Stepping out of Queens General Hospital, it was a cool August morning in 2010; the air held a hint of humidity, the sky clear, Queens' streets stirring to life. A month had passed since I woke from my coma—shot in the chest at Stark Expo 2010, saving Peter Parker, I'd lost consciousness. Iron Man 2's chaotic finale was history—Tony Stark and Rhodey had crushed Ivan Vanko, Natasha Romanoff and Happy Hogan had stopped the drones, and Justin Hammer was locked up. The Expo's echoes still buzzed in New York. Thanks to Steve Rogers' super-soldier blood, I'd clung to life, discharged now with Partial Super-Soldier Strength (Unique). My chest scar was a faint memory, muscles subtly defined, steps steadier. At the hospital door, a familiar face waited: Happy Hogan. Black suit, serious yet friendly, he jingled keys. "C'mon, Ali," he said, "got somewhere to take you." He nodded at a sleek black van. "Thanks, Mr. Hogan," I said, smiling, "but… where we headed?" Happy shrugged. "Tony's surprise," he said curtly, starting the engine. Curiosity surged—since the Expo, Tony and I had a bond, but what was this mystery trip?
The van wove through Queens' narrow streets, pausing at traffic lights while Happy stayed quiet, occasionally glancing at me in the rearview with a faint smile. Like he was hiding a secret, but Happy was Tony's loyal wingman; his silence felt reassuring. We pulled up at Central Park's south entrance, near 59th Street. The park's trees held summer's last green, grass gleaming in the morning sun. Tony Stark stood there—jeans, gray tee, that charismatic grin, but his eyes carried an unusual sheepishness. "Ali Usta!" he called, arms wide, pulling me into a brief, heartfelt hug. "Finally out—how you feeling?" "Thanks to you, Mr. Stark," I said. "If it wasn't for you and the others…" Tony's smile faded, head dipping. "I'm sorry, Ali," he said, voice shaky. "At the Expo… I couldn't protect you. That chaos—Hammer, Vanko, the drones—it's on me. But you… you saved everyone." I saw his shame—Tony blamed himself for civilian harm, grappling with the Expo's fallout. "I'm grateful," he added, "and I want to show it."
He handed me a folder—an official document, like a deed. "This is yours," he said, meeting my eyes. I read it: a permanent 100-square-meter vendor lot in Central Park, titled in my name, worth millions. "Holy…" I thought, eyes wide, hand trembling. "I… I can't take this, Mr. Stark," I said, voice firm but respectful. "No way. My losses barely hit a grand—this is too much. I can't accept something I'll never repay." Tony blinked, eyebrows shooting up. "I'm just a vendor," I added, scratching my head with a grin. He paused, then burst into his signature, hearty laugh. "You're a stand-up guy," he said, clapping my shoulder, "but this isn't a gift—it's thanks, from a humbled man. You saved so many at the Expo—you earned this. Please, take it." His sincerity, the warmth in his voice, softened me. "Tony Stark… thank you," I thought, "your heart's as big as your generosity." "Alright," I said finally, "but this is a responsibility—I won't waste it."
Happy opened the van's door; inside was a brand-new, high-tech mobile vendor cart—the van itself! Gleaming steel surfaces, electric burners, a wide cooler, built-in oven, even a coffee machine—my old cart, riddled by drone lasers at the Expo, was history, but this was beyond dreams. "Your old cart's toast," Tony said. "This is your new kingdom—Stark tech, fully loaded." I touched the steel, whispering, "Wow. I'll conquer Queens with this." Tony laughed. "You've conquered enough," he said. "Now rest—and get back to work." But I stopped, facing him, holding his gaze. "Mr. Stark," I said, voice serious but soft, "I came back from death's door, and I learned something: heroism isn't armor or power—it's heart. You're older, a billionaire genius, but the real hero sacrifices for others—I just did that once, you do it every day." Tony's eyes glistened, head bowing slightly. "Words bigger than your years," he whispered. "You schooled me, Ali—showed me humility."
A week later, I set up my new cart in Central Park. My titled lot, nestled in the south under tree shade, felt like an oasis amid grass. I flung open the van's panels; the döner skewer spun, simit crisped in the oven, tea steamed in the pot—lahmacun's spice and köfte's smoke wafted through the park. Well-wishers flooded in; locals shouted, "Ali Usta, welcome back!" as kids lined up for ice cream baklava. That day, flipping köfte, I saw a mother and son approach. A small, bespectacled boy—a familiar face—and a young, graceful woman beside him, in a simple dress, her eyes warm with a smile. "You the kid from that night?" I said, stunned, spatula frozen. The boy nodded shyly, "Yeah, you saved me," he mumbled, looking down. The woman extended a hand. "Hi, I'm May Parker," she said, "this is my nephew, Peter. We came to thank you." "Hey, ma'am," I said, gesturing to the cart, "sit—whatever you want, on me. Tea? Simit? Künefe?"
Peter held out a small box—handmade, paper-crafted. "Made this for you," he said, voice soft but earnest. I opened it: a paper-cutout vendor figure, colored with crayons, labeled "Thanks, Hero!" My eyes welled, throat tightening. "Thank… you," I said, voice cracking, clutching the box to my chest. May smiled. "You saved Peter that night," she said. "In that chaos at the Expo… we're so grateful." "My pleasure," I said. "I'd do anything for kids—Peter's safe, that's enough for me." Peter looked up, meeting my eyes—ten years old, not yet Spider-Man, but those innocent blue eyes held a spark, a courage. May and Peter sipped tea, munched simit; "This is awesome," Peter said, mouth full. May laughed. "Your cart's amazing," she said. "Queens is lucky to have you." They said goodbye, and I leaned against the cart, holding Peter's gift, eyes misty but heart warm.
Tony's gift, Natasha's kiss, Steve's blood, Peter's gratitude… "This is real heroism," I thought. Then a Ding! sounded:
"CST: +50 (from Peter Parker and May Parker)."
I smiled—MCU headliners always brought big points. I opened the system screen; rank and tier progression was active, but I was still Ali—humble, heart-driven vendor. As the sun set in Central Park, my cart's lights glowed—Ali Usta, mobile vendor, had a fresh start, fueled by the best feelings. "Here we go," I said, "the world's waiting." I set Peter's gift on the cart's shelf—a tiny hero figure, worth more to me than a million-dollar deed.