Fifteen Spartans turned the lounge into a quiet storm. The new trio—13, 14, 15—stood a little too stiff, still mirroring one another like they were trying to guess who the original was. The veterans were granite: 01 a piece of horizon, 02 a metronome that learned to stand, 03 the world's politest firing range in a human, 04 a moving definition of balance, 05 a stack of numbers pretending to be a man. The rookies from the last wave—07 through 12—had learned to breathe like they belonged. The building listened to all of it with that old-fortress patience, creaking in the beams like a grandfather who approves but won't clap.
I finished breakfast and set the plate aside. "We poked Fisk yesterday," I said, wiping my hands on a towel that had survived worse. "Today we break bones."
I meant infrastructure, not femurs. In the Marvel Cinematic Universe, the line between those two things is mostly paperwork.
The map came up—my panel, my overlay, my private HUD where the System lives. Dots glowed where Wilson Fisk liked to pretend he was invisible: warehouses at the docks; cash houses up in Harlem; safe houses peppered through Hell's Kitchen, tucked behind blacked-out windows and reinforced doors; truck routes knifing through Midtown like arteries that would like very much to keep beating. On paper, Fisk was pretending everything was fine. On the street, he was already wincing.
"Let's fix that," I said.
We had the numbers now. Not an army—a family with a roster that fit on a whiteboard and a reputation you can hear across a block. Five squads, because we can; because the city deserves to learn what coverage feels like.
Squad 1: 01–11–15 → Hell's Kitchen, safe-house flush. 01 as the door that says please, 11 as the ledger that balances rooms, 15 to learn humility while holding a line.
Squad 2: 02–07–13 → Harlem cash house. Close-quarters gospel. 02 leads; 07 mirrors; 13 hits like a thesis defended with a sledge.
Squad 3: 03–08–14 → Midtown truck intercept. Tarmac chess, minimal drama. 03 shoots engines, not egos. 08 kills tires. 14 extracts drivers without turning them into headlines.
Squad 4: 04–09 → The last docks warehouse. Gravity's class field trip. Tag the crates; leave the building intact; let chain-of-custody do the bragging.
Squad 5: 05–10–12 → Runners and stragglers, citywide. Intercepts, not explosions. Snares, not songs. 05 is the schedule no one escapes.
"I float," I added, because I do. "I keep you from blowing up gas stations."
"Confirmed," 03 said, cleaning a rifle that already gleamed like it wanted to audition for a museum. He found one smudge and looked offended on behalf of metallurgy.
"Rules," I said, because doctrine is love. "No fatalities. Minimal property damage. Evidence preserved. Civilians first, ego last. Boring on camera, inevitable on the street."
01 inclined his head. 02 said nothing and corrected his silence to perfect posture. 03 clicked a bolt home like a period. 04 breathed. 05 wrote something on an index card and tucked it away like a threat to tomorrow.
The bus-that-isn't-a-bus coughed to life outside. We loaded without flourish—no capes, no slogans, just weight and intent. The route plan ticked over in my overlay: staged drop-offs chasing efficiency curves, arrival windows that made S.H.I.E.L.D. analysts mutter annoyingly consistent. Somewhere out there, JARVIS and three municipal traffic cameras would wonder why Midtown felt smarter.
Hell's Kitchen — The House That Forgot It Was Safe (Squad 1)
Squad 1 hit first. Blacked-out windows; reinforced steel where a front door used to be in better times; a buzzer that had decided to retire; a camera with a spider web dangling from it, which is the urban equivalent of shrugging. The safe house had good bones and bad habits.
"Knock," I offered on comms, purely as performance art.
01 put a palm near the latch and asked the door to consider its choices. The door reconsidered. One push, gentle as weather, and it was open. We don't splinter wood unless wood insists.
Inside, hallways tried to pinch sightlines into favors. 11 moved like a ledger settling accounts—slice the corner, check high, check low, breathe, clear. 15 mirrored him with the concentration of a student tracing a master's signature. He was stiff, but stiffness is honesty before it becomes fluidity. This is why we bring them: to learn rooms the way swimmers learn water.
First hostile appeared with the universal greeting of a pistol angled wrong. 11's hands came up—not high and panicked, low and inevitable. He stepped off the line. The hand with the gun met a wall. The gun lost the argument. Zip ties said thank you for your cooperation in a dialect everyone understands.
Second hostile tried ambush from a bedroom door. 01 stood where a shoulder used to be and occupied the space until the man's ambitions had to go somewhere else. If gravity could apologize, it would sound like 01.
"Left hall clear," 11 said, voice a receipt. "Kitchen clear. Back exit latched."
"Copy," I said. "Neighbors?"
"Two adjacent units occupied," 11 added. "No eyes yet."
"Keep them that way," I said. "Screens stay boring."
We gathered a dozen armed men and turned them into furniture: bundled, breathing, arranged where the NYPD can find them without tripping. I stepped over a snapped chair—more injured pride than lumber—and eyed the mess.
"Dinner guests already handled," I said, looking for a pot, a pan, a shred of domestic competence. "Anybody cook?"
No one answered. Rude. I rifled a drawer and found three takeout menus and a spoon with opinions. This is what organized crime does to a kitchen: replaces it with an expense account.
On the way out, 15 paused at the threshold, then adjusted his angle by a thumb's width. He didn't know why—just that 11 would have done it. I marked it. That's how posture becomes policy.
Harlem — The Cash House That Mistook Security for Safety (Squad 2)
Squad 2 hit a row house with too much courier traffic and a front door that had been reinforced by a man who didn't understand hinges. Cash house. You can smell the choice they made: cash over cleanliness, fear over training. The blinds were closed like secrets that forgot windows are made of glass.
"Two in entry," 02 said. "One on stairs. One on hallway. Three in back room. Sound of bills."
He hears money like other people hear accents.
"Guns?" I asked.
"Many," 02 said, polite as a police report. "Poorly holstered."
"Blessed are the untrained," I said. "Proceed."
The first muzzle flash pinged off Spartan armor with all the menace of a paperclip asking to be a magnet. 02 was already moving—angle, wrist, disarm, escort to floor. 07 mirrored with the zeal of a man who practiced that exact sequence in a basement enough times to dream in it. 13 came in at the third angle and did what 13 does: ended the problem with efficiency that looked like violence only if you didn't know math.
We hit the back room, and the air went green: cash stacked to the rafters in neat bricks of rationalized crime. It does something to a person to see that much money not doing anything useful. It whispers.
We stared at the money. Temptation is a story you should tell yourself out loud so it sounds as dumb as it is.
"Burn it," I said.
02 glanced once—are you certain?—and then nodded, you are. We pulled the people out, pulled the ledgers in, popped windows, cleared lines, placed containments, checked for gas lines, triple-checked for neighbors. This isn't the kind of fire you throw a match at; it's the kind you set like a thesis: controlled, compartmentalized, supervised. 07 stood at the hallway with his hands out, keeping curious tenants curious but safe. 13 fed the first stack to flame with the solemnity of a funeral.
Flames did the sermonizing. Money turns to smoke quickly when it has no meaning. The ledgers stayed. The ledgers are the real weapon.
We walked out into sunlight with nothing to carry and everything to show. 02 looked back once at the windows—fire reflecting in glass—and counted breaths until the extinguishers we staged did their jobs. No collateral. No smoke callouts beyond what we wanted. The building would live to host ordinary lives again.
"Next," 02 said, already turning the map in his head.
"Attaboy," I said. "I'll have poetry ready for the next bonfire."
Midtown — The Intercept That Taught Traffic to Behave (Squad 3)
Midtown always thinks it's special because it can see itself in skyscraper reflections. Squad 3 made it learn humble. Two semis chugging along with police-siren patience; three escort sedans whose drivers thought lane discipline is for other people; one unmarked van that screamed I contain things you don't want to inventory. Bystanders, cameras, tourists pointing up at Stark Tower even when Tony isn't in residence. You couldn't ask for worse conditions to be precise in, which is exactly why I put 03 there.
03 fired once. Engine block, forward semi. Not through the radiator; not a cowboy shot; a textbook incapacitation that turned momentum into compliance. The truck coughed to a stop in a lane he'd planned for it to occupy. 08 took his cue and chewed rubber on the escort sedan's front right tire—staccato, deliberate, three small coughs that made a big car choose to be a small problem. 14 moved in like a question with an obvious answer. He tore open a driver's door the way you peel a stubborn sticker: firm, patient, annoyed only at the adhesive. The driver decided to cooperate with gravity rather than argument.
"City traffic," 03 said into comms, voice barely raised, "adjust as trained."
He wasn't talking to the city. He was talking to 05, who had already put cones in a trunk and 10 and 12 on standby to play construction crew. We made a pop-up lane out of nothing and politeness, waved a bus around the scene, redirected a cyclist who wanted to audition for a lawsuit, and kept the phone cameras bored. Bored cameras don't upload.
A security guard from a building lobby tried to be helpful by yelling. I flashed him a smile and a gesture that says thank you for your service; please keep that service inside the revolving door. He remembered a rule from a training he took six years ago and backed off.
"Second semi rolling," 08 reported.
"Engine," 03 said.
08 didn't shoot the engine. He shot the mirror. The mirror folded. The driver got spooked, braked too hard, and coasted into the cone lane we'd made for exactly that. The city will always help you if you give it a job.
"I should invoice Fisk for property damage," I mused.
"Itemize," 03 said, because humor lives in him like an endangered species.
We popped the van's side door. Inside were cases that probably had a bedtime story about farm equipment and import/export. 03 tagged them; 14 photographed serials; 08 kept eyes on street while a tourist in a foam Statue of Liberty crown narrated loudly into her phone about the Avengers. I waved at her. She screamed, thrilled, and decided we were background. Perfect.
Docks — The Warehouse That Thought It Was Alone (Squad 4)
Back at the waterline, the last warehouse blinked at 04 and 09 and tried to pretend it had always been empty. The cranes overhead creaked like old gods. The space inside was big, echoing, and stacked with crates that wanted to be mysterious but came stamped with serial numbers that would sing if you asked them in the right pitch.
04 moved rhythmically, like a metronome counting down someone else's options. 09 moved like a man whose upgrade had decided to become visible to him. They flowed through hand-fighting without throwing a punch; redirected people into corners with posture alone; turned wrists into agreements; reminded knees what the floor is for.
Two men got brave with pipes. 04 took one pipe gently and put it on a shelf for later. 09 escorted the other man to a sit-down with a crate and a zip tie. Nobody bled. Everybody breathed. It looked, to the untrained, like two dads dealing with teenagers who'd stolen a car.
They tagged crates and logged serials. 04 is a poet when it comes to balance; 09 had started writing haikus about chain-of-custody. These are my people.
"Anonymous tip queued," I said, dropping a breadcrumb into the NYPD's inbox that would make the right detective feel clever. "Make sure the forklift keys go missing."
"Misplaced," 04 said. 09 misplaced them very accurately into a lockbox we own.
We left the place looking like a polite ghost had written audit me on every available surface.
Citywide — The Weeding (Squad 5)
Side streets and back alleys belong to 05 the way a ledger belongs to a tax attorney. He, 10, and 12 worked the runners the way gardeners work crabgrass: pluck, collect, stack. No chase scenes. No dramatic vaults. Intercepts at corners where traffic patterns make turning left feel like an existential crisis; a hand that appears from nowhere to prevent a sprint that would go badly; a voice saying stop in the tone you only hear from people who can make stop a place.
One runner tried the subway entrance trick. 12 beat him to the turnstile with a stride so efficient it looked like cheating. 10 did the quiet tackle that makes your mother proud—hips low, shoulders square, head to the side, wrap, rotate, set down, breathe. 05 zip-tied with the grace of a man folding shirts on a Sunday. Parcels were cataloged and stacked; the NYPD would arrive to find a living Jenga tower of regret waiting for them.
"Evidence separated," 05 said. "Phones collected. Each bag labeled."
"Spell-checked?" I asked.
"Always," he said, and that's how you know we're professionals.
Floating — The Grease Between Gears
I floated. That's the job. I was there when 15's elbow wanted to wander and 11's chin pointed it home. There again when a tenant in Harlem cracked a door and whispered, "Is it over?" and I whispered back, "For today. Keep your phone down; keep your courage up." There on a Midtown corner when a bike messenger cut too close and I grabbed the back of his bag just enough to keep him from converting momentum into a hospital bill. He looked at me like I'd blasphemed gravity and then remembered he preferred to be alive.
At one point, a black sedan crept past a little too slowly for civilian curiosity and a little too smoothly for amateur watchers. I didn't wave. I did rearrange my posture until the camera inside decided it had taken a good picture and kept moving. If it was S.H.I.E.L.D., they got what they always get from us: posture, not fireworks.
The Swiss-Cheese Recap
By nightfall, Fisk's network looked like Swiss cheese. Warehouses? Tagged and emptied of patience. Trucks? Parked where they could be cataloged. Cash? Ash. Men? Decorating our concrete in neat rows, wrists together like they were praying for better lawyers. The city exhaled in the way cities do when arteries unclog: you can't hear it; you can feel it.
We rolled home quiet, the bus breathing like a satisfied animal. The fortress accepted our noise, then smoothed it. Gear went where gear belongs; weapons cleared and oiled; serials transcribed; footsteps turned into a lullaby the building has learned to hum.
We set out gifts on the concrete—the bundles and the boxes and the bags that prove we were there and did not merely improvise justice. No blood. No bodies. Lots of explanation owed by people who don't like explaining.
I leaned on the hood and let myself have a line. "Fisk's warehouses? Gone. Trucks? Gone. Cash? Ash. Men? Decorating our floor."
Ding.Points earned: 5,000.Reason: significant disruption of organized crime, multiple arrests, asset destruction, and ensuring civilian safety.
"That's a number I like," I said. The blue overlay pulsed once like a pleased accountant and sank back into its usual bias toward understatement.
Debrief — Brief Because We're Tired and Good
We convened in the lounge under light that makes discipline look romantic. No speeches. Speeches are for people who need permission to feel proud. We need plans.
"Squad 1," I said.
"Safe house cleared," 11 reported. "Twelve hostiles restrained. Two adjacent units untouched. One door re-hinged." He said it like he'd fixed a squeak. 15 added a nod you could hang a lesson on.
"Squad 2."
"Cash house neutralized," 02 said. "Ledgers preserved. Currency destroyed. No collateral. Neighbors safe. 07 mirrored. 13 effective."
07 tried not to smile and failed in a way that makes a teacher glad. 13 stood like an answer.
"Squad 3."
"Two semis halted," 03 said. "Three escorts disabled. One van opened. Evidence tagged. Crowds managed. Cameras bored. 08 consistent. 14 compliant extraction."
14 glanced at 03 like a kid checks a parent's face after a recital. 03 allowed a half-millimeter of approval. 08 exhaled slow, the way a sight picture leaves your eyes but stays in your hands.
"Squad 4."
"Warehouse secured," 04 said. "Zero damage. Inventory tagged. Keys 'misplaced.' 09 balanced."
09, Spartan-II bones settling, didn't nod. He was the nod.
"Squad 5."
"Runners collected," 05 said. "Packages sorted. Phones bagged. 10 controlled. 12 learns."
"Good," I said. "Tomorrow we pivot to cash houses with paperwork tattoos and nonprofits with no souls. We keep pressure even. Fisk either spends money on defense or watches money become smoke. Either way, he bleeds."
"Retaliation," 02 warned.
"Always," I said. "He'll try to buy us, spook us, or hire something with a nickname. If he hires Bullseye before the timeline says he can, I will personally file a complaint with the narrative department. Until then, we stay disciplined."
"S.H.I.E.L.D.?" 03 asked, because it's his job to make me say it.
"Watching," I said. "Coulson underlines my name once when he writes his memo. Tony Stark raises an eyebrow at a dashboard only he can see and texts a joke he doesn't send. Pepper schedules a meeting he won't attend. We remain boring on camera and necessary on the street."
"Directive?" 01 asked, because the question is ritual and rituals keep a house from turning into a barracks.
"Eat," I said. "Plan. Sharpen. Sleep. In that order."
Logistics — Family Size
Fifteen Spartans eat like policy. The pizza place is going to win an award they can't explain to their accountant. The delivery guy did a double take, turned pale, and almost set the bag down on his own foot. I tipped him like he'd survived a boss battle. "Relax," I said. "They're friendly. Mostly."
He fled with dignity. We ate like we'd earned it. 02 policed hydration like a sheriff. 03 held his tea like a violin. 04 stretched calves on a stair and nudged 15 to do the same; 15 did. 05 scrawled tomorrow's tempo sets on a card that ought to come with a waiver. 07 argued gently with 13 about elbow angle and won, then immediately tried the new angle and found it was work. 08 showed 14 how to set a sling that won't eat your shoulder. 09 watched a crate of brass and saw choices to correct, not just a mess to sweep.
I walked the perimeter of the moment and took readings: fatigue level, morale, posture. Good. Good. Better than good. The fortress seemed to sit taller with fifteen names under its roof.
The Night, The Roof, The Forecast
Later, the building did its nocturne—old pipes singing, stair treads gossiping, watch rotations clicking like a safe opening. Rookies collapsed into bunks with the kind of sleep you can sell for money. Veterans rotated to windows and let the city try to surprise them. It failed.
Ritual took me to the roof with a soda. 01 came along because mountains don't need invitations. New York wore Stark's afterglow like a habit; even without Iron Man throwing sparks, the skyline pretends he's always there. Somewhere below, an unmarked van rolled through our block a little too slow and a little too smooth. Somewhere above, a helicopter traced a rectangle it will call patrol and we will call confidence theater.
"One day, Fisk hires a man who thinks pain is a thesis," I said, not loud enough to be prophecy. "Another day, Coulson knocks. Either way, we'll be on the sidewalk, not the stage."
01 didn't answer. He doesn't have to.
The System sat at the edge of thought like a star you can't stop seeing once you find it. 5,000 points banked. I could spend them now—train another Spartan to the Spartan-II standard, conjure Alpha16, lay down upgrades like a man dealing cards at his own table. Tempting. But building isn't about impulse. It's about timing.
"Not tonight," I said to the blue that only I see. "We bank. We plan. We take bites, not flourishes."
Below us, in the streets where we'd made our case, sirens belonged to someone else. A couple argued about the Mets under a streetlamp. A dog decided a hydrant was a hill to die on. The Marvel world spins on big collisions; the human world turns on small decisions. We shepherd both.
"Progress steady," 01 said, placing the last line exactly where the day needed it.
"Damn right," I answered.
Tomorrow the headlines will try to name us again. The Daily Bugle will call us menaces; local news will call us unidentified; a podcast will call us Halo Spartans in the MCU like it's a conspiracy theory instead of a logistics schedule and an ethic. Wilson Fisk will call his lawyers. S.H.I.E.L.D. will call his bluffs. Tony Stark will call it Tuesday.
We'll call it work. And we'll keep doing it.