Chapter 45 — Renovating the Fortress
The deposit landed before dinner.
One minute I was rationing soda like it was a sacred relic, watching the bubbles with the reverence a monk saves for candles. The next minute, my phone showed a number that could fund a small space program and still leave room in the budget for snack cakes. I laughed out loud—one sharp, helpless bark that bounced off the concrete and made 02 glance up from a whiteboard as if I'd just violated a building code.
"Five million," I announced to the veterans, holding the screen up like a trophy. "Courtesy of Tony Stark. We're rich."
They didn't twitch. Of course they didn't. 01 watched the window the way a horizon watches weather; 02 put a checkmark next to filters and underlined ventilation three times; 03 slid a bolt forward with the tender economy of a watchmaker; 04 said "Balance" to no one in particular, and the floor believed him; 05 wrote down a number so tidy it could file its own taxes.
I grinned wider. "You'll care when you see the cart."
The room gave me silence—the good kind, the kind that says we're listening; go on; make the world different without making us change who we are. Good. That's the only way I know how to spend money.
Phase One — Make Space Out of Air
Ten floors and three basements used to feel roomy. With twenty-seven Spartans breathing in sync, the place had turned into a shoebox with delusions of grandeur. Rooms cramped. Bunks squeaked like old ghosts practicing opera. The kitchen cried every time someone asked it to boil two pots at once. The elevator sulked. The stairwells judged.
I called contractors.
Crew One took one look at my lobby—silent giants, helmets lined on a rack like patient moons, whiteboards full of schedules—and left so fast they forgot their measuring tape. Crew Two lasted ten minutes before inventing emergencies across three boroughs. Crew Three stayed—after double pay, a lunch voucher, and my very reasonable request that the Spartans stop glaring like gargoyles guarding a tomb.
"Smile," I told 11.
He produced a small, nonthreatening expression that made the foreman live three years longer.
We started at the top. Walls came down where walls had no business standing: tiny rooms sacrificed for proper dorms; fake ceilings peeled back to let the building breathe. Wiring got redone by people who understood that 03 has opinions about flicker. Floors were reinforced with steel plates quiet enough to apologize for being strong. Doors got replaced with something that didn't whine when you touched it. The contractors dragged out junk; Spartans carried in steel bunks like they were pillows.
"Better," I said, soda in hand, watching 07–08 carry two bunks up a flight without blinking. "Beds that don't sound haunted."
10 shouldered three mattresses and a headboard just to prove he could. 20–21 mirrored 02 like shadows carrying crates—posture perfect, footwork precise, a live demonstration of feet before hands even when the hands are full.
"Control the corners," 02 reminded them. He wasn't talking about crates. He never is.
We turned cramped warrens into honest rooms: four beds to a dorm, double-stack bunks with sound-dampening and ladder rungs that won't try to assassinate your shins. Each rack got a narrow shelf big enough for a book, a light, a photo—even if no one here keeps photos. Open space along the far wall; locker rows that close like promises; vents that actually exist. The squeak disappeared. The hush stayed. It sounded like discipline.
11 tapped a new rule into the whiteboard outside the dorms: Quiet Hours 2300–0500. Violators spar with 04 at 0600. Everyone read it. No one needed the second sentence explained.
We expanded the laundry room from two noble martyrs to six industrial washers and six dryers that hum like contented tigers. 05 laminated a schedule and taped it up. "Miss your block," he told 12 with a mercy that felt like warning, "and you fold everyone's."
He wasn't joking.
We chased wiring into the walls and out again, ran conduit where the building had once pretended electricity is a feeling, and color-coded circuits until 02 sighed with relief. 03 supervised the lighting, because flicker is crime in his religion. Every switch labeled. Every breaker documented. S.H.I.E.L.D. could audit us and leave jealous.
Pepper Potts sent a text from a Stark Industries number after the foreman's second coffee break: For permits and inspectors: I took the liberty of pre-clearing your fire code plan. Please don't make me regret this. —P.P.
I sent back a heart and the word angel. She replied with a dot, which is Pepper for I am a professional, not your conscience; behave.
We reinforced stair treads and tightened the railing screws that used to creak like confessions. We fixed the elevator—not to carry Spartans (we still don't trust it) but to carry crates, laundry, and the appliances that would turn lair into home. The elevator groaned once, realized it was outnumbered, and straightened up.
Phase Two — The Kitchen That Would Make a Chef Nod
We stopped treating takeout as a food group. Pizza is a ritual, not a religion, and even rituals need sabbaticals.
The old kitchen went out in a pile of stainless steel that had given up in 1997. In came industrial ovens with enough BTUs to sear a dragon, a walk-in refrigerator that whispered order, and a freezer that 05 immediately divided into zones with painter's tape and judgment. We extended counter space until 07 could dice onions without elbowing 22 into an argument. 03 labeled the knives like they were aircraft: chef's, santoku, boning, paring, all with sheathes, all in their places. Sharp is safe. Dull is hospital.
The delivery crew saw twenty-seven Spartans and appeared a year older. I signed the invoice, thanked them for their service, and let them leave with their bones intact.
"Gourmet now," I told the veterans. "Domino's can rest."
"Menu," 05 said, already writing columns: Protein, Greens, Carbs, Sauce, Extra. 07 took point with 22 at his elbow like a sous-chef auditioning for trust; 11 portioned with the serene tyranny of a dietitian angel. 10 and 26 hauled water like they were training for something nobody wanted to name. 04 taught 25 how to chop without turning his wrist into a hand grenade. 03 brewed tea and pretended it was ballistics.
We added a hood that actually vents and a grease trap that would pass any health inspector whose soul hadn't dissolved in paperwork. Pepper texted again: Thank you for complying with code. Please do not attach a Stark logo to your grease trap. I texted back, That was 03's idea, not mine. 03 scowled at me from across the room without looking up. The grease trap will remain anonymous.
The first meal in the new kitchen smelled like future. Trays of grilled meat, pasta that didn't come out of a plastic clamshell, bread that had never met a freezer, heaps of bright greens, bowls of roasted vegetables that made 05's heart write sonnets. Long tables filled the room. Veterans ate steadily, like metronomes. Rookies ate like collapsing stars, weights of food sliding off plates into gravity wells named 13 and 14.
"Real food, real beds, real gear," I said, leaning back. "All thanks to Stark's wallet. Someone remind me to send a card."
Silence. Tough crowd. I laughed anyway. It's either laugh, or ask 02 for permission to breathe.
Phase Three — Basement One: The Gym That Doesn't Apologize
We turned Basement One into a cathedral of iron.
Custom bars. Reinforced racks bolted to platforms that no longer complain like haunted boats. Machines designed for Olympians and tuned for Spartans who think UNSC training day is a warm-up. Sleds for days; a yoke that makes posture a moral; farmer's handles heavy enough to teach humility; three piles of chain that 05 will make you carry because gravity needs allies.
"Tempo," 05 told 26 and 27, and they learned new meanings of down-three. No bending metal this time: bars spun true, bumpers bounced without shattering into rainbow confetti, collars clicked with the righteous sound of stay. Chalk dust rose like the ghost of effort; 05 approved the grain with a nod—chalk is not all created equal; we are not animals.
"Finally," I said, palm on a bar that won't die tomorrow. "No more buying new bars weekly."
10 squatted like the floor owed him respect. 26 discovered that a sled never forgives but always tells the truth. 27 learned that breathing is not optional. 02 wandered through like a quiet gravity, correcting foot angles with one finger. "Knees track toes. Ankles are citizens, not suggestions." He wasn't wrong. He never is.
We added stall bars and two thick ropes because 04 asked with his eyes and I am not made of stone. 25 hung off a rope and counted to ten like it was a spell that would make his shoulders honest. 04 watched him like a patient storm.
We built a small med bay off the gym—ice machine, treatment table, stocked trauma kits that 11 cataloged like holy objects, an AED mounted where you can see it without tripping over it, and a cabinet labeled MOVE / MOBILITY / NOT OPTIONAL. Foam rollers. Lacrosse balls. Resistance bands. 05 stood in the doorway like a saint of recovery and declared that we would not write hurt in place of hard.
Phase Four — Basement Two: A Range That Teaches Truth
Basement Two was once three fragile lanes salvaged from a thrift store designed by regret. Now it's ten.
Reinforced walls. Proper ventilation—negative pressure that sucks the gun smoke out and doesn't drag it upstairs to sit in our lungs. Moving targets that do not require prayer to operate. Light with no flicker. Sound baffling that keeps the noise in and the neighbors content. Bullet traps that don't chew through their own metal like guilt.
Crates of new pistols and rifles sat stacked for 03 to make legal, safe, and ours. Human-grade weapons. No Stark Industries tech, no arc reactors disguised as fun, nothing an Avenger would point at casually. Good steel. Honest function. Springs that fit correctly. Holsters that don't lie.
"Lane three," 03 said, and 22 stepped up like a man approaching confession. Tap, seat, rack, press—first string ugly, second string humbler, third string honest. "Front sight," 03 reminded. "Press, don't slap. Reset. Breathe."
23 started wide and tightened like a secret learning it prefers the light. 14's shots crept toward the middle like a dog testing a new couch. I watched his grouping settle and clapped once, quiet. "Look at that," I told him. "Ceiling's safe today."
He allowed himself a micro-smile and then started the next magazine like the target had insulted his ancestors.
08 shadowed 03 on the observation scope and called mirage off a heat-bleeding HVAC hood three blocks away. "See the river boil?" 03 asked. "That's heat doing you a favor. See where it's calm? That's a lie. Find the lie. Shoot the truth."
Counter-sniper lanes got painted into our mental maps. 03 named skylines the way astronomers name stars. 08 learned the difference between glint and gossip.
Safety is a religion here; range rules read like commandments and we keep them like vows. 11 handles the med kit because his hands make blood behave. 02 checks posture because his eyes make fear stand down. 03 runs the line because he refuses to let a bad habit grow tall enough to be loved.
Phase Five — Basement Three: An Armory Worth the Word
Basement Three became an armory that makes sense. Stark's funds did not turn us into Iron Man. Stark's funds turned us into a team with options.
Rows of lockers: one per Spartan, one key per man, backups held by 02 and 11 with the particular trust that makes families functional. Shelves stocked with durable, human-grade gear: rifles with numbered bolts, pistols with honest triggers, magazines that don't explode on Tuesdays, plate carriers sized for men who are, frankly, enormous. Quality helmets. Shields that aren't toys. Batons that won't splinter. Knives that belong to the grave, not the glass case.
Non-lethal options stacked where hands reach first: heavy flex cuffs, OC spray rated for reality, bright flashlights, marker rounds for training, bean-bag shotgun kits that 03 swore to practice before practice. We keep S.H.I.E.L.D.'s PR nightmare out of our house by making sure boring on camera is built into the shelves.
"Chain of custody," 11 reminded. "In, out, recorded."
02 drafted the SOPs like laws: check-out logs, serial audits, magazine rotation; numbered plates match numbered carriers; optics married to uppers, not borrowed like umbrellas. 03 calibrated red dots and threw away two that lied. 04 ran 09 through shield work with a smile so small you could mistake it for gravity. 09 held the shield like it belonged to the future he wants.
"This," I said, hands on my hips, breath fogging a little in the cool air. "What we were missing. Bare hands are a choice now."
01 nodded once in that horizon accepts sunrise way of his. His eyes had already measured the racks, the exit routes, the lines of retreat, the door thickness, and which two studs needed metal behind them. He agreed with the reality we built by standing in it.
Phase Six — Give the Building a Spine
Security isn't about paranoia. It's about posture.
We put in cameras where cameras help people live: hallways, common spaces, entrances, exits, the perimeters where NYPD would want to see us be boring, the stairwells where S.H.I.E.L.D. would expect us to not be criminals. No cameras in dorms. No cameras in bathrooms. No surveillance where dignity sleeps. We installed alarms that behave like grown-ups: no false alerts every time someone breathes; layers that talk to each other without tattling to strangers. A sally port at the loading entrance where vans can roll in, doors can roll down, and the street doesn't have to watch.
Reinforced the gates. Replaced the front door with something that says please and means no. Added steel behind hinges on two doors we hope no one tests. Put rubber feet on weight plates so 05 stops waking the dead through the floor. Added sensors that mind their business and mind ours. Window film that turns glass into determination. Kick plates where shoes used to leave stories.
We ran fiber to the command room 03 pretends is not a nest. 05 mounted clocks synced to something more reliable than the news, because seconds count. We bought a generator that will run the building long enough to matter; we sited it where a stray bullet won't ask it hard questions; we added transfer switches and labeled them with 02's handwriting like we were inviting Fury to a safe tour. We replaced two hundred feet of patched HVAC with ducting that doesn't whistle secrets.
The rooftop got a platform strong enough for drills, sparring, or silence. We poured a padded lane for rope climbs and mounted anchor points that would make a contractor write poetry. We built a wind-break—not a wall; we're not raising flags—just enough to make sentry duty a conversation you can have with the air without your bones complaining. 03 measured angles for counter-sniper positions that make sense; 01 walked the parapet and found the two spots where roofs across the way create a line of sight that belongs to no one good. We marked them quietly.
11 placed a community fridge in the lobby with a handwritten sign: Take what you need. Leave what you can. No cameras. He organized planters on the stoop and trained 12 and 27 to water them like it was a new form of patrol. A neighbor kid put a carton of eggs in the fridge and fled. 11 watched him go and nodded to the empty doorway like a promise.
Common areas widened. Couches that didn't groan. Tables that didn't die under armor. A library shelf with manuals and a handful of non-fiction the rookies pretend they don't read. A war board for maps and the kind of arrows movies lie about. A wall 05 claimed for long, terrible spreadsheets about sets, reps, tempos, and punishments. A second whiteboard for 11 that just says NEIGHBORS and has columns for names, needs, notes. He keeps it neat like a prayer.
By the end of the week, the place resembled a fortress instead of a forgotten ruin, a Halo Spartan-II barracks that fell through a portal into the MCU and decided to get a job. We kept the bones. We replaced the excuses.
I loved it.
The Opening Feast (No Press Allowed)
Dinner marked the kitchen's first official service and our quiet line in the sand against pizza dependency. Trays of grilled meat; pasta with a sauce that involved vegetables that were not red circles; bread crispy enough to count as applause; bright bowls of greens that made 05 stand taller; roasted carrots sweet enough to bribe a saint.
Long tables filled the room. Veterans ate steadily, like metronomes. Rookies devoured everything like black holes. 02 enforced water, 03 drank tea, 04 stretched calves between forks, 05 watched plates like a hawk and swapped 13's second helping of bread for more protein with a surgeon's efficiency and the bedside manner of a man who cares too much to soften.
I leaned back and let it wash over me: the hum of twenty-seven quiet voices; the soft clink of cutlery; the half-laughs rookies think I don't hear; 01 walking the perimeter with a plate he doesn't look at; 11 showing 12 how to dry a dish properly because a towel is a tool and tools deserve respect; 03's eyes flicking once at a light he'd already fixed and moving on.
"Real food, real beds, real gear," I said. "All thanks to Stark's wallet. Someone remind me to send a card."
"Pepper," 03 said without looking up.
"Right," I said. "Send Pepper a card. Stark gets a doodle."
No one laughed. That's okay. The joke was for me.
A text buzzed while we ate. Pepper again: Thank you for not installing a Stark logo on your oven. Do not spend any part of this money on a billboard. —P.P.
I replied: We spent it on laundry and lungs. Come by if you ever want a tour we won't admit happened.
Three dots. Then: Keep the city quiet. —P.P.
We will.
The Week That Built A Home
The renovations didn't slow training; they just changed where it happened.
Gym block: 05's stopwatch cleaved mornings into quarters. 26 and 27 discovered the religion of sleds. 10 learned to love pauses at the bottom of a squat because 05 glared at his quads and they behaved. 02 corrected feet like a choreographer with a vendetta.
Range block: 03 set 22 and 23 chasing groups into togetherness, ran 14 through patience until the bullet holes stopped flirting with the edges, plucked a civilian drone out of the air over the roof and placed it on a shelf labeled EVIDENCE (PETTING ZOO).
Mats block: 04 taught 24 how to stop negotiating with gravity; taught 25 that timing beats speed, posture beats panic, breath beats everything. 24's first clean throw made a sound the mat liked.
Kitchen block: 07 ran a drill: twelve plates in two minutes, hot and correct. 22 learned the difference between 'spicy' and 'crying.' 11 portioned macros like a saint who owns a scale.
Neighbor block: 11, 12, 27 walked the route: planters watered; Mrs. Ortiz's grocery carried up; Mr. Li's window measured for repair with 03 pretending he doesn't love levels. A thank-you voucher left under a door, anonymous and dignified.
Security block: 02 did an alarm drill; 01 ran a roof changeover that looked like a dance; 03 taught the newest eyes to find glint in the skyline without eating ghosts for breakfast.
We kept the NYPD sergeant at the corner bored enough to trust us. We kept S.H.I.E.L.D.'s unmarked sedan at a lawful speed. We kept Daily Bugle photographers disappointed enough to photograph pigeons. We kept Wilson Fisk on his back foot by the simple act of existing louder than his fear.
Fisk will hire specialists. That's fine. We'll make special feel ordinary.
The Rooftop, Rewritten
Later, after dishes and schedules and a last pass through the armory to count the numbers that want to become losses, I took a soda up to the roof. Ritual is armor; I wear it every night.
01 was already there, of course—two steps from the parapet, posture easy, eyes moving the way a lighthouse moves: slow, full, inevitable. The skyline burned steady. Stark Tower glowed the way it does when Tony is either home or wants the city to think he is. Somewhere, a helicopter traced a rectangle it will call patrol and we will call performance art. Somewhere else, a S.H.I.E.L.D. drone reconsidered its place in our air.
"Not bad," I said, taking in the platform, the anchors, the way the wind felt allowed instead of angry. "When I moved in, this place was a wreck. Now it's a fortress—big enough for all of you, strong enough for anyone."
01 said nothing. He didn't have to. The nod he gave the city had weight.
Money changes speed and comfort. It doesn't change doctrine. Iron Man plays his game. We play ours. S.H.I.E.L.D. watches, and I let them. Fisk breathes through teeth, and I prefer him that way. The MCU spins on spectacle and gods; our chapter runs on schedules and math and twenty-seven men who know the difference between enemy and neighbor and act like it.
I sipped soda and grinned into the wind.
"Yeah," I said. "This is home."