Life in Queens had found a rhythm. Since that wild September day when I met Tony Stark—when he winked and said, "Maybe we'll do something together"—I'd been setting up my cart at Central Park's south entrance, near 59th Street. The calendar now showed autumn 2009, and we were in the early days of Iron Man 2. Tony Stark was grappling with palladium poisoning from the Arc Reactor in his chest, hiding it from everyone except JARVIS, chugging chlorophyll in a desperate bid for a cure. Natasha Romanoff had slipped into his life as "Natalie Rushman," posing as his assistant. I knew all this, but I played dumb, focusing on my cart. I sliced döner, flipped köfte, and scooped kaymaklı Kahramanmaraş ice cream. With my new skill, Herbal Medicine Mastery (Rare), and profession, Barista (Master), I'd expanded my offerings—now serving drinks and healing remedies alongside food. "This is my life, my fate, brother," I said to myself, chuckling at the cart. I wasn't even a high school graduate, but my sincerity, respect, and playful vibe won over every crowd.
Central Park's elderly regulars had started treating me like family. Every morning as I set up, Ayşe Teyze would shuffle over—seventies, leaning on her cane, but with eyes full of life. "Ali, my boy, got that macun again?" she'd ask, her voice shaky but warm. She meant my Ottoman Macun, a handmade blend from my Herbal Medicine Mastery—a natural energy booster for seniors, packed with turmeric, honey, nettle, and a pinch of cinnamon. "Right here, teyzeciğim," I'd say, spooning it from a small jar. "This stuff makes me feel twenty again," she'd laugh, waving her cane. Ahmet Amca was another regular—sixties, white hair, sharp wit. "Son, this macun's fixed my legs—I'll ditch the cane soon," he'd say, winking. Then there was Mesir Macun, my performance blend for adults and youngsters—yes, for stamina and satisfaction, but no shady intentions, just pure herbs like ginseng, epimedium, and carob. It sold like crazy; I could barely keep up. "Anatolian healing," I'd tell customers, "100% natural, no chemicals."
My cart had become a hub of chatter. Turkish Coffee was perfect for deep talks—my Barista (Master) skills made it frothy and flawless. Customers would grab a cup and tease, "Ali, read my fortune!" I'd grin, "Your future's bright, but sip that coffee slow." Salep warmed hearts in 2009's chilly autumn, its cinnamon scent drifting across the park's grass. Turkish Tea and oralet were staples for friend groups—people on benches would yell, "Ali, bring a tea!" I brewed the tea strong, the oralet fragrant—lemon, orange, every flavor hit the spot. "Ali Usta, mobile vendor, at your service," I'd say, tray in hand, flashing a big smile as I roamed.
One afternoon, I was mixing Mesir Macun at the cart. The air was crisp, leaves turning yellow, a light breeze sweeping through Central Park. The usual crowd was there—seniors reading newspapers on benches, youngsters picnicking on the grass. As I flipped köfte, a woman approached—red hair, poised, with a confident stride. She wore a sharp blazer, a small bag in hand. "Hello," she said, her voice soft but measured. "I'm Natalie Rushman." The name rang a bell, but I played clueless. "Hey there," I said, smiling, "what can I get you?" "Got anything… healing?" she asked, her eyes scanning the jars on my cart. "Sure," I said. "Mesir Macun, for instance—boosts performance, all natural, gives you energy." She gave a faint smile. "Interesting," she said, then lowered her voice. "I need something for Tony Stark. Something… energizing, but healthy." I blinked, thinking, "For his palladium poisoning?"—I knew that Tony's reactor was killing him, but I couldn't let on.
"For Tony? Wow, nice," I said, grinning like a naive kid. "Mesir Macun works, but…" I paused. "Maybe I can whip up something else. Ottoman Sherbet—herbal, boosts energy, cleanses the blood." Natasha—or rather, Natalie—nodded. "Sounds good," she said, her gaze studying me. "Can you make it special for Tony? Something… unique." "You got it," I said, "but it'll take a bit. Come back tomorrow." She nodded, pulled $10 from her wallet, and ordered a Turkish Coffee. She took a sip, said, "Nice," and walked off, her red hair catching the breeze. "That's Natasha Romanoff," I thought. In Iron Man 2, she was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent undercover by Tony's side, but I had to act like I didn't know.
Right then, Ding! rang in my ears. A blue screen flickered in the air:
"Quest: Healing in Palladium's Shadow".
"A quest? Palladium? Here we go again," I whispered, glancing around to make sure no one noticed. Details popped up:
"Prepare a drink to secretly aid Tony Stark's palladium poisoning. Time Limit: 24 Hours. Reward: ???"
"Holy crap," I thought, "the system knows about this too?" I couldn't breathe a word about Tony's condition—spilling that in the MCU would land Nick Fury himself on my doorstep. "I'll make Ottoman Sherbet," I decided. With Herbal Medicine Mastery (Rare), I knew what to use: turmeric, cinnamon, clove, maybe some milk thistle—blood-cleansing, energizing, exactly what Natasha asked for. But in this chapter, it was just a plan; I'd craft the sherbet in the next one.
As I packed up the cart, my head was spinning. "Am I really helping Tony?" I said, laughing. Natasha's request and the system's quest had hit at the same time. Ayşe Teyze wandered over. "Ali, my boy, aren't you tired?" she asked. "Never for you, teyzeciğim," I said, handing her a salep. She smiled and shuffled to a bench. As the park's trees rustled in the wind, I walked home, coffee cup in hand. I'd won the hearts of seniors, uncles, youngsters—everyone. But now, without even realizing it, I was about to offer healing to one of the MCU's biggest heroes. "Let's see," I muttered, "where's this system taking me?" As the sky turned gray, Central Park's quiet filled my soul. Ali Usta, mobile vendor, knew no limits—not for the elderly, and not for Tony Stark.