It was a sweltering May afternoon in 2012; under my cart's awning in Central Park, shaded by cool trees, I served Queens' summer crowd as my döner skewer spun lazily. The sun blazed high, grass's scent mingling with the air; kids queued for simit, tourists sampled Ottoman Sherbet with curiosity. Yesterday's morning run with Steve Rogers lingered in my mind—Partial Super-Soldier Strength (Unique) had my body buzzing, and my newly upgraded Knife Mastery (Unique) turned döner slicing into artistry, my blade dancing like a masterpiece. My phone rang; "Tony Stark" flashed on the screen. "Yo, Mr. Stark," I said cheerfully, knife in hand, "craving sherbet again?" Tony's voice crackled, rushed but playful: "King, got an urgent order—50 lahmacuns, 5 liters of churned ayran, 5 liters of Ottoman Sherbet, 5 kilos of ice cream baklava, 30 simits. Prep it now, chopper's coming." "Chopper?" I said, stunned, dropping my knife on the counter. "You pulling my leg, Mr. Stark?" Tony laughed, "No jokes, emergency service. Be ready, pilot won't ask questions!" The line went dead. "A chopper?" I muttered, eyes wide. "This guy's lost it." But I knew Tony—post-The Avengers' Loki capture in Germany, he was on the Helicarrier, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s floating fortress. Unbeknownst to me, he was summoning me to that secret base.
I sprang into action; my Baker (Master) and Confectioner (Master) skills churned out crispy lahmacuns, frothy ayran, chilled sherbet. I packed ice cream baklavas in thermal bags, simits wrapped carefully—everything set. Ten minutes later, a roar echoed over the park's clearing; a sleek black helicopter, S.H.I.E.L.D. logo gleaming, touched down on the grass. Dust swirled, kids scampered off. The pilot, in black uniform and shades, opened the door. "Here for the order?" he said curtly, nodding me in. "Yeah," I said, hauling bags aboard, "thanks." Settling into a seat, unease grew—this was no normal delivery. The chopper lifted off; Queens' apartments and Central Park's green shrank below, then something loomed on the horizon—massive, gray, hovering, engines glowing blue. "Hold up… holy crap, is that a flying ship?" I said, voice shaky. "Uh, excuse me, pilot sir… we sure this is Mr. Stark's order drop?" No reply, just a nod, lips tight. "Damn it…" I thought, "that's the Helicarrier from the movies, isn't it? Tony Stark, you've screwed me." The chopper landed on the deck; doors opened, I stepped out with bags, wind whipping my hair. "I'm toast now," I mumbled, scanning around.
On the deck stood Nick Fury—black trench coat, one eye piercing, brows furrowed, hands on hips. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s director was rallying the Avengers Initiative after Loki stole the Tesseract. "You… the vendor kid?" he said, voice gruff, shock laced with irritation. "What're you doing here?" My hands shook, I set the bags down, steadying myself. "Hello," I said, standing tall like a soldier—fear made my voice quiver—"I remember you, Mr. Fury, right? Uh, sorry, sir… brought Mr. Stark's order: 50 lahmacuns, 5 liters of churned ayran, 5 liters of Ottoman Sherbet, 5 kilos of ice cream baklava, 30 simits. Turkish coffee and tea are my treat, sir. At your service." Fury's eye twitched, veins bulging at his temples—he glared so fiercely I'd rambled like I was reporting for duty. "Tony Stark, you said?" he barked, voice rising, anger echoing off the ship's steel. "He ordered food in the middle of this crisis?" Fury paused, exhaling hard—post-Loki's capture, the Helicarrier hosted a tense meeting, but Tony, classic Tony, had blindsided everyone.
Fury handed me to an agent—"Take him to the conference room," he said, still fuming. Bags in hand, I trekked through metal corridors—Helicarrier's interior cold, gray, high-tech; screens flickered, agents hustled. At the conference room, doors slid open, and the sight stopped me. The Avengers-to-be sat around a table—their first meeting after nabbing Loki in Germany. Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Thor—no Hawkeye, under Loki's control. Tension hung thick; Steve's arms crossed, Natasha's brows knit, Tony unfazed as ever. I walked in with bags, and all eyes turned—stunned silence. "Hey, folks," I said, grinning to break the ice, "Natasha, been a while, how's it going? Cap, we ran just yesterday—talk about fate!" Natasha and Steve froze, then smiled—they were used to my earnest goofiness. "Your friendly, respectful, joking pal's here," I said, setting bags on the table. Natasha's eyes sparkled, "Good to see you, Ali," she said, "another surprise." Steve clapped my shoulder, chuckling, "Even as a delivery guy, you're a hero."
Tony stood, "Guys, this is Ali Usta—the King of Vendors!" he said, introducing me to Thor and Bruce. Thor, long golden hair and towering presence, boomed, "A friend from Midgard?" His handshake nearly crushed my bones. Bruce, bespectacled and calm, said, "Hi," shaking gently—Hulk's rage wore him down, but his face held peace. "Their first Turkish food," Tony said, grinning, "dig in." I laid out the spread—crisp lahmacuns, frothy ayran, cool sherbet, syrupy baklavas; simits, tea, coffee as my treat. "Crisis meeting or picnic?" I thought, but they dove in. Thor devoured ten lahmacuns, "I adore this lahmacun!" he said, mouth full. "Do you deliver to Asgard, Midgardian friend?" Tony laughed, "Thor, easy, don't ship Ali to space!" Bruce sipped Ottoman Sherbet, eyes closing, "Can I get this recipe?" he said. "It's… exactly what I need. Calming." He smiled faintly—sherbet's soothing touch eased his tense soul. Then a Ding! rang in my ears; a system screen flashed:
"The Avengers Main Event Quest: Loki's Conspiracy - The Battle of New York is about to erupt due to Loki's trap. Boost the Avengers' morale with your food, unite them as a team, and survive - Reward: ???"
"Holy…" I thought, tea tray trembling in my hands, "this is too much… another timeline slip?" Loki would attack the Helicarrier, sparking the Chitauri invasion in New York—The Avengers' big fight loomed. "Why's this stuff always happen to me?" I muttered. "When's this quest gonna end?" As the Avengers ate, I poured tea—Tony, wrapping a lahmacun, said, "King, you saved the day again." Natasha smiled, "Your food's always a unifier." Steve nodded, joking, "Room for you on this team." Thor and Bruce kept praising; my meal sparked joy at the table, but tension lingered—sirens wailed in the corridors, signaling Loki's plot closing in. The quest rolled on; I, Ali the vendor, stood smack in the MCU's heart, teapot in hand.