Pain woke me—a steady, insistent throbbing behind the eyes and at the base of my skull, unlike the last memory of flashing headlights and a thud. I remembered the headphones, the curb, and thinking I had time.
And then I didn't.
Yet here I was, breathing air faintly of dust and cheap detergent, lying on scratchy sheets that didn't seem mine. A cracked ceiling stared back, a lazy fan traced slow circles overhead. I shifted, feeling… heavier? Not in a "can't move" way—more like wearing a body one size larger.
I sat up quickly, steadying myself. A cracked mirror across the room reflected a stranger: taller, with shoulders squared, and dark, close-cropped hair. The skin was clear, jawline well-defined, and posture upright. She appeared to be around eighteen or nineteen. Young enough to be a college freshman, old enough to feel invincible. Not the man I once was.
The first coherent thought I had was both reasonable and ridiculous: Did I survive?
The second thought answered the first.
Ding.
Hello, Shredder. I am your system. I am here to help you.
My heartbeat tripped. "What?"
Your system functions are now active. You are the Commander tasked with creating invincible Spartan-II soldiers during training. They are guaranteed survival in combat. Use earned points to produce more Spartans. Spartans earn points by helping others, and you also gain points by assisting people. Do you understand?
A laugh broke out of me—half nerves, half… relief? Excitement? "Spartans? As in Halo? You're telling me I get to field my own squad of super-soldiers?"
Yes.
No hesitation. No flourish. Just yes.
That affected me deeply. A sudden wave of excitement swept through the soreness, and I leaned forward on the mattress, fingers clutching the rough sheet. I was a mature man in my prime, and someone had just entrusted me with the keys to a Spartan-II program. My inner nerd was thrilled.
"Okay," I said. "Serious question—these Spartans don't die in training?"
Correct. Training deaths are impossible. Completion is guaranteed.
"That is… broken," I whispered, and then louder, grinning at the cracked mirror: "That is the most busted perk I've ever heard."
My reflection—new face, bones, same eyes—stared back, trying to catch up. I repeated the system's name, "Shredder," testing how it felt. "If I'm starting fresh, I might as well choose a new callsign."
The voice inside me didn't seek permission. Instead, a translucent AR HUD appeared with tabs labeled Summon, Points, Training, and Status, all simple and clear. A prominent number showed: Points: 100.
I twitched a finger out of habit, and the HUD tracked without needing it. Focus was enough. "A hundred points," I murmured. "What's the buy-in?"
One Spartan clone will be produced, identical to the initial Spartan-II candidates, and will undergo thirty days of simulated training with no possibility of failure.
"And the cost?"
Summon Spartan clone: 500 points. Spartan-II training: 1,500 points.
"Two thousand for a fully trained Spartan-II." I whistled. "This is a system-lit Marvel Cinematic Universe with a Halo crossover—gamer system, points economy, and Spartan factory. I never thought I'd say that."
I pinched my nose and surveyed the room: a worn dresser with a missing handle, a dusty TV, a remote without a battery cover, and a calendar tacked to peeling paint. I got off the bed and padded across the creaking wood.
The date made my chest go tight.
2008.
I stared, knowing 'I am Iron Man' was either new or about to be. Tony Stark revealed his identity; S.H.I.E.L.D. watched. Nick Fury arranged the Avengers. Bruce Banner was hunted. In years to come, a blond god would arrive in New Mexico, an alien invasion would devastate New York, and a purple Titan would decide who lived or died.
I backed up and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, then barked a laugh into my palms. "No way. The MCU. Actual Marvel. And I'm early."
Correct, the system said. Tony Stark has recently revealed his identity as Iron Man. The timeline is active. You are now within it.
"Okay," I said, fighting a grin I couldn't suppress. "Okay. That's insane. That's perfect."
I let the giddiness pass then tried to steady myself. This was the dream scenario on every fandom forum I lurked—an unapologetic power fantasy that practically winked. The isekai premise was simple: die in one world, wake in another with a cheat. But it wasn't the cheat that mattered. It was the timing. 2008 meant runway, building before the Infinity Saga ramped up, and surviving the Marvel Cinematic Universe without hiding.
"System," I asked quietly, "how do points work exactly? Do named characters in the MCU grant more points than, say, a random civilian?"
Yes. The importance of the individual increases the value of points awarded. Named characters yield significantly higher points than unnamed individuals. Point values scale with narrative relevance and the scope of impact.
"So saving a random guy from a mugging gives me a trickle. Saving Pepper Potts, Peter Parker, or Jane Foster gives me a river." I tapped my knee. "And big, public, positive outcomes multiply across affected people."
Correct.
I'd been in this new body for an hour, and my mind was already planning a route through the earliest MCU plotlines. Keep a low profile, build capacity, help the right people at the right times. No grandstanding or press conferences. Let Tony keep the spotlight; I'd settle for shadows and the scoreboard. The Avengers can pose for covers; my Spartans and I would handle unglamorous, high-impact tasks. Maybe Hell's Kitchen later, Queens for strategic "coincidences," Culver University when the army aimed at a green problem, Puente Antiguo before the god learned humility, and someday—when the sky opened—New York.
"Okay," I said to the room, to the system, to the future. "Let's see what you can do today."
I focused on Summon and got a clean readout: Summon Spartan clone (500)Training queue: none. I didn't have enough points to create a Spartan, let alone train one. That was fine. The HUD's minimalist honesty made it easy to accept the grind. Start small. Earn. Scale. Snowball. By the time the timeline demanded gods and monsters, I'd have a unit, not a vignette.
A thought surfaced, half practical, half childish: I want to see one.
"System," I asked, "can you project what a Spartan clone will look like when summoned?"
Visualization available.
The air in front of me shimmered with blue light, particles resolving into a figure—taller than me by a head, with the shoulders of a swimmer and the quiet, contained posture of a career soldier. Shaved hair. Scar-less. Expression neutral, but not empty MJOLNIR armor—just plain fatigues that didn't manage to make him look ordinary.
"When I do summon one," I said, "do they come… fully aware? Do they talk? Do they understand me?"
Yes. They arrive at baseline with standard military discipline, combat aptitude, and loyalty to the Commander. Spartan-II training enhances physiology, cognition, and reflexes beyond human limits.
"Names?" I asked because it suddenly mattered.
The Commander may assign Spartans designations or names.
The grin ambushed me again. "Alpha-01," I said. "First of many."
The visualization dipped its chin in a nod, acknowledging a name it wouldn't wear yet. The image winked out.
I slumped back on the mattress and stared at the ceiling until the cracks looked like a constellation I should recognize. The urge to sprint into the street and find someone to help for a quick point injection was real. So was the urge to keep my head down for twenty-four hours and make sure there wasn't some hidden "gotcha" waiting to take my toys away.
The system seemed to sense the crossroads and said nothing. I appreciated that. I didn't want a pep talk. I wanted time.
"Okay, Shredder," I told the mirror, because talking to myself was free. "Here's the plan. We don't run at the world. We move like it's a mission. This is Marvel. It doesn't forgive amateurs."
The room didn't argue. It asked for rent.
I entered a tiny kitchen with a dead fridge and a foul-smelling milk carton. I chose food first, then a walk, then a small test—like returning a lost kid or redirecting a drunk—acting as a dry run for the points system. Tripping the counter today would make the 500-point cliff less daunting tomorrow.
I checked the mirror one more time on my way to the door. The face still startled me. The body didn't feel like mine yet—like wearing someone else's jacket and pretending it fits. "We'll get there," I told him. "We'll deserve it later."
I paused with my hand on the knob as one last curiosity tugged at me. "System, can you hide the HUD if I need to look normal?"
HUD visibility toggled by intent.
"Good. I prefer not to look like I'm constantly checking my fantasy football team."
I stepped outside and encountered a different noise than the one that had killed me. New York's chorus promised many ways to help or get hurt if you were foolish. People rushed because the city is a relentless treadmill. Cabs honked as their breath. Down the block, a vendor argued about a hot dog and winning.
I aimed to be helpful. Two blocks away, a woman with a stroller and toddler tried to cross against a red light as a delivery van turned recklessly. I blocked the stroller with my hip, raised my hand, and the driver swore, braked hard, then swore at himself. When the light changed, I guided the group to the curb. The toddler waved at me like a cartoon, and the mom quietly thanked me, torn between annoyance and gratitude.
Ding.
+5 points. Target: Civilian. Reason: Assisted safe crossing.
I winced at the tiny number then laughed, realizing the system was right: unnamed faces meant pocket change, and relentless effort makes small amounts add up.
The day went like that. I didn't leap tall buildings; I pushed stalled cars out of the lane before accidents. I helped an old man after a trip and carried his bag a half-block he was too proud to admit was too far. I told a kid in a Spider-Man hoodie that the wallet he "found" would upset its owner and that he'd sleep better by putting it in a mailbox.
Ding.+2.
Ding.
+3.
Ding.
+1.
I didn't get heroic music, just sweat and thanks. Every ding chipped at the 500 barrier, which didn't care—it just measured. By late afternoon, I'd earned sixty-three points, more than zero but not impressive, and gained something beyond the HUD: rhythm. Doing good on purpose rewires your perspective on a block, shifting from busyness to leverage points.
On the walk back, I tested another edge. "System, can I bank points for actions my Spartans take if I'm the one who gave the order?"
Yes. Commander-directed assistance by Spartans yields points for both the Spartan and the Commander. Point values scale with impact and narrative relevance.
"And if a Spartan helps a named MCU character?"
Points are awarded to the Spartan and the Commander based on their narrative importance and the extent of their assistance.
Snowball confirmed.
The sunset painted a warm hue between the buildings, making me appreciate New York once more. When I arrived at the apartment, the fan's hum felt less like a complaint and more like a lullaby. I grabbed a pen and the least-crumpled notebook and started making two lists.
Short term:— Hit 500.
— Summon Alpha-01.
— Learn his limits.
— Quietly test team assists for point multipliers.
— Don't get noticed by S.H.I.E.L.D. (yet).
Medium term:— Reach 2,000.
— Put Alpha-01 through Spartan-II training.
— Use new capability to pursue higher-value assists.
— Make contact with one named character early (Peter Parker? Matt Murdock? Jane Foster?) without tripping flags.
— Stay out of Tony Stark's spotlight. (Let the MCU handle the PR treadmill.)
Long term:— Build a squad.
— Baseline five trained Spartans before Thor (2011).
— Ten before The Avengers (2012).
— Contingencies for Winter Soldier, Sokovia, and the Battle of New York.
— Start thinking about the Mad Titan without assuming I'm smarter than everyone who failed the first time.
That last bullet looked ridiculous in ink and felt right in my bones. You don't beat Thanos with optimism. You beat him with options.
I fell back on the mattress and let the ceiling fan blur. When I closed my eyes, the HUD floated up uninvited:
Points: 163Summon Spartan clone (500)
Spartan-II training (1,500)
Status: Commander—Active
A laugh tried to start and turned into a yawn. "We'll get there," I told the ceiling. "We're not sprinting to a boss fight with a stick."
The room dimmed toward night. Street noise washed up the building in waves that kept you company if you listened right. I set an alarm on a phone that wasn't mine but obeyed me anyway and let the day exhale.
Somewhere around that fuzzy edge between tired and asleep, the system chimed softly—like it didn't want to wake me, only to remind me I wasn't alone.
Ding.
Commander tip:Helping high-impact individuals accelerates growth. Your first summoned Spartan will call you "Commander."
"I know," I whispered, not opening my eyes. "His name is Alpha-01."
Morning arrived with the fan's same unhurried rhythm and the city's unchanged impatience. My body—this new, younger build—felt springy in a way mine hadn't in a decade. I knocked out a set of push-ups just to check the calibration and laughed when the numbers went past the old plateau without a tremble. Not Spartan. Not super-soldier. Just young. And alive.
I inhaled like I meant it and checked the counter.
Points: 163
"Today we crack three hundred," I told the mirror-stranger, then amended: "Today we try. And if I see any hint of a named character, we detour."
The MCU isn't a script you can read off a cue card when you're standing inside it. Timelines flex. Coincidences get weird. But some gravity wells are predictable. I'd been early to that calendar for a reason.
I ate food that didn't taste like a dare and stepped into the hallway. My hand was on the knob when I said, "System—one more question."
Ready.
"If I pull something that gets S.H.I.E.L.D.'s attention, do I get a warning?"
A beat. No.
I snorted. "Good. I'd rather you be honest than helpful."
I opened the door to New York and let it swallow me again.
By noon, small wins accumulated: a lost tour group, a bike messenger narrowly avoiding a truck, a coughing street vendor trying to conserve his spot in an invisible line. The incidents rose from 162 to 289. These cravings weren't for calories or caffeine but for momentum, for the next alert.
The next ding came with a name.
A skinny kid in a hoodie and backpack, head down, seemed absorbed in counting cracks. I would've missed him if he hadn't looked up and met my eyes. His face, often misrepresented in posters, was open, earnest, curious—transforming the world into a lab. The hair wasn't perfect; the energy was.
My heart executed a double-tap. Peter Parker. Pre-spider. Pre-everything.
Two men peeled off a storefront behind him, seemingly following anyone distracted. They were subtle enough for tourists and obvious to shadow-watchers.
I didn't hesitate. There are moments for patience and moments for acceleration. I shortened the distance as the first man reached for the backpack strap. "Hey, bud," I said brightly, stepping into the bubble before the kid could spook, "Queens or Brooklyn?"
He blinked. "Uh—Queens?"
"Same." I smiled, then pivoted. "Not yours, gentlemen."
The grabber scowled. The partner tried to fade right and wrap around. Choices branched.
I didn't have Spartans yet. I had a body with a good resting heart rate and muscle memory from high school wrestling. That was enough. The first guy grabbed my wrist, my shoulder, and my pride hit the ground. The second guy hesitated. A cop car two blocks away ended it. They left.
Peter stared like he'd just watched a magic trick. "That was—wow. That was—thank you! I didn't even see them, and you just—"
"Breathe," I said, fighting a grin. "And maybe don't walk with your head in orbit, yeah?"
He flushed. "Right. Yeah. Sorry. I just—uh—there's a science fair and—never mind. Thank you."
He started to move like he wanted to run away from the awkwardness. I held out a hand. "I'm Shredder."
He blinked again and shook like he thought I might take it back. "Peter."
"Good to meet you, Peter from Queens." I tipped my head toward a safer street. "Keep your backpack. Keep your curiosity. Maybe pocket your phone."
He half-smiled, nodded, and hustled off.
Ding.
+500 points. Target: Peter Parker. Reason: Assisted.
My breath left in a single, shaky laugh. "Bingo."
The counter leaped.
Points: 789
My feet moved before my brain did, carrying me into the nearest quiet alley, and I leaned against cool brick because gravity had just redefined itself. The system hadn't lied. Named characters were jackpots. My plan didn't require gambling anymore; it required diligence and good timing.
"System," I said, careful and calm because that's what you do when handling live explosives, "purchase Summon Spartan clone."
Confirmed. Deducting 500 points.
The alley brightened with blue light that didn't belong to any earthly bulb. Particles drew lines across the air, knotted like a muscle building itself from memory, and then the shape took a breath.
A young man faced me, dressed in plain fatigues with calm confidence. He made eye contact—neither looking up nor down, nor past me—and gave a salute that felt authentic, not borrowed.
"Commander," he said.
The word landed in my chest like it had always belonged there. I swallowed a lump I hadn't expected. "Welcome," I said. "Designation Alpha-01."
"Alpha-01," he repeated, voice steady. "Awaiting orders."
Up close, he wasn't merely tall and strong. He exuded a calm, commanding presence, like the finest soldiers—giving off the impression that panic was something that happened to others. The HUD appeared in my peripheral vision like a proud parent.
Points: 289Training queue: empty
Available: Spartan-II training (1,500)
"You'll get your full Spartan-II package soon," I told him. "Until then, you and I will work the city. We help where it matters. We keep our heads down, no uniforms, no capes. We are not trying to be on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Christmas card list."
He didn't nod; he absorbed. "Acknowledged."
"Also," I added, because humor was the only way to breathe in a world about to take itself seriously, "when we're in public, try not to look like you're auditioning for a statue. Smile sometimes. Pretend to be human. Laugh at my jokes."
He stared, the corner of his mouth not moving even a little. "Understood."
I sighed, pleased anyway. "It's okay. You'll loosen up. Or I'll keep talking until you learn the defense mechanism."
We left the alley and joined the river, unaware a new player entered the game. Tony Stark had no idea a stranger would someday share soldiers with him under a collapsing sky. Nick Fury didn't know he'd write my name twice in a file. Across bridges, a kid would later look at his backpack, wondering how many times he missed a reaching hand.
I didn't rush to save the world that afternoon. Alpha-01 and I set a rhythm, traded small wins for small numbers, and watched the total crawl. We kept the city from tripping over its own feet and let bigger storms brew without us.
At dusk, when the light turned Manhattan into a painting and made even the trash look dramatic, we found our way back to the apartment. The fan still complained. The sheets are still scratched. The HUD offered me math and waited for an order I didn't have the points to give.
Alpha-01 stood by the window and watched the neighborhood like he'd invented vigilance. "Commander," he said after a few quiet minutes, "objective for tomorrow?"
I stretched the day out of my back and smiled up at him. "Tomorrow," I said, "we start building."
He didn't ask what that meant. He didn't need to.
In the Marvel Cinematic Universe—this sprawling, relentless machine of gods, geniuses, monsters, and men—most people survive by not getting noticed. Some people survive by being noticed at the right time. And a very few win by acting before anyone realizes there's a game.
I turned off the light and let the city keep watch with my Spartan.
"Tomorrow," I repeated to the dark ceiling, "we earn."
Far away, like a promise and a countdown, the system whispered one more note.
Ding.