The Chitauri came like a tide of screaming metal. And just as suddenly, they were gone.
In the moment the portal above Manhattan finally sealed itself shut, a profound, eerie silence fell over New York City. The high-pitched whine of alien engines ceased. The thunder of explosions died. The Chitauri soldiers, moments before engines of relentless slaughter, went limp. Their skiffs fell from the sky like stones, crashing into streets and buildings, while the colossal, lifeless husks of the Leviathans drifted down to become new, mountainous additions to the city's ruined skyline.
Loki, the would-be conqueror, was in chains. The remnants of his invading army were now just inert, ugly statues. The Earth had been defended. A victory had been won. That was the good news.
The bad news was the city they had saved. New York was a smoking, shattered ruin. The five blocks surrounding Stark Tower, the epicenter of the battle, were no longer a part of the city; they were a new, jagged canyon carved into the heart of Manhattan, a testament to the sheer violence of the conflict.
Aboard the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, the atmosphere was a mixture of exhaustion, relief, and adrenaline. The Avengers, bruised and battered, stood together on the bridge, having just watched Tony Stark get jolted back to life. It was a moment of tense, shared victory.
"Stark, you're a madman," Captain America said, a tired but genuine smile on his face.
Tony, still lying on the deck, just grinned weakly. "You're just finding that out now?"
Their brief moment of levity was cut short by the crisp, professional voice of Commander Maria Hill in their earpieces. "Congratulations on the win, Avengers. But we have a developing situation I need you to be aware of."
A holographic display shimmered to life before them, showing a satellite map of New York City overlaid with thermal imaging and damage assessment data. Most of the damage was, as expected, concentrated in Manhattan. But a single, angry red blotch pulsed far from the main battlefield.
"We have a major anomaly in Queens," Hill stated, her voice devoid of emotion. "Jackson Heights, sector gamma-seven. It's not collateral damage. The data shows a coordinated, focused… sterilization of a single city block. According to data streams, multiple Chitauri squads converged on that location in the final stages of the battle. Their comms chatter, what we could translate of it, was filled with rage."
The heroes looked at the display, their celebratory mood evaporating. It made no tactical sense.
"Why?" Steve Rogers asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What was there?"
"Unknown," Hill replied. "The area is a low-income residential zone. No strategic value whatsoever. An analysis team is already en route. For now, just know that all Chitauri life signals have disappeared. We've won, Captain."
A collective sigh of relief went through the team. They had won. But as they looked at the smoking map of the city, the victory felt heavy, and the strange anomaly in Queens was a question left hanging in the air.
That night, the world learned their names.
News channels from Tokyo to London broadcast the same unbelievable footage, and the six heroes who had stood against the alien tide were officially born into legend. Steve Rogers, Captain America, the man out of time, returned as a symbol of hope. Tony Stark, the invincible Iron Man. Thor, the literal god of thunder. Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton, the deadly spies Black Widow and Hawkeye. And the Hulk, the untamable green monster, now an ally of humanity.
Less reputable channels dug up gossip and unofficial histories, but the main story was the same: the world was no longer alone, and it had protectors. Captain America's popularity exploded; a nation rediscovered its lost icon, a living piece of history returned to save the future.
While the world was celebrating, Hawk was eating bread.
He sat on the cold concrete floor of a cavernous airport hangar, a temporary shelter for the newly homeless. The air smelled of jet fuel, dust, and human misery. Around him, families huddled together under thin blankets, their faces numb with shock. On a small, eighteen-inch television someone had set up, a news anchor was breathlessly recounting the life story of Captain America.
Hawk chewed his dry, tasteless relief meal and watched with detached curiosity. The heroes on the screen seemed like characters from another reality. The world was celebrating their victory, while he and hundreds of others were the forgotten footnotes, the collateral damage swept into a hangar at LaGuardia Airport.
His entire block, the one Maria Hill had flagged as an anomaly, was gone. Half an hour after the battle ended, a fleet of unmarked black cars had arrived, and men in pristine black suits had cordoned off the entire area with yellow tape. Federal martial law, they'd said. No entry.
A man sitting near Hawk, a large, burly construction worker, suddenly buried his face in his hands. His shoulders began to shake, and a soft, choked sob quickly turned into a raw, heartbroken wail.
Another survivor, an older man with a kind face, shuffled over and put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, what's wrong? It's over now. We're safe."
"My house…" the burly man cried, his voice muffled. "It's gone. Everything. It's all gone."
"I know, I know," the older man said soothingly. "Mine too. But don't worry, we have insurance. They'll take care of it."
It was meant to be a comforting thought. Instead, the man cried even harder, his wails now filled with a new, sharper despair.
"What is it?" the older man asked, bewildered. "Didn't you buy insurance?"
"Yes, I did!" the man sobbed, looking up with red, swollen eyes. "I just called them. I called the insurance company." He took a shuddering breath. "They said… they said alien invasion is an exemption clause. A force majeure. An 'Act of God'. It's not covered."
The words hung in the cold air of the hangar. The older man's comforting expression froze, then slowly morphed into one of dawning horror.
"What? Exempt?"
"No way…" another person whispered nearby.
"They… they can't do that, can they?"
A frantic scramble for cell phones rippled through the crowd. A wave of hushed, desperate calls followed, each one ending in a new cry of despair. In the span of a minute, the hangar transformed from a place of quiet misery into a symphony of wailing as hundreds of people realized, all at once, that they had truly lost everything.
Hawk, surrounded by the chorus of grief, felt a brief, empathetic pang of sadness. His home was gone too.
But then, his pragmatic mind kicked in. Wait a minute.
His apartment wasn't his home. It was a temporary welfare unit, a cage with a timer. He was scheduled to be kicked out next year when he turned eighteen anyway. That was why he had saved every single penny, amassing his thirty-thousand-dollar survival fund. He was always going to be homeless. This disaster had simply moved up the timeline.
He looked at the sobbing, broken people around him. Their worlds had just been shattered. His had been shattered a lifetime ago. He felt a profound, unbridgeable chasm separate him from them. He was not one of them.
The mood in the hangar was turning ugly, the grief curdling into a desperate, volatile anger. Hawk, sensing the shift, quietly got to his feet. He had seen enough desperation in his life to know it often led to violence. He had no intention of being here when it did.
He slipped out of the hangar and into the cool night air, leaving the sounds of weeping behind.