It was a cool May morning in 2012; Central Park's sprawling lawns glistened with dew, tree branches swaying gently with summer's last green. My new cart—Tony Stark's high-tech van gift—had stood for two years at the park's south end, near 59th Street. I was 29 now; two years had passed since the Stark Expo 2010 chaos, my chest scar a faint memory. Iron Man 2's events were done—Tony and Rhodey had crushed Ivan Vanko, Natasha and Happy stopped the drones. I'd woken from a coma thanks to Steve Rogers' super-soldier blood, armed with Partial Super-Soldier Strength (Unique). That morning, before opening the cart, I summoned the system screen; my CST counter topped 50,000—points piled from Tony, Natasha, Steve, Peter, and countless customers. "Well… saved up a ton," I thought, grinning, "let's try it." Rank and tier progression was active; I tapped the screen:
"50,000 CST Upgrade Options: Knife Mastery (Rare > Unique), Acrobatics & Parkour Mastery (Rare > Unique), Butchery (Master > Expert)."
"Go big," I said, "all of 'em." I confirmed; a surge of energy coursed through me—hands nimbler, legs lighter, muscles stronger. "Whoa," I said, flexing my arm, "this'll make döner slicing art."
Unique ranks glowed on the screen:
Knife Mastery (Unique): "Unmatched speed, precision, and control with blades—every move a masterpiece; sharpness meets grace."
Acrobatics & Parkour Mastery (Unique): "Fluid, swift, elegant navigation through obstacles—pushing physical limits; defying gravity itself."
Expert tier:
Butchery (Expert): "Supreme skill in meat preparation—perfection in flavor and presentation; every slice a feast."
Before heading to the cart, I needed to burn energy—Partial Super-Soldier Strength (Unique) had me buzzing, my body itching to move. I slipped on black running shoes, threw on gray sweats, and hit Central Park's trails. Early morning hummed; joggers, dog walkers, the city waking under dawn's light. The breeze cooled my scar—old Ali was gone, my steps firm, breaths steady.
After running a bit, near the lake in the park's north, I spotted a familiar figure—tall, blond, muscular, jogging briskly in a blue tracksuit. I caught up, breathless, and glanced at his face; my eyes popped. "You…" I said, pausing, "you're the famous Captain America! I recognize you now. Thrilled to meet you." Steve Rogers turned, a faint smile breaking, "Hey, we meet again," he said, voice calm but friendly, blue eyes warm with familiarity. Steve, thawed in 2011, was living a lonely pre-Avengers life in New York—haunted by Peggy Carter, punching bags in his Brooklyn apartment to quell anger and isolation. But here, in Central Park, he was just a running buddy, not a mythic hero.
"You look good," Steve said, slowing to match my pace, "big congrats on recovering. Saw what happened at the Expo on the news. That was real courage." "Thanks," I said, scratching my head with a grin, "bit reckless, but… felt right—kid was tiny, y'know." Steve nodded, "Well done," he said, but I caught a flicker of concern in his eyes—like he was checking something, maybe watching me from afar. "So… how's your body? Feeling okay?" he asked, a hint of unease in his voice, words chosen carefully. I swore I heard him think, "Hope my blood didn't hurt him"—the system had clued me into his secret sacrifice, but I couldn't say it, and he couldn't confess outright.
"Actually, I feel stronger, full of energy," I said, chuckling as I flexed my arms, "maybe even a bit handsomer. Couple of cute girls asked for my number—guess my fame's growing in Queens." Steve let out a rare, hearty laugh. "Haha… really? That's the spirit," he said. "Feeling that good, let's race!" "You're on!" I said, jumping at the challenge. We sped up on the park's trails; Steve led, I trailed—not full super-soldier, but my Partial Super-Soldier Strength (Unique) and freshly upgraded Acrobatics & Parkour Mastery (Unique) closed the gap. We wove through trees, zipped by the lake; our breaths puffed clouds in the air. Passing joggers—girls—whispered, smiling, "That blond's so hot!" one said, another, "The dark-haired guy's not bad—check those muscles!" I shot Steve a grin, panting, "For a guy near 90, you're way too good-looking. Makes me feel bad." Steve laughed, "Serum side effect," he joked, but his eyes relaxed—he saw his blood hadn't harmed me, it'd made me stronger, and that eased him.
We ended our run at a bench by the lake, catching our breath, soaking in the park's morning quiet. Steve said, voice thoughtful, "What you did at the Expo… most couldn't. I was proud." "Thanks," I said, "but next to you, it's nothing. You're a legend—Captain America!" Steve dipped his head, sighing softly, "Not a legend," he said, "just did my duty—like you. You threw yourself in for that kid. That's real heroism." Then, a rumble cut through—an engine. A black SUV pulled up at the park's entrance, kicking up dust. Steve's face tightened, brows furrowing. "Gotta go," he said, standing, "catch you later, Ali." He shook my hand—firm but gentle—and strode to the SUV. The door opened; Nick Fury stepped out, black trench coat, one eye scanning sharply. This was The Avengers' kickoff—the Tesseract stolen by Loki, Fury rallying the Avengers Initiative. Steve was headed to a boxing gym with Fury—tomorrow, he'd be pummeling bags—but I was clueless about the crisis.
Back at my cart, I flung open the van's panels, fired up the döner skewer—the run had me starving, stomach growling. A Ding! flashed the system screen:
"CST: +75 (from Steve Rogers)."
I grinned—MCU headliners never skimped on points. "Steve," I thought, "your blood gave me life, but your friendship's worth more." I grabbed my döner knife—new Unique rank made my cuts swift, flawless; meat slices fell thin, like art. As park birds chirped, I prepped for Queens' new day—lahmacun hit the oven, tea brewed, simit crisped. "Running with a legend," I said to myself, "worth it." Central Park's peace wrapped me—Ali Usta, mobile vendor, had leveled up and gained a friend, all with heart and humility.