Manhattan, Central Park.
The sky was a bruised charcoal, whipped by ferocious winds.
A rainbow-hued luminescence swirled within the storm clouds, pulsating as if about to burst forth.
Dozens of black SUVs converged on the area.
Tactical teams, clad in full body armor, helmets, and visors, swarmed the park until not a single inch of ground was left unmonitored.
Nick Fury led a group of agents from their vehicle, his single eye fixed steadily on the churning heavens.
“Director, the military is on the line.
They’re demanding clearance to move into Central Park.” “Tell Natasha to stall them,” Fury said, his tone indifferent.
The agent reporting to him shrugged with a look of helpless resignation.
“I’m afraid that might be a bit late, sir.” Before he could finish, a streak of fire cut across the sky.
With a sound like thunder, a metal-clad figure descended—the War Machine armor, piloted by Tony Stark’s friend, U.S.
Air Force Colonel James Rhodes.
“These people really are everywhere,” Fury muttered, though a practiced, social smile immediately smoothed his features as he stepped forward to greet the colonel.
He eyed the heavy ordinance mounted on the armor’s chassis.
“Nice equipment, Colonel.
The military clearly dotes on you.” Rhodes, well-versed in the friction between the Pentagon and S.H.I.E.L.D., had no desire to play politics.
“I hope my interruption isn’t considered an intrusion.” “Not at all!” Fury laughed, shaking his head.
“Stark, on the other hand, that would be an intrusion.” The words had barely left his lips when a familiar red-and-gold armor burst through the clouds, broadcasting over a loudhailer.
“Ladies and gentlemen, good morning!
A little morning exercise is excellent for the health.
Would anyone like to hear some high-tempo music?” With a booming bass, an aggressive, high-energy track echoed across the entire park.
Fury’s smile froze.
First one, then another—they were all uninvited guests.
Why was it so difficult to get anything done in peace?
Stark landed in a practiced, one-knee ‘superhero’ pose, then stood up with casual grace.
He lifted his faceplate to reveal that signature mustache.
“I heard you were throwing a massive party, so I rushed over.
It’s not easy to score an invite for Tony Stark, you know.” “I don’t recall you being on the list,” Fury said, hands on his hips, his expression dripping with disdain.
Stark didn’t miss a beat.
“Come on, Nick.
A party isn’t a party without the star of the show.” Without waiting for a rebuttal, he turned to Rhodes, eyes widening in mock surprise.
“Look at this—who’s the dark guy?
My good friend Rhodey, how did you end up looking like a soot-covered chimney sweep?” “Tony, this is a professional anti-radar coating,” Rhodes explained, sighing at Stark’s antics.
As the three men exchanged barbs, the iridescent light above finally converged.
In front of a stunned crowd, a massive column of rainbow light descended.
When it dissipated, a figure stood revealed: draped in medieval armor, cape fluttering in the wind, clutching a divine hammer.
It was Thor.
Thor surveyed the strange garb and tense posture of the Midgardians.
For centuries, Earth had treated Asgardians as divine beings—a kind of favored protectorate.
Seeing the Bifrost manifest, Thor assumed the humans had prepared a formal welcome.
Thoughtful, really.
He raised his hammer high and shouted, “Midgard!
My subjects, your prince has returned!” The absurdity of the scene left everyone speechless.
Rhodes folded his arms and tapped a finger against his helmet, producing a dull, metallic clink.
“Does he have something loose in his head?” “Likely,” Fury agreed.
Even Loki, hiding in the shadows, felt the urge to bury his face in his hand.
It was embarrassing.
Kingpin, standing nearby, looked bewildered.
This is a god?
Why does he look like he’s missing a few brain cells?
Stark, ever the contrarian, stepped forward.
“Does your mother know you’re wearing her curtains?” Thor’s expression darkened.
“You mock a god?” “A god?” Stark shrugged dismissively.
“The Shakespearean Festival in Central Park is looking for a lead actor.
You’d be perfect.” “Ignorant mortal!
You shall taste my wrath!” Thor growled, readying his grip on Mjolnir.
Fury realized things were going south fast.
Thor was clearly an ally, not an enemy, yet Stark’s acid tongue had turned him into a rival in seconds.
I knew having him here would end in disaster.
Fury cursed under his breath, though his voice remained calm.
“Welcome, traveler.
Earth is honored by your visit.
Might I ask which god you are?” “You do not know me?” Thor frowned.
Asgard had guarded the Nine Realms for thousands of years.
Earth was under their protection—how could they not know their own guardian?
Unlike Thor’s indignation, Fury and Rhodes were genuinely confused.
You’re an alien; why would we know you?
Why the temper tantrum?
Stark didn’t share their restraint.
“I’m sorry, should we have a name tag for you?
A guy falling from the sky with a hammer?
I think you’d be a big hit in Hollywood.” It was a well-known fact that Thor was a muscular brawler.
Having expected the highest honors of Midgard, he was unprepared for the bizarre antagonism of Stark.
Loki, watching from the wings, was practically doubling over with laughter.
He pulled Kingpin back, positioning himself for a perfect view of the show.
Thor finally snapped.
“Is this the kind of talkative diplomat Midgard chooses?” “Oh, you hurt my feelings!
Do you know how many women in New York love my wit?” Stark’s mocking tone continued to grate on the Thunder God’s nerves.
It was clear these two were not going to be friends.
BANG!
Thor finally struck.
No one even saw him move; a hammer whistled through the air and sent Stark flying fifty meters, snapping a tree in half before he crashed into the dirt.
“Where do you find such insolent fools?” Thor grumbled.
As he saw Stark’s armor igniting its flight thrusters to come back for more, Thor raised his hammer.
A bolt of lightning, thick as a man’s arm, arced down from the heavens and struck the suit.
The lightning blinded everyone.
Stark’s flight faltered, and he hovered, stunned.
He had no sensors for this—how could the man produce electricity without a generator?
And the hammer… how could it fly back to his hand automatically?
This, Stark thought, is fundamentally unscientific!
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