Anthony glanced at the enraged Thor, then at the trembling legs on the ground.
"Sorry," he shrugged, his expression disarmingly innocent. "He yelled at me first."
"You—!" Thor took a step forward, Mjölnir crackling with thunder.
"Thor, stop!" Captain America stepped between them, shield raised.
"Steve," Thor growled, electricity arcing from his hammer, "he attacked my brother!"
Steve's gaze hardened. "Loki started this. Look outside—how many people has your brother killed today, Thor?"
Thor's shoulders slumped. He exhaled sharply, then slowly lowered Mjölnir. "...He's not my blood brother," he muttered, stepping aside with clear reluctance.
Steve turned to Anthony, his tone shifting to one of cautious gratitude. "We appreciate your help, friend. But we need to know—who are you? One of Fury's agents?"
Anthony turned, offering a calm, friendly smile. "It was nothing, Captain Rogers."
Steve blinked. "You know me?"
"Of course." Anthony extended his hand. "Steve Rogers—Captain America. A hero from World War II. Your story… is legendary."
Steve shook his hand. The grip was firm, warm—and carried an unmistakable sense of resolve.
"I am—" Anthony began.
Suddenly, Nick Fury's voice cut through every comms unit:
"Stark, do you read me?!"
Tony's reply crackled back instantly: "Yeah, what now?!"
"They launched a nuke. It's inbound—Manhattan, three minutes out."
Silence. Then panic.
"Three minutes?!" Tony's voice spiked. "That thing levels half the city!"
"I can intercept it!" Without hesitation, Iron Man shot toward the window. "JARVIS—reroute all power to thrusters!"
"Tony, don't!" Steve shouted.
"No choice!" Tony grabbed the missile mid-ascent and strained to redirect it toward the Chitauri portal above Stark Tower.
"JARVIS," Tony whispered, "send Pepper my—"
"What a noble sacrifice," a calm voice interrupted—not through the comms, but seemingly in his ear.
Tony twisted in midair—and froze.
Flying backward, effortlessly matching his speed, was Anthony. No suit. No thrusters. Just a red-and-blue figure streaking through the sky like a comet.
"Tony Stark," Anthony said gently, "you're a hero. You shouldn't die here."
"Who are you?" Tony gasped.
"The world still needs you," Anthony replied, offering a faint, sorrowful smile—as if he'd already accepted his own fate. "But someone has to carry this burden."
Before Tony could react, the missile beneath him… vanished.
He looked down in disbelief. Gone.
Anthony now cradled the warhead in his arms, accelerating toward the portal at a speed that dwarfed Iron Man's top thrust.
"Wait—that's my nuke!" Tony yelled. "You just—stole a nuclear bomb?!"
"No!!" Tony screamed, skidding to a halt at the portal's edge, watching helplessly as the crimson-and-cobalt blur vanished into the alien wormhole.
---
On the ground…
Steve Rogers pulled back his cowl, eyes fixed on the sky. His jaw tightened.
"...We owe him more than a favor."
---
The void beyond.
The Chitauri mothership loomed ahead, vast and ominous.
Anthony adjusted his grip on the warhead. "Alright," he murmured. "Let's finish this."
Just before releasing it, his enhanced senses swept the vessel—X-ray vision flaring instinctively through hulls and corridors…
He saw the engines. The command center. Tens of thousands of Chitauri soldiers swarming through the corridors like insects.
Then… he spotted a special compartment.
Deep within another sector of the mothership, sealed inside a massive energy shield, lay something that made his breath catch.
"Holy crap… children?"
Hundreds of unconscious human children—piled like cargo inside a colossal biological life-support pod.
"They're not just invading," Anthony muttered, jaw tightening. "They're stockpiling."
His mind raced.
A hero who "sacrifices" himself? Sure, that earns applause.
But…
What if that same hero miraculously returns—not only alive, but dragging an entire shipload of kidnapped children to safety?
That wouldn't just be heroic.
That would make him a god among men.
A grin spread across his face—so radiant, so beatific, it outshone every practiced smile he'd ever given.
"This…" he whispered, eyes gleaming, "is a script sent straight from heaven."
His time was running out.
Without hesitation, he shifted course, released the missile he'd been riding, and plowed straight through the mothership's hull.
Alarms shrieked inside the alien vessel.
Chitauri soldiers swarmed him, firing wildly—but he didn't flinch. His heat vision lashed out in sweeping arcs, vaporizing everything in his path as he charged toward the massive containment unit.
"Open. Now."
He slammed his fist into the energy shield.
Buzz—!
A blinding surge of electricity arced between his knuckles and the barrier.
Not enough.
"Aaaaaahh—!"
He roared, pouring every ounce of strength into one final strike.
CRACK!
The shield shattered.
Metal screamed as he tore open the outer shell, ripped the entire life-support pod from its moorings, and hefted it onto his back.
"Hold on tight, little ones!" he called, voice softer now—just for them.
Then he spun around and blasted toward the hole he'd made, the mothership collapsing behind him in a storm of fire and debris.
---
New York City. Beneath the portal.
"He's been in there too long…" Natasha's voice was quiet, strained.
"…He's not coming back," Stark murmured, hovering just above the ruined streets.
Captain America stared up at the fading portal, fists clenched.
Just as the gateway began to seal—
"Look! What's that?!" a NYPD officer shouted, pointing skyward.
A streak of fire tore through the violet sky.
It was him.
Superman—no, Anthony—burst from the portal, shoving a massive, capsule-like object ahead of him.
The instant he cleared the threshold, the portal snapped shut.
Across the city, the Chitauri forces froze—then crumpled, lifeless.
The battle… was over.
"He did it," Stark breathed.
"But—wait!" Cap pointed. "He's… passing out!"
Indeed, Anthony's body went limp midair, the pod still clutched in his arms as they both began to plummet.
"Tony—!" Natasha yelled.
"I'm on it!" Stark thrust forward—
—when suddenly, Anthony's eyes snapped open.
Act. Play the whole thing through.
With perfect timing, he "jolted" awake, "struggled" to stabilize himself in the air, and slowed his descent with agonizing effort. Then—with cinematic grace—he lifted the pod once more and descended in a pose worthy of myth: back straight, cape (or whatever he's wearing) billowing, eyes burning with quiet resolve.
BOOM!
He landed at the heart of Grand Central Terminal—now a cratered ruin, but still standing.
Survivors, soldiers, and reporters alike stood frozen, staring.
Every camera. Every phone. Every eye—locked onto him.
To sell the exhaustion, Anthony dropped to one knee, gently setting the pod on the cracked marble floor. He swayed slightly, then pushed himself upright with visible effort.
A reporter stepped forward, voice trembling:
"Who… who are you?"