In Queens General Hospital's ICU, on that dark May night of 2010, the rhythmic beeping of machines echoed through the halls. Stark Expo 2010 at Flushing Meadows-Corona Park had turned into a warzone, ravaged by Ivan Vanko's Hammer Drones in a vile terrorist attack. This was Iron Man 2's grand finale—Tony Stark and James "Rhodey" Rhodes, aka War Machine, had defeated Whiplash; Natasha Romanoff—Black Widow—and Happy Hogan had crashed Hammer Industries' drone controls. The Expo's glittering stage was now shrouded in smoke, debris, and screams. I, Ali Usta, mobile vendor, lay bloodied near my VIP cart—shot in the chest, my consciousness lost to darkness. The system's quest had me save ten lives; I'd succeeded. The last was a small, bespectacled boy trembling in fear—Peter Parker born 2000, ten years old in 2010, future Spider-Man. Shielding him, a laser grazed my chest, blood soaking my shirt. I'd been rushed to surgery; Tony Stark and Natasha waited in the hospital corridor as the world watched the chaos unfold on TV screens—my story, just a footnote.
"Good evening, New York," the news anchor said, voice grave, tone heavy. Behind her, the Stark Expo logo spun, a red ticker flashing: "BREAKING NEWS: TERROR ATTACK AT STARK EXPO". "Tonight, we bring you a tragic story from Flushing Meadows-Corona Park," she continued. "Stark Expo 2010 was stained with blood by a heinous attack orchestrated by terrorist Ivan Vanko and Hammer Industries' robotic soldiers—HAMMER Drones. Tony Stark, known as Iron Man, and his close ally James Rhodes—War Machine—stopped the assault, but the Expo grounds became a battlefield." The screen cut to chaotic footage: drones firing lasers at the crowd, Tony's red-gold armor soaring through the sky, Rhodey's gray suit blasting drones apart. "Casualties and injuries remain unconfirmed," the anchor said. "Authorities, alongside S.H.I.E.L.D., are working to secure the area. Initial reports indicate dozens wounded, several dead—exact numbers will be clear by morning. Police and emergency services are still on-site."
The studio lights dimmed, the anchor's face grew somber, a trace of emotion creeping into her voice. "The attack's mastermind, Ivan Vanko, was neutralized—killed—by Iron Man and War Machine," she said. "But another name looms large: Justin Hammer, CEO of Hammer Industries, arrested by S.H.I.E.L.D." Footage showed Hammer, handcuffed, shoved into a S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicle—suit crumpled, sweating, eyes wild with fear and panic. He shouted at microphones, "This is Tony Stark's conspiracy! I'm innocent, I did nothing! Vanko was a crazed lone wolf!" The anchor's tone turned cold. "Hammer claims he handed drone control to Vanko, but authorities find his defense unconvincing. Hammer Industries' future and Justin Hammer's fate hinge on the courts. S.H.I.E.L.D. is digging deep into Hammer's ties to Vanko—this scandal will reverberate for some time."
The broadcast rolled on relentlessly; Tony's armored heroics took center stage—clips of Iron Man battling drones in the sky, Natasha in black gear fighting off a swarm single-handedly, Happy backing her with a car. Collapsing stands, fleeing crowds, exploding lights… it all circled Tony Stark's triumph. But then the anchor paused, took a breath, her voice softening. "Amid this chaotic night, another story emerges—small, but heart-wrenching," she said. The screen shifted to shaky, amateur footage from the Expo—grainy, noisy. A young man, bloodied, cradled a child, shielding them from drone fire before collapsing. "The bravery of an unnamed young man, shot while fearlessly protecting people and children, has torn at viewers' hearts," the anchor said, a wave of sorrow in her tone. "This courageous mobile vendor, with no superpowers, threw himself in harm's way to save dozens at the Expo. Witnesses say he used his last breath to return a child to his mother—that child, sobbing in her arms, as the young man fell, covered in blood." The clip was brief—not as prominent as Iron Man's victory, just a seconds-long anecdote—but it left a deep mark on those watching.
In the hospital, Tony Stark paced the corridor, his hands still stained with my blood, face pale, eyes distant with worry. A TV blared in the waiting room; he caught the news. "This kid's a hero," he muttered, "and the news can't even do him justice." Natasha stood nearby, eyes red, fists still clenched—the anchor's voice reached her. "Courageous Young Vendor," she whispered, echoing the report, "no name, but all heart." The surgeons had emerged; the lead doctor, exhausted, said, "He's critical. Lost too much blood, pulse weak—we've done all we can, but whether he wakes is uncertain." Tony buried his head in his hands. "King, you've gotta wake up," he whispered, voice trembling. Natasha's mind was on Justin Hammer—the news footage of his arrest flashed in her head, his pleading face, terrified eyes. Her rage simmered, "Because of that snake," she muttered, teeth gritted.
As TVs buzzed with the story, Steve Rogers sat quietly in a small Queens apartment. He'd watched the Expo chaos, seen me shot on-screen—the warm, joking guy from Central Park, now bloodied. Steve's super-soldier blood coursed through my veins, but no one knew—not Tony, Natasha, S.H.I.E.L.D., or the anchors. "Hold on, Ali," he'd whispered, leaving the hospital. The anchor pressed on: "The unnamed young man's condition remains unclear—Queens General Hospital reports he's in a coma. New York tonight mourns a tragedy and celebrates a victory." The screen faded, credits rolled, but my story—that brief anecdote—left a wound in viewers' hearts: a mother's child saved by a stranger whose name they didn't know.
The world talked of Iron Man's triumph—Hammer's arrest, Vanko's end, Tony Stark's heroism. But in my hospital room, amid machines' beeps, I lay comatose—no name, no fame, just a vendor's heart. Tony, Natasha, Steve… all prayed for me, but the news had moved on, dubbing me a footnote—"Courageous Young Vendor." Amid the Expo's rubble, lahmacun's spice, ayran's froth, baklava's syrup lingered. As TV screens went dark, my life hung in mystery—consciousness lost, no system's voice, remembered only as a headline. New York slept, but my story, beyond that fleeting anecdote, carried a flicker of hope—maybe I'd wake, but for now, the world knew me only as a "nameless savior."