Morning came softly, like light filtering through cheap curtains: a faint glow that turned the ceiling milky and cast a silhouette of the fan rattling quietly. I stretched on the futon's edge until my joints popped politely. The apartment smelled of yesterday's coffee mixed with someone else's detergent lingering in the air. Three soldiers occupied a space meant for just one.
Alpha-01 stood at the door with arms crossed, embodying the building's backbone in human form. He maintains an upright posture without slouching or leaning—simply existing, which accomplishes much the same effect at a different cost. Alpha-02 sat on the floor with a three-step offset, legs crossed, eyes closed, breathing in two and out two, accompanied by that subtle three-note hum I started to notice, like punctuation. Meanwhile, Alpha-03 gazed out the window—the sky watcher—observing the street with the same focus you have when reading rips in surf to gauge their strength.
"Morning, boys," I said, rubbing sleep out of new eyes that had decided to be cooperative. "Sleep well?"
Silence, which is their favorite punchline.
"You don't even sleep, do you?"
"Rest is optional," Alpha-02 said, eyes opening like someone had pulled a chord. Calm. Present. The hum faded.
"Optional?" I asked, grabbing a bottle of water from the counter and taking a sip that reaffirmed our presence here. "You know what else is optional? Personality. You three should try it."
They took the insult as breakfast and chose not to dwell on it. I laughed, feeling I had to, and leaned on the kitchenette; the laminate had lasted at least one more life than I had.
All right—bags are packed, tickets booked, I said. The system's HUD appeared silently: Points: 1,000. "We're flying to New Mexico to see a god who's about to face a tough week."
"Thor Odinson," Alpha-01 stated neutrally, like a label on a box.
"Exactly. Odin's about to put him in time-out, and we get to be the welcoming committee."
"Objective," Alpha-03 prompted, because he has learned that clarity arrives faster when you invite it.
"Help him. Protect him. Look good while doing it." I grinned. "That'll net more points than babysitting Hell's Kitchen for a year. You'll get your training soon, rookie—promise."
He nodded once, a sprinter on a starting line who'd happily stand there forever if the gun never fired.
"To New Mexico," I toasted with the water. "Land of deserts, tumbleweeds, and one very confused Asgardian."
Cabs, Codes, and the Church of TSA
The drive to the airport was typical of New York's chaotic mornings. Horns honked relentlessly. A bus merged smoothly, as if calculating its own momentum. A street vendor offered egg sandwiches to a line of eager customers. I took the wheel, while Alpha-01 claimed the passenger seat, skillfully monitoring exits like someone memorizing a poem. Alpha-02 and Alpha-03—massive and tightly packed into fabric and restraint—settled into the back with monk-like patience and shoulders as broad as refrigerators.
"Comfortable back there?" I asked, as I navigated around a delivery truck whose blinker seemed more like a vibe than a proper signal.
"Yes," Alpha-02 responded without hesitation. It genuinely sounded truthful. He would have given the same answer while facing a foxhole.
Alpha-03's head brushed the roof as he angled his neck and shifted his weight onto his full foot to avoid hitting his scalp. He whispered, "Window seat later," in a barely audible voice.
"You look like you're being smuggled across state lines," I said. "Don't worry—economy will make this feel luxurious. You'll miss this."
At the terminal, we became a circulating vortex. People moved around and through us until they noticed our posture, silence, and potential, then they created space, as crowds do when they sense a purpose that isn't theirs. I wore a hoodie and jeans—an attire of anonymity—while the Alphas dressed in their version of casual: sleek lines, no logos, and a friend-shaped appearance if your friends did deadlifts for dessert. Broad shoulders, impeccable posture, steady gazes. We resembled a recruitment poster for an organization that hadn't yet formed.
"You'd make a killer mall cop," I told Alpha-01 in the check-in line. "Just glare at teenagers until they return the stolen lip gloss."
He didn't bother to answer. I'm going to hook a laugh out of him one day; I'll mount it over the mantle.
Security feels like a ritual: shoes off, laptops out, belt surrendered to the gods of inconvenience. Our duffel held nothing sharp because I prefer my travel days without federal interviews. We placed our hats in plastic bins, and our pockets were already empty because pre-briefs save time, and time is a kind of money.
A blue-gloved agent provided us with a human version of a quick scan tool: swiftly analyzing faces for patterns such as military, trouble, or story, ultimately settling on polite curiosity. The randomizer selected Alpha-02 for a secondary swab. He extended his hands, palms up, collecting dust and consent with composed discipline. The machine then flashed a color indicating permission to proceed.
"High observation," Alpha-02 murmured as we pieced ourselves back together. No edge; just a note.
"Relax," I said. "You look like Marines on leave. Worst case, someone asks you to open a pickle jar."
At the very edge of security, a toddler struggled with a stroller buckle and broke into operatic wails. His mother deftly handled boarding passes and a car seat with the remarkable agility only parents and acrobats possess. Alpha-03 glided silently without seeming to move. "May I?" he asked, hands showing, voice gentle.
She stared at his size, then at the careful way he collapsed the stroller with a quick, decisive motion and snapped the safety strap into place. "Thank you," she said, her relief sounding like a sigh. The toddler sniffed, briefly thought about causing a fuss, but then made eye contact with Alpha-03. The universe explained mass to him; he reevaluated his choices.
Ding.
Assistance (Parent/Child): +2
Ethical Multiplier: +1 (consent requested)
Heat: 0
At the gate, a storm-chaser t-shirt and a stack of printouts completed our cover nicely. I patted the clipboard in my pack—the one with a fake work order for "Solar Install—Puente Antiguo"—and took out two burner phones to label them with our Harper aliases. I briefly appeared as someone who had paperwork under control. People trust clipboards because they never lie; only the hands holding them can deceive.
We selected seats by the window, with Alpha-01 sitting with his back to the glass because he prefers a clear line of sight. He retrieved the safety card from the pocket of the seat next to him and read it like a familiar prayer, reciting it silently. He counted the rows to the nearest exits and took note of their positions. Meanwhile, Alpha-02 monitored gate announcements while observing the shape of the busy crowd around him. At the same time, Alpha-03 pressed his palm against the window and watched a taxiing plane leave a trail of fumes that looked like calligraphy.
A teenage girl across the aisle wore a Popular Science hoodie and stared at Alpha-02's hands as if she'd seen a diagram come to life. I caught her eye and pointed at the magazine tucked in her bag. "What's the feature this month? Please tell me it's not a think piece on jetpacks."
She laughed softly, a small, bright sound. "Solar farms," she said, then paused herself. "Sorry, I just—um—are you guys—"
"Installers," I said smoothly. "Headed west."
Her eyebrows did a dance called I knew it. "Cool."
"Stay in school," I told her, since mentoring can be brief. She rolled her eyes like kids do when you tell the truth without embellishment. Ding. +1 (encouragement) — Looks like pep talks are now microtransactions, system.
Boarding, Banter, and the Theology of Takeoff
Boarding feels like a cattle call that has learned to glam up. We moved in a slow, polite line toward a door that promised compressed air and rules. At the back, four seats formed our small domain. I chose the aisle, ready to pivot if needed, with Alpha-01 beside me and Alpha-02 and Alpha-03 filling the row. The seat backs seemed to mimic shoulders eager to breathe; the armrests seemed to negotiate peace treaties with elbows that had never given in.
Passengers whispered immediately, a mix of fear, excitement, and an instinct to share a story when life turns cinematic.
"Told you," I murmured, buckling in. "Instant celebrities."
"Attention unnecessary," Alpha-03 said, eyes on the wing. He didn't sound annoyed. He sounded like a man who preferred the sky to applause.
"Oh, come on—you love it," I said.
He pondered, and if you've never seen a Spartan deliberate over a sentence, picture a chess engine opting to play checkers instead. "Window seat," he finally said, as a concession.
A flight attendant lingered by our row, eyeing shoulders that strained the boundaries of economy and checking the bin above us like it would have to defend itself in court. I smiled my most unthreatening smile. "They're gentle giants," I said. "No trouble—unless someone tries to hijack the plane. Then it'll be a short fight."
She let out a laugh she hadn't consciously authorized and then continued on. A man sitting opposite us shot us a look that seemed to say, 'Please be bored for the next four hours.' We complied.
Takeoff is also a ritual. Passengers click their seat belts into place, and the safety demonstration performs its routine: secure your own mask before assisting others, and hide the life vest under your seat like a secret. Alpha-01 once again counted the rows to the nearest exit, this time with his eyes closed. He charted the aisle width, cart locations, and crew stations—not to be a hero on the plane, but because knowing provides him stability.
The plane taxied forward, roaring and leaving the ground behind. Manhattan looked like a model; bridges resembled toys hanging from strings. The sunlight reflected on the river, transforming it into a thin wire. The system's voice gently reminded me, "You are mortal." I paused to let the thought sink in and then effortlessly dismissed it. In a sky so truthful, mortality didn't frighten me; it made me more deliberate.
I popped in headphones and popped them back out because music would drown out humor, and I wasn't ready to stop poking the bear.
"First plane ride," I said to the row. "Thoughts?"
"Functional transport," Alpha-02 said, observing the clouds much like a lab technician examines data. I often feel like complaining that their jokes could use some fixes; then one of them nearly makes a joke, and I have to act like I didn't notice.
"That's all?" I said. "No awe at giant metal tube flying? Does it even serve a purpose?"
"You exaggerate," Alpha-01 said flatly.
I gasped. "Was that sarcasm? Did you—did you joke?"
No reaction, but I swear a corner of my mouth considered it, if only to kill the idea. Progress. I whispered it like a spell.
The hours dragged on like time does when knees and seat backs oppose each other. Turbulence came and went like a tipsy uncle, retreating when the pilot eyed it. A baby a few rows up turned grief up to eleven. Alpha-02 looked at the baby, then at the mother's white hands gripping the armrests. He took a slow breath, counting two beats in and out, and exaggerated it until the woman noticed. He held up two fingers—one, two—and she mirrored him without thinking, matching the rhythm until the baby picked up on it. The crying softened.
Ding.
Assistance (Anxious Passenger): +2
Ethical Multiplier: +1 (non-intrusive, modeled calm)
Flight attendants did the cart thing, the conference of smiles that says we all know gravity is real and we'd like to pretend otherwise while you eat pretzels. Trays arrived like offerings. "Chicken or pasta?" the attendant asked.
"I'll take chicken," I said. "You guys get pasta so we can compare."
They all picked chicken.
"Seriously? Diversify! What if the pasta is secretly amazing?"
"Chicken is fuel," Alpha-02 said, gravely enough that my laugh earned me a look from a man with reading glasses who had opinions about laughter in public.
We ate as if we recognized that calories are a social contract and privilege. Alpha-03 arranged his napkin, aligned the plastic fork with the tray's right edge, and tapped it twice—subtle gesture of gratitude. He ate with precise efficiency before gazing back at the wing as if the sky had missed a line, and he wished to help.
Midway through, weather off the wing created a subtle bruise on the horizon. I scanned the cabin and saw a man in a suit two rows ahead staring at us with the confident curiosity typical of someone forming a theory out of thin air. S.H.I.E.L.D.? FBI? Sales? It's hard to tell. I lightly touched my shoulder as if scratching and whispered, "The weather looks bad."
Alpha-01's eyes shifted to the man then away. "Pepperoni," he whispered quietly after a pause—calmly. No arrogance. Just a straightforward acknowledgment in a language we now understood.
We spent the final hour in that quiet plane hatch, where everyone's bravado had faded into the scent of stale air and mutual fatigue from sitting beside strangers. I retrieved the notebook from the seat pocket and rewrote the LINES, knowing that repetition strengthens muscle memory in ethics just as much as it does in legs.
We do not escalate when a flex will do.
We do not create messes that others are expected to clean up.
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 select our battles carefully; occasionally, the conflict involves merely a parking ticket.
We safeguard the timeline only to the extent that it safeguards people.
We treat Spartans as people. (If I forget, they remind me.)
I underlined number three until the pen dug a small trench in airline paper.
A seatmate across the aisle leaned over as if suddenly brave. "Are you guys team sports?" he asked.
"Solar install," I said, and presented a smile that had been calibrated for gate agents and grandmas. "Headed west. Storm chasers on the weekend."
He nodded, accepting the world as explained, and returned to his crossword. People want to know that the story around them won't spill. We did our part to keep the cup steady.
Descent, Heat, and the Geography of Dry
Landing is a ballet of trust: wheels finding ground, flaps yawning like wings puzzled by physics, the body relenting and letting gravity back into the conversation. We touched down, and the cabin did the ritual clap like a nervous laugh it couldn't stifle.
As soon as the door swung open, New Mexico revealed itself without any perfume. A dry heat flooded in—an authentic heat that didn't carry the scent of city sweat—air that seemed to have been ironing itself for hours. Jet fuel and sunlight mingled with dust and altitude. It was the aroma of a place that blurs boundaries and leaves shadows sharply defined.
We entered the jet bridge, and the humidity we carried seemed to challenge the dry desert air and failed. Alpha-03 took a breath and slightly smiled, as if discovering a new sensation in his lungs. "Sky is good," he murmured to no one in particular, sounding like a prayer or perhaps a simple recipe.
Baggage claim exemplifies the sociology of spin. We observed an endless conveyor belt transporting strangers' belongings wrapped in fabric. I picked up our duffel bag — its interior neatly coiled tape and paracord, with battery banks stacked like bricks, and hats, sunscreen, and chapstick casually arranged. An elderly man had a suitcase that seemed to resist leaving the belt; Alpha-01 approached, lifted it with one hand, and gently placed it down as if putting a baby in a crib. The man patted his arm as if touched by a myth and gratefully said, "Thank you, son," with a capital S.
Ding.
Assistance (Elderly): +1
Ethical Multiplier: +1
Financial Penalty: −1 (checked bag fee)
"Cost of doing business," I muttered at the HUD, which threw me a dry advisory about budget awareness. We paid the baggage fee without drama because rule five doesn't exist for decoration.
Outside, the sun worked hard to turn shade into a form of worship. Heat bore down from all directions, like sincere advice. The lot gleamed with rental cars and lingering regrets. We chose a vehicle with worn tires and sturdy foundation, its hue resembling dust and already feeling like home. The rental agent glanced at the three large men behind me, offered an upgrade with the professionalism of a good worker, and dismissed his sales pitch when Alpha-02 read the contract aloud, speaking in a tone that revealed he knew how to use fine print as a weapon.
"Installers," I told the agent, who looked like he wanted an explanation. "Short contract. We'll keep the seats clean."
He nodded like a man who has seen worse. We loaded gear with the choreography of practice. Alpha-03 aligned the duffel's straps with the cargo area's lip and tapped twice. Micro-trait: gratitude via alignment. Alpha-01 did a perimeter check out of habit and because habits write luck. Alpha-02 adjusted the mirrors and set the radio to nothing.
We entered the desert, feeling like we stepped onto a blank page. The landscape didn't seek permission to exist: endless stretches of scrub and low bushes; distant mountains that looked like patient animals; the sky stretching endlessly, mimicking infinity—and succeeding. Heat shimmered on the road in waves; a hawk traced geometric patterns in the air for anyone who looked up.
"Welcome to New Mexico, boys," I said, whistling once because the sound wanted to try itself in this air. "Home of Thor's midlife crisis."
"Weather looks bad?" Alpha-01 asked lightly, because humor sometimes wears code.
"Pepperoni," I said. "Low. For now."
Errands in a State That Doesn't Apologize
Instead of going directly to Puente Antiguo, we stopped at a large box store full of tires, fluorescent lighting, and practicality. There, we bought essentials for when the day seems to need aid: water cases, electrolyte packets, sunscreen that made Alpha-02 read its ingredients like poetry, a first aid supply refill that any ER nurse would approve, zip ties because Alpha-03 was correct—restraints are better than boots on shoulders, a roll of gaffer's tape, AA batteries for the flashlights, and inexpensive sunglasses. The black ones look like magazine props; the brown ones seem more like reliable relatives.
The cashier gave the pile a look and decided we were either contractors or apocalypse men. Alpha-03 smiled exactly the amount that makes you less mysterious and more human. The system hummed a tiny approval at the fact that we had not tried to be interesting.
On the way out, a news segment played on a TV near the registers—sound too low to matter—with a crawl that read UNUSUAL METEOROLOGICAL ACTIVITY above a satellite image that looked like someone had bruised the air north of town. A man in a cheap suit pointed at the middle of nowhere like the middle of nowhere had offended him. The words golf-ball-sized hail floated by. I didn't need sound to hear Coulson in the negative space.
We used the parking lot shade to run a communications check. "If I say, 'How's the slice?'"
"Pepperoni, sausage, anchovy," Alpha-02 replied. "Low, medium, bad."
"And weather?"
"Looks bad means eyes up," Alpha-01 said. "Breaking means S.H.I.E.L.D. in proximity. Clearing means no immediate surveillance."
"And the timeline?"
"We protect it when it protects people," Alpha-03 said carefully, as if reciting something that mattered. "We do not worship canon."
"Good," I said, because repeating rules in the shadow of a Home & Garden sign felt like the only sensible way to start a myth. "Seat belts. Water. Turn the AC on like you mean it. We have an appointment with a man who used to be a god and a hammer that is about to turn a desert into a pilgrimage."
No one said anything. The road stretched its back and invited us to run fingers down its spine.
We drove.
Air Between Heartbeats
The highway stretched out in a convincingly straight line. A billboard warned about rattlesnakes the way a grandmother warns you about men in bands. Alpha-01 counted mile markers and examined the spots where sand gathered along fences—wind signs—because terrain is a character in any fight, and you learn its habits the same way you learn a man's. Alpha-02 watched the temperature tick on the dash and rationed water like a combat medic with a plan. Alpha-03 watched the sky as if he wanted to memorize the names of clouds so he could call them later.
I considered Thor dropping from royalty onto asphalt. The system aims to quantify that, but I insist on framing it as a promise. Our focus is on helping people. Whether they have titles or swing hammers to solve problems others can't, it's all good. The core rule remains: we do not reduce people to point scores.
The HUD stayed polite. It didn't nag me for strategy; it didn't whisper multipliers. It did offer one line I took as gospel for the next twenty-four hours:
Advisory: Scientific work (Jane Foster, Erik Selvig, Darcy Lewis) has a high ethical value when protected from disruption or appropriation.
"Copy," I told it. "We guard Jane's data the way other people guard vaults."
"Jane?" Alpha-03 asked.
"Jane Foster," I said. "Physicist. We're not here to steal her work or be the reason it gets confiscated. We put our bodies between her and appropriation if we have to."
"Understood," Alpha-01 said. He accepts mission expansion when it sounds like keeping the line.
We passed a sign that offered access to Puente Antiguo like a suggestion. The road narrowed. The sky widened. Heat put a hand on the back of my neck and pressed just enough to remind me it was real. A tumbleweed auditioned for a movie. Somewhere, a radio station found Springsteen again because America is a loop if you listen too long.
We crested a rise, and the world ahead did that shimmer mirage trick—the one that looks like a puddle and is actually air between heartbeats.
"Welcome to New Mexico," I said softly, almost to myself. "Home of Thor's midlife crisis."
"Sky is good," Alpha-03 whispered back, and I chose to think he meant ours, too.
We kept driving. The mission continues.