John's gaze tracked the streak of red and gold that was Tony Stark, clinging desperately to the plummeting nuclear missile. A frown creased John's brow. This isn't right, he thought, a flicker of unease stirring within him. Stark was supposed to steer this thing into the portal, not ride it down into the heart of the city. The plot, as he understood it, was veering wildly off course. The bomb was falling—and fast.
A grim, almost detached amusement flickered in John's eyes; a cynical part of him wouldn't shed a tear if New York got a taste of atomic fire. But the Avengers were down there. People he knew. That complicated things considerably.
With a decisive, almost casual flick of his wand, John vanished from his vantage point, reappearing in an instant—impossibly—on the cold, curved casing of the nuclear missile. He leaned towards the struggling Iron Man, whose suit was clearly failing. "Need a hand?"
Tony, watching in horrified disbelief as his suit's energy reserves flatlined, was dumbfounded by John's sudden appearance. He quickly replayed the recent events in his mind: the overwhelming number of Chitauri soldiers, the constant barrage of attacks—it had all drained his armor far faster than anticipated. Now, with critical systems failing, he lacked the power to guide the missile upwards.
Hearing John's voice cut through the roar of the wind and the whine of the failing thrusters, Tony shouted back, his voice strained, "John? Thank God! Help me—I don't have enough energy!"
John, in a manner that defied all known laws of physics, anchored himself to the missile's exterior with one hand. He extended his wand towards Tony, his voice calm amidst the chaos. "I can't recharge your suit up here, but I can make this thing a little easier for you to fly."
Tony seized on the offer. If the missile's crushing weight could be reduced, even slightly, his remaining thruster power might just be enough. "Do it! Let's go!" he yelled, a desperate resolve hardening his voice, ready to face whatever came next.
John merely nodded, then with a precise wave of his wand, he incanted one of Hogwarts' most fundamental spells. "Wingardium Leviosa."
The Levitation Charm took hold, not to make the missile float freely, but to subtly counteract the relentless pull of gravity, lessening its dead weight. Tony felt an immediate difference; the strain on his failing suit eased. With a surge of renewed determination, he diverted all remaining power to his thrusters, pushing the nuclear missile upward, towards the shimmering, otherworldly portal.
Under the anxious gaze of everyone below, the missile, now guided by Iron Man and lightened by John's magic, arced towards the gaping maw in the sky. Chitauri soldiers, pouring from the portal, attempted to intercept, but John, standing impossibly firm on the ascending bomb, waved his wand. Beams of crimson light shot out, striking the aliens, sending them tumbling lifelessly back into the void.
"You don't have any armor, John!" Tony yelled, his voice laced with genuine alarm. "Get out of here! Hurry!"
They were nearing the threshold of space. A shimmering layer of golden scales began to spread across John's exposed face, a subtle, draconic defense against the harsh environment. He ignored Tony's warning, and with another flick of his wand, unleashed a potent Blasting Curse that vaporized a cluster of Chitauri attempting to block their path.
Tony knew he was out of time. Any further delay and the nuclear warhead would detonate. With a grim acceptance, he plunged through the portal, John still with him.
The suffocating vacuum of space instantly enveloped them. Tony's suit, already depleted, lost all contact with the ground systems. The lights on his armor flickered and died. "Sorry, John," he managed to transmit, his voice weak, before succumbing to the void.
A silent, breathtakingly grand fireworks display erupted in the cold darkness of space. The expanding shockwave of fire and light engulfed the Chitauri mother-ship, obliterating it and its command structure in an instant.
Tony, his suit now inert, drifted powerlessly, the terrifying sensation of asphyxiation taking hold.
Witnessing this cosmic destruction alongside him, though in a vastly different state, was John. He had detached from the missile moments before its cataclysmic flight into the enemy vessel.
In the stark, silent expanse, a beacon of light appeared before Tony's dimming vision. A pair of magnificent golden wings, unfurled against the star-dusted canvas of space. John floated, his face covered in those intricate scales, his hair now a stark white, utterly unharmed by the vacuum.
"What a grand fireworks display," John murmured, his voice a low hum that somehow carried in the void, admiring the spectacle of annihilation. He glanced sideways at Tony's lifeless form drifting nearby and shook his head, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. "It's a pity I'm the only one who can truly appreciate it."
He reached out, grabbed the unconscious Tony, and with a powerful, almost contemptuous heave, threw him back towards the rapidly closing portal.
Below, on the ravaged streets of Manhattan, the Chitauri soldiers, their cybernetic bodies suddenly deprived of the central hive-mind control, faltered and died. Their metallic forms rained down from the sky, a grotesque parody of a storm. Falling Leviathans and warships, now pilotless, crashed into skyscrapers, adding to the already catastrophic destruction. Prosperous Manhattan was rapidly transforming into a smoldering ruin.
The Avengers, gathered amidst the debris, looked skyward, a silent, desperate prayer in their hearts for the swift and safe return of their two comrades. But the longer they waited, the more their hope dwindled.
"Close it." Steve Rogers' voice was heavy, his gaze fixed on the fading light from the distant explosion in space. He knew, with a grim certainty, that there was no more time. If the portal wasn't sealed now, the radioactive fallout and the raw energy from the nuclear blast would cascade down into Manhattan, finishing what the Chitauri had started.
Hearing Steve's command, Natasha Romanoff gritted her teeth. She aimed the Mind Scepter towards the apex of the Tesseract-powered machine, pushing it into the device. The energy flow was instantly disrupted; the stable wormhole, its safety mechanisms now overridden, began to collapse.
The shimmering portal in the sky above Stark Tower gradually contracted, shrinking, then finally winking out of existence. The Avengers lowered their heads, a heavy silence falling over them. Had their teammates truly sacrificed themselves?
Suddenly, a lone figure plummeted from the sky. A collective gasp, then a wave of relief and smiles broke out among those who witnessed it.
"Wait," Thor's keen eyes narrowed. "John isn't with him. And Stark isn't slowing down!"
Natasha's head snapped up, her eyes frantically scanning the empty patch of sky where the portal had been. The gateway was gone, and John was nowhere to be seen. "No," she whispered, a cold dread seeping into her heart. Was John dead? Left behind?
Just as Tony's inert form was about to impact the unforgiving pavement, a loud crack of displaced air echoed beside him. In the same instant, a figure materialized, snatching him from his fall. Simultaneously, the Hulk, with a mighty roar, had launched himself upwards, intent on a rescue.
As the Hulk reached the apex of his leap, ready to catch Tony, his massive green eyes widened in surprise. John Wick was there, already holding Stark, and offering him a casual greeting.
"Hello, big guy." John then adjusted his grip on Tony and, with another crack of Apparition, vanished.
The Hulk, his rescue attempt thwarted, missed entirely, crashing with monumental force into the side of a nearby building.
A moment later, Tony and John reappeared on the ground. John unceremoniously dropped the heavy Iron Man suit, sending Tony rolling five or six times across the debris-strewn street before coming to a stop.
Thor let out a booming laugh, a wide grin spreading across his face. "I knew you wouldn't die that easily!"
John rubbed his wrist, a slight grimace on his face. He had to admit, even with his efforts to magically lighten it, Tony's armor was still not exactly featherlight.
"You were alright in space?" Thor asked, his curiosity piqued. Apart from Asgardians and a select few other beings, most races didn't fare well in the vacuum. It was one of the reasons Asgardians were often revered as gods.
"It was rather dull, actually," John replied nonchalantly.
As he finished speaking, the Hulk, still fuming from his missed catch, leaped down from the building wall with a ground-shaking thud.
"Is he still breathing?" Steve, noticing Tony hadn't moved, rushed over to check his condition. Thor ripped off Tony's faceplate, revealing a flushed, red face.
"What's wrong with him?" Thor wondered aloud.
As if on cue, Tony's eyes fluttered open, and he promptly vomited. Thor, thankfully, dodged with lightning reflexes. A collective groan and expressions of disgust rippled through the assembled heroes.
"Oh, my gods."
"What on earth did he eat?"
After emptying the contents of his stomach, Tony seemed to regain some clarity. He smacked his lips, a dazed look in his eyes. "Who ate spaghetti with tomato sauce and then kissed me?"
Everyone silently glanced at the mess on the ground.
John shook his head. "Your tolerance for Apparition is worse than Natasha's." Indeed, Natasha had also been sick after her first experience with side-along Apparition, but at least she hadn't lost her breakfast.
Tony, still disoriented, hadn't quite registered John's comment. He was, surprisingly, already in a playful mood, despite the near-death experience and the subsequent public purging. A sudden craving hit him, likely due to his now-empty stomach.
"Ever had shawarma?" he asked, looking around at the team. "There's a shawarma joint about two blocks from here. Don't know what it tastes like, but I suddenly really want to try it."
Seeing that he was otherwise unharmed, the team decided to overlook the fact that they'd almost been showered with his regurgitated lunch.
Loki awoke with a groan, his head throbbing. It felt as if he'd been trapped in an unending, torturous dream. He struggled to sit up, panting heavily, leaning against the cold, damaged steps of what remained of Stark Tower's platform to catch his breath.
Suddenly, the dim light behind him was blocked by several imposing figures. He looked back, his heart sinking. The Avengers stood there, their expressions grim. Clint Barton, Hawkeye, had an arrow nocked, the point aimed directly at Loki's eye, ready to give him a rather permanent cyclops look.
Loki managed a weak, wry smile. He knew he was utterly defeated. "If it's all the same to you," he rasped, "I'll have that drink now."
John wasn't part of the victorious tableau. He stood off to the side, engaged in a quiet conversation with Ivan Vanko.
"Did he die?" John asked, his voice low.
"He didn't die," Ivan replied. He was perched on the edge of the Taran Industries building, his own armor discarded beside him. The advanced "Air Force" augmentation to his Fighter suit was torn to shreds, and the base Fighter armor itself bore numerous fresh scars and rents. Ivan held a bottle of vodka, pouring a liberal amount over a burn on his arm to disinfect it, hissing at the sting. "But," he continued, a grimly satisfied glint in his eyes, "I have an idea for the Fighter Generation Three." He took a long swig of the remaining vodka. "Your little lawyer and your pet police officer are here too. Seriously injured. Dr. Helen Cho is treating them." He offered a wry, tired smile. "The person who sent them over… well, he left."
Hearing this, a slight, almost imperceptible smile touched John's lips. "That sounds like quite an experience."
"Yes," Ivan tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over the Taran Industries trucks already busy collecting samples of alien technology from the wreckage. He grinned broadly. "A very good experience indeed."
John ended the call and turned, his attention drawn to a figure observing him intently. He regarded the Avengers, who had finished their impromptu photo opportunity, and then focused on the man before him—a Tony Stark, but visibly older, more worn.
John raised an eyebrow. "And how should I address you?"
The Tony from the future—for it could be no other—smiled awkwardly. "Uh, hey, look at that, will you?" he said, attempting to distract John with a vague gesture.
John's hand shot out with blinding speed, clapping down and pinning a struggling, minuscule figure on his own neck. He lowered his gaze to his palm, a half-smile playing on his lips as he regarded the trapped Ant-Man. "And you," he said, his voice dangerously soft, "how should I address you?"
Scott Lang, the captured Ant-Man, looked utterly terrified. He'd been discovered? But how? He stared up at John, whose reddish-brown eyes had narrowed, the pupils contracting into vertical slits, a distinctly predatory look.
Scott froze, unable to move. The future Tony also tensed, his earlier attempt at nonchalance vanishing.
John sighed, a sound tinged with weariness. "Is playing games like this truly interesting, Stark?"
"What?" The future Tony was genuinely stunned. "Do I… know you?"
Upon hearing this, John's expression turned even stranger. "You can't just pretend not to know me because I've seen you streaking, can you? Or… did you perhaps do something in the future that significantly wronged me?"
Now, Tony was thoroughly confused. Not only was this timeline diverging wildly from his own past, but there was also someone here he didn't recognize who seemed intimately familiar with him. And this man had unmasked his identity—and Scott's—in an instant. A chilling thought began to form in Tony's mind. Perhaps this wasn't his past timeline at all.
Multiverse?
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