Morning arrived before I even looked for it. Sunlight sliced through the bent blinds, creating barcode-like stripes across my face. For a moment, I instinctively reached for familiar routines—alarm clock, snooze, commute—only to realize once more that my old life was gone, crushed beyond recovery. I have a new body, a new name, an MCU timestamp marked on the wall calendar, a system in my mind, and a Spartan in the corner who could outstare a statue.
Alpha-01 remained precisely in the spot where I had left him, with his weight slightly on his left heel, hands relaxed at his sides, and his gaze fixed in that characteristic soldierly not-looking manner. The air carried a dusty aroma, warmed by sunlight and hinting at drying pasta—the lingering scent of Carmen's ziti still circling in the apartment.
"You seriously didn't move all night?" I asked, scrubbing a palm over sleep and grit.
"Correct, Commander. My duty is to watch over you."
"Lucky for you, I don't sleepwalk. We'd both need therapy."
Silence. The fan changed keys to register its disapproval.
I swung my legs out, feeling the cool floorboards beneath me, and quickly checked how I felt. The engine was running smoothly, with no aches or stiffness. I opened the blinds and greeted New York as usual: horns honking, a loud laugh on the sidewalk, a dog acting like the owner of the block, and pigeons being told their application was denied. Waking up to this felt like being inside a Marvel movie scene.
My stomach made an executive decision. I padded to the fridge, hoping it had sobered up overnight. It had not. When I cracked the milk, the smell hit me like a punch in the face, a combination of "barn" and "regret."
"Okay," I coughed, jamming it back in and slamming the door. "We respect the dead."
"Recommendation?" Alpha-01 asked.
"Recommendation: breakfast that doesn't require a tetanus shot. Which means we go out." I grabbed the keys from the chipped bowl by the door and twirled them. "You ever driven?"
"I am trained in vehicle operation," he said, precise as a manual.
"Good. Because parallel parking in Manhattan is a mini-boss."
Wheels, Points, and the Celebrity Curve
The sedan parked at the curb had the stubborn stance of an aging car that refused to give up. Its paint had faded after a long battle with the sun. The upholstery carried the scent of coffee and faded choices. I loved it immediately. The key turned on the second attempt; the engine coughed like a smoker, cleared its throat, and finally cooperated.
Alpha-01 took the passenger seat like a sentry at a narrow gate—back straight, knees at perfect angles, hands resting on his thighs. He adjusted the side mirror two degrees; then again, one degree back. Micro-trait: his eyes checked exits before his head did.
"You know you look like I kidnapped you," I said, buckling in. "Blink twice if you're in distress."
"I am here to protect you."
"I know. Maybe fake-laugh at one of my jokes someday. For morale."
The sedan merged into traffic, seamlessly integrating into the city's constant hustle. Taxis sped past each other, and a bus signaled before changing lanes, almost as if the signal was merely a courteous gesture. I swiftly adapted to the flow, with quick reflexes that made navigating tight spaces feel entirely normal.
While my hands drove, my head worked the scoreboard.
System, I thought, without moving my mouth. Point economics. Do I get a bigger payout for helping, say, Pepper Potts, than I do for helping a random guy with groceries?
The HUD slid into place like a thought that had been warming itself nearby.
Answer: Yes. The importance of a beneficiary in the story increases point awards. Named characters in this context earn more points—the overall impact also grows, such as helping many civilians at once. Ethical considerations are taken into account.
I whistled softly to myself. "A celebrity curve," I murmured. "Assist a background extra to earn some pocket money; help someone with a Wikipedia page for a big reward. And crowd scenes are like coupons multipliers."
Clarifying Note: Multipliers are informative, not prescriptive. Treating people as point sources can reduce the ethical multiplier and may incur penalties.
"Nice try," I said aloud, smiling without teeth. "You take away the cold min-max and then tempt me with it anyway. You'd make a great casino."
Alpha-01's gaze moved from the mirror to my profile. "A casino?"
"House always wins," I said. "Moral here: don't turn people into loot drops."
I let the line hang in the air until I felt it catch. The review I gave myself last night—don't flatten stakes, don't let the commander and phalanx fantasy make me lazy—was still fresh. This world was full of named characters and story anchors, but my neighborhood didn't care about billing order. A baby stroller rolling into traffic wouldn't ask to see my list of cameos before becoming a problem.
"Next question." I tapped the wheel. "Cost of expansion. What's it take to get Alpha-02 on deck?"
Numbers populated in clean white.
Summon Spartan-II (baseline): 500 points
Training Overlay (complete): 1,500 points
Total: 2,000 points per soldier
I didn't swerve, but my grip adjusted. "Pricey squad goals. Copy."
"Do you require me to take control of the vehicle?" Alpha-01 asked in the same tone he might have used to offer me a tourniquet.
I'm doing well. I'm simply recalibrating my estimate for assembling a fireteam. The two thousand points weren't merely a tax; they served as a governor, stopping me from going on autopilot. "Okay. Strategy stays the same. Start small. Gather wins. Build infrastructure before creating an army."
We passed a mural featuring Stark Industries iconography, which someone had vandalized with a halo and a tail. A kid in a Spider-Man T-shirt leaped over a puddle and declared victory to no one. Nearby, two guys on a stoop argued about the Yankees versus the Mets, as if the outcome of the multiverse depended on their ERAs.
"Set destination for breakfast and trouble," I said. "We're going to Hell's Kitchen."
Alpha-01 angled his head a millimeter. "Understood."
"You have no idea what that means."
"No."
Imagine a neighborhood bustling with civilians, featuring narrow alleys and a rumor mill that outpaces S.H.I.E.L.D.'s communications. There are several small fires to address—fewer surveillance cameras compared to Midtown. Also, if the Devil of Hell's Kitchen is present in this timeline, we keep our distance; he fights merely for exercise.
Alpha-01 filed that away without comment. The system chimed in my head, an unobtrusive ding you could ignore if you were busy.
Advisory: Heightened attention risk occurs when patterns become noticeable. Repeated actions in the same district could attract scrutiny from law enforcement (such as the NYPD), organized crime (like the Wilson Fisk network), or national security entities (e.g., S.H.I.E.L.D., led by Phil Coulson or Nick Fury). To mitigate this risk, consider using variation, proxies, and community engagement.
"Copy," I said. "We don't become a pattern."
The First Brake Check (Cost, Not Catastrophe)
It occurred three blocks into Hell's Kitchen, as it always did. A delivery truck inched into a crosswalk like a dog testing a fence, while a stroller lost balance with a sidewalk seam, tipping backward. The woman pushing it reached for a bag in the under-basket, fumbled, and realized too late. The stroller's inexpensive plastic wheel hopped off the curb and began rolling down the slope toward the street.
A cold wave washed over me, sharp and sudden, like a struck note. The memory of my own error—my curb, my mistake, the horn—wasn't just a recording; it was a representation of a body. My foot stomped on the brake too forcefully, causing the sedan to squeal. Suddenly, everything seemed to zoom out: stroller, truck, distance, with numbers flashing in an ancient, almost forgotten language.
Alpha-01 opened his door before the car had fully stopped. He moved with effortless efficiency—no fuss, just smooth, economical motion. Two long strides brought him to the stroller. He used momentum, not force, to twist it aside. He rolled the baby gently enough not to wake him, bracing it with his shin. After checking both ways, he lifted the stroller's front wheels back onto the sidewalk with a tenderness that makes you trust someone you've only just met.
The mother's mouth formed an O. Her face flushed scarlet in the rush, and she cried out once—just one syllable, ancient with shock and gratitude, like cities. "Oh!"
Alpha-01 stepped back as if he'd intruded and didn't mean to. "Your wheel needs a washer," he said, not unkindly, and pointed. "Here."
"I—thank you—thank you—" she said, rocking the stroller with a trembling hand. She checked on the baby, still sleeping, then looked up at me from the driver's seat as if I had done something special. People often like to take credit, even when the universe remains indifferent.
"Good save," I managed, voice too bright. The horn from that day was suddenly too close to my eardrums.
The system chimed.
Direct Assistance: +1 (adult)
Indirect Assistance: +1 (infant)
Collateral Risk Avoided: +1
Streak (First Hour): +1 bonus
The numbers seemed insignificant compared to my breath. I relaxed my grip on the wheel and gradually loosened my fingers from the leather.
Alpha-01 returned to the passenger seat and gently closed the door. He did not comment, showing respect for a man silently confronting his ghost.
"You all right?" he asked after a beat.
"Yeah," I said, because the truthful answer—that one woke something up; give me a minute—was more intimacy than our morning needed. "Let's eat."
Diner Rules (and a Micro-Trait)
We selected a diner featuring metal trim that shimmered like a silver bullet and a smell suggesting coffee had been brewing since the Reagan era. Servers moved with the professionalism of those who had endured changing trends. A radio played Springsteen songs as if they were a lucky charm. Behind the counter, a TV constantly showed footage of Tony Stark with the sound off. Every three minutes, his lips silently mouthed "I am Iron Man," as if repeating it could make it less profane or more sacred.
We settled into a corner booth with clear views of both the door and kitchen—Alpha-01's pick, as shown by a slight relaxation in his shoulders when he sat down. A subtle detail: he positioned his fork and knife parallel to the table edge, then adjusted the knife handle until it was perfectly aligned with the salt shaker. This wasn't compulsive; it was calibration.
A waitress with strong opinions placed water and a well-used coffee mug on the table. Her name tag read MAE. Her eyebrows seemed to ask a question about the menu, while her mouth commented, "You look new."
"Passing through," I said. "What do you recommend if a man hasn't made good choices yet today and wants to start?"
"Eggs, bacon, toast," she said, writing before I finished. "Coffee that puts hair on your soul. For your friend?"
Alpha-01 looked at me to see if he had a preference. "The same," he said. Then, as if recalling something he'd learned just twelve minutes earlier, he added: "Please."
Mae winked like we'd done a trick together. "You're fine," she said, which in diner means I like you enough to talk about the life you have, so you want to. She poured.
As we ate, the crowd arrived in waves. A courier quickly devoured pancakes in two minutes and left a tip that showed both gratitude and urgency. A man with a briefcase read the Daily Bugle, trying not to look like he was enjoying an editorial that was clearly unfriendly to vigilantes. A kid gazed at the pie carousel as if it were a museum exhibit showcasing the lost art of happiness.
Alpha-01 observed silently. He carefully took one sugar packet, tore it evenly, and added half to his coffee. Afterwards, he folded the empty packet into a perfect square. A subtle habit: he tapped the folded square twice with his forefinger before proceeding.
"So," I said, because silence would do what silence does and invite thoughts I could save for when I wasn't holding a knife and a memory, "Hell's Kitchen. The lay of the land."
"High civilian density," he noted. "Narrow streets, mixed-income housing, and a notable presence of small businesses. Multiple gang symbols are visible within three blocks, and graffiti indicates territorial disputes. One camera at the corner bodega isn't working, while two at the ATM are operational. Additionally, three fire escapes lack proper ladders.
I smiled into my toast. "You're going to be very useful."
He didn't preen. He did note the exit a third time.
We weren't the only ones doing math in that diner. At the far end of the counter, two men in ill-fitting work jackets spoke quietly enough that only I could hear. The system subtly decreased the ambient noise—it's not magic, just improved focus—and their words became clearer.
"...same as last time," the taller one said, scratching a neck tattoo he got a decade ago before his judgment arrived. "Cash on Wednesday, or the grease trap gets shut down for 'violations.'"
The other snorted. "City's full of violations."
"Told him the Kingpin doesn't like waiting." He sounded like he liked saying it, like the word fit in his mouth better than his real job ever had. "He'll pay."
"Or else what?" said the short one, but it was theater. They both knew what. People don't keep their doors oiled in Hell's Kitchen without a reason.
I sipped my coffee, hot enough to sandblast a conscience. Wilson Fisk's shadow stretched further than the headlines suggested, since the MCU cameras were still waiting for better lighting — but shadows don't care about cinematography. Okay. There was an opportunity here, but it had two inherent issues: 1) It would be satisfying to show off, and 2) showing off was how you ended up with S.H.I.E.L.D. and NYPD on a first-name basis you didn't want.
"Options," I said softly, like a man thinking about pie.
"Observe," Alpha-01 said without looking up. "Document. Prevent harm. Leave a trail that does not lead to us."
"See?" I told my coffee. "Useful."
We paid the bill. I left a tip that was more than I wanted to spend but less than Mae deserved. As we stood up, she leaned in as if adjusting the ketchup. "If you're heading west," she said casually, "take Tenth. They're doing something on Eleventh—sirens all morning."
"Appreciate it," I said, which in New York means you just told me exactly enough.
The Racket (Stakes, Not Victory Lap)
We located the bodega that the not-quite-workers had casually discussed. In these neighborhoods, fear acts like a weather pattern; you can sense where the pressure drops. The owner, thirty, exhausted, with eyes that had processed too much math, kept an attentive watch on the door like a father listening for a baby to cough. The bell rang when we stepped inside. The air was tinged with the scent of coffee grounds, cat litter, and the blue-dye candy that colors tongues.
"Two waters," I said, putting cash where he could see it. "And a phone card."
He passed them as if his mind had just instructed his hands to do so while distracted. Alpha-01's eyes swept the security monitor above the counter, saw that the "REC" light was off, and then looked away.
The two individuals from the diner arrived precisely on time, since extortionists are punctual above all else. They entered as if they were more entitled than the customers and rested their elbows on the counter in a manner that implied it was theirs. The owner hesitated and avoided eye contact with me. The taller one pretended to reorganize the gum display.
"Wednesday," he said. "Like Mass."
"We had a slow week," the owner tried, voice the texture of paper towels. "Tourists are—"
The tall one's palm slapped the counter. Not hard. Hard enough. "The Kingpin doesn't care about tourists. He cares about schedules."
Alpha-01 remained motionless. His fingers briefly clenched then loosened. I noticed my shoulders tighten, but I restrained myself with a thought from last night: We don't escalate with just a flex. We avoid provoking chaos that others would have to resolve.
I set the waters on the counter with a loud clack, like a man who wasn't listening. "You got a bathroom code?"
The shorter one turned halfway, the sort of glance you give someone you might have to include in your story later. "Clients only," he said, because petty power loves lines.
"I am a client," I said, showing the bottle. "Look, I don't want to explode on your canned goods. Do us all a favor."
The owner, God bless him, saw the lifeline and threw it away. "Two-three-four," he said, quickly. "Back left."
"Hero," I said, pushing past the taller man in a way that forced him to choose: cause a scene over nothing or stick to the act of dominance. He decided to stay in character. I moved through the beaded curtain without heading to the bathroom.
Back room. Mop bucket, sink, and a door leading to the alley—properties that would violate every fire code in the borough. Stacks of toilet paper resembled a fortress that had lost its defenders. I listened. The system recorded the men's voices and produced a frequency graph, much like a helpful nerd would. It could timestamp events but not testify in court. However, I could. My phone's camera was so bad it made a potato look like Ansel Adams, but when it came to audio, the content was more tolerant of poor quality.
I captured thirty seconds of dialogue featuring the words "protection," "schedule," and "Kingpin." I also recorded the owner counting bills with shaky hands, and Tall's amusement when no receipt was provided.
I turned on the sink water, flushed the toilet to maintain the act, and rejoined them, zipping up as if I had no clue about storytelling. Tall smirked at him, since smirking costs nothing. I held up a bottle of water. "You boys look thirsty," I said casually. "Hot day," he replied.
Short rolled his eyes. Tall looked at me long enough to give himself away—he wanted to teach a lesson and was deciding whether I was worth it. Alpha-01 tracked the angle of Tall's shoulder, the distribution of weight in Short's stance, the way fear and boredom smelled together, and didn't move.
"Mind your business," Tall said, with that particular cadence: words rehearsed in a mirror until they felt like authority.
"I'm trying," I said. "But your business is loud."
The owner cast a quick look at Alpha-01's hands—scars that hadn't fully developed but appeared to be earned. The glance seemed to convey, 'Please don't make this worse,' and 'Please stop this,' at the same time.
"Okay," I said softly, turning to the owner as if there were no other people in the room. "What's your name?"
He hesitated. "Patel."
"Mr. Patel," I said, deliberately formal. "I'm Shane. Would you like me to stand here while you call the number on the business card I'm about to give you?"
I pulled a card from my wallet that takes just a moment to produce—a white rectangle with a phone number linking to a borrowed voicemail and a name that wasn't mine, but was just enough: Community Repairs, No Cost, No Questions. The back listed: Legal Aid Clinic—Wednesdays, with a time and location I saw on a sign two blocks away. (If Matt Murdock wasn't running that clinic in this universe, someone similar was. And if no one like him was, I could become the kind of problem until someone stepped in.)
Patel's eyes went glassy with the kind of gratitude that makes you feel like a thief. "Yes," he said.
Tall's head swiveled. "What are you—"
"Present," I stated. "Witness. Cameras are not working; we both know that. Call the clinic, Mr. Patel." I maintained a steady voice and kept my hands open. "Tell them you want to discuss predatory business practices. Use that phrase. They respond well to those words.
Short shifted position. Alpha-01 advanced more quickly—only a half-step into his space, avoiding contact. This slight adjustment made aggression seem like poor timing. Short paused briefly and decided to scratch his ear.
Tall's hand hesitated as he reached for his jacket, then stopped. He looked at Alpha-01, me, Patel, and the vacant spot that used to be a quiet room, making the smart choice: he let out a strained laugh. "You really think a clinic will fix this?" he said, tapping the counter with two fingers. "Thursday," he repeated to Patel, as if hiccuping, repeating it exactly. "And if you're planning to get brave, choose a different hobby."
They left with shoulders too square and a bell jingle that sounded like a threat. The door closed. The room breathed again.
Patel's hands trembled so much that the money clattered like rain. He placed it down as I slid the phone back and played the recording. "If you want this file, it's yours. If not, I will delete it."
He looked like he wanted three things at once: to hand me everything and ask for nothing, to throw me out of his store and pretend this never happened, to sit down. He chose to sit down. "I can't fight them," he said, voice small.
"Don't," I said. "You don't fight supply chains with a baseball bat. You fight with paperwork, allies, and daylight." I pointed at the dead security camera. "Tomorrow we come back and put up a proper one. No charge. Today, go to the clinic and ask about filing a complaint, and tell them you have a recording.
He swallowed. "You're not a cop."
"Not even a little." I took a breath. It's time to face the consequences, or this scene would be pointless and without real risk. "But you should call one anyway," I added. "Right now. Make a report. When they ask for your name, tell them it's you. When they ask for mine, say 'Shane.' When they inquire about a statement, provide one. If they mention the recording, say you have one."
Patel's eyes widened. "They will know you."
"They'll know someone was here," I said. "That's okay. They'll also realize someone is watching. If they file it properly and it links to other reports, patterns will form. Those patterns attract attention. That attention frustrates the boss. When he's annoyed, he makes errors."
I submitted my real number—the one the system generated for me again. "If you face blowback, call. If you get nothing, call. If you feel brave, call. I'll keep showing up in ways that don't put you in the blast radius."
Patel nodded once, a small, exhausted bow. "Thank you."
"Thank me when you sell out of lottery tickets," I said. "That'll mean you're still here."
We stepped into the sunlight. The system chimed a cluster of notes.
Assistance (Business Owner): +7
Deterrence (Non-violent): +3
Documentation (Actionable): +4
Ethical Multiplier: +1 (witness present, agency respected)
Heat: +1 (NYPD incident potential)
Attention: +0.1 (Local Org network)
Not a landslide. Not a headline. A beginning.
"Cost?" Alpha-01 said as we walked, eyes on the reflection in the window glass across the street, because reflections tell you what corners won't.
"Heat plus one," I exhaled. "Cops match our description, maybe check it against a database that doesn't include us, since we're low-profile. Fisk's team notes that Patel had someone with him. Next time, we change our patterns: a different shop, a different day, a different us.
"Understood."
"And next time," I added, flexing my right hand and noticing the sting, "I don't palm a broken candy rack spike when I lean on a counter."
Alpha-01 halted me behind a mailbox, taking my hand like a medic rather than a friend. He had already concealed a Band-Aid, which looked as smooth and precise as a card trick. "You are bleeding."
"Look at me, paying stakes." I grinned, thin. "The house is pleased."
He raised his eyes. "The house?"
The system. The universe. Tak,'e you'r pick."
"Unders,'tood," he said, but the way he said it—half a second slower—said he was filing "jokes as stress relief" under Commander: Behavioral Patterns.
Parking Tickets and Patterns
The sedan now displayed a bright rectangular parking ticket, representing New York's unique affection—alternate side parking. I had parked on the incorrect side of a Tetris-style street layout and received a ticket.
"Welcome to resource strain," I said, flicking the ticket with two fingers. "Small cost, big lesson." I slid it into the glove box. "We pay it. We don't build a legend out of ignoring rules that keep streets clean."
Alpha-01 angled his head. "You intend to comply."
"We pick our battles. And garbage day wins."
The system chimed, drier than usual.
Financial Penalty: −1 (ticket)
Compliance (Civic): +1 (multiplier retained)
"See?" I told Alpha-01. "Even the HUD likes it when I pay parking tickets."
We didn't return to Patel's bodega. Instead, we changed our route, walking three blocks as respectful boys, and the neighborhood's atmosphere shifted from fear to exhaustion. I purchased a roll of quarters because doing laundry is all about logistics, and I borrowed a Sharpie to sketch a quick map on a napkin: three bodegas, two diners, a bar with a neon sign older than the Avengers, a law clinic flyer, and a playground with a loose bolt on the slide ladder.
Alpha-01 watched the playground like a hawk watches a field, not because children needed us but because the world sometimes does.
"We're not rescuing anyone today," I said, primarily for me. "We are embedding."
"Copy."
Tomorrow, we focus on cameras. The following day, we work on hinges. A week later, we borrow two volunteers for a block clean-up, claiming it's just for the sunshine. Meanwhile, we collect names as efficiently as we gather screws. We analyze NYPD patrol patterns and identify stores with panic buttons. We build relationships at a clinic, a church, and a community board. We focus on infrastructure work—no capes involved.
As we entered, the car's radio started crackling, cutting in with a news snippet: "…Stark Industries announced a new clean energy initiative…" The anchor's tone shifted between admiration and skepticism, as if representing stakeholders with differing views. Meanwhile, across town, Pepper Potts was probably managing a crisis in her heels. Inside a windowless room, Nick Fury was deliberately showing patience. Phil Coulson, dressed in a more refined suit, was politely knocking on a door that wouldn't open.
"Big names mean big gains," I said, letting the truth touch air and then be corrected. "But we don't chase them. We let our work pull us where we're needed."
Alpha-01 looked out at Hell's Kitchen under the noon light—graffiti and grit and old churches and new scaffolding. "Understood."
"Also," I added, because the review I'd given myself required interiority, and it turns out that interiority sometimes sounds like a confession, "the stroller got to me."
He didn't pretend he hadn't seen. "The horn," he said, even though he hadn't heard mine.
"Yeah." I focused on the road. "We put that one in a box for later. For now, we drive."
A Lawyer With a Cane (Or Maybe Just a Guy)
On Tenth, a man with a cane stepped off the curb and paused, listening as if the air itself held a story. He wore round glasses and a suit showing signs of age. His head tilted slightly toward our engine, as if he could sense the timing belt's impending failure in six months. He smiled quietly, a subtle and personal smile.
I didn't say 'Matt Murdock' aloud because uttering names gives them weight. I perceived him as just a man on the street, moving through the city like he understood it. The system didn't notify me, as sometimes the world isn't a prompt on a quest. Sometimes it's simply a man with a cane moving through lunchtime traffic, and respecting that moment means not making it about myself.
Debrief (Lines and Lines Again)
Back at the apartment, the fan started making a different noise. I fixed the bracket using a screwdriver and a promise. We recorded a debrief like two nerds who had met in a strategy forum.
"Positives," I said, writing with a Sharpie on the back of a pizza flyer, because we don't always get the whiteboard we deserve. "Patel's shop stabilized today. Documentation captured. Clinic referral engaged. Witness line respected. No violence, no property damage."
"Negatives," Alpha-01 said, picking up the cadence. "Ticket. Minor injury. Potential investigative interest."
"Mitigations," I added. "Vary patterns. Introduce third parties. Empower locals. Use tools before fists. No capes."
He nodded. The Training tab increased to 7%, steady and deliberate. Without prompting, he grabbed the casserole dish and cleaned it, showing he understood kitchen manners. Minor detail: he dried the dish, lined it up neatly on the counter, and tapped it twice before walking away.
"You know," I said, leaning against the sink, "if we keep working the neighborhood like this, S.H.I.E.L.D. might decide we're a 'local asset.'"
"Is that undesirable?"
"I prefer to be a local myth," I said. "Less paperwork. Fewer NDAs."
The system chimed once, like a grin.
Advisory:S.H.I.E.L.D. correlation +0.02 (background awareness).
Note: Phil Coulson has a talent for finding myth.
"Yeah," I said. "I've seen the movies."
I wrote LINES on the pizza flyer in letters big enough to argue with.
We do not escalate when a flex will do.
We do not make messes that we expect others to clean.
We do not turn people into point drops.
We do not show up where cameras want us; we show up where people need us.
We pick our battles, and sometimes the struggle is a parking ticket.
"Repeat them back," I said.
He spoke with a steady voice, a twinge in it catching on the third word, as if the sentence had snagged on a burr in his gut. Good. Let it snag. That's how rules turn into bones.
I sank onto the bed, letting my body reflect on the day. The ceiling cracks looked like lines waiting for ink instead of a map. The Points tab displayed 125—neither fireworks nor failure. It simply reminded me that progression systems are marathons disguised as slot machines, and I could plan accordingly.
"Tomorrow," I said into the fan's commentary, "we buy a proper fridge."
Alpha-01 nodded. "And a camera."
"And a camera," I agreed. "And hinges. And maybe a bag of cement to fix that playground ladder."
"And gloves."
"And gloves." I closed my eyes.
"You are mortal," the system reminded me, not unkindly.
"Good," I said. "Keeps me honest."
A breeze slipped through the blinds like a whisper. Down the hall, Carmen chuckled at a long-awaited joke. Across town, Tony Stark stood before a tower model he hadn't yet constructed, telling a room of powerful men he wouldn't share. In a darker room, Wilson Fisk signed a document carelessly, trusting his paid men to know how to apply pressure. On a bench, a man with round glasses listened to the city and smiled, sensing the world had momentarily paused and he had felt it.
Me? I lay on a bed that wasn't mine yet and made a list that would make it so.
Hell's Kitchen had been introduced. It said, 'Earn your place. '
I aimed to do so. Without capes or headlines, with screws, cameras, eggs over easy, and a Spartan who arranged knives with salt shakers and tapped them twice.
Tomorrow, we'd drive the same streets and pretend they were new, because keeping them new was the point.
And if the Avengers were a storm building on the horizon, we'd be the ones fixing windows before the rain.