My lungs were staging a protest. My legs were heavy, like they were filled with wet cement.
"Status," I wheezed, mostly to myself.
[STATUS UPDATE] [Stamina: 12/100 (RECOVERING SLOWLY)] [Debuff: "Civilian Lungs" - Movement speed reduced by 15%.]
"Civilian lungs," I muttered bitterally. "I'd like to see the System dev run six blocks in a warzone."
We were crossing Park Avenue. The battle had evolved from a chaotic skirmish into a grinding siege. The Chitauri weren't just dropping indiscriminately anymore; they were securing perimeters.
"Left!" Steve shouted.
He grabbed the back of my hoodie and yanked me behind a burning city bus just as a spray of plasma fire scorched the asphalt where I had been standing.
"Thanks," I gasped.
"You're slowing down," Steve noted. He wasn't judging, just stating a tactical fact. "We need to find cover so you can catch your breath."
"No cover," a female voice crackled over the comms earwig Steve was wearing. I could hear it faintly. "I'm pinned down at the overpass. Could use a little shield action, Cap."
Steve tapped his ear. "On my way, Romanoff. Sit tight." He looked at me. "Can you make it one more block?"
I nodded, gripping the alien staff until my knuckles turned white. "Lead the way."
We found Black Widow not fighting, but dancing.
That's what it looked like. She was surrounded by four Chitauri soldiers. She didn't have armor or a shield; she had two glocks and a terrifying amount of agility. She vaulted off a car hood, wrapped her legs around an alien's neck, and used its own momentum to flip it into the path of another one's blast.
Bang. Bang. Two clean headshots finished them off.
It was mesmerizing. It was also terrifying. Seeing it in a movie is one thing; seeing a human being move with that kind of lethal fluidity in real life triggers a very primal 'do not mess with this predator' instinct.
Steve charged in to clean up the last two, his shield clanging against armor.
I hung back, leaning against a debris pile, trying to look useful while actually just trying not to pass out.
[ENTITY DETECTED] [Name: Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)] [Threat Level: EXTREME] [Note: She detects lies better than this System detects bugs. Proceed with caution.]
As the last alien fell, Natasha holstered her weapons and turned to us. Her hair was a mess of red curls, her face streaked with soot. Her eyes swept over Steve, checked for injuries, and then landed on me.
It felt like being scanned by an X-ray machine.
"Who's the stray?" she asked, her voice cool and professional.
"This is Atlas," Steve said, retracting his shield. "He's with me. Helped me clear 42nd."
Natasha walked toward me. She didn't walk like a soldier; she walked like a cat. Silent. Deliberate. She stopped three feet away, looking at the Chitauri staff in my hand, then at my brand-new sneakers, then at my face.
"Civilian?" she asked.
"Technically," I said. My voice cracked. Smooth, Atlas. Real smooth.
"He knows about the portal," Steve interjected, sensing the tension. "He says Selvig built a failsafe into the scepter."
Natasha's eyes narrowed by a fraction of a millimeter. "Does he?"
She stepped closer. The smell of gunpowder and expensive perfume hit me.
"You're not S.H.I.E.L.D.," she stated. It wasn't a question. "You move like a civilian, you hold that weapon like a baseball bat, and your pulse is visible in your neck. But you have intel that even Fury doesn't have."
[DIALOGUE CHALLENGE INITIATED] [Opponent: Black Widow] [Difficulty: NIGHTMARE] [Goal: Gain her trust without revealing your origin.]
I swallowed. If I lied to her, she'd know. If I told the truth, she'd think I was insane or a threat.
"I observe," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I see patterns. Like how you're favoring your left side because of a rib injury you took in Calcutta last week."
I didn't actually see that. I just remembered the movie The Avengers opened with her tied to a chair in Russia, and then Banner mentioned Calcutta. It was a gamble.
Natasha froze. Just for a second.
[SKILL CHECK: BLUFF (Modified by Meta-Knowledge)] [Result: SUCCESS]
She tilted her head. "You're an analyst?"
"Something like that," I equivocated. "Look, Agent Romanoff, I don't care about your secrets. I just want to survive this. And right now, the only way I survive is if you guys win. So I'm helping."
She held my gaze for three agonizing seconds. Then, she smirked. It was a terrifying expression.
"Alright, 'Atlas'," she said. "But if you point that stick at my back, I'll shoot you before you can blink. Clear?"
"Crystal," I said.
"Good." She tapped her comms. "Clint, status?"
"I'm in the nest," Hawkeye's voice came through, loud enough for me to hear now that we were grouped up. "Got eyes on everything. Thor's engaging Loki on the tower. It's getting messy."
"We need to get up there," Steve said, looking at the looming Stark Tower.
"We can't walk," Natasha said, pointing down the avenue. "The streets are gridlocked with those things."
I looked. She was right. A fresh wave of Chitauri chariots was strafing the street, turning the pavement into a kill zone.
I looked at the System.
[ENVIRONMENTAL SCAN] [Opportunity Detected.] [Object: Chitauri Chariot (Damaged but functional)] [Location: Crashed on the second-story balcony to your right.]
I pointed up.
"We don't walk," I said, a crazy idea forming in my head. "We fly."
Steve and Natasha looked up at the smoking alien vehicle lodged in the balcony of a bank.
"You know how to fly one of those?" Natasha asked skeptically.
"No," I said honestly. " But I'm pretty sure I can hotwire it."
Or at least, I thought, staring at the blue "Hack" interface hovering over the vehicle, the System can.
"Give me a boost, Cap," I said.
Steve looked at Natasha. She shrugged. "Better than walking."
Steve laced his fingers together. "Up you go, Atlas."
I stepped into his hands, and he launched me. For a second, I was flying. Then I scrambled onto the balcony, breathless, staring at the alien machine.
[INTERACT: Chitauri Chariot] [Action: OVERRIDE CONTROLS] [Cost: 40 Mana (Wait, I have Mana now?)]
I slammed my hand onto the console. The machine whined to life, hovering unsteadily.
"Okay," I yelled down at them, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and excitement. "Get on! Uber's here!"
Natasha looked at Steve. "I'm starting to like him."
"Don't get attached," Steve said, jumping up to join me. "He's exhausted."
As we lifted off, wobbling dangerously over the war-torn streets of New York, I realized something.
I wasn't just watching the movie anymore. I was rewriting the scenes. And God help me, it was addictive.