New York is a battle ground, and in a battle ground it is easy to miss one teenager running through the rubble. Technically he shouldn’t have been there, that was what the National Guard was there for, to take the civilians away from the battle, but for some reason it seemed that this particular teenager had no problem running past the blockades, passing the National Guard and head towards the heat of the battle.
The teenager was stopped by an alien in front of him. A chitauri warrior, big, grey, and covered in alien armor. The entirely normal young American man with an internship at the white house and the ordinary chitauri warrior with undefinable place in the chitauri empires ranks, stood facing each other while the unholy sounds of battle echoed around them.
You have already lost. The chitauri told the boy, with language that neither the new yorkians nor the chitauri fighters around them would be able to understand, but which was both the boy’s and the warrior’s natural language. Do I look like I’m fucking losing! The boy with the golden hair answered, the bloodstain seeping through the back of his jacket. The boy swung his fist towards the alien, who blocked the blow, and retaliated with a swift kick.
The two danced together with experience and power that could have brought entire armies down. There were however certain rules which by both of them were bound, rules that had made sure that they would meet in the battlefield.
20 minutes before the portal over New York had opened, a boy named Alfred F Jones had been in Washington, drinking coffee in a coffee shop. 20 minutes before the portal had opened over New York, warrior Klaxer had been standing on the mother ship hull, next to the grand admiral. Then the portal had been opened and the Chitauri-empire started invading the United States of America.
No one has managed to invade me you know. You really think you’re gonna succeed!
I have brought down galactical empires before you were even born you young pathetic earthling! Breaking you and all of your kin will be nothing to me!
You talk a lot for an old geezer, maybe it would be time to retire!
The boy ripped of a traffic sign and swung the metal beam to crash against the alien’s head, who returned the favour by thrusting the end of a spear into the boy’s stomach. The dance continued bloodier and harder.
Far away from the battle a decision was made, and nuclear weapons were launched. In the heart of New York one Alfred F Jones was thrown on to the rubbled street, an alien boot pushing down on his throat, choking the bleeding blond. It wasn’t the alien above him that flooded the blonds mind with dread, it was what he suddenly could feel nearing him. He could faintly remember the cherry blossoms that had once blossomed near the Japanese hospital, and he was afraid.
Finally, you have realized your fate under my hands.
It’s not you I’m afraid of! The boy calls, with hysteria lacing his voice. The chitauri releases some of the pressure on the boy’s windpipe in confusion. The warrior is not as naïve and brash as the army mowing down the city around, this warrior has seen enough battles to sense when things are taking a turn.
There is fear mixed with anger and desperation in the blue eyes as the boy draws a gun and points it at the chitauri towering over him.
I’m sorry, but it’s rather you than me.
He shoots and the bullet lodges deep into the grey flesh.
Over the skies of New York, Tony Stark guides a nuclear missile to collide with the chitauri mother ship in the deep space.
Warior Klaxer howls in agony as the soldiers still hooked on to the life support of the mother ship lose their connection and fall to the ground, twitching and gasping for breath that is no longer being transmitted to their bodies and as millions are incarnated with the mother ship.
Alfred F Jones rises to up, legs shaking and blood dripping from his mouth. I would not try coming back for this planet again.
Warrior Klaxer teleports away, in a way only this particular group of beings can, to where the rest of his empire is, light years away.
Alfred F Jones is soon found by the National Guard who drag him to the doctors. In fifteen minutes he is claimed by the government agents, who wave the doctors away. Soon those the hospital workers will forget that they had a boy bleeding to death in their hands, who was then carried off into a black van.
The avengers each at one point glimpsed the blonde boy in the street, but cannot yet remember doing so.