My cart in Queens wasn't just a street corner anymore—it was a symbol of life. It was spring 2010; May was nearing, and Central Park bloomed with flowers, warmed by a gentle breeze. Months had passed since I'd helped Tony Stark with Ottoman Sherbet, and weeks since I'd met Steve Rogers. The timeline felt slippery—per Stark Expo 2010 was Iron Man 2's grand finale, but Steve's early awakening had thrown me off. Still, I stayed focused on my hustle. That day, as I packed up, a familiar engine roar filled my ears—the deep growl of an Audi R8. I looked up; Tony Stark was striding toward my cart, black suit sharp, charismatic smirk in place, exuding his signature swagger. "Well, damn," I thought, "the man himself." Happy Hogan was with him, less a bodyguard this time, more a friendly sidekick. "Ali Usta!" Tony called, his voice brimming with cheer. "King of mobile vendors, how's it hangin'?" I grinned, döner knife in hand. "Doin' great, Mr. Stark. You holdin' up?" "Better than ever," he said, winking. "You're invited to Stark Expo—VIP vendor spot, yours. Exclusive sales gig, whaddaya say?"
My jaw dropped, the knife frozen mid-air. "VIP vendor… Mr. Stark, you're a madman, but you know your stuff," I said, bursting into laughter. Tony clapped my shoulder lightly. "Your sherbet saved me—this is the least I can do," he said. Stark Expo 2010 as Tony's showdown with Justin Hammer, the night Ivan Vanko's Hammer Drones would unleash hell—two days away. "What to sell?" I mused, then my eyes lit up. "Let's do lahmacun and churned ayran," I said, "plus ice cream baklava and kaymaklı künefe—let 'em taste real flavor." Tony nodded. "Sounds killer, King," he said. "See you at the Expo!" He flashed a grin, hopped into the car with Happy, and vanished. Excitement surged in me, but a nagging unease lingered—like a warning I couldn't shake.
Two days later, I was at the Expo. I'd hauled my cart from Queens to Flushing Meadows-Corona Park, setting up in the VIP zone under a massive tent, surrounded by dazzling spotlights and a buzzing crowd. My Baker (Master) and Confectioner (Master) professions shone—lahmacun came out crispy, thin-crusted, and spiced" Ali Usta!" Tony called from the stage, mic in hand, waving at me. "Ali Usta, you're the king!" The crowd roared. I grinned, raising a hand to wave back, but that unease grew heavier—system had warned me: tonight was chaos night.
As the night deepened, the air tensed. Justin Hammer took the stage, unveiling Hammer Industries' robotic soldiers—Hammer Drones. Tony soared above in his armor, but suddenly, explosions cracked the sky. Ivan Vanko—Whiplash—emerged, his electrified whips seizing control of the drones. They turned on the crowd, lasers slicing through the air; screams erupted as people fled in panic. Then Ding! rang in my ears. A blue screen flashed:
"Iron Man 2 Main Event Quest: Stark Expo Battle".
Details unfolded:
"Survive Ivan Vanko's and HAMMER's robotic soldiers' attack on Stark Expo and save at least 10 lives! - Time Limit: Until the chaos ends - Reward: ???"
"No way…" I whispered, eyes wide. "I swear you want me dead," I muttered. "Damn it… how'd I forget this?" I thought, heart pounding. "Why's it always me? I'm just a vendor!"
Explosions closed in; drones marched with mechanical precision, lasers tearing through structures. I clung to the cart—Acrobatics & Parkour Mastery (Rare) kicked in. A woman screamed, "Help!" I sprinted, a drone targeting her; I vaulted over the cart, yanking her to the ground as a laser grazed past, singeing the tent. "Run!" I yelled, shoving her toward safety. A man stumbled, a drone closing in; I darted to him, grabbed his arm, and pulled him behind a stand. One, two, three… I yanked people from the drones' paths, breathless. Tony and Rhodey—War Machine—clashed with Vanko in the sky, red and gold beams lighting the night. Natasha, in black tactical gear, tore into drones, Happy backing her up with a car.
A child's cry pierced the chaos—a small, bespectacled boy, terrified, separated from his mom. She screamed from a distance, "Peter! Peter, come here!" "Peter?" I gasped, eyes wide. I clicked: Peter Parker, future Spider-Man, just a kid in 2009, maybe at the Expo with family. A drone locked onto him; I bolted, throwing myself in front of him, wrapping him in my arms as a shield. A sharp pain seared my chest—a laser grazed me, blood soaking my shirt, hot and sticky. "Run… kid… run," I gasped, pushing Peter toward his mom. She grabbed him, yelling, "Thank you!" as they fled. Ten lives saved—quest complete. But my head spun, vision blurring. "I'm losing it… can't hear anything," I thought. "God… help me." I collapsed, explosions and screams fading into a dull hum.
One last Ding! sounded, but I couldn't read the screen—my eyes were closing. Tony's armor gleamed above, Rhodey downed drones, Natasha crashed Vanko's system—but I couldn't see. In the Expo's chaos, Ali Usta, mobile vendor, had made a noble sacrifice—shielding Peter Parker at the cost of himself. Blood pooling, I lay on the ground as Tony defeated Vanko, ending the fight. "Is this it for me?" I wondered, darkness swallowing me. Lahmacun's spice, ayran's froth, baklava's syrup… all left behind. I was a vendor, but that night, I was a hero—maybe for the last time. As my consciousness faded, Peter's mom's cry echoed: "Peter, thank God!"