The fortress had never felt fuller. Nineteen Spartans under one roof made the place hum like a tuned engine—weights clanging in the basement, the range popping below that, bootfalls marching through every stairwell like a second heartbeat for the building. The old bones loved it; you could hear the pipes answer in low, approving knocks, as if the whole structure knew we'd finally grown into the shape it was meant to hold.
I sprawled on the top floor with a soda, surfing between talking heads who couldn't decide whether to be outraged or impressed about the "mysterious, coordinated attacks" on Wilson Fisk's empire. One network rolled grainy B-roll of zip-tied enforcers and intact pallets labeled for NYPD evidence; another brought on an "organized crime expert" who looked like he'd lost a bar fight with Google. The Daily Bugle chyron made an appearance—MENACE VIGILANTES TERRORIZE CITY—which, in that special Marvel Cinematic Universe way, meant we were having a productive week.
"Guess we made an impression," I said, raising my can to the TV.
Alpha01 watched the street from the window without blinking. 02 leaned into the far wall, all compressed potential. 03 and 04 were downstairs drilling rookies; 05 ran the weight circuit like tempo was a sacrament. Nineteen bodies meant the machine ran itself now. You could almost forget how much blood and discipline it took to make something feel that inevitable.
"If Fisk had any brains," I added, "he'd lay low."
That's when the wall jumped.
The first boom slammed the windows hard enough to rattle dust out of the ceiling. The TV flickered twice and died for its principles. I stood, grin widening until it felt like a promise.
"Well," I said. "Speak of the devil."
"Hostile contact," 01 reported, calm as weather that never apologizes.
"No kidding," I answered, and then a second blast thumped the alley like an earthquake with manners. The floor under my boots gave a polite shiver. Shouting rose from the street: directions barked by men who'd learned their leadership style from bad movies.
I stepped to the window beside 01 and leaned out.
"Oh, wow," I said. "He brought the whole neighborhood."
Trucks blocked both ends of the street—two panel vans and a fleet of pickups muscled into a makeshift barricade, headlights cutting the afternoon into nervous angles. Doors yawned open and spat out a small army of not-quite-professionals: a hundred men, maybe a few more, bristling with rifles and shotguns and batons and bravado. A handful wore armor that might stop paintballs. The rest wore hoodies and nerves. A couple had the stiff, expensive posture that says private contractor with better liability insurance than training. Numbers were their strategy. It's what you pick when you can't afford competence.
"Call everyone up," I told 01. "Time to show Fisk what happens when you knock."
Boots thundered through the building. Concrete answered. Doors opened and closed in a planned chaos I no longer had to conduct: rookies clearing their stations, veterans collecting them like gravity collects rain. In under a minute, nineteen Spartans lined the lounge—rookies tight and bright-eyed, veterans unshakeable and bored. Alpha16 and Alpha19—the latest additions—took their positions without trying to impress anyone. Good. We don't do peacocking; we do outcomes.
"Fisk thinks numbers beat spine," I told them. "We don't break. We don't run. We clean up."
Silence. That's our yes.
"Squads One through Three—front entrance," I snapped. "Four and Five on the alleys. 03, keep your line tight. 04, you are not allowed to bring the alley home with you. 05, no pileups. Move."
01 didn't so much open the door as convince it to stop being in the way. He hit the street with 11 and 15 flanking, a wedge of inevitability. Bullets sparked off Mjolnir-grade Spartan plating—hot noise, no meaning. The first man raised a rifle, and 01 put him down with one punch that folded him like a cheap chair. 11 stripped a weapon in one motion, reversed it, and laid it on the pavement like he was shelving a book. 15—still a little stiff, still tracing 11's angles a breath too late—shoulder-tackled a guy over a hood and left a crater in a borrowed paint job.
I strolled out after them, hands in pockets, because I refuse to let Fisk dictate my pace. "Thanks for the delivery, Willy," I called, voice warm enough to irritate. "Saves me the bus fare."
Squad Two—02, 07, 13—punched into the crowd like a thesis statement. 02 took a rifle and broke it across a knee as if he were correcting grammar. 07's hand strikes snapped heads cleanly, exactly where 02 had drilled him to put them: not flashy, not cruel, just effective. 13 swung heavy and a little sloppy, but when the sledgehammer lands, the wall still comes down.
"Write it down," I shouted above the churn. "07's aim exists!"
If 02 rolled his eyes, I didn't see it.
Squad Three—03, 08, 14—peeled toward a pickup with a bed-mounted gun and three men who'd watched too many convoy movies. 03's rifle cracked in precise, miserly bursts: one to the engine block, one to a mirror, one to the driver's confidence. 08 copied the cadence—still jagged, but landing more than missing. 14 ripped a door off its hinges and flung the gunner backward into his friends like a bouncer with a sense of humor.
"Easy with the paint job, 14," I called. "We want Fisk to recognize his trucks."
The alleys erupted on cue. On the left, 04 and 09 flowed out like a guillotine in two parts—no hurry, no hesitation, each strike ending an argument. On the right, 05, 10, 12, 16, and 19 hit so hard the alley coughed up thugs like a clogged drain. Pipes and bats shattered against armor. The Spartans' responses were quiet, surgical. A forearm here, a sweep there, a takedown that taught pavement about mercy. The sound was bodies regretting choices and gear questioning its business model.
Civilians? Already corralled. 03 had flagged them at the first muzzle flash—tourists and dog walkers and a delivery kid who hadn't signed up for this—and 11 and 12 shepherded them behind cover with palms out, voices low, posture that said you're safe because we decided you are. This is the part S.H.I.E.L.D. never puts on posters: crowd control as a superpower.
Then the second wave arrived, because of course it did—heavier trucks, heavier guns, somebody with a tube on his shoulder who clearly had a complicated relationship with fun. The round sailed out, wobbled just enough to make my stomach do a thing, and smacked the fortress wall with a tantrum. The street groaned. Brick dust sneezed into the air.
"All right," I said into the comms. "Enough play."
01 and 07 reached the first cab in the same breath and peeled it like a stubborn orange before the gunner could work out a new life plan. 02 and 13 split the second from opposite ends—driver door yanked wide, passenger window given a permanent vacation. 03 stitched the grenadier's tube with two shots so neat they looked like punctuation, then took the man's legs out from under him before the reload fantasy could become a headline. 04 turned one guy into a projectile with a throw so elegant it solved two problems: the target, and the man he hit on the way down.
Bullets stitched the air around me in a persuasive argument for humility. I ducked behind a sedan whose owner was about to become a very interesting insurance case. "Rude!" I hollered, entirely sincere. "I'm the only one without armor."
A thug with more confidence than sense tried to shoulder past 05 to get an angle on me. 05 plucked him by the collar like an unruly toddler, bounced his skull off a fender with measured force, and laid him down with the kind of gentleness that gets a five-star review in certain circles. "Commander—secure," he said.
"Damn right," I murmured, and traded my soda can for a fallen baton, because I might be stubborn but I'm not decorative.
The fight came in waves, the way bad ideas do when money drives them. Push, break, reset; push, break, reset. Fisk's men kept trying to be brave in small, tragic groups—five here with a trunk full of shotgun shells, seven there with a pickup bed and a dream. 03 kept the roofs honest; 04 kept the ground polite; 02 pruned overreach like a gardener who hates weeds on principle. 14 turned a rolling door into a table. 16 learned how to take a tackle without turning it into a hug. 19 discovered his favorite verb might be stop.
By the third wave, their strategy had devolved into quantity and shouting. That's the stage of a Fisk tantrum where you can practically hear the accountant sobbing. We met it with posture and pace—no spike, no panic. The Spartans moved like a tide: surge, hold, recede, and leave nothing on the beach that wasn't breathing on purpose.
Some comic book fights are ballets. This one was a logistics exercise with bruises.
I let myself peek over the hood every few seconds to check lane discipline and look for stupid. Twice I waved down a Spartan hand that meant well but would've read wrong on camera. Once I stepped out to drag a dazed hostile out of the path of an idling truck because my ethics are more annoying than my self-preservation. 01 adjusted to cover the angle I'd left open without making a speech about it. That's why he's 01.
"Left alley—pressure," 04 said, the only warning he ever needs.
"Rotating," 05 answered, already moving 10 and 12 like pieces sliding into a familiar puzzle. The alley made the sound of a bad plan learning boundaries.
A drone buzzed overhead, a civilian quad with too many stickers. I gave it my best boring posture. 03 reached up without looking and plucked it out of the air one-handed as it drifted into his lane. He set it on a stoop like misdelivered mail. If J. Jonah Jameson wanted footage, he could draw it himself.
Half an hour in, Fisk's nerve broke before his supply line did. The gunfire thinned from argument to excuse, then to background noise. Sirens announced themselves at a distance, then hesitated—NYPD trying to decide whether they'd been invited. The barricade trucks idled like embarrassed elephants. A few of Fisk's men slipped backward with their hands up, the math finally catching up to their bravado. We zip-tied without gloating. The street smelled like cordite and tire anxiety.
Then—because narrative loves escalation—a final pair of heavy pickups rolled in with slotted metal cages welded over the beds and gunners hunched behind plates that probably came from someone's cousin's cousin with a machine shop. The lead truck's hood shimmered with heat. The driver had that look that says, I will not be the one who turns around. The gunner racked something belt-fed enough to ruin a day.
"03," I said quietly.
"Mirror," he said, already sighting. One crisp shot took the gunner's sight. The plate rattled. The gunner flinched, fired high, chewed a sign instead of a Spartan. 08 put holes in the tires because that's his love language now. The truck slewed, tried to recover, and found 02 in its future. 02 hopped onto the running board, reached through the window, and turned drive into neutral with a wrist that could make friends with a vice. The second truck picked a different mistake: it tried to accelerate through 01. Physics objects to that. 01 put his palm to the grille and pushed. The engine coughed and the driver remembered a meeting he had somewhere else.
By the time the fourth wave would have been ready, there was no one left to be brave for. The street went quiet the way a theater does when the lights don't come back up. Engines ticked cooling metal. Someone groaned about his mother. A bottle rolled. Somewhere, a siren decided to commit and got closer.
I looked down the line.
Nineteen Spartans stood in formation. Helmets scuffed, shoulders dusty, hearts steady. None down. A few bruises apiece. No holes. My chest did a small, private thing I do not tell anyone about.
Ding.
Points earned: 7,000.
Reason: Defense of stronghold; multiple captures; neutralization of organized assault.
I whistled low. "Generous tip, Willy."
I stretched my back and took the fresh soda 12 pressed into my hand like he'd rehearsed it—which he had; I train my people in the sacred art of post-conflict hydration. "Not a bad night, boys," I said, lifting the can. "Let's eat."
We didn't actually eat yet. We worked. The romance of victory is a luxury you earn by doing the chores.
03 set up a perimeter like he was laying out a chessboard—cones from the bus-that-isn't, hazard triangles where they'd read as authority, a polite hand for the curious who couldn't tell the difference between safe and Instagram.04 walked the block, cataloging small damages that mattered to civilians: a shattered planter, a frightened dog, a door that wouldn't latch because somebody's boot had taught it a lesson. He fixed the door with a spare hinge from our bag of fix this because you broke that, scratched the dog under the chin until its tail remembered dignity, and righted the planter with the kind of care that makes neighbors forgive noise.
05 orchestrated triage like a conductor—injuries sorted by color-coded bands, nothing dramatic because we don't allow dramatic, just methodical. "Breathe," he told a man who didn't deserve the courtesy. "You're going to live. That's the point today." 10 and 16 fetched the med kit, not because we were obligated to patch up the idiots who came to knock, but because we're building a city where not dying is a baseline, even for fools.
02 counted weapons: clear, safe, stack; clear, safe, stack. He bled magazines into a bucket for later disposal. 07 mirrored the process with monk-like attention, a small smile at the corner of his mouth because he knew he'd done good work in the chaos and now he got to do good work in the quiet. 13 lugged a crate of confiscated hardware and set it down where 03 pointed. He didn't drop it. He placed it. That distinction will save a life someday.
08 and 14 photographed serials and tags. 11 compiled a quick incident report structured like a hymn to chain-of-custody. 09 mopped a small oil spill because slick pavement is an enemy of ankles, and 09 hates sloppy physics.
I did my favorite part: neighbors. I spoke to the woman on the third floor who had watched from behind a curtain (and had the good sense to keep her phone down), told her the bangs were over, thanked her for staying clear. I told the delivery kid from three buildings down that he did the right thing by ducking into the laundromat and that if his boss complained about the delay, I would have 01 explain why that was unwise. He believed me. So did 01.
By the time NYPD cruisers nosed onto the block in cautious twos, our street looked like a catalog of evidence and compliance. The closest detective took a long, slow survey that screamed why is this easy, and who are you people. I gave him my best "we are boring, please enjoy this tidy scene" face. The body count: zero. The arrest count: many. The mess: finite. The neighborhood: intact. That's the brand.
"Anonymous tip," 03 murmured in my ear, a whisper to the precinct that would put credit where it could buy us goodwill. Not applause—goodwill. Very different economies.
Someone in the crowd muttered "Avengers" under their breath. Another said "Daredevil" like a prayer. A third whispered "Spartans" with that particular internet fervor that turns into a wiki edit war at three in the morning. I let it all wash over me and kept my face like a brick wall—useful, bland, hard to argue with.
"Commander," 05 said, appearing at my shoulder with a clipboard I had not authorized and a list I absolutely had. "Inventory complete. Minor building damage: superficial. Utilities intact. Civilians: uninjured."
"Hostiles?" I asked.
"Collecting regrets," he said, which is 05 for alive and zip-tied with bruised dignity.
We held formation a minute more while Coulson's favorite unmarked sedan did a slow pass. I didn't wave. S.H.I.E.L.D. likes to record posture; I like to give them posture worth filing. 01 tracked it in his peripheral vision without assigning it emotion.
The last pickup got towed. The last shell casing plinked into a bucket. The last phone camera gave up and went vertical for a selfie. The sun remembered it was setting. The block exhaled.
I tapped the can against my thigh and looked over my people. "After-action in ten," I said. "Then pizza. Someone text the place before they faint. They know our order. Add extra breadsticks. It's been a breadstick day."
"Understood," 02 said, which is his version of I love that plan.
We filed back in, not triumphant—complete. The fortress swallowed us and sighed contentedly like an old lion settling into straw.
Down in the lounge, we did the debrief because professionals pretend that paperwork is romance. It's not. It's proof. I took the chair at the head of the table that looks like it wants a captain, set the soda down, and let the room settle.
"Safe-house front," I said. "01."
"Entry achieved," 01 reported. "Resistance minimal. 11 cleared left. 15 mirrored. Correction: foot placement at threshold."
15 nodded once. He'll fix it.
"Harlem contingent."
"07 maintained guard integrity," 02 said. "13 effective under supervision. No collateral damage."
07 pretended the praise was for the wall. 13 anchored his feet and learned how not to loom.
"Midtown line."
"08 consistent," 03 said. "14 extraction clean. Three engine incapacitations. One drone captured."
14 didn't look at 03, which is how you prove you heard him. 08 rolled his shoulders, recalibrating where the recoil still lives in muscle.
"Left alley."
"Balance held," 04 said. "09 transitioned smoothly under pressure. One pipe misuse corrected."
I smiled. "Pipe counseling appreciated."
"Right alley."
"Controlled," 05 said. "10 under-rotated one tackle; corrected on next rep. 12 held perimeter. 16 and 19 kept lines tight."
"Civilians?" I asked.
"Uninjured," 11 said, making it official. "No panic. Three expressions of gratitude. One promise to bring cookies." He didn't smile. He didn't have to. The room did it for him.
"Good," I said. "Lessons: posture buys time. Time buys choices. Choices buy outcomes. We kept Fisk outside and the neighborhood inside. That's the math."
"Retaliation," 02 warned, because someone has to draw the arrow pointing forward.
"He'll escalate or get clever," I agreed. "He may hire specialists who like nicknames. He may plant evidence. He may tempt the NYPD into doing his cleanup for him. He may leak to the Bugle so Jonah can practice new synonyms for menace. We don't blink. We do the same thing we do every night, Pinky: train, patrol, points. Civilians first. Ego last. If Tony Stark wants to drop by with a quip, he can do it on the sidewalk where Pepper can see him."
"Directive?" 01 asked, the hinge the day always turns on.
"Rotate watch," I said. "Stagger showers. Hydrate like your kidneys are a team sport. Then pizza."
The pizza arrived to a lobby stacked with captured firearms and reconsidered life choices. The delivery guy took one look at nineteen quiet giants and nearly teleported the bag into 12's hands. I tipped him like he'd completed a raid. "Relax," I told him. "They're friendly. Mostly."
We ate like men who know fuel is part of the mission. 02 policed water. 03 warmed his fingers around a mug that knew how to be tea. 04 stretched 15's calves with a patience that looked like yoga and felt like discipline. 05 wrote tomorrow's numbers like a love letter to pain. 07 traded notes with 13 about elbow angle. 08 showed 14 a sling adjustment that would keep a shoulder from developing opinions. 09 discussed chain-of-custody with 11 as if they were writing a joint memoir called Paperwork That Saves Screenshots. 10 stared at a bruise on his forearm like it had insulted him and decided to forgive it. 12, 16, and 19 took turns telling the pizza guy's story back to each other to practice observational recall. 01 walked the perimeter with a slice in his hand and ate it without ever raising his posture.
I went to the roof afterward because ritual is defense against narrative drift. 01 joined without being asked because mountains aren't invitations; they're facts.
New York wore a Stark afterglow even without Iron Man flaring across the sky. Down the block, a black sedan with unmarked confidence rolled past, did not stop, and gave us a final, respectful glance through a camera lens we both pretended not to see. Somewhere above, a helicopter traced a rectangle it would call patrol and we would call theater. I opened a soda. It hissed like the city exhaling.
"That was him knocking politely," I said.
01 watched the street with the patience of stone. "He will knock again."
"Yeah," I said. "He'll either come heavy and loud or soft and smart. Maybe Bullseye if he's shopping off-timeline. Maybe lawyers with teeth. Maybe a press leak pitched to make us look like the menace the Bugle wants us to be."
"We remain," 01 said, not a question.
"We remain," I echoed. "Boring on camera, inevitable on the street."
The System sat like a star at the edge of thought—7,000 points twinkling with the promise of upgrades and more brothers in arms. I could push the button and conjure Alpha20. I could pour Spartan-II training into a rookie until he gleamed like policy. I could buy myself new problems with old solutions. Tempting. But timing is the difference between empire and mess.
"Not tonight," I told the blue only I can see. "We bank, we breathe, we plan."
Below us, the block that had tried to be a war zone went back to being New York: somebody arguing about the Mets, somebody picking up a leash, somebody deciding to close early and hug their kid. The MCU spins on big collisions; the human world turns on small decisions. We shepherd both.
"Progress steady," 01 said, delivering the last line the way only he can: like granite admitting it enjoys sunrise.
"Damn right," I answered.
We stood a while longer in friendly silence, watching the city count itself back to normal. Behind us, nineteen Spartans slept or stood watch or cleaned the last fleck of powder out of a bolt carrier. In front of us, a skyline that has seen gods and monsters looked the same as it did yesterday. That's the point. Not louder. Better.
Fisk knocked. We answered. If he's smart, he'll learn the door's not his to open. If he's Fisk, he'll knock again.
Either way, we'll be here—on the sidewalk, not the stage—making sure tomorrow's footage looks boring enough to keep the city breathing.