The rental had a faint smell of mop water and dust—like someone had checked off a list rather than cared for the space. Cold air flowed steadily from the AC vent, creating a white-noise hush as it fought the desert heat, almost enjoying the task. Sunlight streamed freely through the blinds, casting bars of light across the tile like a barcode. I lounged on the couch—more a loveseat, but ambition is free—hands behind my head, ankles crossed, listening to the hum of the unit.
"Bigger than the New York shoebox," I announced to no one and everyone. "Doesn't feel like it'll collapse if I sneeze. I could get used to this."
Alpha-01 positioned his bag in the most tactical corner: with the wall behind him, the door within his cone of view, and a clear sightline to the hall. He could blend in as furniture, holding a paperback until the moment passed. Alpha-02 chose the window, standing straight, inhaling and exhaling calmly, ignoring the routine. Alpha-03 lingered near the hall's entrance, on the balls of his feet, new to the room and already sensing how it wanted to be approached.
The system slid its HUD into the top of my vision, crisp and blue like a well-meaning auditor.
Points: 1,500
Spartan-II Training Overlay (complete): 1,500
I sat up, elbows on knees. "You're up," I told Alpha-03. "Full Spartan-II—faster, stronger, sharper. Not that you aren't already scary enough to make a bat rethink its life choices."
"Acknowledged," he said. He didn't smile. He did damp down his breath by a hair as if to make more room for the future.
My thumb hovered over the mental confirm when someone knocked—three soft taps. They didn't ask for permission; they asked for neighborly trust. Not frantic. Not a pounding. Just polite.
Alpha-01's head shifted slightly by one degree, aligning the door perfectly in view. Alpha-02's eyes narrowed—not out of suspicion, but as if he were gauging the distance to the threshold and the closest safe cover. Alpha-03 took a half-step forward but then stopped himself, as a sprinter might when recalling the starting gun hasn't sounded.
"Relax," I said, getting to my feet. "That's not a criminal knock. That's either a sales pitch about home insurance… or a government acronym."
I peered through the peephole and smiled. Sharp gray suit. Immaculate tie. Composed expression. The very embodiment of 'May I borrow a moment of your time.' Agent Phil Coulson could sell you a fire extinguisher in a rainstorm, and you'd still thank him afterward.
"All right, boys," I whispered. "Showtime. Try not to terrify him. Or do. But with restraint."
I opened the door. "Afternoon."
"Afternoon," he echoed pleasantly. "Sorry to drop by unannounced. Agent Phil Coulson. Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
"Wow," I said, eyebrows aloft. "Mouthful. Bet you burn through business cards."
"We usually just say S.H.I.E.L.D." The smile flickered—professional, not personal.
"Much better. So what can S.H.I.E.L.D. do for little old me?"
He didn't push past me or crane his neck; he simply looked, and I observed the calculation unfold behind his eyes. Alpha-01 stood motionless in the corner, like granite. Alpha-02 at the window had a spine that moved rhythmically like a metronome. Alpha-03 in the hall appeared young, composed, and waiting for his signal. Coulson's face remained unchanged. Men like him keep their expressions private, like doing their taxes.
"You caused quite a scene at the airport," he said evenly. "Forty armed men, all incapacitated. No civilian casualties. Witnesses described three men matching your companions—moving like trained soldiers."
"When life throws forty guns at you," I said, palms up, "you deal with it efficiently."
He took one small step forward—asking without asking. "We'd like to know who you are, who they are, and why you're in New Mexico."
"What, no 'thank you for saving civilians from forty criminals'?" I teased.
"Thank you," he said without missing a beat, and meant it in the tiny way his eyes softened. "Now—about the rest."
"Me? I'm Shredder. Just a guy living his best life. Them?" I tipped my head toward the trio. "My brothers. We take care of each other."
His gaze drifted back to Alpha-01. "Brothers."
"Genetics blessed us. Or cursed us. Makes buying clothes a nightmare."
He observed me: composed, steady, and quintessential Coulson. Somewhere nearby, Nick Fury likely had a board with magnets. I wondered what color I was on it.
"And New Mexico?" he asked.
"Vacation," I said.
"Vacation," he repeated, flat as paperwork.
"Sun, sand, overpriced margaritas. Maybe we'll stop by Puente Antiguo and watch the weather. I hear it's doing tricks."
He didn't purchase it, but he didn't insist either. Behind me, Alpha-02 said, "Commander," just once, like a man setting down a tool.
Coulson's eyes ticked at the word and filed it somewhere important.
"Look," I said, shifting to the doorway so he could see my hands, so the silhouettes behind me read as guardian, not threat. "Strangers show up, drop forty guys, then rent a house down the road. You're curious. That's fine. But we're not here to cause trouble. Quite the opposite. We help people."
"Help people," he echoed, tasting it for spin.
"Ask around Hell's Kitchen," I said. "Purse snatchers, muggers, street punks—we've been cooling the block."
Coulson subtly adjusted his tie by a millimeter, a habitual gesture when he wants to position a sentence for maximum impact. "All right," he began, "here's my plan: to keep watch on you and your... brothers. If you're here to assist, that's fine. If not—"
"Easy," I said, palm up. "We're on the same side. Promise."
He almost smiled—one corner, a fraction. "You'd be surprised how many times I hear that right before a complication." He produced a card, the S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle embossed so tastefully you had to tilt it to see. "If anything unusual comes up, call this number. If anything dangerous comes up, call it sooner."
I flipped the card over my knuckles and back again. "If you ever need forty guys handled in two minutes, you know who to call."
He gave the room one final glance, his eyes capturing the scene without shifting. Then he nodded and departed, heading down the sun-baked street to a sedan so understated it seemed like an apology.
I closed the door gently and let the grin out. "We're networking. Very important in the hero business. We've got S.H.I.E.L.D.'s number—that's like a backstage pass to the world's biggest circus."
"Surveillance expected," Alpha-01 said.
Oh, definitely. Coulson will be watching us. That's okay—continue saving lives, and he'll put up with us. He might even start to like us if we behave and avoid redecorating airports anymore.
The HUD was still waiting patiently where I'd left it.
Points: 1,500
Spartan-II Training Overlay (complete): 1,500
Advisory: External observation increased (S.H.I.E.L.D. local). Maintain variance.
Advisory: Unknown org correlation +0.2 (airport failure). Anticipate counter.
"Now," I said, knocking my knuckles against the fridge as I moved past, "where were we? Ah yes—Alpha-03's big promotion.
"Ready," he said, stepping forward. He squared his shoulders, then deliberately relaxed them—learning what calm felt like, not just what it looked like.
"Good man. Let's make it official."
We prepared the room for silence. Alpha-01 stood at the door, observant of the surroundings. Alpha-02 adjusted the lighting like a theater manager and gently pushed the coffee table aside. I took Coulson's card and placed it on the fridge, under a chili pepper shaped magnet: S.H.I.E.L.D., next to a grocery list for sunscreen and AA batteries, seemed fitting for our shared life.
I pulled the system forward.
System, purchase Spartan-II training for Alpha-03.
Ding.
Light isn't the right word for what the overlay looks like; it's more like the air decides it understands anatomy better now. It rose over Alpha-03 like a thin veil and then passed through him the way a recipe passes through a kitchen: ingredients meeting heat, turning into something new that remembers what it used to be.
He didn't flinch. His posture remained composed, knees relaxed, neck unrestrained. The modules moved at the corner of my sight, clear as a syllabus.
Alpha-03 — Spartan-II Training Overlay
Modules: Neuro-muscular optimization; bone density augmentation (simulated adaptation); tactical doctrine (urban + open-desert); comms discipline; legal/ethical framework (civilian priority); first aid (EMT-B); restraint escalation ladder; stress inoculation (simulated); heat acclimation protocol (desert).
Mode: Non-invasive overlay integrating during idle/rest cycles.
Casualties: impossible.
Progress: 0% → 3% (init)… 4%… 5%
The room sensed the change before he did: a slight tightening in the atmosphere, a silent click like a tool fitting into place. Alpha-03 blinked once, then counted: two breaths in, two out, and reset. He shrugged his shoulders. Micro-trait: he always checks his breath after a change. He was internalizing this habit.
"Congratulations," I said. "You just went from rookie with excellent instincts to rookie with the manual built in."
"Understood," he said. The neutral landed warmer now—the way a word feels when you've chosen it and not just been given it.
The HUD made the sad kitten noise of a bank balance doing math.
Points: 1,500 → 0
Advisory: Consider replenishment strategy. Recommended sources: named-character assists (Thor/Jane/Erik/Darcy); S.H.I.E.L.D. civil assistance; controlled public safety operations (no collateral).
"We'll earn more," I said to the air, to my own optimism. "We always do."
Alpha-02 already had a cold pack in hand for Alpha-03's bat bruise from the airport—gentle pressure, angle adjusted by a half inch to spare a tendon. "Fifteen minutes," he said. "Re-check in an hour. Minimal swelling."
"Thank you," Alpha-03 said, automatic and sincere. Alpha-01 heard it and didn't turn his head; the corner of his mouth did something the untrained eye would miss.
"Okay," I said, clapping once. "Since Agent Coulson is very likely across the street in a van pretending it's a cactus, we'll spend our spotlight doing the least exciting thing on earth: drills."
"Comms first," Alpha-01 said, because he knows where to sand the floor.
Exactly. Our purpose at the Mjölnir site isn't to be theatrical, but to provide value. This entails making concise calls, using brief sentences, and clearly distinguishing 'move' from 'hold.' Review.
We ran the liturgy: Alpha-01 calls outer; Alpha-02 keeps medical and mechanical; Alpha-03 owns eyes and edges. If I say, "The weather looks bad," they lift their gaze to surveillance and S.H.I.E.L.D. proximity. If I ask, "How's the slice?" they give me pepperoni (low), sausage (medium), or anchovy (bad idea) for threat level. If I say anchors, Alpha-04 (absent, but principle stands) takes a doorway and becomes furniture. If I say hinges, we leave quietly, no one remembers we were there except the person now breathing easier.
"Add one," I said, borrowing the magnet from the fridge and tapping it three times like a metronome. "Scientist priority. The system grants ethical multipliers when science remains superior to authority. Jane Foster's data isn't lost due to rudeness or a badge-wearer's claim. If an officer's pride conflicts with Jane's data, we allow Coulson eye contact and give Jane the time she needs.
"Understood," Alpha-01 said.
"Copy," Alpha-03 echoed.
"Affirmative," Alpha-02 said, and made a note I didn't have to read to know it said backup drives.
I wrote our LINES on a sticky and planted them next to the chili pepper, because rules should live where food does. Reading them out loud never hurts:
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, and they did—Alpha-01 crisp, Alpha-02 even, Alpha-03 careful like he was making sure he meant it before he let the words out.
"Good," I said. "Now let's make this house hate us a little."
We moved the couch and loveseat against the walls and laid blue painter's tape on the tile, creating lanes, angles, and blind turns. Drills seem small until they aren't. Alpha-01 navigated the hallway with his usual smoothness, never rushing but always arriving. Alpha-02 handled corners like solving puzzles, silent feet, low hands, high eyes. Alpha-03 shadowed him, then ran the route himself; his line became tighter, his elbow ceased drafting circles, and his breath set the tempo for his hips.
"Again," I said. "And again. Now reverse. Now with noise." I turned on the faucet and let the AC produce a louder hum. "Now with light."
We shut the lamps and let the desert do the rest. Shadows made decisions for us; we learned where they lied.
Between runs, I noticed Alpha-03 gazing out the window, drawn by the almost tactile pull of the sky beyond the blinds. "Sky is good," he'd said earlier, and his words were sincere. "You'll have your window seat tomorrow," I assured him. "For now, this is your entire world. Make the most of it."
"Understood," he said, and took the lane smoother.
We took a break when sweat reached our collarbone—Spartans don't need much rest, but idle time is part of the routine, and I'd learned that being busy doesn't always mean being better. Alpha-02 checked the gear: battery banks quietly humming on the counter, flashlights stored away, and a line of first aid supplies like a sermon. He made a simple card—containing the LEGAL AID CLINIC phone number and a list of rights—and taped it inside our front door. "If we are detained," he said calmly, "the information is nearby."
"Never detained," I said. "Temporarily inconvenienced."
He didn't dignify that with a smile; he did add Nick Fury's S.H.I.E.L.D. helpline from Coulson's card to the back of the clinic printout, because redundancy is kindness.
We ate from a bag—two breakfast burritos and something that claimed to be a salad and had the courage to be wrong. Alpha-03 arranged the foil like an engineer, then tapped the edge once, the way he does with everything. Alpha-01 opened the door and closed it again, checking the hinge sound like he was learning the house's alphabet. I rinsed burrito grease off my fingers and checked the burn on my forearm—pink, healed enough to complain, a reminder of a pan we hadn't let become a fire.
"Let's talk about Coulson," I said, leaning against the counter. "What did you read?"
"Polite, not soft," Alpha-01 said. "Eyes on corners. Accepts incomplete answers. Will return."
"Tells truth in small phrases, keeps truth in big ones," Alpha-02 added. "No reflexive hostility. Contains Fury."
"Card given means leash offered," Alpha-03 said, surprising himself. "Not to pull. To feel where we are."
"Look at you," I said, genuinely pleased. "We'll make a poet out of you yet." He almost tilted his head like he might smile and decided to file the sensation for later.
"And the other forty?" I asked. "Not locals. Boots wrong. Confidence wrong."
"Contracted," Alpha-01 said. "Unfamiliar with airport terrain. Expected escalation. Did not anticipate non-lethal control."
"Unknown org correlation," Alpha-02 murmured, glancing at the HUD I was the only one seeing. "They will counter."
"Let them," I said. "We'll keep helping. We won't perform. Coulson's cameras can catch us being boring and useful."
The house quieted with a sigh through the ductwork and a click in the kitchen. Outside, New Mexico's dry, clean air surrounded us. Dust was stirred by a breeze in the driveway. Somewhere, a radio played a station that wouldn't let Springsteen go. The desert tends to teach you the power of your voice. Mine learned to be quieter.
I took the Saint Florian medal Mia had pressed into my palm before we flew out and set it on the counter by Coulson's card. I don't know how to pray; I do know how to remember.
"Rest cycles," I said. "Overlay needs to be idle to stitch. Alpha-01 until midnight. Alpha-03 from midnight to four. Alpha-02 from four to eight. At dawn, we drive to the anomaly.
"Understood," Alpha-01 said, folding himself into the doorway like he'd been carved to fit.
"Copy," Alpha-03 said. He glanced once at the sky and then back to the room, acceptance landing clean.
"Affirmative," Alpha-02 said, checking the freezer for ice packs we hadn't yet used.
I sank into the couch, feeling the hum of the AC as the system displayed helpful blue text in the corners of the room—a sight I chose to ignore. If I continued reading, I'd begin to overthink. What I truly needed was the skill of being prepared without panicking beforehand.
Over time, the apartment seemed to breathe alongside us. Alpha-01 transformed into a peaceful presence at the door. Alpha-02 settled into a gentle rhythm in the kitchen. Alpha-03 became a hinge at the window, linking inside and sky. I closed my eyes and felt the desert's warm touch pressing over the day.
We were packed for gods. We were packed for people. We had Coulson's number on the fridge and rules on a magnet. We had no points left and all the intention in the world to earn more the right way.
When sleep angled toward me, I said—because saying it makes it stay true—"Tomorrow we assist a person."
"Assist a person," Alpha-02 echoed, soft as a yes.
The knock disrupted the flow of the day with its subtle impact. Polite. Patient. Coulson. Afterwards, in the silence, I added a simple new line beneath our LINES—un numbered, un capitalized—like a quiet vow tucked away: — we will be the hinge, not the hammer, unless the door is on fire.
That was the work. Not to grab Mjölnir when it fell and hold it up to the camera, not to be the man in the center of the Avengers shot when the Battle of New York someday tore the sky open like bad paper, not to become a myth who forgot who kept air in his lungs. To be part of the story that allows others to end with people alive.
I observed the men the system designated as Spartans, initially calling them by numbers until they earned personal names. Alpha-01 is the anchor, who relies on plans because they've never let him down. Alpha-02 is the craftsman, who taps the edge of a compress much like he would the edge of a knife, a shelf, or a ruler. Alpha-03 is the sky man, who syncs his breath with the crowd and his yes with new skills.
"Gentlemen," I said to the room, to the world we were about to walk back into, "let's keep it boring and brilliant."
No one answered. The AC did. The desert did. Somewhere, a man who was once a god fell a little closer to ground.
The mission continues.