The fortress woke before I did, the way New York always does—on rhythm, never on mercy. Metal kissed metal in the basement, footsteps drummed like restrained thunder, and the old building added its own percussion: pipes clearing throats they've had since Roosevelt and a fridge humming bass like a contented, overworked bouncer. By the time I rolled out of bed, the veterans already had the rookies arrayed downstairs in neat ranks that would've made a drill sergeant applaud and a fire marshal sweat. It looked less like a gym and more like a parade ground that had learned to squat.
Priorities, in order: soda, half a bagel, then stairs. Alpha01 ghosted at my shoulder on the climb, silent as window frost and twice as cool. He doesn't "accompany" anyone so much as the weather decides to be present; you adjust or you get hypothermia.
On the first basement landing, heads turned—exactly once, exactly together. Veterans stood tall. Rookies stood taller because rookies try. Eleven Spartans on deck made the room feel smaller, while I looked like I'd lost a fight with a pillow and demanded a rematch. Bagel crumbs decorated my hoodie like I'd earned a new rank in carbohydrates.
"Morning, boys," I said, raising my soda like a toast and a poor life choice. "You look terrifying. I look like I lost a fight with a pillow. Balance."
No one laughed. Perfect. If they start laughing at breakfast, they'll start bleeding at lunch.
"Today," I announced, letting the word echo off cinderblock and discipline, "no patrols, no bus rides, no pizza. We're staying home. Translation for the folks in the back: training day, all day. Lucky you."
07, 08, 09, 10, 11 tightened a fraction—throats swallowed, shoulders set, knees unlocked. That micro-flinch is how you know the message landed in the muscles.
"See?" I grinned. "They love it."
"Directive," Alpha02 said, voice mild as a blunt instrument.
"Veterans, pick your rookies," I said. "Drill them until they can't move. Don't kill them; I'm not filing ghost-Spartan paperwork with S.H.I.E.L.D. or Tony Stark's PR team."
Assignments fell into place the way gravity happens—inevitable and unquestioned. We don't do captains' lists or chore wheels; we do habits that have signed prenups with results.
02 & 07 — The Mat Cathedral
Alpha02 took 07 to the mats with a nod that was permission and sentence. Guard. Strike. Reset. Faster. Again. Sweat sheeted until it looked like the air was leaking. 02 corrected with two words at a time, sometimes one, sometimes just a tap on the elbow that said everything: drop the shoulder; hide the chin; weight on the balls of your feet; breathe like you intend to see dinner.
"Guard," 02 said. Tap. "Taller."
07 raised his hands.
"Not higher—taller," 02 clarified, which is a thing only 02 can say and make sense. Not a vertical correction—an intent correction. You don't lift your hands; you raise your presence.
07's jab was honest and wrong. 02 parried, stepped inside, and put a glove on 07's chest with exactly enough pressure to communicate that would have been your rib. No flourish, no noise.
"Reset."
They moved through combinations like a metronome had enlisted: one-two, one-two-slip-two, three-two-hook-low, break, frame, pummel, reverse, get up, get moving, don't die. By the third round, 07's hips remembered they were the engine; by the fourth, his feet stopped trying to be tourists.
03 & 08 — The Line That Teaches the Trigger
Alpha03 claimed 08 on the firing line, where discipline smells like oil and responsibility. We don't do "gun porn"; we do marksmanship that remembers there's a city on the other side of the barrel. Ear pro, eye pro, double-checks, muzzle awareness. Safety brief, then safety again, then dry fire until the word click becomes a meditation.
"Front sight, press," 03 said, voice like clean paper. 08's grouping printed wide like a nervous autograph.
"Too much finger," 03 added, tapping the second pad. "You're steering the gun. Guide it."
08 exhaled and found the wall in the trigger like it was the edge of an answer. Squeeze. Don't slap. Reset lives under recoil—catch it there.
Shots narrowed from "postal code" to "neighborhood" to "street." 03 dialed the targets out, then in; added lateral movement; then a cadence drill; then a one-to-five string to force transitions without panic. 08's shoulders unclenched the way a student relaxes when they finally realize the test is fair if you studied.
"Track moving targets," 03 said, and set the rails to wander. 08's eyes learned to glide instead of jerk. Follow-through stopped being a word and started being a habit.
04 & 09 — The Gravity Lesson
Alpha04 pulled 09 into hand-to-hand where physics writes the curriculum and pride pays tuition. 09 has a brawler's heart and a city bus's momentum; 04 has a glacier's patience and a chiropractor's love of alignment.
"Base," 04 said.
09 set his feet.
"Balance," 04 added.
09 set his ego.
They started with hand-fighting, frames, underhooks—dirty wrestling that cleans up life. 09 flailed; 04 flowed. 09 grabbed; 04 gripped the space and made 09's hands feel ornamental. When 09 muscled, 04 changed levels. When 09 insisted, 04 redirected. It was a seminar in the tyranny of leverage. The mat whispered secrets: you can't out-tough geometry.
"Again," 04 said.
Over and over until "again" lost its edges and turned into progress. 09's first real improvement wasn't a takedown; it was a fall that didn't look like a car accident. Breakfall, frame, shrimp, get up, hands up. When 04 finally let 09 complete a clean single-leg, it came after three minutes of chain-wrestling and a jaw-set that could open cans. 04 gave a single nod. That nod is a currency you don't spend on candy.
05 & 10 — Iron That Teaches Time
Alpha05 settled 10 under a loaded bar and said, "Controlled." It was an order and a destination.
Warm-ups were not warm, and they were not up. Tempo squats with pauses that made seconds file HR paperwork, deadlifts that refused to let the back round, overhead presses that taught the wrists about honesty. Then circuits—farmer's carries, sled drags, sandbag shouldering—each a small argument with gravity that 10 learned to win by breathing, not by swearing.
"Rack it," 05 said at the end of a set where 10's legs trembled like truth under oath.
10 racked it.
"Again," 05 said, because strength hides in repeats.
If 05 were a song, he'd be 120 BPM and forever. He doesn't raise his voice. He raises the standard. 10's arms buzzed like they'd been texting bricks. I gave him a thumbs-up; he looked like he wanted to throw it.
01 & 11 — The Quiet Forge
Typically, 11 stays in 01's shadow because that's where lessons echo the loudest. 01 doesn't do loud corrections—he does reality checks. He led 11 through stances the way cartographers draw maps: feet first, then territory. Weight distribution drills where the goal is to look unmoving and be ready to move; stillness exercises where a coin balanced on the head means you remembered you own a neck; breath practice that turns the body into a metronome other people can rely on.
"Here," 01 said, adjusting 11's rear foot a thumb's width.
"Here," he said again, nudging the elbow until a straight line appeared between intent and the place it would land.
He didn't say good or bad. He said here until 11's body understood the word as a location and a promise. Every so often 01 would gesture a tiny circle—smaller, smaller—and 11's stance would settle into something that looked like inevitability.
"Ah," I said, passing by with a soda and the afternoon to supervise. "The gentle approach. Enjoy it, 11. The others are not this nice."
11 didn't smile. He did stand taller. That's the 01 effect. He builds statues that can sprint.
The morning melted into fists, plates, brass, and the echo of commands that sound like nouns but behave like verbs: guard, balance, control, reset. Heat gathered low like a fog machine under the bleachers of a boxing gym. The floor got slick from effort; the air turned into honest soup. By midday, the rookies were still upright but running on fumes—chests heaving, eyes hard, hands shaking in tiny electrical storms. Veterans looked like they'd just finished tying their shoes.
"Break," I called, tossing bottles like a benevolent vending machine. "Hydrate before you redecorate the floor. I'm out of couches and patience."
07 collapsed to a bench and panted like the building was stealing oxygen as a prank. 08 slid down a wall with the careful grace of someone negotiating a surrender. 09 leaned on a post and tried to pretend his legs belonged to him; they disagreed. 10 sprawled flat and stared at the ceiling like it had stolen his wallet. 11 drank steadily—eyes tired but sharp, the way a hawk gets when it realizes the sky is big but it still owns a piece of it.
I cracked another soda because if I'm going to heckle, I need electrolytes too. "See? This is why I don't train like you. I like living."
No one answered, which I took as the compliment it was.
Lunch was a crime against vegetables and a celebration of thermodynamics: protein piled on carbs, salt as a sacrament, hydration as law. We don't eat pretty on grinding days; we eat like we expect the MCU to throw a helicarrier through a parade at any minute. (It will. It always does.) Between bites, 03 sketched shot patterns with a sharpie on a ruined whiteboard, 05 wrote numbers that made 10's eyes water, and 04 drew a stick figure getting dumped on its head and labeled it "Not You (Eventually)."
After lunch, we got meaner—not in volume, but in design. The morning was muscle memory; the afternoon was scenario memory. The MCU doesn't fight fair; it fights cinematic. So we train in spectacles that refuse to become headlines.
Round Two — Scenarios, Not Stunts
"07," I called. "You're up. Spar with 02. Goal: last longer than last time. Secondary goal: do not make me stop this because I become embarrassed for you."
07 nodded, spit in a bucket like an athlete in a movie who doesn't have a dental plan, and stepped onto the mat. 02 met him like a thesis adviser—interested, unimpressed, invested in the improvement. Bell. 07 came out aggressive. 02 let him. That's worse than a punch; it's a lesson.
Jab. Parry. Counter. Frame. Clinch. Peel. Off-angle. 07 ate a clean cross and learned what the room looks like when it tilts. He shook it off and smiled, a little too wide to be bravery and a little too bright to be fear, and he kept coming.
"Better," 02 said after the bell. That's a stadium's worth of praise in 02's dialect.
"08," I said, turning toward the firing lane. "Moving targets again. Your first string was ugly. Make it less ugly. If you can't, lie to me convincingly with good follow-through."
08 grunted acknowledgement and mounted the gun like he was shaking hands with a friend he wanted to impress. The rails slid the silhouettes left, then right, then on staggered speeds like a parade had discovered jazz. 08's eyes tracked with glide instead of jerk now; his finger pressed, not slapped; his groups tightened until they looked like decisions.
"Respectable," 03 said. From him, that's a parade.
"09," I called. "Takedowns, repetition until the end of time or until 04 acknowledges your existence with something that could be mistaken for approval."
They danced the slow, cruel waltz of hand-fighting until sweat turned into a language. 09 got in deep on a single. 04 sprawled. 09 chained to a high crotch. 04 posted. 09 adjusted hips, stepped outside, and ran the pipe at the exact microsecond 04 allowed him to. The room didn't cheer. We exhale when people do what they're supposed to. 04 gave one nod—once, precise—as if stamping a passport.
"10," I said. "Circuits. 05 is feeling nurturing."
05 was not feeling nurturing. He never is. He was feeling math.
"Load," 05 said, pointing at the trap bar like a judge invites a verdict.
10 lifted—clean back, high chest, legs folding like cranes—and carried the weight down and back until his lungs wrote limericks about regret. Then sled drags. Then step-ups with a sandbag named "Bad Idea." Then a 400-meter farmer's carry that taught 10 that hands live a second life when they're holding something heavy: they become timekeepers.
"Controlled," 05 repeated at the end, as if the word could be a pillow, a command, and a lullaby.
"11," I said, and he was already there because 01 had him there. They moved through more complex stance chains: shifting from a neutral guard to "crowd shepherd" posture; from wall to opening; from stillness to first step with no tell. If 01 had a superpower beyond being a moving cliff, it's teaching the art of not telegraphing anything. He and 11 drilled the "bystander rescue pivot" until 11 could feel the panic behind him before it happened.
Between pairs, I did my part: bag work (to remind myself my hands still vote), laps (to pretend I'm cardiovascular), and heckling (to maintain morale through targeted irritation).
"07, your guard's slipping," I called. "If I can see it, so can a half-blind mugger and a YouTube algorithm."
"08, you're painting. Shoot tighter. This isn't watercolor; it's punctuation."
"09, that was a nice tackle. About time you stopped hugging 04 like he owes you money."
"10, if you pop a vein, you're mopping it. Hydrate or I call your mother and tell her you tried to marry a sandbag."
"11, you've got potential—don't tell the others I said that. I have a reputation to ruin."
S.H.I.E.L.D. would call what we did readiness training. Tony Stark would call it "doing the work between the highlight reels." Reddit would call it an MCU crossover Spartan training montage. I call it Tuesday.
Crowd Work — The Real MCU Boss
Afternoon: we built the lesson I cared about most. We re-created chaos—cones as bystanders, folding tables as vendor carts, a taped "rail" to stand in for a conductor that loves electricity more than humanity. I drew a crude track with marker and spite and labeled it EXPO like a warning.
"De-escalation scenario," I said. "Stark Expo, but with more civilians and less fireworks. 03 runs evac routes. 04 is the wall. 02 floats. 01 calls the start. Rookies: you are the hands and the voice that says go. You fail, somebody's kid gets stepped on. You succeed, you get to complain about shin splints at dinner."
We ran it at half speed, then full speed, then again with the rails suddenly "electrified" (scream if you touch it; we learn by embarrassment), then again with a planted "influencer" blocking a path with a phone because New York is full of bosses who didn't get the memo.
03's voice cut through like a radio station that never loses signal: "You, red jacket—this way. Hand on your kid. You, sir—eyes up, follow my hand, not your fear." He points without stabbing. He herds without pushing. I want him on every street corner the MCU plans to explode.
04 showed rookies how to be a wall without becoming an obstacle. Shoulders square. Palm out. Chin level. No scowl. A body that clearly says stop but a face that clearly says please. He absorbed bumps the way a dock absorbs a boat, redirected kinetic energy into safer paths, and never once turned a person into a projectile by being stubborn.
02 did the perimeter ballet: counting heads without counting, scanning edges for the wrong kind of movement, acting like Velcro for anyone about to peel off into trouble. I saw him pluck a rookie by the collar a heartbeat before the kid would have given a panicked civilian the worst advice imaginable. The correction was gentle. The lesson was not.
01 stood where he could see everything, and when he said "Start," the room became plan. When he said "Stop," the air put itself back together.
We iterated until the rookies stopped trying to shout their way through and started shaping flow with posture and hand language. We practiced the "shield the fallen" maneuver with foam pads; we practiced the "stroller wedge" with a weighted cart; we practiced how to address someone who is deaf in a crowd by pointing and looking where you want them to go and then checking they saw you see them move. This is the MCU people never write fan songs about—crowd control as heroism, de-escalation as a superpower. It's the part I'm proudest of.
Contact Control — The Quiet Takedown
After the fifth run, I added the spice everyone expects. "Now a hostile," I said, raising a foam "whip" because I have a sense of humor my insurance hates. "He's not Whiplash, and you're not Iron Man. You're just better."
09 got first contact—surprise—because 04 wanted to see if the earlier lesson stuck under adrenaline. 09 framed, head inside, hips low. 02 angled to cut off escape without spooking civilians. 04 closed behind as a soft backstop. 09 completed the takedown this time without hugging too long, braced the "wrist," and looked to me for the next step. I shook my head; 03 pointed to the evac route; 09 got it. The hostile is a prop; the crowd is the prize.
We swapped roles until each rookie had either made the right choice fast or made the wrong choice once and learned faster. 07 ate a foam whip to the shoulder for getting greedy; he nodded, reset, and on the next run did everything right enough that I caught 02's chin tilt—his version of a smile. 08 kept his muzzle so clean through chaos I wanted to frame it. 10 handled a sandbagged "fallen bystander" like it was a human being he knew. 11 flowed through the middle of the mess like water learning English.
Metrics, Because We're Not Animals
You can't improve what you don't measure; 02 loves that sentence the way other men love sports teams. By late afternoon he had a whiteboard full of times, error counts, and new "personal records" that look like fewer stupid choices instead of heavier squats. 03 annotated with "why," 04 underlined balance three times, and 05 wrote controlled so neatly it looked typed.
By evening, the rookies resembled wreckage in expensive boots—sprawled across mats with shirts that could be wrung out into a motivational poster. Their arms hung like anchors. 07's hair had surrendered; 08's hands shook when he tried to drink and then steadied because pride is a brace; 09's mouth quirked in that way hard-won progress does; 10's legs refused to speak to him but did not collapse; 11's eyes were the tired kind of sharp that scares trouble.
The veterans remained upright and unruffled, statues that had learned breath work. 01 leaned against a pillar the way mountains lean against weather. 02 cleaned a pistol that didn't strictly need it. 03 stacked targets like books. 04 mopped a patch of sweat without commentary. 05 erased a line on the whiteboard and wrote tomorrow because he thinks that's a love letter.
I clapped. It echoed.
"Enough," I said. "You survived. Barely. That's a win. Sleep, eat, and tomorrow you will be less embarrassing when the Marvel Cinematic Universe decides to test our insurance again."
They groaned in a harmony that would chart in the right country. Music, to me.
We cooled down because joints are assets, not consumables. 04 led mobility (which looks like violence performed by a yoga instructor with a felony), 05 counted long holds that made time question its life choices, and 03 taught 08 how to relax the jaw so the eyes relax too. 02 stood by with an ice pack like a benevolent IRS auditor.
After-Action — Because We're Professionals, Not Tourists
Debrief, brief, rebrief. We sat on benches and mats, rookies on one side, veterans on the other, me walking the line like a coach who knows jokes are just sugar on the medicine.
"What went well?" I asked.
"Communication," 03 said. "Clear, short, specific."
"Balance," 04 added. He always adds balance. He's not wrong.
"Controlled," 05 concluded, and drew an invisible square in the air like a frame. Inside this, you live. Outside, consequences.
"What sucked?" I asked.
"First step panic," 03 said, nodding to 07 and 09 and getting nods back. They already knew.
"Grip discipline," 04 told 09. "Hold less. Control more."
"Breathing," 05 told everyone, because oxygen is the first gear and we forget.
"Crowd read," I said. "Remember, S.H.I.E.L.D. and the NYPD watch posture as much as outcomes. We're the quiet solution. The louder you are, the longer your day gets."
We filed out in no particular hurry except 02's, who always moves like time fears him. Rookies limped to showers, veterans rotated to watch. The fortress returned to its baseline: humming, patient, prepared.
Night settled like the city pulled a soft-close cabinet door. Rookies slept in bunks that had learned their names. The veterans took turns at the windows, as if S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and Stark Industries drones might hatch like pigeons across the street. If they did, we'd wave.
I went back to the roof with 01 because ritual matters and soda is cheaper than therapy. The can hissed like the day exhaling through aluminum.
"Not bad," I said to the skyline, which glowed in MCU neon and regular electricity. "Eleven Spartans—five rookies—and they get sharper every day. Soon? Unstoppable."
01 stood where sky met stone, a statue that had elected to be alive. Wind tugged at nothing; he didn't notice.
"Progress steady," he said. For him, that's exuberant.
I sipped and let the carbonation sting like truth. Below us, discipline slept. Across the river, Stark probably argued with an AI. Somewhere nearby, Coulson underlined my name once and thought about variables. None of that changes the work. We train when no one is watching so we don't have to explain when everyone is.
"Yeah," I said, grin refusing to die. "We're doing just fine."
I let my mind drift to the scoreboard the System keeps tucked behind my eyes. No blue ping tonight—no 500-point gift for "civilian protection at Stark Expo," no gamified dopamine cookie. Training days don't pay in points. They pay in avoided funerals and shorter news cycles. They pay when Iron Man shows up with Tony Stark swagger and we choose to shepherd the scared instead of chasing the spotlight. They pay when a S.H.I.E.L.D. rookie with a clipboard watches us on a grainy camera and writes competent, contained, cooperative instead of hostile, erratic, glory-seeking.
Down in the mat room, 09 will wake up at 2 a.m. because his hips remembered a better angle; 08 will dream in sight pictures; 10's forearms will throb their way toward new strength; 07 will replay 02's cross and steel his jaw; 11 will stand from his bunk and settle his stance before he remembers you don't need it to drink water. The veterans will not dream. They will inventory oxygen and wake at the slightest change in the building's breath.
This is the part of the MCU crossover nobody writes posters for: men learning to be inevitable in a city addicted to incident. Halo Spartan discipline poured into Marvel problems. Not flashy. Not meme-able. Necessary.
"Tomorrow," I said to 01.
"Directive?" he asked, because habit is home.
"Same as always," I answered. "Train. Patrol. Points. Stark does Stark. We do us."
He nodded once. The city answered with sirens that didn't belong to us.
I finished the soda, crushed the can with a hand that had thrown more jokes than punches today, and listened to New York breathe. Somewhere, a kid dreamed about Iron Man. Somewhere else, a parent slept because today we practiced not letting their life become a headline. That's the payoff. That's the reason. That's the chapter.
We'll never be the loudest heroes in this universe.
We'll be the ones who make sure the loud ones aren't the only thing keeping it alive.