The fortress creaked like an old prizefighter testing his shoulders after a twelve-round bout. If buildings had joints, ours was rolling them. Pipes sighed. Radiators ticked. Somewhere deep in the guts of the place, a fan coughed like it had seen too much of the Marvel Cinematic Universe and needed a nap. Veterans moved through the halls with their usual quiet inevitability—no metal crashing, no plate-clatter symphony, just the measured cadence of men who carry discipline the way others carry wallets.
The rookies, on the other hand, looked like they'd met gravity for the first time and lost the introduction. 07 shuffled past the kitchen doorway with the thousand-yard stare of a man who'd wrestled a glacier. 08 lowered himself into a chair like someone had replaced his knees with honest opinions. 09 held a coffee like it owed him money but refused to fight about it. 10 and 11—the newest steel in our drawer—wore that particular post-marathon aura: hit by a truck, reverse, hit again, paperwork pending.
I sat at the kitchen table with a cold soda and let their collective suffering score the morning. Groans in stereo. The occasional stretch that ended in a whimper. An aborted curse from 08 that died halfway across his tongue.
"Walking proof training works," I announced to the room at large, raising the can in a toast to terrible choices. "You're all broken, which means you're getting better."
Silence. 08 muttered something that wanted to be a complaint and gave up halfway as his core reminded him it existed. Beautiful.
Alpha01 posted by the window where he belongs, a granite silhouette with a panoramic mind. 02 leaned against the wall, arms folded, the human embodiment of a metronome set to "judgment." 03 field-stripped a rifle on the counter with the affection of a librarian mending a favorite first edition—spring out, bolt back, inspection under light, reassemble with clicks that sounded like truth. Unbothered. Unbreakable. If S.H.I.E.L.D. had tapped our line—and they had—they would hear domesticity with a tactical accent.
I clapped once. The room braced as if the sound were a gavel. "Pity party's over. Time to see how rich we are."
Somewhere between my ears and the world beyond, the System decided to be theatrical.
Ding.Points available: 2,000.
"Not bad for a couple of weeks' work," I said, flicking the invisible menu open in my head where a normal person keeps grocery lists. The blue overlay bloomed with our private economy—an in-universe bank statement the MCU never meant to code. "Two rookies? Or a full upgrade and a new face? Or do I keep it all for myself like a dragon with a Venmo?"
"Training priority," 02 said, as if I'd asked whether oxygen mattered.
"Clones expand numbers," 03 countered without looking up from the firing pin he checked against the light.
"Different opinions," I said, pacing because it helps me think and annoys people who are too sore to turn their heads. "It's fine. But the main issue is rookies. We need fewer babysitting hours and more results. I'm also tired of 08's bullets filing noise complaints with the drywall."
08 examined the floor like it contained wisdom. It did. He wasn't reading yet.
"Recommendation," 04 added from the doorway, voice calm as the other side of a storm. "Prioritize 09."
I turned. 04 rarely volunteers. When he does, it's because a piece of geometry asked nicely. "09," I said, "Dad says you've got potential."
He straightened, exhausted and a little proud, like a man who doesn't know where the compliment ends and the obligation begins.
"Done," I told the air. "System: train Alpha09 to Spartan-II specifications."
The fortress seemed to hold its breath—not superstition, just respect. The blue light came sudden and soft, washed over 09 like an ocean learned restraint, and sank into him. No flinch. The Spartans treat pain as a bureaucrat: tolerated, ignored, occasionally handed a form. This wasn't pain. This was alignment. When the glow faded, 09's stance had clicked inward by degrees you feel more than see—heels quiet, hips under, shoulders hung like armor on a well-forged frame. His breath settled into even tides. His eyes sharpened to that particular Spartan-II edge I'd come to recognize: not anger, not even intensity; inevitability.
He saluted. It wasn't flashy. It was correct. "Commander."
"Look at you," I said, letting myself grin. "Polished. 04, congrats—proper partner unlocked."
"Acknowledged," 04 replied, which is his way of sending fireworks.
Ding.Points remaining: 500.
"Half a tank," I murmured. "Which means…"
I didn't bother with a drumroll. "System: summon new clone—designation Alpha12."
Light again—taller this time, like the room made space. Then the silhouette resolved into another of my impossible sons: height, mass, silence. The armor wasn't armor yet; it was posture. The gaze wasn't menace yet; it was patience.
"Welcome to the family, Rookie," I said, pitching my voice to carry authority and ease. "You're Twelve. Congratulations on existing."
"Understood," 05 said before I could assign. "He's mine."
I didn't argue. 05 is a gravity well; new stars fall into orbit. Twelve stepped into 05's shadow and, without instruction, matched his stance exactly: shoulders, chin, weight. It was like watching a cathedral learn symmetry. Armored ducklings, I thought, and had the good grace to not say it out loud.
Instead, I said, "Orientation lap. 05, map him through the house. Keep drills light. He'll be selling his bones to me by dinner."
We kept it merciful for 12—merciful by our standards anyway. Learning the fortress is a test and a promise: which corridors creak, which stairs demand careful ankles, where the weapons live and how they like to be greeted. 05 moved him room to room, naming without excess. "Armory here." "Med here." "Egress. Egress." "Roof." Twelve absorbed it like a blueprint had discovered legs.
09, meanwhile, stepped onto the mats with 04, and the change wasn't loud; it was precise. His footwork smoothed. His guard stopped being a wall and became a policy. 04 probed for the old habits—overcommitting, hugging, fighting the mat; found them gone or dying—and shifted the lesson upward.
"Frame," 04 said, and 09's forearm slid into a throat pocket with millimeter mercy.
"Balance," 04 said, and 09's hips sat into their hinge like a truth that couldn't be argued.
"Again," 04 said, but it wasn't punishment; it was refinement.
"Worth every point," I told 02 as 09 completed a chain that would have thrown him yesterday and merely made him better today. "I should train all of you just for my entertainment."
"Entertainment is a side effect," 02 said, as if that needed stating.
"You wound me," I said, holding a hand over my heart. "But accuracy is respected."
He didn't smile. He did scan the room the way a lifeguard scans a pool—counting by presence, not by face. 02 is what happens when discipline becomes a hobby.
07 grunted through push-ups like the floor might pay him if he made it jealous. I leaned over him at the exact shoulder angle that annoys people who are trying to be heroic. "What's that, 07? Can't hear you over the floor you're kissing."
He glared, which is progress. Yesterday he might have tried to answer. Today he saved the oxygen and kept going. Perfect.
08 took his place at the line with 03—eyes dry, jaw relaxed, shoulders hanging like he'd learned not to carry tension where it makes the muzzle twitch. The first three shots were honest and unambitious. The fourth was a question. The fifth was an answer. The sixth lived exactly where the sights told it to live.
"Better," 03 said. His praise is a ration. You savor it.
Twelve finished his tour and returned with 05 walking exactly half a step behind him—close enough to catch mistakes, far enough not to warp growth. 05 put a sandbag in 12's arms and said, "Carry." No weight was announced. No distance was offered. 12 carried until 05 said "Stop," and then he stopped like someone had programmed the word into his bones.
We ate numbers for breakfast—metrics, times, reps. Lunch was pizza because carbs are cheaper than morale officers and our usual place knows the code phrase for "deliver discreetly to a building full of living statues." The delivery guy caught sight of twelve Spartans moving through the lobby like pillars had learned to commute and set a personal record for fastest retreat. He left the bag on a table and never broke stride.
"They don't bite," I called after him. "Unless you forget the breadsticks."
The door closed on a squeak that sounded like disbelief.
We tipped well. We always tip well. We save strangers' lives when they don't know they needed saving; we can definitely save a college kid's night.
Afternoon bled into work. 09 and 04 drilled throws that require honesty: foot sweeps, outside trips, the kind of takedowns that use an opponent's insistence against them. 09 found the pocket behind a hip with a hand that had learned nuance, turned the corner at exactly the moment a lesser man would muscle, and took 04 down clean. For the first time since morning, 04's mouth moved into something that might have been a smile if you believed in miracles and microscopes.
"Again," 04 said softly, and the word sounded like good.
03 installed 08 on moving rails and gave him the MCU: targets that don't behave, occlusions, stutter steps, a no-shoot in a bright shirt. 08's groups tightened; his transitions smoothed; his trigger control turned into punctuation instead of paint.
02 floated, correcting posture, time, angle. I watched him pull 10 back from a bad lift with two fingers and a firm "Control." 10 reset, breathed, pulled with legs instead of ego, and the bar moved like an agreement instead of a dare.
05 set 12 on an introductory strength circuit—tempo squats with a broomstick to teach knees to trust ankles, slow deadlift patterns with a kettlebell to make the hinge a habit, carries long enough to teach grip the difference between bravado and endurance. 12 didn't wobble; he absorbed. Not rushing is a skill. 05 cultivates it the way botanists cultivate orchids—with discipline, patience, and an unspoken threat of extinction if you get sloppy.
Between supervising and heckling, I wandered to the armory window and watched the city breathe through brick. Post-Coulson, post-Stark, the neighborhood had that alert hum that says you've been noticed. I pictured a S.H.I.E.L.D. van three blocks away pretending to be a contractor's truck; pictured a Stark drone enjoying our airspace with polite curiosity. Let them watch. Let them write memos about our posture. We'll write outcomes.
"Status," I asked the room, more to hear the chorus than to harvest the answers.
"07—work capacity improving," 02 said. "Guard integrity inconsistent. Fixing."
"08—trigger press consistent," 03 added. "Introduce failure drills after sundown."
"09—Spartan-II baseline established," 04 reported. "Chain transitions satisfactory. Balance improving."
"10—strength rising," 05 concluded. "Tempo adherence adequate. Conditioning tonight."
"12," 05 added after a beat, "has legs. Brains too. We'll see if he keeps both."
I cracked a grin. "Gentle parenting," I said.
"Effective parenting," 05 corrected without heat.
We used to fight for every ounce of capability. Now we invest. The System makes it feel like a game—Ding, spend points, unlock power—but the work is still the work. Spartan-II isn't a skin you buy; it's a demand you meet daily. 09's eyes knew it already.
"Commander," 09 said quietly when our orbits crossed. His voice didn't try to be respectful. It simply was.
"How's the new hardware?" I asked.
"Not new," he said after a consideration that would've been silence in another mouth. "Revealed."
I liked that. "Keep revealing it," I said. "04's got a vault full of lessons with your name on them."
"Understood."
We ran one more evolution that afternoon because the MCU never hits you once. Scenario work: a simulated alley, a simulated crowd, a simulated bad idea with a prop that might as well be a weapon if you're stupid. 03 directed evac. 04 created a wall that moved where it needed to and vanished when it didn't. 02 floated like gravity with a clipboard. 09 took lead on the hostile and did it textbook: frame, off-balance, floor, restraint, check your six, breathe. 07 nearly barreled through the no-shoot and corrected mid-step like he'd grown a conscience and brakes. 08 kept his muzzle clean. 10 carried a foam "injured" without letting adrenaline invent shortcuts. 11—bless the newest calm—stepped into a bottleneck, raised a hand, and parted panic with posture.
"Better," I said aloud. The word earned me one nod, three exhales, and 05 writing controlled on the whiteboard like he was carving it into stone.
By evening, the rookies had become a landscape of sprawled resolve—mats dotted with men who had given more than they thought they had. 07 stretched on his back with his hands under his head, eyes open and seeing something he wanted to chase. 08 stared at his palms like they'd just passed a test they'd once failed. 09's chest rose and fell slow and steady. 10 had the look of a man learning to love misery because it promised to love him back with results. 11 sat cross-legged and breathed in fours like 01 had taught him.
The veterans? Upright. Always upright. 01 near the door, a load-bearing piece of night. 02 logging times that will become next week's too slow. 03 policing brass because order isn't a mood. 04 refilling the mop bucket because the floor deserves courtesy. 05 erasing numbers because tomorrow doesn't care what today accomplished unless you bring it forward.
I clapped my hands. Echoes snapped against cinderblock. "Enough," I said. "You survived. Barely. That's a win. Sleep. Eat. Tomorrow you'll be less embarrassing when the MCU inevitably schedules a disaster near a food vendor."
They groaned. Music.
We did mobility because future us also has to walk. 04 led the kind of stretching that feels like you're negotiating with your tendons; 05 counted without mercy; 03 corrected a rookie's breath until the rookie's face went from I hate this to I can live with this. I walked through, adjusted a shoulder here, a knee there, played traffic cop with posture.
Showers. Bunks. Rotations written on a whiteboard in 02's neat, serious script: who watches, who sleeps, who gets to dream of pizza.
Speaking of: dinner was pizza again, because tradition is glue and pepperoni is morale. The delivery guy broke his own sprint record, which is impressive given last time's sprint record. I tipped the app like it owed me a favor and waved through the closing door.
"They don't bite," I said again, purely for me. "Unless you forget the breadsticks."
We ate like men who understand fuel is part of the mission. Jokes the length of a breath. The rookies laughed once each, because laughing twice uses energy, and they needed that for living. 09 ate steadily with the unbothered rhythm of a body that reconciles hunger and discipline without drama. 12 watched, learned, mimicked—how to fold the box, where to put the empties, which corner of the table 02 believes belongs to him (all of them).
Night fell like a hand over the city's eyes, but New York never sleeps, it just blinks slow. Veterans rotated to windows; rookies rotated to unconsciousness. The fortress settled into its nocturne—sensor blips, faint stair creaks, the distant urban whale song of sirens that belong to someone else.
Roof. Soda. 01 beside me because that's our ritual, and rituals are how you remind a world that wants to be chaotic that you have a spine.
"One more trained, one more fresh," I said to the skyline, which was busy wearing a Stark-colored afterglow even when Iron Man himself wasn't making news. "Family keeps growing. Right track."
01 said nothing, which is his favorite thesis. The wind played with a loose corner of tar paper somewhere behind us; a helicopter cut across the distance like a patient dragonfly. Below, somewhere in our radius, a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent finished writing observed: additional tall subject (Alpha12?)—mirrors posture of subject 05; no overt hostility; recommend continued passive surveillance. Fury's ledger will have a new line by morning. Let it.
I thought about the points economy again, the System's absurd little bank with its tempting buttons and ethical questions. The MCU likes to tell stories about power you can see—arc reactors, magic hammers, glowing stones. Our power is quieter: a blue prompt no one else can read; a decision tree that runs through safety before spectacle; men who will choose to shepherd a crowd rather than steal a scene. "Spending the bank" sounds like shopping. It felt like stewardship.
Down in the bunks, 07 would wake at two a.m. with a better guard and not know why. 08 would dream in sight pictures: front sight, press, reset. 09 would let his bones memorize a thousand small improvements while he slept; Spartan-II is a revelation that keeps revealing. 10's hands would throb an argument with a barbell in the morning and win. 11 would get up in the dark to drink water and unconsciously settle into a stance that made the hallway feel safe. 12 would sleep like new steel—still cooling.
Tomorrow we'd go out again. Not to chase headlines. To be the reason fewer headlines write themselves. Tony Stark will do Tony Stark.Phil Coulson will underline my name once in a report and pretend he isn't smiling when he writes no casualties reported at incidents within known patrol radius.S.H.I.E.L.D. will keep watching. The Avengers will keep being loud when it counts.
Us? We'll keep spending the bank on the only dividends I care about: narrower groups, steadier hands, better choices, civilians home safe with nothing but a story about churros and the way Iron Man looked smaller than he does on TV.
I cracked the can. The soda hissed like a secret being polite.
"Progress steady," 01 said, because sometimes he reads my mind and sometimes he just reads the night.
"Damn right," I said, and we stood there a while longer, two shapes on a roof, watching a universe that thinks in sequels and set pieces, knowing our job is to make sure all the off-screen lives keep happening between the acts.