Night in the New Mexico desert wears a different kind of quiet. It doesn't sit still—it hums. Crickets turn the sand into a low chorus, the wind fusses with the scrub as if rearranging notes, and heat lifts off the earth with a sigh that finally admits it's tired. Our rental felt like a little island in that ocean—stucco box, rattling AC, a rectangle of light in the dark. Inside, I lay on the couch pretending it was a bed and let the system HUD glow in the top corner of my vision like a very polite ghost.
Points available: 3,000
Spartan clone: 500
Spartan-II training: 1,500
Advisory: Maintain low profile; high utility. S.H.I.E.L.D. observation rising.
Forecast: Thor Odinson is likely to test compound security (night). Civilians steady. Destroyer probability increasing (short horizon).
"Alright, boys," I said to the room, fingers laced behind my head. "Decision time. And lucky for you, I'm brilliant. We're getting the best of both worlds."
Alpha-01 turned from the doorpost with that calm, unreadable face that made strangers aim their manners correctly. "Plan."
I said, "Simple," and it truly was—the way bridges seem simple when you're not analyzing the engineering. "We add one fully trained Spartan-II and assign three rookies under mentorship—one for each veteran. This provides us with both structure and scale. Alpha-04 produces trained soldiers, while Alpha-05, -06, and -07 produce rookies who get paired on their first day.
"Division of responsibility," Alpha-02 said, head tilting in the faint nod that counted as enthusiasm for him.
Exactly. Alpha-05 is yours, I told him. Alpha-06 is assigned to Alpha-03, and Alpha-07 to Alpha-04. You're responsible for their development. Teach them the code words, SOP, hinge-not-hammer rule, and civilian corridor rule. Guide them from strong to Spartan.
"Acknowledged," Alpha-03 said, eyes sliding to the window and back, cataloging distances the way other people catalog recipes.
"Acceptable," Alpha-01 added, which from him might as well be a party horn.
"You don't have to sound so excited," I smirked. "Try not to sprain anything with all that enthusiasm."
I sat up and let the HUD have the wheel. "System—summon Alpha-04 and apply Spartan-II training immediately."
Ding.
Blue light flooded the room's center as if it knew exactly where we kept the prized rug. It didn't burst; instead, it solidified—lines intersecting, transforming like a blueprint into a figure. The clone emerged from the math, matching my favorite height and stance, and before he could breathe or question, the training cocoon gently encased him in a softly humming hemisphere.
Even in a world filled with Mjölnir, Bifrost, and Asgard, the Spartan-II upgrade is palpable. The air emitted a subtle, unidentifiable tone. The light was more than just bright; it felt intentional. Muscles adjusted, bones strengthened, reflex pathways became more tightly woven. There were no surgical tables, drills, or risks of failure—only that Halo Spartan miracle of a human being being transformed into a faster, stronger, sharper, steadier version.
"Welcome to the family, Rookie—" I grinned, "—but not for long."
The radiance ebbed. Alpha-04 straightened from the cocoon, eyes razor-clear, presence heavier, like the gravity in the room had agreed to upgrade too. He saluted with crisp economy. "Commander."
"Now that's what I like to hear. Congratulations, Alpha-04—you just skipped the kiddie pool."
"Acknowledged."
I patted his shoulder. He stayed still, thanks to Spartan-II training. "You'll relax eventually. Or not. Either way, I'm amused."
I didn't let the room catch its breath. "Step two. System—summon three clones: Alpha-05, Alpha-06, Alpha-07."
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Three more figures appeared one after the other, each showing subtle differences—one with a slightly narrower jaw, another with the left eyebrow a fraction higher, and one whose hands opened and closed as if counting breaths. Their builds were accurate, but the edges were softer, and their movements lagged just behind the rhythm we danced to. New recruits. Still, they stood tall, as if the concept of gravity had been understood but not yet tested.
"Commander," they said together—clipped, in sync, eyes on me.
"And the family keeps growing." I spread my arms as if I'm about to give out goodie bags. "Welcome, rookies. Don't worry—you'll catch up."
I turned to the veterans. "Assignments: Alpha-05 to Alpha-02. Alpha-06 to Alpha-03. Alpha-07 to Alpha-04. Mentors own outcomes. If your rookie trips, your shoelace was loose. If your rookie shines, you polished him."
"Understood." (Alpha-02)
"Acknowledged." (Alpha-03)
"Confirmed." (Alpha-04)
The rookies moved to their positions as if pulled by magnets, mimicking their mentors' postures with the typical Spartan talent for imitation. It was similar to watching iron filings align with magnetic north.
"Look at this," I said, leaning against the counter, happy in a way my chest didn't know how to disguise. "From one Spartan to seven in what, two heartbeats? Progress. S.H.I.E.L.D. has no idea what's about to hit them. And Thor has no idea how lucky he is."
"Organization required," Alpha-01 finally said, in his charming way of implying that doing seven of anything without a plan is not advisable.
"Yeah, yeah." I waved a hand. "We'll handle the boring logistics soon. For now, I just want to enjoy the moment. Seven Spartans—almost an army. We should get matching T-shirts."
"Unnecessary," Alpha-03 blinked.
"Oh, it's very necessary. Morale matters, Alpha-03. Nothing says morale like team shirts."
Blank stares. I sighed for dramatic effect. "You're all impossible."
Drills: From Raw to Spartan
We didn't waste the night. If the MCU has taught me anything, it's that silence is often the calm before chaos. We arranged the room with designated training zones—one strip for footwork, a rectangle for non-lethal takedowns, and a clear area by the window for silent signals and code words, like unpacking order from a box.
"Rookies," I said, clasping my hands behind my back and walking the line like a proud, underpaid coach, "you're strong by birthright. Spartan strong. But strength without discipline is how walls get cracked instead of doors opening. We are hinges, not hammers, unless a door is on fire. This is New Mexico. There will be doors."
Alpha-02 stepped in with Alpha-05, voice clipped to syllables. "Stance. Weight mid-foot. Elbows narrow. Breathe on the count, not the hit. Again."
Alpha-05 tried the sequence—step, pivot, strike—good angles, bad timing. Alpha-02 tapped a boot to reset posture. No lecture. Just: "Reset. Again."
Alpha-03 demonstrated a step-through hip turn to Alpha-06, ending in a controlled shoulder post and roll. "Control. The floor is not the enemy; it is a tool." He had Alpha-06 keep practicing the move until the impact sounded like a soft thud, indicating proper technique rather than force.
At the far side, Alpha-04, still smelling faintly of the training cocoon's ozone, shadow-boxed Alpha-07 through guard discipline. "Hands home. Lower your chin. No wind-up. No telegraph. Your eyes tell on you." He shaved motion off every punch until Alpha-07's fists looked like sentences instead of exclamation points.
We divided our movements and reasons into parts, never raising drills above the hum of the AC, as noise travels easily in Puente Antiguo and curiosity has a way of showing up. I walked, corrected, and demonstrated, adding a touch of theatrics when needed. Alpha-01 did something that merely looked like leaning against the door; in reality, he was observing everything—his breathing, positioning, the window, the streetlight's reflection on the glass, and the shadow at the corner that moved like a neighbor rather than a threat.
"Code words," I said, rhythmically clapping in the room. "When I say 'The weather looks bad,' it signals eyes up—either S.H.I.E.L.D. in the vicinity or civilians beginning to panic. If I ask 'How's the slice?' respond with pepperoni for low, sausage for medium, or anchovy for no. Anchovy indicates the Destroyer's arrival or someone aiming without approval. Are we clear?"
"Understood." (Alpha-01)
"Copy." (Alpha-03)
"Affirmative." (Alpha-02)
The rookies repeated the phrases, their voices steady, and I watched the words settle in their minds like rounds fitting into a chamber.
Next, I said, "Scientist priority. That includes Dr. Jane Foster, Erik Selvig, Darcy Lewis. Their data and bodies are protected. If Agent Coulson requests a hard drive, he receives a copy and a table in the tent. He does not get Jane's original data without a warrant, a request, and my approval. Use a gentle approach, not force—especially with scientists. If there's pressure, you are the last resort.
The rookies nodded. Alpha-02 didn't; he didn't need to. He had already arranged the chargers for their laptops in his head and was currently irritated with the quality of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s extension cords.
We practiced various formations—line abreast, staggered file, L shape, diamond, and small foot dances that prevent a group from turning into a herd. We created a corridor out of thin air, with two rookies acting as frantic civilians while the remaining five guided them through furniture, around imaginary cones, past a fence that could serve as a perimeter or a gossip line.
"Hands up where they can see them," I said. "De-escalate with tone and space. Control angles, not people, unless they're running toward a headline."
"Again," Alpha-04 said, because repetition is where strong turns into good.
Alpha-05 stumbled on a sweep, heel snagging on the rug. He looked down. Alpha-02 didn't let him finish the mistake. "Eyes up," he said. "Floor doesn't change. People do. Again." The correction landed. The next pass was clean.
We discussed the SOP for night watches: Alpha-01 at the door from 20:00 to 00:00; Alpha-03 monitoring the window from 00:00 to 04:00, focusing on the sky and road; and Alpha-02 from 04:00 to 08:00, since dawn is when tired individuals tend to make mistakes. Rookies shadow each mentor during their watch to understand the rhythm of the quiet.
We wired in PACE plans—Primary, Alternate, Contingency, Emergency—for getting Jane and Thor to safety if Thor finally did something dramatic enough to invite the Destroyer. Primary route south behind the diner, Alternate through the motel's back lot, Contingency across the wash bed where SUVs misjudge depth and regret, Emergency into the bar's storage where Selvig would probably be arguing with a bartender about myth and mead.
I pushed them into breathing drills—in on four, hold two, out on six—the kind that turn panic into oxygen and oxygen into decisions. Alpha-06 broke rhythm twice; Alpha-03 adjusted him with two fingers and the word "Listen" as if breath had a sound you could tune to.
We practiced various non-verbal signals: two fingers to the temple (to watch), a palm facing down and circling (to slow), a flat blade down (to de-escalate), a small point left (to mirror), a fist in (to close), and an open hand forward (to signal 'you first'). Alpha-07 recognized the difference between pointing and threatening, and Alpha-04 appreciated this. He values efficiency and the effective use of personnel.
At one moment, I ordered a complete room freeze. Rookies immediately stopped moving. I said, "Good," as I navigated among the human statues. "Now focus on what you can observe without moving. Do you hear the fridge? The AC? Good. Do you hear footsteps two houses away? They aren't coming here. Do you hear your heartbeat? That's yours. You decide what it signifies."
I let it thaw.
Logistics: Boring Wins
By 23:00, the apartment resembled a temporary outpost for a supersoldier team dressed casually. We still required equipment—not weapons; we are our weapons—but the essential tools that professionals carry to perform their tasks efficiently.
Alright, logistics,
"Acknowledged," Alpha-02 said, already budgeting aisle numbers.
Alpha-03, you and Alpha-06, patrol the area between the motel and the diner. Observe and memorize faces, dogs, cars, and sounds. We don't profile individuals; we identify patterns. If a pattern changes, we want to detect it early, even before the rumor starts.
"Copy," Alpha-03 said, which means the city and the sky will both report to him by lunch.
Alpha-04, when you're not on shadow, you and Alpha-07 are responsible for disciplining the rookies here. Focus on footwork, guarding, de-escalation words—use 'sir'/'ma'am' with the proper tone, avoiding sarcasm. Teach them silently. Our victory comes through quietness until circumstances require us to be loud.
"Confirmed."
"Alpha-01," I finished, "you're my XO. You own rotations, posture, and contact with Coulson when I'm playing friendly translator with Thor. If S.H.I.E.L.D. knocks at 03:12—which they will—you get me before anyone else gets in a sentence."
"Understood." He said it like the desert had signed the agreement.
We also talked OPSEC. As much as I enjoyed the visual of seven slab-jawed clones moving in a block down Main Street like a loaf of paramilitary bread, S.H.I.E.L.D. would call that containment practice. "No rolling seven-deep," I said. "Maximum in public is four, including me. More than that splits into overlapping cordons. We are brothers on leave if anyone asks. Or a church softball team. Pick one and commit."
"Softball is inaccurate," Alpha-02 noted, deadpan.
"You're right," I said. "We're curling. We sweep the ice and make other people look good."
"Curling is not practiced here," Alpha-03 said, helpfully.
"It's a metaphor," I said. "We'll work on your cultural literacy after we save the town from a walking kiln."
I wanted to make a joke about matching T-shirts again, but I could feel the night compressing around us—tomorrow's shape already poking through the fabric. Still, I scribbled a mental note: SHIRTS (eventually) — hinge, not hammer across the chest; SCIENTIST PRIORITY on the sleeve; a little pepperoni icon only we would smile at.
Mentorship: The Part That Matters
Training isn't just reps. It's attention. It's how you tell a person where to put their weight when the floor shifts.
I watched Alpha-02 work Alpha-05's footwork like carpentry—precise, square, check the level, shave a hair off the edge, check again. "Don't chase hands," he said. "Own the line. If the line is yours, nothing gets past you that you didn't invite."
Alpha-05 nodded, sweat on his temple, steady breath. He would act as efficiently as a good knife—minimal flourish, maximum outcome.
Alpha-03 gave Alpha-06 the takedown again. "Listen to joints. Feel where he wants to go. Send him there early." It was almost kind. Alpha-03 likes control because he likes safety. He will let a man down gently into the worst day of his life if it keeps that day from getting worse for anyone else.
Alpha-04 coached Alpha-07's guard as if he was arranging a painting. "Elbow in. Knuckles relaxed until they're not. Eyes open, but don't let them tell the truth." He will become terrifying when he smiles. He does not know how yet.
I circled back to Alpha-01, who had not moved in a way that counted as motion in ten minutes and had nonetheless seen everything. "You good?" I asked.
He didn't blink. "Yes."
"Liar," I said, and almost got the corner of his mouth to betray him. Almost.
Around midnight, I clapped a halt. "That's enough. Don't burn out on your first day. We have time to turn you into killing machines—and by that I mean machines that kill problems before they become people."
Seven Spartans snapped to attention so quickly that the air seemed to forget it had been moving. I sank onto the couch like a man who had single-handedly saved the world by watching everyone else do everything.
"I do not even participate in the drills," I told the ceiling, "and I am fatigued. Observing your activities is draining."
"Commander requires rest," Alpha-02 said, which is Spartan for go to sleep before you make jokes about me being your mom.
Alpha-01 took the post by the door. Alpha-02, -03, and -04 grouped their rookies at quiet corners—05, 06, 07—standing there, learning by being near men who had learned. There's a kind of knowledge that lives in posture.
"You know," I said to no one and everyone, smiling up at the ceiling like it had earned it, "I think this might actually work. Structure, discipline, numbers. That's how empires are built."
"Future operations," Alpha-02 prompted, because the future refuses to schedule itself.
"Simple," I said. 'Tomorrow, we'll check on Thor. If S.H.I.E.L.D. hasn't confined him, we will ensure he doesn't accidentally die while doing something Asgardian in a place regulated by OSHA. Rookies—listen more than you speak. Observe and mirror to learn. And for Odin's sake, don't make me regret trusting you."
Alpha-05, -06, -07 nodded in unison, that eerie cloning of agreement landing like a promise.
"Perfect." I yawned hard enough to audition for a lion documentary and stretched until my back accused me of trying to be taller. "Everyone, please be quiet so I can nap. Commander requires his beauty sleep."
They obeyed as if I had requested air. The house became still. The AC hummed softly, like a satisfied machine. Outside, the desert continued its quiet song. Inside, seven Spartans remained at their stations—three sharpening steel, three being forged, one brand-new blade—while a confident Commander relaxed into a second-hand couch that felt like a throne, thanks to the presence of those in the room.
For the first time since waking up in this Marvel Cinematic Universe, it felt exactly right.
The Boring Good Stuff (That Saves Lives)
I intended to sleep. I did. However, dull thoughts kept gently knocking on my mind's door, and I have learned to welcome them in because boredom is what sustains life after a myth has appeared.
I sat up again, the couch complaining like an old friend. "One more thing," I said, and half the room glanced before remembering they didn't have to. "Comms. We need radios or we keep speaking in pizza in public like we're cosplaying teenage turtles."
"Acquire tomorrow," Alpha-02 said, already setting budget and make/model preferences in his head. He likes push-to-talk with gloved buttons and belts that don't squeak.
"Cover story," I added. "We're brothers—I know, I know. It shows. We're also 'security contractors' on a short-term assignment. We don't flash anything. We don't say Spartan out loud unless someone is bleeding and the word becomes a tourniquet. If Coulson asks? We're helpful. If not? We are polite walls."
"Understood," Alpha-01 said.
"And one more," I said, because my brain hates me. "Gear placement. Rookies, I want you to place your shoes the same way every time. Right toe touching left heel. Laces tucked. If alarms go in the night, you will step into certainty. Certainty beats panic even when panic wears armor."
They did it right away. It looked like a small religion. I respect small religions.
"Okay," I told the house. "Now I sleep."
And I did, for a patchwork of hours, my dreams stitched with Mjölnir in a hole and Coulson's almost-smile and Thor Odinson learning the science of humility. Somewhere in that ragged nap, the system politely updated the ledger I refused to check.
Ledger updated.
Alpha-04: Summoned + Spartan-II (complete).
Alpha-05/06/07: Summoned (rookie status).
Advisory: Mentor pairs locked. OPSEC load increased. Benefit increased.
Narrative Note: Upcoming events likely: bar scene (Selvig), compound infiltration (Thor), Bifrost echo (unknown), Destroyer manifestation (rise).
I woke before dawn to the sound of Alpha-02 tapping the deadbolt twice—the way he tells the universe the door is correct. The desert had cooled to a promise you could believe. In two hours, Thor would decide if he preferred bars or fences. In four, Sif might notice a missing prince. In six, Agent Phil Coulson would phrase an order as a request and mean both.
I stretched, feeling my spine crack satisfyingly with each movement. Alpha-01 remained at the door as a constant presence. Alpha-03, having traded the sky for the floor, was demonstrating to Alpha-06 how to fold a towel properly. Alpha-04 was supervising Alpha-07 shadow-boxing, ensuring the air remained unthreatening. Meanwhile, Alpha-02 was mapping out the location of power outlets in Jane's lab on an index card, as he enjoys understanding the layout of electricity in a space.
I looked around at the squad—Halo Spartan silhouettes in plain clothes, Spartan-II discipline standing politely in a rental—and I let myself say it without making a joke to soften it:
"This is going to work."
Alpha-01 didn't smile. He didn't have to.
I flopped back, pulled the system down one more time, not to spend anything, just to feel the weight of it settle where it belonged.
Points: (adjusted)
Status: Seven Spartans online (4 trained, 3 rookies).
Rules of Engagement: De-escalation first. Civilian priority. Scientist priority. Hinge > Hammer.
Next: Check on Thor Odinson. Liaise with S.H.I.E.L.D. (Coulson). Prepare for Destroyer.
"Alright, squad," I said, swinging my legs off the couch and planting feet in shoes that had obligingly lined themselves up while I slept. "Breakfast. Then Thor. Then we go do what we're good at: be boring enough to save lives in a world that wants to be interesting."
"Understood," said the door.
"Copy," said the window.
"Affirmative," said the kitchen.
And in that familiar call-and-response, in that house with its second-hand couch and its AC that sounded like a friendly lawnmower, in that desert that hummed under moonlight and would soon burn under sun, I felt the truth you can build an empire on:
Structure, discipline, numbers. Mentor and be mentored. Hold the line without drawing it in blood.
We stepped into the morning already better than we'd been the night before.