Phil Coulson's card lay face-down on the counter like a polite secret. I should've been nervous; most people get a visit from S.H.I.E.L.D. and start practicing their "yes, officer" smile in the mirror. Instead, I kept grinning like a tourist who'd just taken a selfie with the world's calmest avalanche. That's Coulson for you—smooth as butter, cool as ice, eyes like a ledger that balances itself.
"Okay, enough about Coulson," I said, clapping once to reset the room. "Back to business. Rookie—your time has come."
Alpha-03 turned toward me. It wasn't just the pivot; it was the way his posture sharpened, chin settling a millimeter, breath finding rhythm. "Acknowledged."
The system's blue edge slid across my vision—tidy as a PDF, unavoidable as taxes.
Points: 1,500
Spartan-II Training Overlay (complete): 1,500
Advisory: External observation: elevated (S.H.I.E.L.D.). Maintain variance.
Advisory: Unknown organization correlation: +0.2 (airport event). Expect counter.
"System," I told it, silently and a little too happily. "Begin Spartan-II training for Alpha-03."
Ding.
The first time you watch it, you expect fireworks. The fifth time, you understand it prefers precision. A faint blue shimmer wrapped Alpha-03 like a second skin—no lightning, no heroic choir, just an almost-audible hum while the overlay threaded itself through bone, fiber, reaction, judgment. It didn't add anything messy; it made what was there true.
"Every time this happens," I said, rubbing my hands together like a kid who knows which box under the tree is the good one, "it feels like Christmas morning."
"Effective," Alpha-02 observed.
"Thank you for your deeply moving commentary," I deadpanned. Alpha-01 tilted his head in my direction—silent judgment or micro-approval, hard to say. If he ever laughed, I'd frame the sound.
The glow crescendoed, then thinned until it was just air again. Alpha-03 straightened and tested his hands, flexing like he was discovering a keyboard he'd always owned. Something in the room felt heavier—not a weight, exactly… a presence. That subtle shift you get when a rook becomes a queen and pretends nothing happened.
"Well, well," I whistled. "How do you feel, Alpha-03?"
He glanced at me, then past me, as if checking whether words matched reality. "Stronger. Faster. Clear."
"Welcome to the big leagues."
"He is ready," Alpha-01 said—flat, factual, a conclusion on a report.
"Damn right. Three fully trained Spartans. A proper fireteam. Enough to handle most of what this universe throws at us—and yes, I'm including New York traffic."
"Mission success rate: high," Alpha-02 added without looking up.
"See? Even the robot agrees."
"I am not a robot," he said calmly.
I snapped my fingers. "Progress. He objects to slander. Next step: sarcasm."
I pointed at Alpha-03. "And you—no excuses. If you mess up, Alpha-01 and Alpha-02 will make fun of you."
"Acknowledged," he said, absolutely expressionless.
"You guys have to learn how to talk trash," I groaned. "I can't be the only comedian on this tour."
We turned the living room into a training hall with a minimum of drama and a maximum of painter's tape. Alpha-01 rolled the coffee table aside with one hand and laid down lanes: door, hall, window, dead zone behind the couch. Floorplan as doctrine. We work in quiet—because moving softly is a kind of respect.
"Warm-ups," I said, throwing Alpha-03 a rubber training pistol. He caught it with his left hand, adjusted his stance, then shifted to the right because he had learned his idle hand is better at feeding than catching. A subtle trait: he reassesses his breath after each adjustment. The overlay had trained his lungs to stop panicking before they even started.
Alpha-01 took the role of a problem arriving through a doorway; Alpha-03 became the hinge. First run: disarm sequence at quarter speed—wrist, elbow, slide to control, knee alignment, barrel pointed toward tile, not people. Second run: half speed. Third: full speed, then a freeze at the moment the barrel wanted to misbehave. Alpha-01 held still; Alpha-03 corrected the angle by a finger's width, not a fist's.
"Good," Alpha-01 said.
"Again," Alpha-02 murmured.
They did it once more, and again. The second try unfolded smoothly, almost as if it acknowledged it was wrong to be there. Alpha-03 began adjusting half a step earlier, anticipating weight shifts before they became apparent.
"Quick learner," I said. "Give it a week and you'll be showing off."
"Improvement rate: satisfactory," Alpha-02 said.
"Glowing praise," I clapped. "Practically a standing ovation."
We layered in noise—sink on, faucet hissing, AC humming. We layered in light—lamps off, blinds half-open, hard sunlight laying bars across the floor like a jail for shadows. We layered in interruptions—I tossed an empty water bottle toward the corner at random moments; it skittered and made just enough noise to invite a mistake.
No mistakes arrived. Alpha-03 shortened his draw. Alpha-01 tested him with an early elbow; Alpha-03 accepted the collision and turned it into a placement that looked like gentleness until you noticed he'd stolen the other man's ability to stand.
"Swap," I said. Alpha-02 moved in with sharp angles and quiet force. He doesn't strike first; he reshapes your form, then physics takes over and leaves you breathless. He adjusted Alpha-03's elbow by two inches, and his foot by half a shoe width. "Energy conservation," he said. "Waste is loud."
We closed the room and ran a blind corner drill down the hall—left, right, door frame, view collapse. Alpha-03's first pass was fine. The second was clean. By the fourth, his feet and hands had discovered each other's timing, and the transition between cover and view resolved into choreography.
"Again," Alpha-01 said.
"Again," Alpha-02 echoed.
"Again," Alpha-03 answered himself, voice steady, and ran it smoother.
The system purred at the edge of my vision.
Training (03): 5% → 7% → 9% (idle integration accelerated)
Advisory: Maintain idle periods for optimal overlay stitching (2h cycles).
"Break," I said, because rest is part of the work. We refilled water bottles. I taped a bandage over the tiny scrape on my forearm—a souvenir from the airport where some man's watchband had tried to autograph me. Alpha-02 gave me a look that translated to you are dramatic, then adjusted the tape for better adhesion. He taps twice when he's done with anything from bandages to hinges to arguments. He taps twice now.
"Outside," I said. "Touch some desert. Practice eyes in open terrain. Not everything here has walls."
We took it to the driveway. The sun did not apologize for its presence; it pressed on the back of the neck like advice from a friendly giant. The rental's paint had the permanent squint of vehicles that endure under this sky. Heat rose from the ground in slow motion; the air smelled of tire stores and fresh dust.
"Vehicle entries," I said. "Two configurations. One, S.H.I.E.L.D. thinks we're installers. Two, S.H.I.E.L.D. knows we're not and watches anyway."
Configuration One: We moved carefully, like those who protect fragile glass and fragile contracts. The front passenger seat, Alpha-01, was chosen because long arms are good for maps. Alpha-02, behind me, because he can reach first aid quickly. Alpha-03, behind Alpha-01, because a sky lover should learn to appreciate seat belts. Doors opened quietly—pulling gently at the hinge, not away. Knees slid, bodies folded smoothly. No banging, no show.
Configuration Two: a little more paranoia without performance. Alpha-01 scanned the line of parked cars for uninvited antennas; Alpha-02 checked under the vehicle in three clean movements that looked like he'd dropped his keys; Alpha-03 faced away while the rest of us got in, then slid in last, closing the lane. It read as habit, not threat.
We ran it until Alpha-03's movements cost no attention to complete. Then we took ten seconds and looked at the horizon because he likes that and I like that he likes it.
"Sky is good," he said under his breath, and I filed it with the few other truths that belong on the top shelf.
We stopped at a diner at sunset because calories make sense, and I was running low. The doorbell chimed softly, as if it had been trying to retire for years but the owner kept talking it out of it. The place smelled like coffee that had been telling stories all morning and a grill with strong opinions about steak.
A waitress with a name tag reading ROSE and eyes that seemed to have experienced two or even three wars glanced at my group of recruitment posters and chose not to inquire further. "Burgers?" she asked, with her pen poised. "Fries? You seem like fry people."
"Ma'am, we are whatever gets us fed," I said. "Four burgers, all the fries you're ethically allowed to bring, and something green so I can pretend I tried."
She barked out a laugh, jotted 'salad?' in her notebook with a question mark, as if she and the question both knew the answer, then went to sit in our corner booth. Alpha-01 grabbed the chair facing the door, while Alpha-02 carefully placed a perfectly folded napkin in front of him, embodying minimalism. Alpha-03 sat by the window, gazing at the faint edge of the sky where the heat fades and night begins to take over.
We ate eagerly with gratitude. I enjoyed my meal as if it were a national anthem sung by a choir unbothered by grease. "This," I said between bites, "is America. Bad for arteries, but heavenly to taste."
"Flavor: adequate," Alpha-03 offered after a thoughtful chew.
"Nutritional value: sufficient," Alpha-02 added, grave.
"You're killing me," I told them, and glanced at Alpha-01. "Never change. Except maybe smile once."
He didn't. He did cut his burger precisely in half with the side of his fork, which I chose to read as flair.
A kid at the counter dropped a straw and launched into a quiet panic about it, the way kids do when they've decided gravity is out to get them personally. Alpha-03 rose, scooped the straw with two fingers like it was a delicate instrument, and handed it back with the exact amount of solemnity children recognize as respect. The kid blinked, then grinned too big for his face.
Ding.
Assistance (Child): +1
Ethical Multiplier: +1 (consent, non-intrusive)
"Trickle economy," I murmured. "Pennies make dollars."
Rose returned with the check and a look that questioned where we were from and whether we were trouble, and if so, what kind. "Passing through," I replied, as covers like storm chasers and installers are close enough if you squint. "Headed upstate for a while."
She refilled our water and slid a slice of pie onto the table without asking. "On the house," she said. "For the way you treated that kid like a person."
"Thank you," I said, meaning it.
Alpha-02 pulled cash from his wallet as if disappointed the bills weren't in alphabetical order. He left a tip so generous that a manager might get suspicious and a tip so heartfelt that it made the waitress tear up happily in the back where no one could see.
"Cover story?" Rose asked, casual as you please, just to see which lie fit our mouths.
"Installers," I said, patting the clipboard in our bag. "Solar. We track weather on weekends. Storms make us different."
Her mouth quirked. "Storms make everybody weird," she said, and moved on.
We sat a little longer because stillness is a skill and diners are training grounds. The TV over the counter murmured local news—low sound, big words crawling by. UNUSUAL METEOROLOGICAL ACTIVITY near a place that looked like nowhere if you didn't know better. A man in a cheap suit pointed at a field. A logo I knew too well—the S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle—appeared for half a second in b-roll, small enough to pretend you hadn't seen it.
"Weather looks bad," I said into my straw like I was narrating my drink.
"Sausage," Alpha-01 replied—medium. "Observation only."
"Observation is fine," I said. "We like observation. We don't like ownership."
We tidied up our corner ourselves because I value leaving places improved more than anything else. As we left, a cooler near the front registers made a rattling noise that sounded like it was trying to swallow nickels. Alpha-02 knelt down, listened patiently as if it were a priest, then secured a fastener and adjusted the fan cage by a tiny amount. The rattle stopped.
"On the house," Rose said again, and didn't mean the pie this time.
Ding.
Assistance (Small Business): +2
Ethical Multiplier: +1 (consent, non-destructive)
"Points are points," I said, and held the door for two ranchers who looked like the desert had made them out of leftover sun.
We walked back to the rental under a sky where stars came on like switches in slow motion. Heat got off our backs and onto our memories. Alpha-03 tilted his face up like someone tracking satellites with muscle memory. "Tomorrow," he said. Not a question.
"Tomorrow," I confirmed. "Odin tosses Thor Odinson out of Asgard. He hits dirt. S.H.I.E.L.D. builds fences. Jane Foster keeps data alive while paperwork tries to eat it. Darcy asks the wrong question in the right way. Erik Selvig squints at the sky and pretends he hasn't seen one like this before. We do what we do: assist a person."
"Plan," Alpha-02 prompted, because he knows I like stories and he likes lists.
I walked through it while the desert did its quiet thing around us:
"Not complicated," I said. "We avoid approaching Thor while he's shouting at S.H.I.E.L.D. We don't handle Mjölnir as though we've never seen a symbol before. Instead, we appear relaxed, helpful, and coincidentally present at the right place and time so often that it ceases to seem like mere coincidence and begins to look like dependability."
"Vectors," Alpha-01 said. He meant approach angles. I gave them.
Vector one: Jane's group. When their van gets stuck, we push to free it. If a tripod falls, we catch it. If S.H.I.E.L.D. attempts to seize hard drives, we question them and delay until Coulson arrives and restores reason. Prioritize scientists. Protect the science from authority.
"Understood," Alpha-01 said.
"Vector two: Civilians. Puente Antiguo has a main street and six ways to get into trouble. We walk grandmas across. We clear an alley during a scuffle. We keep Destroyer-day from becoming disaster-day. We create corridors. We do not grandstand."
"Copy," Alpha-03 said.
"Vector three: S.H.I.E.L.D.. Play useful. We're not on their payroll; we are on their side as long as their side is people. If Coulson asks politely, we answer politely. If someone with fewer manners asks less politely, we offer charm plus no comment."
"Understood," Alpha-02 said, which for him meant he was already printing a one-page handout in his head of what to say when the government knocks on your van.
We hit the sidewalk by the rental. The house looked smaller than the sky but larger than our doubts. Inside, the AC welcomed us home like a dog that didn't bark. I stuck Coulson's card back under the chili pepper magnet—the refrigerator of destiny—and the system drifted into view like a well-trained ghost.
Points: 1,500 → 0 (Spartan-II training: Alpha-03)
Advisory: Replenish through: named-character assists (Thor/Jane/Erik/Darcy), civilian saves, controlled public safety ops.
Note: Ethical multiplier is active when science is protected from appropriation.
"Ledger's empty," I told the room, cheerful about it. "We spend. We earn. We spend again, but better."
"Budget," Alpha-02 said, and passed me a pen.
I created three columns in my notebook: 'people helped,' 'points earned,' and 'points spent.' In the 'spent' column, I noted A-03 training (1,500). For 'earned,' I left a blank row with Thor (assist) and Jane (preserve) in parentheses. Under 'people helped,' I listed anyone in front of us and underlined the names twice.
"Tomorrow we meet destiny and deniability," I said. "We help without putting our names on everything. We act like hinges, not hammers."
"Hinge," Alpha-03 repeated, liking the feel of the word.
"Exactly," I said, pleased. "We make doors open for other people—and we only slam them on monsters."
We ran one last drill with our comms code because repetition teaches bones:
"If I say, 'The weather looks bad,'" I started.
"Eyes up," Alpha-01 answered. "S.H.I.E.L.D. proximity. Surveillance likely."
"If I ask, 'How's the slice?'"
"Pepperoni low, sausage medium, anchovy bad idea," Alpha-02 recited. "Threat level shorthand."
"If I say, 'Anchovy' without being asked?"
"Retreat with civilians," Alpha-03 said. "No heroics. Corridors first."
"And if I say, 'Jane's hard drive'?" I added.
"Scientist priority," all three answered.
"Good," I said, feeling that sense of assurance settle within me like a coin dropping into its slot. "Rotation. Alpha-01 until midnight. Alpha-03 from midnight to four. Alpha-02 from four to eight. We roll at dawn. Treat tonight as idle integration time." The system hummed happily in response.
They took their places with the ease of men who understand that peace is also a post. Alpha-01 fused with the door frame as if wood were grateful to have him. Alpha-02 ghosted through the kitchen, checking chargers and batteries and the virtuous alignment of flashlights in a row. Alpha-03 took the window, eyes on the line where sky stopped being concept and started being weather.
I sank into the couch, letting the hum of the AC mark the day's final moment. The desert outside didn't apologize for either the intense heat or the cold it planned. Somewhere out there, Mjölnir had a landing site, and S.H.I.E.L.D. had a perimeter with an incorrect number of cones. Above, Odin was already exchanging rings of pride and lessons. Meanwhile, Phil Coulson was busy writing a report that referenced the word 'unusual' three times and 'promising' just once.
"Tomorrow," I said to the ceiling and the men and the system and maybe to Thor wherever he was in the sky, "we run into him without looking like we planned it. We catch what we're allowed to catch. We carry what other people can't."
"Understood," Alpha-01 said from the door, where understanding lives.
"Copy," Alpha-03 said from the window, where sky lives.
"Affirmative," Alpha-02 said from the kitchen, where practical lives.
I let my eyes close. No countdown, no prayer, just the rules written in the soft parts of my head where they wouldn't shake loose even if the world did:
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.)
Sleep came like a quiet agreement.
We had three Spartan-II units, a borrowed house, Coulson's number on the fridge, and no points. We had drills, lanes, and a plan that appeared coincidental but was actually well-planned. The landscape around us was New Mexico, above us was Asgard, Hell's Kitchen was behind us, and all the roads extended ahead.
Tomorrow, the fun starts.
And we'll make sure it ends alive.