alpha-02, Alpha-05, me, Alpha-03, Alpha-06, Alpha-08, Alpha-04, Alpha-07. The plane shrank around us out of self-preservation. A toddler burst into tears; a businessman performed a latte spill that would haunt him. "Don't mind us," I said. "Just your average family vacation. You should see us at Disney."
Row 22 looked like a dare. Knees met tray tables with immediate intimacy. Alpha-01 took the aisle seat and became the guardian of both legs and etiquette. Alpha-02 and Alpha-05 bracketed me; across the aisle, Alpha-03 sat with Alpha-06 and Alpha-08; one seat beyond, Alpha-04 and Alpha-07 made the window regret its life choices.
I buckled in and surveyed my kingdom. "This," I announced, "is the funniest thing I've ever seen."
"Inefficient seating," Alpha-02 observed.
"Oh, it's very efficient," I assured him. "I have never felt safer on a plane. If this thing depressurizes, you guys can hold the cabin together."
The attendant rolled the safety demo, and I did the kind thing: I watched. So did all eight Spartans, because respect doesn't cost points and procedurals are sacred. If the flight attendant noticed a row of men tracking her gestures like a military drill, she didn't comment. She did linger half a beat too long at our row with a look that translated to please don't rip the overhead bin off with your pinky.
We pushed back, taxied, lifted. Engines hummed us into a sky that forgives and doesn't. New Mexico unraveled beneath us into geometry and memory. I felt the cabin settle into its steady exhale—people accepting captivity in exchange for destination.
The drink cart rattled toward Row 22 with the courage of the very brave or the very caffeinated. The attendant eyed our collective shoulders, recalculated her margins of error, and said, "What can I get you gentlemen?"
"Eight waters, one ginger ale," I said. "And if you have a double portion of mercy, we'll take that, too."
She poured with hands that had poured in emergencies, accepted a thank-you in chorus—eight polite "thank yous" delivered like a chord—and moved on, visibly reassured we weren't about to bench-press the aisle. Across the row, a man whispered to his wife, "Are they robots?"
I smiled into my cup. "Better."
Two hours in, we had achieved the kind of silence that frightens New Yorkers and comforts Spartans. I passed the time the way I always do: providing a running commentary no one asked for.
"Hey, Alpha-03," I said, "be gentle with that tray table; it looks like it's already survived three toddlers and one bad breakup. Alpha-06, don't scare the kid behind you—he's been watching you for twenty minutes like you're a Transformer at rest. Alpha-04, if you lean back any farther, that guy's laptop is going to become modern art."
No reaction. Not a flinch. I sighed, dramatic enough to qualify for a union card. "You're all no fun. At least pretend you're human."
After a beat, Alpha-05 said, "Commander entertained."
"Exactly," I said, triumphant. "At least someone gets it."
Turbulence introduced itself like a friend-of-a-friend and settled in for a three-minute visit. The plane bounced; a collective inhale rolled down the cabin. Alpha-01 placed a palm lightly on the armrest, anchoring nothing and everything. The rookies tracked the movement with the soft fascination of students watching a teacher erase a whiteboard: learn the rhythm, steal the lesson, carry it forward.
The seatbelt sign chimed three times; the pilot's voice did that reassuring baritone thing pilots are issued at flight school. "Ladies and gentlemen, just a small patch of rough air, perfectly normal, we'll be through it in a moment." We were. The cabin exhaled. Somewhere behind me, a teenager whispered, "Dude, those guys didn't even blink."
Correct.
Sometime between desert and coastline, an older woman walking the aisle paused at our row. She looked up at Alpha-01 with a kind, unafraid curiosity that deserved an answer. "Are you boys military?" she asked, in the tone of someone who had waited tables for servicemen during wars with different names.
I offered the official non-answer. "We're helpers, ma'am."
She patted Alpha-01's arm and smiled at all of us like we were her grandchildren whether we liked it or not. "Well, thank you for helping, then."
"You're welcome," Alpha-01 said, and if the cabin had been listening it would have heard the gentleness tucked into his iron. The woman moved on, steadier for it.
I tried to nap. The row had other plans. Alpha-02's shoulder is not a pillow; Alpha-05's is an implied warning label; the aisle armrest was negotiating land rights with my ribs. I gave up, pulled out my phone, pretended to scroll, and drifted in that limbo where plans write themselves.
New York was a chessboard in my head: Hell's Kitchen (hi again, Matt Murdock), Queens (hello, Peter Parker), Midtown (Stark Industries billboards and the rumor of a tower), Harlem (where the city remembers how to fight), Brooklyn (where it remembers why). S.H.I.E.L.D. would have eyes on us from baggage claim to taxi line; Coulson's reports practically wrote themselves when we were around. The System, quiet and blue behind my vision, waited for me to make the next good decision: train when possible; clone when not. Hinge, not hammer. Save civilians. Be boring where boring saves lives. The MCU doesn't need more fireworks; it needs a steady hand at the door.
We descended through cloud and into a coastline that looked like a promise and a dare. The seatbelt sign chimed one last time. Wheels met tarmac. A murmur rolled through the cabin, that mix of relief and hunger airports are built to feed.
Taxi. Gate. The soft thunk of the jetway mating with the door. Deplane—a word that should be illegal but isn't. The aisle clogged; we waited. I let passengers pass with a smile and a "go ahead," which is also public relations. Eventually we rose in sequence and squeezed our way out. Passengers pressed themselves flat against seats like cartoons; Alpha-04 rotated sideways to minimize his impact on adjacent laptops. A woman muttered, "They shouldn't fit," and I gave her the smile of a man who enjoys statistics misbehaving.
Terminal air hit like a different planet—cooler, denser, full of New York: announcements, arguments, languages elbowing each other with love, the smell of coffee, pretzels, and a thousand plans.
JFK didn't blink at nine of us walking in formation; it simply made space by instinct. We followed the herd toward baggage claim, ignoring the polite surveillance of the cameras, the impolite surveillance of phones, and the candid curiosity of a small boy pointing at Alpha-03 like he had discovered a new dinosaur.
"Welcome to New York, boys," I said, taking it in—the polished floors, the shrugging crowds, the ad for a Broadway show turning dance into salvation. "Land of opportunity and better food."
"Objective location," Alpha-01 prompted, because schedules are his love language.
"First, we set a base," I said, stepping onto the escalator and watching our reflection stretch in the glass. "Then we spot trouble. This city is stacked with named characters. You know what that means."
"Points," Alpha-02 said, simple and true.
"Bingo," I said, snapping for my own amusement.
The carousel coughed up luggage like a whale spitting out sailors. We collected our bags—light, practical, nothing that would slow us in a chase or embarrass us at a stakeout. Alpha-04 looped our straps together with a single twist I couldn't reproduce with instructions. We moved as one through sliding doors and into the greater chaos: horns, taxis, shouted instructions, and a man selling bottled water with the hustle of a Wall Street trader.
A kid in a Stark Industries tee stared up at Alpha-06 and asked, "Are you Avengers?" His mom went pale and tried to pull him back; Alpha-06 stopped, crouched to half his height, and said, "We help." The kid thought about that, nodded solemnly, and offered a fist-bump. Alpha-06 returned it with appropriate gentleness. Points: invisible, but real.
We hit the taxi line, then pivoted—nine is too many for sedans and I don't like splitting my people on first entry into a new board. Alpha-04 flagged down a van service with the quiet authority of a man who has never lost a negotiation and doesn't plan to start. Two vans later, we were headed toward the city proper, one convoy, windows framing a skyline like a jagged grin.
I watched the boroughs roll by: Queens first, with laundry on lines and dreams on stoops; then the East River, gray and honest; then Manhattan, where the air becomes ambition; the FDR curling us south; midtown's suggestion of a tower not yet wearing its future name. We crossed streets where a hundred stories were already in progress. Somewhere down there a blind lawyer tilted his head to listen to a city lie and tell the truth at the same time. Somewhere a teenage genius stared into a microscope and felt fate leaning on his shoulder. Somewhere Pepper Potts signed a contract that would save a thousand jobs. Our work waits in all those somewheres.
"Base of operations," Alpha-03 said, reminder wrapped in tactical inquiry.
"Hell's Kitchen," I said, because I'm sentimental and efficient. "We go where the city bleeds and learns to stop bleeding. Short-term: two rooms, neutral colors, neighbors who mind their own business. Long-term: we get a space with stairs and a roof we can train on."
"S.H.I.E.L.D. observation probable," Alpha-01 said.
"Guaranteed," I said. "And that's fine. We'll be boring where boring saves lives. We'll be brilliant where it matters. Hinge, not hammer."
We cut through midtown traffic like the river cuts rock—with patience and a plan. I rolled down the window and breathed in the cocktail of this place: steam, pretzel salt, spilled coffee, hot metal, hope.
"Alright, squad," I said as the van slipped into the West Side. "Game plan: we get the keys, we lace the perimeter, we run silent drills, we go find a problem sized correctly for nine. And then we eat."
"Commander requires pizza," Alpha-02 said, tone flat enough to pass as a legal declaration.
"Correct," I said. "A foldable slice the size of a shield, extra grease, and a napkin that can't keep up. Welcome to the MCU's favorite city, gentlemen."
The van turned onto a block in Hell's Kitchen where old brick remembered everything and didn't judge. People looked up as we rolled past—because nine men traveling in formation changes the weather—and then went back to their lives, because that is New York's greatest magic trick.
We offloaded. We stood in front of a building that looked exactly like a building that should never have to hear about gods or armor or secret agencies and yet somehow always does. Alpha-01 scanned, Alpha-03 mapped exits with a glance, Alpha-04 counted windows, Alpha-02 inventoried passersby by gait. The rookies watched with the eyes of apprentices who had just realized they were going to be good at this.
I slung my bag over my shoulder, looked up at the slice of sky trapped between brick, and grinned without trying. "Yeah," I said to the city and the squad and whatever future had the nerve to think it could surprise me. "We're going to have fun here."