Stark Expo 2010's dazzling lights, the towering projectors illuminating Flushing Meadows-Corona Park, had flickered out that bloody May night. Ivan Vanko's Hammer Drones had torn everything apart; the sky burned red with explosions, the crowd fleeing in terror. This was Iron Man 2's climax—Tony Stark and Rhodey had taken down Whiplash, while Natasha Romanoff and Happy Hogan crashed the drones' control system. But I, Ali Usta, lay crumpled near my VIP cart, blood pooling from a chest wound, my consciousness swallowed by darkness. My quest was to save ten lives—I'd done it. The last was a small, bespectacled boy trembling with fear, his mother screaming, "Peter!". Peter Parker, born 2000, ten years old in 2010—future Spider-Man, but just an innocent kid now. Shielding him, a laser grazed my chest, blood soaking my shirt, hot and sticky. "Can't hold back when it's kids," I'd thought, shoving him toward his mom with my last breath. Now, silence—no explosions, no screams, just cold, endless dark.
In the Expo's wreckage, Tony Stark shed his armor, scanning the debris, and spotted me—bloodied, sprawled by my lahmacun-scented cart. "Ali!" he shouted, voice cracking; he sprinted over, dropping to his knees, pressing his hands to my wound. "No, no, no, Ali, not like this!" he said, eyes wide, face pale. "All units, whatever it takes!" he yelled into his suit's comms, rallying S.H.I.E.L.D., medics, anyone. Happy Hogan rushed up. "Ambulance is coming, Tony," he said, but Tony's hands were slick with my blood, trembling. "This kid saved me, Happy," he whispered. "That damn Ottoman Sherbet bought me time, and now it's my turn." Tony had solved his palladium poisoning with a new element from his father's notes—my sherbet had kept him alive long enough to get there. Now, guilt and helplessness carved into his face.
Natasha Romanoff—Black Widow—emerged from the drones' wreckage in her black leather gear. Seeing me on the ground, she froze; her eyes welled, fists clenched, lips quivering. "Vanko's dead, but you're still here," she muttered, rage lacing her voice. At the Expo's edge, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents detained Justin Hammer, his suit crumpled, sweating as he begged, "I didn't do anything!" Natasha stalked toward him, eyes blazing. "If Ali dies," she hissed, voice icy with fury, "I swear, Justin Hammer, I'll burn you alive." Tears streaked her cheeks—a Natasha I'd never seen, but unconscious, I couldn't feel it. Hammer shook, stammering, "What's my crime? I'm innocent!" Her glare silenced him. "You snake," she growled, teeth gritted. "These drones are your doing—this chaos is on you." Hammer's fear was palpable—Black Widow's wrath felt worse than death.
Ambulance sirens pierced the night; medics hoisted me onto a stretcher, moving frantically. "Pulse is weak, massive blood loss," a paramedic said, voice urgent, hands bloody. They rushed me to Queens General Hospital's ICU. My condition was critical—chest wound deep, blood loss severe. Tony paced the hospital corridor, his armor's cold metal forgotten, just a man gripped by worry. Natasha leaned against a wall, hands covering her face; her eyes were red, lips still trembling. "Hold on, Ali," Tony thought, "you've gotta pull through—I owe you." Natasha looked up, whispering, "He saved dozens… and that kid… Peter." Peter Parker's mother, clutching her son, had escaped the Expo unharmed—future Spider-Man, alive because of me. But I, a nameless vendor, had fought with heart alone—and now my life hung by a thread.
Meanwhile, in a small Queens apartment, someone watched the news—Steve Rogers. The tall, blond man I'd met at Central Park, Captain America. He saw the Expo chaos on TV, then me—bloodied, shot saving a child. "That's… Ali," he whispered, eyes locked on the screen. He recalled our quiet day—simit, tea, and warm talk. His face hardened with resolve, blue eyes sparking. "If not now, when, Steve?" he muttered. Steve, frozen in 1945, woke seventy years later, his super-soldier serum granting inhuman healing. Without telling S.H.I.E.L.D., Fury, or Tony, he decided—he was going to the hospital.
It was midnight; Queens General's halls were silent, save for the beeping of machines. Steve slipped in, hood up to hide his face—not quite Acrobatics & Parkour Mastery, but his military training made him swift and stealthy. Evading doctors, he reached my ICU room. There I was—pale, hooked to machines, comatose, my bandaged chest stained red. He drew a small syringe, filled it with his super-soldier blood, and injected it into my IV. "Hold fast, soldier… hold fast," he whispered, his voice both a command and a prayer. "The world needs hearts like yours—pure and brave." He slipped out, vanishing into shadows—Captain America's secret sacrifice, my last hope. Would the serum work, or was it too late?
Time was slipping in the hospital. Doctors said, "We've done all we can—it's up to him," their voices weary, hopeless. My pulse stayed faint, locked in a coma—eyes shut, breaths tied to machines. Outside my room, Tony waited with Natasha. "He's a hero," Tony said, voice shaky. "No powers, but he put us all to shame." Natasha nodded, wiping tears. "Dozens saved… and that kid… Peter," she said. "Who was that kid?" Tony asked, but Natasha didn't answer—she didn't know Peter's future, only that a boy was safe. Peter's mother, holding him tight, wept, "That young man… he saved us." But I, a nameless vendor, lay in darkness, no system's voice—no quest, no reward—just silence.
Tony stared out a hospital window. "Called him a vendor, but this kid's a legend," he said. Natasha clenched her fists, whispering, "He has to wake up—so I can make Hammer pay myself." Hours dragged, but I stayed in that deep sleep. "Will he wake?" hung unanswered—doctors hopeless, Tony and Natasha helpless. Was Steve's blood coursing through me, or was it too late? Ali Usta, mobile vendor, had become a legend at the Expo—a blood-soaked night where, powerless, I saved dozens with heart alone, shielding future Spider-Man. But was this legend's end or its beginning? No one knew. In the dark, amid machines' beeps, my life dangled on a thread.