The airport doors hissed softly like courteous snakes, opening to New Mexico. The heat was immediate—pure, unfragrant, the kind that presses in without lingering, all palms and no apologies. The air smelled of dust and jet fuel; sunlight gleamed off chrome and continued outward. I put on sunglasses as part of the ritual.
"Ah, yes," I said. "Welcome to New Mexico, boys. Population: us, a fallen god, and many questionable fashion choices."
Alpha-01 scanned the lot without moving his head much—lines of sight mapped against cover that didn't exist. "Unfamiliar terrain," he said. His voice always makes the obvious sound like intelligence.
Alpha-02 shaded his eyes with two fingers and measured the distance between pillars and curb, curb and lanes, lanes and the human river. "Visibility high," he murmured. "Cover limited."
Alpha-03 remained silent. He focused on tracking people, not the surroundings—paying attention to where the crowd thickened, thinned, or where the flows either compressed or pooled. A subtle detail: when evaluating human movement, he synchronizes his breathing with it; his chest rises and falls in rhythm with the sliding doors.
"Relax," I said. "It's just an airport. The only danger here is overpriced bottled water."
Then the danger arrived.
It didn't announce itself; instead, it subtly changed the atmosphere. The group near the exit seemed ordinary at first, until suddenly, they were not. Bodies pressed close together, conversations muted. The noise level lowered slightly, reminiscent of moments before a toast or a fight. Jackets appeared too uniform for August, and hands lingered inside pockets beyond normal. Boots, meant for alleys rather than terminals, stamped with purpose. Recognizing the scent of gun oil brings a memory, even if you haven't encountered it before.
"Clock it," I said softly.
"Fifteen," Alpha-01 said immediately. He recalculated halfway through his sentence. "Twenty-two. Twenty-seven. Flanking left, eight."
The group finished forming. About forty people, moving in unison without eye contact. They are from the rideshare curb and a brief exit nearby. Wearing plain jackets, with stiff shoulders, and a few wearing low-positioned ball caps. They do not look like tourists, a family reunion, or airport staff. Their organization is evident even without uniforms.
They moved until they reached their desired spot: between us and the lot. Conversation shifted away like iron filings drawn by a magnet. Bystanders turned casual into elsewhere. Phones appeared, because phones are modern prayers—please let me be a witness and not a participant.
I tilted my head and whispered, "Forty guys?" with a smile, resembling someone reviewing a menu and feeling disappointed by the portion size. "That's a bit excessive, isn't it? A group discount on bad decisions?"
They didn't answer. They did what bad decisions always do: they produced props. A glimpse of stainless. A receiver. A shotgun's distinctive silhouette surfacing from a jacket like a whale remembering gravity. A handful of knives. Two bats for men who wanted to feel manual in a digital age.
I didn't let my grin change. "Weather looks bad," I said.
"Anchovy," Alpha-01 replied, which indicates a poor idea. He adjusted his stance by half an inch, a gesture for him that's comparable to placing a hand on a holster he doesn't even carry.
"No gunfire," I said, not quiet, not loud. I pitched it for my row; it carried farther because command does, even when you didn't intend it. "We control hands. We push. We pin. We do not make the news for the wrong reason."
"Copy," Alpha-02 said. Alpha-03 breathed in and out and lined his rhythm with the sliding doors again. The pattern became a countdown.
"Civilians first," I added, because reminders are muscle memory if you say them enough. "If you have to pick between winning fast and protecting someone squishy, you pick the squishy."
A woman at my elbow held a toddler whose patience had already boarded a different flight. I pointed her toward a concrete pillar. "Behind that," I said, brisk and bright like a man giving directions to a gift shop. "Airport drill. Two minutes."
"Is this—" she started.
"Yep," I said, and lifted my voice just enough to include three more families in the new truth. "Drill. Inside, please. Gate agents are handing out vouchers." A small lie that moved feet without igniting panic. People want to be told which way to go. I pointed. They went.
"Make me a lane," I told the Alphas, and set off at an angle that didn't look like retreat but was.
The first man acted as if he'd rehearsed: shoulders forward, pistol low, eyes looking high. He took two steps that conveyed 'I have friends,' then raised his gun to seize control of the room. Alpha-01 was already present. His hand securely grabbed the man's wrist—not like steel but like instructions. He gently guided the pistol in a spiral upward, signaling the joint to consider an alternative action. The gun never aimed at anyone with a future. The man learned about knees and pavement without losing any teeth he would have missed.
Three to Alpha-01's left decided numbers could bully physics. He broke that math by steering them: a shoulder check with precision turns a man ninety degrees and seats him on the curb without insult. Elbow, wrist, stun. Knife came up on his blind side; Alpha-01 didn't turn his head. He hooked the blade hand with his free hand, pinched the tendons, and parked it on the pillar like he was moving a magnet to a fridge.
Alpha-02 flanked instead of charged. He made space the way you do with crowd control, not brawl. He pushed one man into two and borrowed their imbalance to make three fall down. A bat swung in; Alpha-02 stepped inside the arc and let the bat smack the back of the man who swung it. Elbow to sternum, palm to ribs—he used the hammer he carries, sure, but he swung it carefully. A knife appeared—he saw it in the reflection on the window first—caught the wrist, rotated, and placed the arm across the owner's spine like a backpack that had made poor choices.
Alpha-03 did not have the training overlay yet, and you could see it in the seams when he moved. But raw force plus good intentions covers a multitude of sins. A shotgun came up and he took the barrel without drama, twisted, and owned it. He didn't try to wield it—good boy; we're not making this an escalation—he used the stock like a club, cracked a jaw with the kind of apology you can't say in words, and then pushed a second man so hard he did the over-the-bumper tumble you only see in insurance commercials.
I became the environment. I grabbed a luggage cart with one hand and turned it sideways into a barrier without clipping any ankles, walling off three civilians behind it, and pointed them in. "Inside," I said. "Gate agents. Vouchers." The word is catnip. A man lunged with a pistol, but fear makes motions telegraph. I ducked, shoved the cart into his shins, and put a fist in his ribs with the minimum power needed to change his plan. As he folded, I took the gun because guns should not be where panic is. I racked the slide to eject the chambered round—clink on concrete—and tucked the pistol under the cart wheel. My fingers remembered how this felt the day a horn erased me. I let the memory burn, not rule.
I needed something to use as a cover, and the world handed me a fire extinguisher—its red cylinder, white hose, a classic solution hiding in plain sight. I removed it from the pillar bracket and pulled the pin. "Eyes!" I shouted across my row, fogging the ground level with white—not blinding, just enough to cause confusion at knee height. Men who prefer standing tend to become clumsy when they can't see their feet. Alpha-02 was already shifting to maintain balance on the slick surface; he planted his heel instead of his toe, folding a man into the foam as if it were a pillow someone had wronged.
The shotguns and pistols never went off. That's not coincidence; it's forty bad ideas halted by three Spartans who grasp the importance of time. We intercepted wrists before triggers could be pulled, directed barrels toward the pavement. When someone persisted in raising a gun, Alpha-01 made him realize what pressure on the web between thumb and finger could do to a plan. Alpha-03 absorbed a bat across the back with stoic endurance, feeling it later, and then snapped the bat over his knee—highlighting why wood is a poor choice compared to bone strength.
Two minutes feels long in a fight and brief in an airport. We kept it brief. I lost count after thirty bodies on the ground because counting is for reports, and we were busy. We didn't break bones we didn't need to; instead, we shattered ideas. A knife slipped under a minivan, making a sound like it regretted its owner. A shotgun slide rattled uselessly beneath a luggage cart. Someone attempted the runner tactic; Alpha-02 grabbed him by the belt and ended the chase with a gentle slam into a bollard that has endured worse.
Once finished, groans replaced shouts; foam replaced bravado; the concrete seemed to reflect a conversation nobody was winning. We stood among nearly forty men who would later share creative stories, with no civilians bleeding on the ground. The crowd's mood shifted from fear to awe; phones tilted into portrait mode because portrait is for stories, and this moment would become one once it was uploaded to the Internet.
Alpha-01 surveyed the area for stragglers using his peripheral vision, keeping his chin level to avoid startling men who had noticed their loss. Alpha-02 shaken slightly, brushed foam off his hands and wiped his knuckles on his pants; no blood showed because he had none that didn't belong there. Alpha-03's breathing grew heavier—his rhythm disturbed by improvisation—but he held his stance firm and acknowledged the effort it took.
"Well," I said, sliding my hands into my hoodie pocket like a man who had simply finished a grocery list, "that was fun. Forty guys and not a scratch. Remind me to leave you three terrible Yelp reviews—way too efficient, not enough drama."
The system didn't laugh. It dinged.
Assistance: Civilians (aggregate) (+500)Collateral Avoided: (airport firearm discharge) +100 (prevented)Ethical Multiplier: +1 (non-lethal control; civilian egress facilitated)Attention (Airport/NYPD/TSA): +0.9Attention (Unknown Org): +0.4
I exhaled a grin. Before the fight: 1,000. Now: 1,600 by the HUD's count; it had silently added a prevented catastrophe bonus I wasn't going to argue about. Enough to train Alpha-03 and keep the jar from going empty.
Sirens started with distant yodels that grew nearer. Blue lights flickered at the lot's edge. A PA system crackled a courteous reminder to "remain calm," which the crowd had already followed, as people tend to heed instructions when the situation escalates.
"Time to leave," I said, because this had stopped being ours the second the first strobe started bouncing off glass. "We do not stick around to explain to federal employees why we turned forty jackets into modern art in front of a terminal."
"You are bleeding," Alpha-02 said.
I looked at my right forearm, where a pink mark from a watchband buckle had caught me badly during a punch. "Cosmetic," I said. "I'll let you put a Band-Aid on it later so you can feel useful."
He didn't rise to it. He did sweep his eyes over Alpha-03's back and note the bruise the bat had written. "Cold compress," he said, already filing treatment.
"Inside, please," I told a small cluster of frozen watchers, because exiting discreetly requires cover. "Airport drill. Vouchers."
They moved, and we followed, understanding that subtlety in flow conceals intention better than speed. Alpha-01 took the outside of our formation, while Alpha-02 stayed inside, shielding a toddler mom with his body as if born for that purpose. Alpha-03 glided a half-step behind me, making our group appear like a family. We crossed the lane casually, as if pondering coffee rather than sirens. Phones tracked us, capturing every moment; each frame made a choice. I aimed to project calm and civility, hoping it would communicate that someone else's problem now.
A white SUV was parked a block away—the plain one I had reserved. I gave the keys to Alpha-01 because he's best at driving in noisy conditions. He smoothly slid into the driver's seat, adjusted the mirrors without turning his torso, and started the engine as if he had built it himself.
New Mexico didn't hesitate, I said as he smoothly navigated us into traffic like a man carrying a dinner plate through a busy kitchen. "Forty guns on arrival, and now we have what we need to confirm Alpha-03 officially."
"Mission success," Alpha-02 said, the cadence of a logbook, not a boast.
"Training confirmed," Alpha-03 added, and if you didn't know him, you wouldn't have noticed the brightness under the neutral tone.
"You guys are the best backup singers," I said. "Always on key."
We never took the straightforward route. Airport roads are designed as loops to complicate pursuit if you know how to navigate them and make it nearly impossible if you don't. Alpha-01 performed small maneuvers that cumulatively created a pattern: an extra lane change to see if the silver sedan with the additional antenna mirrored us (it didn't); an early exit followed by re-entry to test for follow-up vehicles (none appeared); and a slow pass past a parked car where two men were watching over their shoulders (not FBI, not S.H.I.E.L.D.; wrong posture). We merged onto the main highway, blending in like local weather.
"Weather?" I asked as the sirens faded into memory.
"Sausage," Alpha-01 said. Medium. "Airport security saw faces. Patterns flagged. We will be reviewed."
Then I tell them a dull story to review: three brothers helping push carts when a brawl erupted. Oh, and here we are, a mile away, buying water.
"Understood."
A House That Doesn't Apologize
The rental house was a single-story stucco with a low slouch, topped by a satellite dish that had watched fewer shows than storms. The driveway bore tire marks from neglect, and the porch held two mismatched chairs that attempted to complement each other. The AC unit hummed reliably, unlike the one in my New York home; it wasn't complaining, just functioning competently.
"Home sweet home," I said, dropping my bag onto tile that survived on easy cleaning and hope. "No peeling paint, no cockroaches, working AC. Compared to our New York shoebox, this is paradise."
Alpha-01 placed his bag against the wall within easy reach in case the door alarmed. Alpha-02 mimicked him perfectly before shifting three inches to form a lane; a subtle trait: he dislikes clutter near exits. Alpha-03 took the window, scanning instinctively as the sky man made peace with the glass.
The system took a step forward like a waiter with a tray. I pulled the HUD up.
Points: 1,600Spartan-II Training Overlay (complete): 1,500
I looked at Alpha-03. He didn't fidget. He didn't ask. Patience sat on him like a well-fitted jacket. My grin widened despite myself. "Ready, Rookie? Push this button and you're not just Alpha-03—you're Alpha-03, Spartan-II."
He nodded. "Acknowledged."
"Man," I said, thumbing the confirm, "I am never getting tired of this."
Ding.
Alpha-03 — Spartan-II Training OverlayCost: 1,500 (deducted)Modules: Neuro-muscular optimization; bone density augmentation (simulated adaptation protocols); tactical doctrine (urban/open terrain); comms discipline; legal/ethical framework (civilian priority—reinforced); first aid (EMT-B); restraint escalation ladder; stress inoculation (simulated); heat adaptation protocol (desert).Mode: Non-invasive overlay integrating during idle/rest cycles. Casualties: impossible.Duration: Accelerated; continuous while idle.Progress: 0% → 3% (initialization)… 4%
Light isn't truly light when the system activates; it's more like the air adapting to a new pattern. It shifted around Alpha-03 as if forming an idea. His gaze drifted briefly—such as minds do when processing something unseen. He inhaled once, exhaled twice, and returned with the calm confidence his brothers wear effortlessly. He gave his shoulders a small roll. Subtle trait: he rechecks his breathing rhythm after making adjustments.
"Congratulations," I said. "You just leveled up in a way my last life's video games never prepared me for."
"Understood," he said. The neutral expression he wore now was different; it carried calmness, not merely control.
Points: 1,600 → 100 (after training)
The HUD quietly added heat:
Advisory: The airport incident is currently under review by local and federal authorities, including the airport authority and TSA. Footage correlation is expected. Additionally, there's a correlation with an unknown organization, marked at +0.2, indicating a failed operation. There's also a slight increase in regional activity related to S.H.I.E.L.D., with an awareness rating of +0.05.
"Consequences," I said out loud, because it's a better bedtime story than denial. "Airport incident is going to get scrubbed. We didn't shoot; we didn't break; we did their job for them. We'll be a weird footnote. Still—patterns kill. We keep our heads down, we keep helping, and we don't farm fights."
"Understood," Alpha-01 said. He quietly opened and closed the front door, learning how the hinges preferred to be handled.
"Cold pack," Alpha-02 reminded Alpha-03, who was already searching the first aid kit. He carefully applied a compress to the bat bruise, demonstrating his familiarity with how swelling affects mobility. Micro-trait: he gently taps the edge of the compress twice to seat it, just as he does with drawers, dishes, and knives that are no longer to be placed near salt shakers.
"Thank you," Alpha-03 said. Not required. He said it anyway. I caught Alpha-01 hearing that and filing it.
We assigned corners as we normally do. Alpha-01 took the door, the hallway, and the part of the house that could channel a problem into a narrow space. Alpha-02 was responsible for the kitchen and the gear—batteries charging on the counter, radios on the table, even though our communication here would primarily be words and eye contact. Alpha-03 handled the windows and the sky—monitoring the barometer app, setting weather alerts, a new habit driven by curiosity paired with purpose.
I stood there, allowing gratitude to settle in my chest without doubt. We were in a house with working AC. No guns had been fired at the airport. A woman and her toddler had left with a story and no injuries. Thor was on the verge of being involved in a family argument, and we intended to be the helpful people we claim to be.
I wrote the LINES on a Post-it and stuck it to the fridge because rules should live where you feed yourself:
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.)
"Say them," I said, because repetition makes bones.
They did, in order. When Alpha-03 hit number three this time, he added, quietly, "Especially when points arrive after people, not before."
I looked at him like he'd told me a joke only I was allowed to laugh at. "Copy," I said.
We ate from a bag since groceries were scheduled for tomorrow, and Carmen's food was a distant memory. Alpha-03 carefully organized the takeout containers, aligned the chopsticks, and tapped the edge once. Alpha-01 double-checked the door then examined himself for doing so, a man cautiously building trust. Alpha-02 drank water as if training his organs to recall the desert.
"Those forty weren't locals," I said when the room agreed to conversation. "Wrong boots. Wrong way of carrying weight. Wrong confidence for a place with this many cameras."
"Fisk?" Alpha-01 asked.
Maybe, I said. It might be someone else with a ledger, or S.H.I.E.L.D. setting a trap and someone else falling for it. It could be a contractor with more bodies than skill. Whoever they are, they won't be the reason I do something stupid tomorrow.
"Understood."
"And tomorrow," I added, "we go find Jane Foster before S.H.I.E.L.D. decides the phrase national security means taking her work. Our job is to keep her data from being turned into something with black bars on top. Our job is to keep Thor from being evidence: not because he's Thor, but because he's a person who's about to have his worst week."
"Assist," Alpha-02 said.
"Assist," Alpha-03 echoed. He touched the cold pack and adjusted it by half an inch, counting his breath. The training indicator on the HUD increased by 5%, showing that the overlay was adapting to the shape of him.
The house settled. The AC did its good work and pretended it wasn't a miracle in a world full of them. I went to the sink and washed airport off my hands—the smell of foam, the memory of oil. The burn on my forearm from earlier made its presence known and then forgave me. I taped a Band-Aid on with dramatic flourish; Alpha-02 rolled his eyes so slightly I almost missed it. I will be dining out on that eye roll forever.
On the coffee table, my notebook was open to the page where I'd written LINES in three different rooms and four different moods. I added a new line below, not numbered because numbers make things sound like commandments, and this one felt like a prayer.
— We will not turn this place into a stage. The desert deserves quiet.
I closed the book. The system hummed acknowledgement like a cat agreeing to stay in your lap another minute.
Advisory: The Thor impact window is approaching in the Puente Antiguo quadrant. Additionally, the ethical multiplier has been increased for actions that do not interfere with the scientific process, while still ensuring safety.
"Copy," I told the air. "We'll be the hinge, not the hammer."
The sky outside had changed to that unusual late-afternoon hue, making shadows resemble decisions. A dust devil attempted a dance in the lot across the street but then stopped, seemingly embarrassed. Down the road, a teenager revved a car that seemed eager to be a motorcycle from the start. New Mexico has a knack for making distance audible; it either humbles you or makes you loud. I decided I would aim for humility tomorrow.
"Rest cycles," I said. "Overlay integration requires idle time. We rotate watch as follows: Alpha-01 until midnight, Alpha-03 from midnight to four, and Alpha-02 from four to eight. We'll be on the road at dawn.
"Understood," Alpha-01 said, taking his place at the door as if the house had been built to hold him there.
"Copy," Alpha-03 said, listening to the AC and the road and maybe the sky.
"Affirmative," Alpha-02 said, adjusting the cold pack once more and checking the screens like a man who trusts electricity because he's seen what happens when it stops.
I lay on a couch, pretending it was a bed, and gazed at a ceiling that had withstood three coats of paint and a careless tenant, along with a high-backed chair. The Saint Florian medal Mia pressed into my hand was still warm from my pocket. I placed it on the table because I don't know how to pray, but I do know how to remember.
Today, we arrived somewhere that simply is what it is. A crowd aimed to transform violence into noise; we made it respiration. Points shifted from granting permission to serving as tools. A rookie became a Spartan because effort builds trust. Sirens belonged to someone else— for now.
Tomorrow, I told the room, the men, and the system, we will serve as a welcome committee for a man whose family believes falling is a form of education.
"Assist a person," Alpha-02 said without looking up.
"Exactly," I said. "We assist a person."
The desert's weight settled around the house, both brave and silent. While New York's fan might have rattled, this AC purred smoothly. Elsewhere, Phil Coulson stood beside an empty stretch, feigning surprise at what appeared from the sky. Meanwhile, Jane Foster was loading a sensor into a truck, softly cursing a battery that seemed to have betrayed her. In another place, a man burdened with a hammer in his heart and nothing in his hands fell faster than pride could account for.
We were ready to catch what we're allowed to catch.
The mission continues.