It was January 2013; seven months after the Battle of New York, life had bloomed like spring with Natasha's peaceful moments. I was 30—five years since landing in this world; from Stark Expo's chaos to kicking Loki, now slicing döner at my Central Park cart and sipping morning coffee with Natasha in Brooklyn. Natasha was 29—born 1984, Red Room's honed spy, Black Widow herself—but with me, just Natasha; my red-haired, heart-warming angel. Our love seemed impossible yet real, defying all—especially Queens' aunties, whose teasing I adored. That morning, wrapping lahmacun at my cart, an auntie, tea glass in hand, gaped, "Ali Usta, what? You're a vendor, but your girlfriend's an Avenger?" Shock and glee mixed in her voice. Natasha was beside me, nibbling simit behind the counter; our lips brushed, and a customer yelled, "Whoa!" "Yup," I grinned, winking at her, "So what? I'm kinda an unofficial Avenger—beat a god!" Natasha laughed, "Kicking doesn't count, Ali," she teased, smirking—but pride glinted in her green eyes. The auntie shook her head, "Oh, youth!" as her neighbor chuckled—our bond baffled folks, but to us, it was so natural, like nothing else could be.
I'd set up, döner skewer over the flame; köfte's scent mingled with the park's crisp air when a black limo appeared at 59th Street's entrance. Doors opened; Happy Hogan and Pepper Potts stepped out. Happy clutched a coffee, face sleepy as ever—Tony's driver and guard, loyal but clumsy. Pepper approached fast; blonde hair swayed, blue eyes heavy with worry—Stark Industries' CEO, Tony's girlfriend, his health her world. "Trouble?" I thought, leaning on the cart, setting my döner knife aside. "Ali, we need you," Pepper said, voice urgent but steady, hands wringing, "Tony's not okay. He's risking himself—sleepless, tinkering with suits, having nightmares." Happy nodded, "Since New York—since falling through that portal, something's eating him." I recalled Tony's Iron Man 3 phase—palladium poisoning was past, but Aldrich Killian and Extremis loomed; Tony's mind was stuck in that nuke, lost in the Chitauri void. "Got it, Ms. Potts," I said calmly, pulling an Ottoman Sherbet jug from under the counter, "Give him this regularly. He knows it—suggested it over chlorophyll during palladium days, worked too." Pepper's brows rose, "Really?" she said, surprised. "Yup," I smiled, "Even calmed Hulk post-rage—we used it on the Helicarrier. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s eyeing mass production, sponsored it. Hope it helps Tony some." Pepper took the jug, relief softening her face, "Thank you, Ali," she said, "We trust you—always got a fix." Happy muttered, "Guy's a wizard," sipping coffee—I thought, "Saving Tony's on me again?" but stayed quiet.
A Ding! flashed the system screen—not one, but two alerts:
"Main Event Quest 1: Captain America: The Winter Soldier - Stop S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Fall and the Winter Soldier - Reward: ???"
And:
"Main Event Quest 2: Iron Man 3 - Save Tony Stark from Extremis - Reward: ???"
My eyes popped, spatula clattering, "Damn it, how'd I forget?" I thought, heart racing. "How's it already that chaotic mess? This is nuts!" The system glowed silently—I couldn't reveal it, couldn't spill what I knew; Captain America: The Winter Soldier brought Hydra's S.H.I.E.L.D. takeover, Fury's near-assassination, and the Winter Soldier—Bucky Barnes—emerging. Meanwhile, Iron Man 3 had Tony's Malibu home razed by choppers, Killian's Extremis soldiers rising. "Why's saving the world always on me, System?" I groaned, head in hands, "God, keep me sane." Natasha wasn't there—she'd left for a S.H.I.E.L.D. mission, likely with Fury in D.C., nearing her Winter Soldier clash with Steve. "Where do I start?" I thought, panicking—two massive events, and me in the middle, sherbet jug in hand.
Then I recalled recent months; beyond Natasha's serene days, morning runs with Steve Rogers were routine—Steve moved to D.C. post-New York but often hit Central Park for runs; I joined him. Mortal Divine Body (Epic) kept my pace close, cementing our bond. One day, running to the VA Hospital, we met Sam Wilson—ex-paratrooper, Air Force retiree, future Falcon. Steve, as usual, passed Sam, yelling, "On your left!" his classic jab; I zipped by Sam's right, "On your right, bro!" I grinned—Espionage & Assassination Mastery (Epic) sharpened my agility. Sam stopped, panting, hands on knees, "Come on! Cap I get, but what are you?" he griped—I cracked up. Steve laughed, "Tough catching Ali, Sam!" slapping my shoulder—those were peaceful, simple days; meeting Sam, bonding with Steve… But now, everything shifted; that track felt like a distant memory.
After Pepper and Happy left in the limo, I stood alone at the cart—Central Park's trees rustled, döner's scent drifted, but my mind spun. "Two main quests at once," I thought, "save Tony from Extremis, help Steve with Winter Soldier… Can't reveal the System, can't spill anything—how do I fix this madness?" I eyed the sherbet jug—might ease Tony's stress, but Extremis' fiery soldiers and Winter Soldier's metal arm… "Where to begin?" I said, staring skyward—Queens' calm streets held me, a vendor with a huge burden; Natasha's absence ached. "God, keep me sane," I muttered—happy days were brief; my love with Natasha was real, but the world slid to chaos again, and I, döner knife in hand, stood in the storm's eye. "Alright, Ali," I told myself, "back to work."