Morning hit loud.
The first basement rattled as 05 introduced 26 and 27 to a new religion called tempo. Down at the range, 03 sanded burrs off 22's reloads until tap–seat–rack stopped sounding like panic and started sounding like music. On the mats, 04 bounced 24 from standing to side fall to breath control, while 25 stared at his feet like they'd been lying to him his whole life and he had finally caught them. Above it all, the fortress hummed—pipes clicking, concrete timbers chuckling, stair treads keeping time under boots. After last night's brawl with Wilson Fisk's rented courage, the building felt fuller and calmer at the same time, like it had decided to stop auditioning for home and just be it.
I walked the circuit with a soda and a grin that hadn't learned how to clock out. The street out front still wore scorch art: little scallops where hot metal kissed curb, a grinding skid where a truck learned about consequences, and a dusting of brick that made the gutter look like it had tried powdered sugar. NYPD cruisers looped the block like vultures who'd read the rules and weren't sure if the carcass was theirs. Upstairs, the TV toggled between channels replaying last night's "mysterious, coordinated attacks" on Fisk's empire—split screens of zip-tied men, intact pallets, cones where cones weren't supposed to be. A Bugle chyron called us MENACE in a font so loud it needed a lozenge. Standard Marvel Cinematic Universe programming: outrage, awe, and three op-eds written by people who have never been punched.
"Guess we made an impression," I told the room, raising the can for the benefit of the air.
Alpha01 watched the street from the window with his cliff-face patience. 02 held up the far wall by existing. The machine ran itself now: 03 is the world's politest firing range in a human body, 04 is balance with hands, 05 is numbers that learned to count out loud. 07 through 15 had learned to breathe like they belonged. 16–27 were new enough to shine and smart enough not to.
"If Fisk had any brains," I added, "he'd lay low."
The wall jumped.
A hard thump rumbled the window frames, shook plaster dust out of the ceiling, and taught the TV how to flicker. The soda hissed like it had an opinion. I set it down and smiled wider.
"Well," I said. "Speak of the devil."
"Hostile contact," 01 reported, voice like weather: inevitable, unbothered.
A second boom shouldered the alley. Distant shouts climbed the stairwell like smoke. I stepped to the glass with 01, peeking past his shoulder. Trucks. Bodies. The morning-after version of bravado. My grin sharpened.
And then—knock knock knock.
Not panic. Not cop open up. Not we're here to sell you long-distance service. Sharp, measured, official. A "please and thank you" knock. 01 had already pivoted toward the door, which is 01 for permit me to deny entry to everyone but one.
"Relax," I told him, waving. "That's a friendly ghost. Coulson."
The door opened to a neat suit, a neat man, a neat briefcase. Phil Coulson stepped in like he'd been here before and the building remembered. He clocked the room fast: 01 to me, 02 to the wall, the stairs singing with invisible work. His eyes did a silent roll call—veterans first, rookies next—then came back to me. His jaw tightened by a millimeter, which in Coulson units is the same as slamming a fist on a table.
"You've been busy," he said.
"What gave it away—the noise, the bodies, or the scorch art out front?" I asked, because it's rude not to offer a menu.
"Any of those," he said, and set the briefcase on the table. He didn't sit. Men like Coulson only sit in places they plan to stay. He planned to leave, and he wanted me to know it.
"Fury's been patient," he went on, voice calm the way a filed report is calm. "After last night, patience isn't on the menu."
"You're welcome," I said. "Fisk will be quiet for a while."
"You turned Midtown into a war zone."
"A safe war zone," I said. "None of my people are down. No civilians hurt. Only Fisk's men bleeding. That's progress."
"That doesn't make it acceptable."
"It does to the people who didn't get shot," I said, and drank because I didn't have armor and I felt left out.
Boots hit the stairwell—02 with 20 and 21 in tow, sweat-dark and silent, fresh from being remodeled into better choices. They fell into line without a word, posture honest, eyes forward but not empty. The noise in the building softened like a choir noticing the conductor, then steadied again because we're not the kind of house that stops when company visits.
"You're building an army," Coulson said, gaze cutting across the line.
"I'm building a family," I corrected. "Language matters."
His mouth didn't twitch, which in Coulson means point received, not conceded. He flicked the briefcase latch, opened it with care, and slid a thin file toward me. The folder was the color bureaucrats pick when they want to look neutral while implying apocalypse.
"Fisk isn't finished," he said. "He's bringing in specialists. Not gangsters—professionals. You keep pushing, this escalates."
I flipped the file. S.H.I.E.L.D. never wastes printer ink. Satellite stills, drone shots, the kind of municipal camera grabs you get when your badges work nationwide. I saw long rifles in cases that had flown coach for six figures, a glimpse of a ballistic shield that looked custom enough to have a first name, a shipping invoice that winked explosives in a language that pretends it's legal. There was a grainy photo of a man on a rooftop with a posture that read marksman before it read human. Another of three figures stepping out of a van in matching gray—contractors, probably; the cheap kind of expensive. One night-vision still like spilled ink: silhouettes on a parapet. If I squinted, I could almost hear a ninja rumor, which in New York is just Tuesday.
"I like escalators," I said, flipping the page. "Fewer stairs."
Coulson didn't dignify it. "Fury won't tolerate this much longer."
"Fury hasn't even visited," I said, cheerful as a sunrise. "You're the one who knocks. I respect that."
He let the silence settle. It had a temperature. I let it stay. If you listened close, you could hear the fortress grinding men into competence below our feet, and the city outside grinding a day into headlines. The weight in the room wasn't just bodies; it was intent. Twenty-seven helmets weren't on, but you could feel the way they would be.
"You are visible," he said at last, tone gone even flatter, which means he was more serious, not less. "We covered some things when it was alleys and warehouses. We cannot cover a siege on your stronghold in broad daylight with NYPD on three corners and news choppers overhead."
"We were very boring on camera," I said. "All the theater was theirs. We made sure your memos write themselves. Civilians first. Ego last. We made your dream paperwork."
"You made paperwork," he said. "Now you are the paperwork."
He slid the file closer with one finger so I'd see the real part: a bullet-point list, Coulson-clean, S.H.I.E.L.D. font:
Observed Trend: Increased headcount (est. 27).
Observed Capability: Coordinated non-lethal force; controlled scene management; crowd safety protocols effective.
Observed Risk: Adversary escalation to professional assets (marksman; demolitions; ex-military private security; potential enhanced).
Likely Next Step (Adversary): Targeted sabotage; PR smear; entrapment with civilian collateral; sniper harassment; IED near perimeter.
Likely Next Step (Agency): Continued observation; calibrated engagement; controlled contact (this visit).
Recommendation: De-escalation / liaison.
Note:Director aware.
He didn't underline Director, but the air did.
I tapped the page where sniper harassment lived and looked at 03. He didn't move. He didn't have to. The roof already belonged to him and 01 whenever they wanted it.
"What do you want, Phil?" I asked, giving him the respect of his first name, which is how I tell a man I understand he doesn't make the weather but he does handle umbrellas.
"What you won't give," he said. "Restraint."
"You've seen restraint," I said, polite as knives. "You've seen it for weeks. You saw it last night. If we didn't do restraint, Midtown would be a crater, and Jonah would finally have a headline worth keeping. We're the reason NYPD walked in and found living bodies and labeled evidence instead of smoking holes and a mystery. That's restraint."
"Restraint is also not provoking further escalation," he said. "You keep cutting Fisk's legs out from under him, Fisk hires men who think they were born without fear. Some of them are true believers. Some of them are bored. Some of them like missing. You're training to fight armies. They'll send you a single man with a pencil and a point to prove."
"Bullseye isn't union yet," I said lightly, just to watch the file's spine tighten. He didn't blink. Good. "Point taken. We'll adapt."
He studied me like he was trying to read the operating manual of a device whose manufacturer had been declared a myth. 02 breathed in the corner with 20 and 21 quietly dripping onto the floor in front of him. Somewhere below, 05 told 26 to brace and 27 to breathe, and both obeyed, which is one of the reasons this building stands.
"You're going to push too far," Coulson said at last.
"Probably," I said, and raised the soda. "Future me's problem. Present me has soda, Spartans, and Fisk on the run."
He closed the briefcase. That was the whole sermon. "We'll be watching."
"Wouldn't have it any other way," I said. "Tell Fury hi. If he sends someone to knock, bring pizza."
Coulson looked at me in that very specific way where you can't tell if he's annoyed or quietly enjoying your audacity. Then he left to the sound of training and steel—the noise of a house that never learned how to stop.
I watched the door settle and looked back at twenty-seven men who don't need pep talks, only direction. Veterans calm. Rookies a fraction taller because a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent had just audited their existence and not shut us down. The fortress hummed, happy to be useful.
"You heard the man," I said. "We keep going."
01 inclined his head like a horizon accepting sunrise. 02 moved without moving, which is how he disperses orders. 03 lifted his chin a degree, which means our roof had just become a classroom. 04 said "Balance" from the doorway to the mats, which is a prayer where we live. 05 wrote IED and sniper and PR smear on a notepad and turned it into tomorrow.
We didn't waste the warning. A S.H.I.E.L.D. brief is a gift, even when it's wrapped in a threat.
"Counter-sniper lanes," I told 03 as we slid down the stairs toward the roof. "I want three standard positions, two ugly ones. Teach the new eyes how to look for glass where glass shouldn't be."
"Mirage, glint, silhouette," 03 said. He was already mapping angles against the skyline, counting thermals and scaffolds and reflections off Stark Tower that don't belong at certain hours. "Drill 22 and 23 on tripod discipline. Pair 08 with me. He can carry the glass and learn the language."
"Done," I said. "If a drone crosses our roof, you can keep it if you name it."
He didn't smile, but a drone was already in danger somewhere.
"CQB adjustments," I told 02 at the landing. "Heavier armor in the mix. Longer batons. Shields. 'Professionals' instead of bravado. Make sure 20 and 21 learn to remove a shield from a man without removing the man from his future."
"Angles," 02 said. "Feet before hands. Hips before wrists."
"Add 'weapon grab with plate carrier snag,'" I said. "None of that YouTube judo where everyone is cooperative and made of pillows."
"Understood," he said, which translates to prepare to suffer for a good cause.
"Disarms for long steel," I told 04 as he bounced 24 into a side fall that would have made a chiropractor applaud. "Crowbars, pipes, machetes. The kind of gifts a merc picks when his boss loves the sound of metal."
"Timing," 04 said. "Not speed. Openings are made, not found."
"Teach 24 not to flirt with gravity," I said. "25's breathing. He needs posture."
"Balance," he said again, because that one word does more work here than most paragraphs.
"Vehicle interdiction," I told 05 as we crossed through the weight room. "If they bring an armored SUV to the party, I want 10 and 26 to be able to make it take a nap. Minimal denting. Maximal paperwork."
"Chocks," 05 said. "Wedges. Null angles. Controlled."
"Always."
"Crowd management," I told 11 in the hallway, where he'd set up a whiteboard labeled CIVILIAN SAFE / CAMERA SAFE. "We were good yesterday. I want boring on camera to feel like a superpower. Teach 12 and 27 where to stand so they become scenery."
"Palms visible," 11 said. "Faces open. Chin neutral. Words short."
"Teach 15 posture," I said. "His elbows wander like tourists."
"Understood," 11 said, and wrote WANDERING ELBOWS on the board like it was a new tenant.
The building drank orders and turned them into schedule. S.H.I.E.L.D. would watch; we would give them a show that made their memos read like lullabies. If Nick Fury wanted escalation off the menu, he should have picked a different restaurant. We cook for civilians and for outcomes. Everything else is garnish.
Coulson's folder sat on my table like a warning that had decided to nap. I flipped it once more as the house shifted into higher gear.
One photo: a man with a head like a nail—eyes dead, posture perfect, a rifle that likely had a nickname. The caption: unknown specialist; hits improbable shots; pattern suggests training, not luck. Another: a circle around a doorway where a charge had done precisely what a charge should do—clean breach, directional, no spall. Someone liked lessons. Someone had money. There was a line about "enhanced potential" that didn't say super-soldier and didn't not say it. In a city where Tony Stark and Avengers merch can be found in the same kiosk as subway maps, "potential" is code for try not to be surprised by aliens.
I put the pages away and pulled out a dry erase marker. On the board above the incident reports, I wrote:
COUNTER–SPECIALIST MODULES
Roof eyes (03 lead; 08, 22, 23): mirage/glint/silhouette.
Shield & baton extraction (02 lead; 20, 21, 13): feet before hands.
Long-steel disarms (04 lead; 24, 25, 15): timing > speed.
Vehicle nap time (05 lead; 10, 26): chocks/wedges/angles.
Crowd & camera choreography (11 lead; 12, 27, 16): palms, faces, exit lines.
IED awareness (05 + 03 split): what not to touch.
PR hygiene (me + 11): neighbor brief; planter replacements; thank-you run.
"Add Stark Tower reflections," 03 said from the doorway, because he knows where the skyline makes liars out of glass.
"Add Daily Bugle counter-programming," I said. "If J. Jonah wants footage, make sure it's B-roll of us picking up trash."
Ding—not the System this time, just my phone: a message from the pizza place asking if we wanted the usual for lunch because they saw the news and had an instinct. I told them yes, and to send extra napkins because 05 had written no grease on grips on a whiteboard last week and I prefer not to fight with him over small wars.
The rest of the morning grew teeth.
Counter-sniper on the roof: 03 set up his tripod and taught 08 how to pretend he had four hands. He pointed at air and named it—heat shimmer, thermal bleed, glass halo, skyline cut. "If you see the shape, you already lost," he told 22. "See the missing." 08 squinted through the glass, adjusted his breath, and called a glint that turned out to be the wrong angle on an HVAC fan. "Good," 03 said. "Better to see ghosts before you see men."
Shield extraction in the hallway: 02 strapped a training plate to his forearm and told 13 to come take it. 13 tried to be a hammer. 02 taught him to be a locksmith. Heel hook, redirect, wedge; the shield went from wall to floor without turning 13 into a cautionary tale. 20 tried a knee that 02 caught by looking at it. 21 copied 20 but remembered to plant first. 02 nodded once. That nod is money.
Long steel on the mats: 04 tossed a foam pipe to 24, who swung like a streetlight in a windstorm. 04 entered clean, framed the wrist, ate the angle, and made the pipe decide to belong to the floor. "Timing," he told 25. "Not speed. If you go faster, you die faster."
Vehicles out front: 05 took the truck-that-isn't-a-bus and let 10 and 26 practice forcing it to nap without scaring the neighbors. Chocks, wedges, hand signals. 05 stood in front of the bumper like a man judging a god and moved his fingers in little arcs that meant you will behave now. The truck obeyed. An NYPD cruiser idled at the corner and pretended this wasn't the most efficient demonstration they'd see this week.
Crowd & camera inside: 11 turned the lobby into a workshop for optics. 12 and 27 practiced shepherding invisible civilians past imaginary shooters: palms out, faces open, chins neutral. "Words short," 11 said. "This way. You're safe. Keep moving. Don't narrate. Don't scare. You're gravity with manners." We taped a phone to a tripod and pretended it was every camera. 27 learned where to stand so he looked like a helpful wall, not a threat. 12 learned how to look like a human being in armor, which is harder than it sounds.
At lunch, pizza arrived like a treaty. The delivery guy didn't flinch this time; he had learned that twenty-seven quiet giants who tip well are better than one loud influencer with a ring light. We ate on schedule because schedule is a weapon. 02 enforced water; 03 drank tea like it had ballistics; 04 stretched calves with a rope and a 10-count; 05 wrote values on sticky notes and stuck them on the plates like curses.
I ran neighbor rounds. Mrs. Ortiz on two accepted a replacement planter we didn't technically owe her. Mr. Li on the corner got a free "Sorry about the cones" coffee from us because cones multiply when 03 is nervous, and yes, we can admit that. NYPD Sergeant Reyes—a good one—leaned out his cruiser and told me his lieutenant had called last night "the cleanest mess I've seen," which I'll pretend he didn't say on record. A black sedan did a slow drive-by with the kind of muffler that says government issue. I didn't wave. I did stand where the camera could see me being unexciting.
By afternoon, training felt different—tighter at the edges, looser in the middle. The rookies stopped trying to impress. The veterans stopped trying to pretend they were bored. Everyone started looking up more. Good. Specialists like roofs.
Coulson didn't come back. He didn't need to. The folder did the haunting for him. His we'll be watching had done what threats can't: it made me think about optics beyond evidence. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't the enemy. Neither is NYPD. Neither are the choppers and the podcasts and the MCU fandom trying to decide if we're a Daredevil cameo. The enemy is the story Fisk wants told: that we are chaos in nicer armor. Countering that story requires boring footage and grateful neighbors. We can do both while putting his money on fire.
Late afternoon, I called a quick huddle in the lounge. No speech. A checklist with teeth.
"01," I said. "Roof sentinel rotation expands. Pair 11 and 15 for the last hour of daylight. Teach 15 to look for things only 11 sees."
"Understood," 01 said, which also means it's already done.
"02. Tomorrow's first block: shield extraction, then baton defense. Emphasize feet first."
"Clear," 02 said, which is also a verdict.
"03. Run 08 through mirage at noon when the skyline lies the loudest."
"Scheduled," 03 said.
"04. Long steel until 24 stops negotiating with gravity."
"Balance," 04 said, which covers everything and nothing.
"05. IED literacy. We don't touch. We don't let anyone else touch. We call City EOD and make them feel like heroes."
"Controlled," 05 said.
"11. PR hygiene run after dinner—thank-yous, checks, planter patrol. Bring 12 and 27. Smile with your eyes."
"Always," 11 said.
No applause. No handshake line. The room returned to work like we'd taken a breath and decided to keep breathing.
Evening arrived with the soft, metallic sigh a city makes when it lets go of commuter rage. The range cooled. The mats got mopped. The whiteboards gained three new notes: GLASS LIES, FEET BEFORE HANDS, PALMS, FACES, WORDS SHORT. 01 rotated the watch so that the men who used to be rookies got to be the ones who kept the roof company. 08 stripped and cleaned his weapon twice, not because it needed it, but because he likes the way 03 nods when a bolt looks like a mirror. 10 logged his lifts like 05 was going to grade them, because he was.
I ended up on the roof with a soda because habits are armor too. 01 joined me without ceremony. The skyline wore Stark Tower's afterglow like a favorite jacket. Somewhere a helicopter drew a rectangle and called it patrol. Somewhere else a S.H.I.E.L.D. drone decided to be a star. The street below us behaved like New York does when it has done you the courtesy of not exploding: sirens distant, arguments pedestrian, the scent of hot pretzels committing petty crimes.
"Coulson's eyes said 'variables,'" I told 01.
01 watched the street like it owed him money. "He is not wrong."
"No," I agreed. "He's also not the one with the lease in Hell's Kitchen who thinks his name entitles him to rent out the block to violence. Fisk will get clever. He'll shop for a marksman with a party trick. He'll pay for a team with matching shirts. He'll hire a lawyer with a camera and a PR guy who thinks menace is a brand we'll buy."
"And us?" 01 asked—not because he doesn't know, but because rituals require call and response.
"Same as always," I said. "Train. Patrol. Points. Civilians first. Ego last. Boring on camera; inevitable on the street. If they bring specialists, we make special feel ordinary."
He considered that, then gave me the kind of nod that always feels like the city agreed. We stood a while longer with the skyline shining its Marvel shine, listening to a block that has decided to keep breathing.
Downstairs, twenty-seven Spartans slept in rotations, or stood watch, or cleaned grit out of places that hate grit. Coulson had come and gone. Fury hadn't visited. S.H.I.E.L.D. had drawn a box around our existence and written monitor in the margin. The Daily Bugle had printed a headline that sells more coffee than truth. NYPD had filed reports that will make their sergeant look like a genius. Tony Stark had probably smiled at a dashboard, then forgotten about us like he forgets about most things that don't explode in red and gold.
We keep going. The fortress hums. The city learns.
And when the next knock comes—and it will—we'll answer the door the same way we answer everything else: with posture, with patience, with the kind of quiet that makes S.H.I.E.L.D. nervous and neighbors grateful.
"Progress steady," 01 said, as he always does, sliding the last line into place like a keystone.
"Damn right," I said, and the building creaked its agreement.