The apartment wasn't designed for four people, especially not three who could easily pass as moving vans in hoodies. The ceiling fan buzzed softly, as if begging for kindness, while the walls resembled rental agreements in color. The air was warmed by the last heat of the day and Carmen's cookies—that was our setting. Alpha-01 remained at the door, arms crossed, watching the hall like a silent vow. Alpha-02 stood by the window in his characteristic three-step stance, his breathing synchronized with the traffic below. I relaxed into the futon, pretending it was a proper couch, and accessed the system.
The HUD slid into place: clean, blue, precise.
Points: 3,000
Spartan-II Training Overlay (complete): 1,500
Summon Spartan-II (baseline clone): 500
My hands rubbed together instinctively—not out of greed but anticipation. Progression systems don't deliver joy directly; they offer choices. "Time to play Santa," I said, glancing at Alpha-02. "You've waited patiently. Now you receive the complete Spartan-II package."
His posture sharpened like a lens tightening its focus. "Acknowledged."
System, purchase Spartan-II training for Alpha-02.
Ding.
Light shifted over him—not as a quick flash or a sci-fi beam, but like a veil that made the air seem part of a blueprint. His stance remained steady—since Spartans don't waver—yet his shoulders tightened as the overlay integrated: neural-muscular tuning, bone density protocols (simulated adaptation), fire discipline in civilian settings, first aid (EMT-B), restraint escalation ladder, urban tactical doctrine, and a legal/ethical framework with civilian priorities highlighted like a law school case note. There was no pain—the system doesn't deal in that—but he felt the weight, like a bridge that feels heavier as it learns how much it can bear.
When the light faded, he exhaled slowly, with purpose. A new sharpness appeared in his eyes, as subtle as a finely sharpened knife. The atmosphere in the room shifted with his presence.
"And there it is," I said, unable not to grin. "Congratulations, soldier. Welcome to the big leagues."
"Understood," he said. A beat. Then, the admission for himself as much as me: "I feel stronger."
"You are," I said. "Now you can keep up with your brother—though he will never admit he needed the competition."
Alpha-01 remained still. If you hadn't observed him for days, you wouldn't have noticed the subtle tightening of his jaw or how his hands found easier balance—pride hidden behind his posture.
"Leaves us with fifteen hundred," I said, flipping open Summon. "Let's put a bow on this. System, purchase one clone. Designation: Alpha-03."
Ding.
Blue collected itself and located a man. He moved away from an empty space as if he had been waiting just behind the curtain for his moment—same height, athletic build, and buzzed hair. He blinked once, the way people do when they're settling into a body that the world now claims as their own.
"Commander."
"Welcome to the family, Alpha-03," I said, warmth riding on top of a thread of awe I refused to pretend wasn't there. "Youngest means hazing. I'll keep it mostly harmless."
"Acknowledged."
"You'll find I'm hilarious," I informed him. "We'll work through your skepticism."
"Understood," he said, which somehow sounded like I'll assess your data and get back to you.
Alpha-02 took half a step forward, not quite in front of him—mentor position rather than shield. "I will assist acclimation," he offered.
"I will accept instruction," Alpha-03 replied. His voice was slightly sharper and more defined than 02's. A subtle micro-trait was evident: he shifted his weight from the balls of his feet to his entire foot before moving—an indicator like a sprinter. Filed.
The HUD ticked.
Points: 3,000 → −1,500 (Training-02) → −500 (Summon-03) = 1,000
"Not enough to train you yet," I told Alpha-03. "Overlay runs fifteen hundred. We're five hundred shy. Consider this your kiddie pool. We'll get you your sea legs soon."
He nodded, no disappointment in it. Patience looked good on him.
The room unexpectedly revealed corners I hadn't seen before. Four men occupy more space than two, altering the atmosphere. The air shifted around shoulders, breaths, and intentions. Claustrophobia didn't trouble me; instead, responsibility did—sometimes like a heavy, well-fitted jacket that feels burdensome if mistaken for a burden rather than a choice.
"Neighborhood watch is effective," I said as I rubbed the small burn on my forearm from the grease fire, reminding myself that the cost column is part of the ledger. "However, points accumulate too slowly when we're only fixing hinges and scaring teenagers away from bullying. It's good for goodwill but not enough for scaling. We need a larger board."
"Recommendation," Alpha-01 prompted. He trusts plans. Plans trust him back.
"Glad you asked." I stood, because plans feel better when they have legs under them. "It just so happens I know where the sky is about to drop a plot anchor. New Mexico."
Alpha-02 tilted his head slightly. His breathing quickened by two beats. "Reason?"
Because a certain blonde man with a hammer is about to go on vacation there, I said, and I couldn't help but enjoy the sentence. "Thor Odinson. Prince of Asgard. Large muscles, even bigger ego, and currently under disciplinary review. Daddy Odin will revoke his powers and send him to Earth. He lands a human with a target on his back."
Alpha-03 considered it a mission parameter, not mythology. "Objective?"
"We help him," I said simply. "We do the thing we do: keep civilians safe, keep the man alive, keep the mess under control. The system likes it when we help named characters—especially the ones who nudge history. Saving Thor from a bad day could be worth a mountain of points. Maybe enough to finish your training, rookie, and have change left over for screws and pizza."
"Acknowledged," Alpha-03 said. Not an ounce of starstruck. Good. Gods are still people when they bleed.
I dragged the ancient laptop onto the coffee table. It booted like it had a complicated relationship with life. The fan inside whined about obligations; pixels organized themselves reluctantly. I hummed softly while the login screen tried to remember who we were.
All right, gentlemen, it's time to buy an airplane.
Alpha-01 repeated it without inflection. "Flight."
"Commercial," I said. "Economy builds character. We are not billionaires. Stark doesn't know my name. Yet."
"Exposure risk," Alpha-02 noted. "Three large men traveling together. Pattern."
"Mitigations," I said, counting them off on my fingers. "Hoodies down. Baseball caps. We don't cluster in the terminal. We stagger boarding. On the plane, we look like brothers on a work trip. If anyone stares, we practice the superpower you both love: silence. If they push, we glare and go back to our pretzels."
"Glare acknowledged," Alpha-03 said, deadpan.
"Look at that," I said, delighted. "He's already onboarding the culture."
Buying the tickets took longer than expected. Neither the laptop nor the airline website was particularly fast. The system subtly adjusted itself behind the scenes—Commander override on funding small logistics—preventing my debit card from being declined unexpectedly. We booked four one-way tickets to Albuquerque, arriving early in the morning. We planned to rent a vehicle with high ground clearance and tough tires and head to Puente Antiguo—an almost cinematic town about to be showcased like a movie set.
"Done," I said, and leaned back. The futon squeaked its disapproval and then forgave me. "Tomorrow morning, we leave this beautiful shoebox and go stand near a god."
"What are Thor Odinson's capabilities without his power?" Alpha-01 asked, because tactics are anatomy plus context.
"Still tough," I said. "Centuries of fighting don't fall off just because father issues do. He's a brawler with instincts that won't turn off. But he's vulnerable. S.H.I.E.L.D. will scoop him up. People will poke at him. Pride will write checks that human bones can't cash. He'll get tangled. We cut tangles."
"Assist Thor. Gain points," Alpha-02 summarized, then caught himself and added: "Assist Thor to protect people."
I clapped him on the shoulder. "There it is. The ethics DLC is installing nicely."
"What if S.H.I.E.L.D. interferes?" Alpha-03 asked. Not fear—logistics.
Then we smile, I said. We act helpful. Nick Fury is clever; Phil Coulson is even sharper, in a polite way that can cut deep. We don't lie unless necessary. We don't push unless a life is at risk. We bring light to where we can. If helping Thor earns us favor with S.H.I.E.L.D., that's a bonus. If it lands us on a list, we ensure the details next to our names say: non-lethal, civilian-first, keeps receipts.
They moved through brief, smooth shifts, effortless as men do when their movement is both a ritual and a comfort. The room was filled with a quietness similar to the calm before departure—like an aged animal's silence.
"Packing list," I said, because packing signals to your brain that you're prepared to survive. "New Mexico is desert—hot, relentless, and unforgiving. The sun bites, and dust is everywhere. We need hats, sunglasses, sunscreen, electrolyte packets, chapstick, and water—we'll buy cases there. Also, first aid kits, zip ties, duct tape, paracord, flashlights, battery banks, and burner phones. No knives in carry-on luggage unless you want to be very popular with the TSA.
Alpha-01: "We can check a bag."
"Yeah," I said. "But anything sharp in a checked duffel reads differently post-9/11 than it did in my last life. We keep it boring. Multi-tool without a blade? Maybe. Better plan: pack minimal; buy hardware locally. Support the New Mexico economy and avoid awkward conversations with people who wear plastic gloves and have a complicated relationship with my face."
"Understood," Alpha-01 said. He likes rules that have reasons.
"Cover story?" Alpha-02 asked, practical.
"We're installers," I said quickly. "Solar panel installers, working in New Mexico on a short contract. Alternatively, we could be amateur astronomers tracking an anomaly. Even better, storm chasers. The skies out there thrive on drama, and people often mistake unusual equipment for weather phenomena rather than pranks or mischief.
"Which one?" Alpha-03 asked.
"All three, depending on who asks," I said. "And we keep paper: a cheap clipboard with a fake work order; a print-out of a weather pattern; a star chart from the library. A lie sounds better when it wears stationery."
They nodded like men logging a route and its alternates.
"And before we go," I added, "we don't leave Hell's Kitchen without shoring it up. We don't make messes; we don't abandon our corners."
The following two hours became a goodbye tour that refused to call itself that.
Mr. Patel had a second camera installed outside, directed at the corner where men conduct secret business they prefer not to record. I mounted it using a wedge and two concrete screws, ensured tidy cable management for clean lines, and gave Patel a sheet with instructions for downloading, sharing, and calling the clinic. "If they return,' I told him, "you're not alone."
He looked at the paper as if it were a raft. "You're leaving?"
"Short trip," I said. "Urgent hinge repair in… Albuquerque."
"You will return."
"Count on it." I tapped the sheet. "In the meantime, call Carmen if you need us, and contact that clinic if anyone mentions the word 'schedule' to you again.
He nodded twice. "Thank you."
Mae at the diner slid coffee across the counter with a look that said she could smell out-of-state on me. "You boys look like men who are about to make poor decisions in a desert," she observed.
"We're packing sunscreen," I said. "And responsibility."
"Tell responsibility to tip better than you do," she said, and pointed at a pie I could tell, just by looking, would taste like advice. I left a tip that made my wallet wince and my ethics purr.
Carmen intercepted us in the hall with a plastic bag of food and moral authority wrapped in a cardigan. "You come back with the same number of bones you left with," she said, poking my sternum with a finger that has bullied worse men into good behavior. "And don't bring strangers who think they own the building."
"We bring souvenirs," I promised. "Chiles. Stories. No trouble."
She narrowed her eyes. "You are trouble," she said affectionately. "You just learned to wear a tie."
Mia from upstairs pressed a small Saint Florian medal into my palm—the patron of firefighters, the kind of city superstition that pretends it isn't prayer. "For the stove," she said, embarrassed by gratitude. "In case you find another one."
"I'll try not to," I said. "But thank you." I tucked it into my wallet, next to a library card I'd never return and a folded napkin with LINES written on it.
Back in the apartment, we gathered the essentials: hats (including a camouflage trucker), cheap sunglasses (nobody trusts expensive ones), SPF 50 sunscreen smelling like coconut and regret, electrolyte packs, chapstick, two first aid kits (one for the car, one for the pack), three power banks, a coil of paracord, a roll of gaffer's tape (which sticks better than duct tape in the sun), three AA flashlights (easy to find everywhere), and inexpensive EMT shears that TSA wouldn't mind if it had a good day. We also packed burner phones with cover names written on sticky notes because lies are easier when even your pockets cooperate: Shane Harper (me), Alex Harper (Alpha-01), Aaron Harper (Alpha-02), Avery Harper (Alpha-03). Harper sounds like someone who installs solar panels and doesn't own red leather.
"Roles," I said, because division of labor is the difference between team and crowd. "Alpha-01: tactical lead. You set the outer perimeter and keep the line. Alpha-02: medic/engineering. If something breaks, you fix it. If someone bleeds, you stop it. Alpha-03: logistics/recon. You get us places and keep us fed. You're also our liaison for civilians—if someone needs a friendly face who isn't terrifying, that's your job."
"Why me?" Alpha-03 asked, not offended. Curious.
"Because you have the sprinter's ready-set energy instead of the statue's gravitas," I said. "People talk to energy when they're scared."
He considered that, then nodded once. "Copy."
"Comms," I said. "We won't wear radios to a Denny's. Use code phrases. If I say, 'The weather looks bad,' it indicates eyes up—possible S.H.I.E.L.D. surveillance nearby. If I ask, 'How's the slice?' I'm referring to threat level: pepperoni for low, sausage for medium, anchovy for dangerous."
"Anchovy," Alpha-02 repeated with a faint grimace that I chose to interpret as personality.
I added, "Check-ins every two hours unless we're moving. If we split up, we stay in sight and inform someone. If Coulson arrives and politely asks us to join, we do—unless the room they offer has a drain in the middle of the floor."
"Understood," Alpha-01 said. He, too, appreciates drain awareness.
I threw a few paperbacks into the duffel because airports turn everyone into readers if you give them the chance. I also included a spiral notebook and a Sharpie, as it feels almost indecent to go to a desert without paper nearby. Inside the cover, I wrote "LINES" again, bold and dark.
We do not escalate when a flex will do.
We do not create messes that others are expected 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 choose our battles carefully, and occasionally, that means accepting a parking ticket.
We ensure the integrity of the timeline exclusively to guarantee the safety of individuals.
We treat Spartans as people. (If I forget, they remind me.)
"Say them back," I said. Alpha-01 did, crisp. Alpha-02 followed, cadence smooth. Alpha-03 took his time and made each sentence a promise he understood before he let it out of his mouth.
The system hummed like approval without applause.
Training (Alpha-02): 4% → 9% (overlay integrating)
Training (Alpha-01): 14% → 15% (ongoing)
Training (Alpha-03): 0% (baseline optimization initializing)
Advisory: Long-distance travel increases pattern risk; reduce local presence → shift heat.
Advisory:S.H.I.E.L.D. background awareness +0.03. Maintain variance.
I checked my burn again—pink, sulky, harmless—and kept it as a reminder of the cost column, so the points wouldn't feel like permission. I've known men who mistake the scoreboard for a soul. I'm trying not to be one.
"Housekeeping," I said. "We need eyes on Hell's Kitchen while we're gone, which means humans and hardware. Alpha-03, run two more cameras to Mrs. Fong and the bodega on Tenth. Alpha-02, print the camera manuals and teach two people how to use them like you're explaining a toaster. Alpha-01, walk the block one last time. If anything feels off, we fix it before we get on a plane."
They moved. It felt like sending astronauts and plumbers at the same time.
While they worked, I sat with the notebook and tried not to turn Thor into a loot drop. It's a bad habit—the system whispers multipliers, and your brain, the same one that loves a sale at a hardware store, starts doing math on people. Thor isn't a bonus. He's a man who's about to get humiliated in front of his family, and if he lives long enough to laugh about it later, it'll be because the people in his radius treated him like a person and not a quest marker.
Identify the dangers to recognize them: S.H.I.E.L.D. trying to confine us and label us, Fisk noticing us missing and exerting pressure, the temptation of public spectacle triggering my show-off instinct, Mjölnir attracting crowds in the desert and causing chaos, and Jane Foster, Darcy Lewis, and Erik Selvig conducting science that doesn't require my meddling—only my protection if things get tough.
The door clicked. Alpha-01 returned from the walkabout. "Block is quiet," he reported. "Patrol car at Eleventh. No tails."
"Good," I said. "If you ever believe we have one, remember one of my favorite hobbies from my previous life: losing salespeople in big box stores. We change aisles unpredictably and make them find us the hard way."
He didn't smile, but he took the lesson and wrote it somewhere deep.
Alpha-02 placed two printed manuals on the table, neatly stapled with tabs on the margins. Micro-trait: he taps the stapler twice after using it. He then handed one to Alpha-03, who quickly and steadily ran the cameras to Mrs. Fong, making me think we can trust him with schedules.
By the time night polished the windows, our little empire of screws and favors was in as much order as we could make it. I texted the clinic number—*Wednesday check-in, Mr. Patel (extortion case)—and got a terse "Received" with no emoji. I took that as faith.
We ate Carmen's food — rice and beans that felt like love from someone through a stovetop — and let our bodies remember that fuel is how gratitude is shown to muscle. Alpha-03 straightened the dish rack with the counter's edge and tapped it twice. Alpha-02 hummed his three-note melody softly, unconsciously. Alpha-01 reopened the door, signaling the building that we were leaving but not yet gone.
"Question," I said, twirling a pen, because interiority doesn't show up unless you invite it. "How do you feel about flying?"
Alpha-01: "I prefer trains. More exits."
Alpha-02: "Unfamiliar. Acceptable. I will learn safety procedures."
Alpha-03: "Window seat."
I blinked. Then laughed. "Look at you—preference."
He tilted his head, as if surprised he'd said it out loud. "Sky is good," he offered.
"Sky is good," I agreed. "You can have the window."
We checked the duffel twice, then a third time, because forgetting seems like a moral failing when the trip matters. Burners charged. Notebook packed. Pens ready. Cash on hand. Two baseball caps—one Mets and one Yankees—neutral choices in some conflicts, provocative in others. Chapstick again, since deserts dry out mouths.
On the futon, staring at the ceiling cracks that looked less like continents tonight and more like routes, I pulled up the system one last time.
Points: 1,000
Spartan-II Training: 1,500
Summon Spartan-II: 500
Advisory: Upcoming Story Anchor: Mjölnir impact / Puente Antiguo.
Advisory: High-value named characters likely present: Thor, Jane Foster, Darcy Lewis, Erik Selvig, Phil Coulson.
Advisory: Ethical multiplier increased when scientific work is preserved from disruption or appropriation.
I let that last line settle in. I know S.H.I.E.L.D.. They file the world into shelves and call it protection. Sometimes that's true. Sometimes it's theft with a badge. Jane is going to find something that belongs to science and to Thor. Our job isn't to own it. It's to defend the work while it sits in the path of power.
I closed the HUD and the notebook, then shut my eyes in that order. The building seemed to shift as if sleeping. Alpha-01 observed the hall as if time owed him rent. Alpha-02 stood by the window, humming a faint three-note melody, while the desert's memories stirred in his chest. Alpha-03 carefully checked the locks in a pattern he had just learned ten minutes earlier, a routine he would repeat endlessly unless I gave him new instructions.
"You do not appear displeased," Alpha-01 said into the near-dark, voice only loud enough to reach me without crossing the room.
"You're right," I said, turning the Saint Florian medal over under my thumb. "This is the most fun I've ever had."
I meant it. Joy is a cost, too—you pay for it with responsibility. You pay for it by writing rules on napkins and meaning them when the world invites you to cheat.
"Tomorrow," I said to the ceiling, to the fan, to three men who could lift my life and carry it, "we babysit a god."
Alpha-02: "We assist a person."
"Right," I said, smiling into my pillow. "We assist a person."
Sleep came quickly to me, as intent rests better than adrenaline. The city exhaled gently. The fan hummed softly, creating a cozy sound. Somewhere in the next apartment, a Yankees game narrated someone's dream. Matt Murdock lay awake in two neighborhoods, listening as the city's latest rumors wrapped around our shapes. Peter Parker forgot to set his alarm but still woke up exactly on time. Wilson Fisk approved a budget that would make someone else's night much worse next week. Phil Coulson placed a file labeled "ALBUQUERQUE—UNUSUAL METEOROLOGICAL" on a tidy stack and went home dressed in a suit that didn't sweat.
We were packed for gods.
And for people.