Chapter 150
Arc 9 - Ch 17: Shawarma
Saturday, May 05, 2012.
Location: Midtown, Manhattan, New York
The shawarma restaurant had seen better days. Dust coated every surface, and broken glass crunched underfoot whenever anyone shifted in their seats. The owners had swept up the worst of the debris and cobbled together enough tables and chairs for the unexpected influx of superheroes. Plaster still drifted down from cracks in the ceiling, dusting their meals.
It was, Tyson thought, exactly the kind of place you ended up after a day like this. The ordinary that existed in defiance of everything. The plaster drift, the gritty table, the menu someone had propped against a ketchup bottle as though this were a Tuesday. He'd been at the End of Time less than two hours ago. He sat down and pulled a plate toward him, and the chair scraped the floor the way chairs did. You could come back from the literal end of the universe, defeated, sent away like a chess piece being removed from a board, and the chairs would still scrape, and someone would still be reaching for more food. He sat down. He hadn't decided yet whether that was depressing or a relief.
Two tables had been pushed together to accommodate the Avengers. Tony sat slumped in his chair, one foot propped on an empty seat, chewing mechanically. Thor attacked his food; he'd already gone through three portions. Natasha picked at her meal, while Clint sat beside her, scanning the room out of habit. Bruce, back to his normal size and wearing borrowed clothes that hung loosely on his frame, separated the components of his sandwich. Steve ate like a soldier accustomed to taking meals whenever possible.
Logan hunched over his food at the end of the Avengers' table, he tore into his meal, seemingly uncaring of the silence that had fallen over both groups.
Tyson shifted in his chair for the third time in a minute. The seat was uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with the chair. His body had been in continuous motion; running, fighting, flying. Now the threat was absent, and the stillness pressed against him. His peripheral vision kept tracking movement that wasn't there.
He knew what it was.
His spider-sense. The low-frequency hum that lived at the base of his skull, the one that had become as natural as breathing since absorbing Kaine. It had been silent during the fight with He Who Remains. Completely silent. At the time, he'd been too focused to notice, but now, sitting in this wrecked shawarma joint with plaster drifting onto his food, the absence registered like a missing tooth his tongue couldn't stop probing. The most dangerous being he'd ever faced, a man who controlled the Sacred Timeline, which realities were allowed to exist, maybe even the flow of time itself… and his spider-sense hadn't made a sound.
Now it wouldn't shut up.
Not screaming. Not the sharp spike that meant dodge or block or move. This was different. A low, directionless unease that sat behind his eyes and refused to resolve into anything useful. No vector. No source. Just the persistent, maddening certainty that something was wrong, or would be, and he couldn't tell which direction it was coming from because it might be coming from all of them.
He Who Remains?
His variants, plural, now unshackled from whatever pruning mechanism had kept them in check?
The TVA ignoring everything he'd told them?
Tyson turned the possibilities over, and none of them fit cleanly.
Whatever it was, it was big. He could feel it the way you felt weather changing before the clouds arrived. Something massive, still over the horizon, moving with a slow… Inevitability. Like a solar eclipse sliding into position.
The only sounds were chewing and the occasional scrape of utensils against plates. Everyone was lost in their own thoughts, processing the day's events, the battles fought, the near-misses, and the aftermath. Tyson chewed without tasting. The shawarma was probably good, but the flavors slid past him. His jaw worked mechanically, and part of him noted that this was the first real food he'd eaten since Project PEGASUS. Everything in between had been TVA cafeteria rations. Months of that, and now spiced lamb and tahini.
He kept coming back to the moment with the hammer. The moment when he'd called Mjolnir back and turned it over in both hands, running his thumb along the head looking for fractures that weren't there. The relief of finding it intact had been disproportionate, and he knew it was because he believed that it could have been destroyed. He'd held it on the Rainbow Bridge, in Odin's throne room, and through the Void. It had never occurred to him that it could be stopped so easily by someone other than Hela. Treated like a child's toy. It occurred to him now. He looked at the table. People chewing. He set the thought down.
Tyson broke the silence.
"Hey, old man."
Almost everyone at the Avengers' table looked up. Tony, Thor, Steve, and Bruce all paused mid-bite. Clint raised an eyebrow. Only Natasha continued eating, hiding her smile.
Tyson chuckled at their collective reaction. "I meant Logan," he clarified, nodding toward the mutant. "It's your birthday later this month. You still want your yearly ass-kicking?"
Logan grunted without looking up from his food. "You mean you still want your yearly lesson in humility?" He tore off another bite of shawarma with his teeth.
"I won last year," Tyson countered.
"By cheating," Logan replied, finally looking up. His jaw tightened, but something like amusement lurked underneath the gruffness.
"It's not cheating. It's using my natural abilities," Tyson protested.
"Firstly, there's nothing natural about your ability. Second, you had all your little friends set a trap for me in Limbo," Logan growled, though without real heat. He stabbed a piece of meat with his fork and pointed it at Tyson. "Besides, are you going to have time for that? You have a business to run, and there are civilians evacuated across the city into your underground tunnels. Most of all, you have all your girlfriends to say goodbye to." He popped the food into his mouth, chewing with satisfaction. "Aren't you leaving for magic school now?"
Natasha perked up at this. "Yeah, Harry Potter, you're not going to leave without giving us all a proper goodbye, are you?"
"Magic School!" Steve's whole face lit up. "Harry Potter! I got that one." His triumphant smile faded into confusion as he processed the rest of the conversation. "Wait, how many girlfriends do you have?"
Tyson groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "None," he answered.
Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Liar," Logan muttered around a mouthful of food. "There's Illyana, Felicia, Maki, Jessica, do you count that creepy voodoo witch Calypso?" he asked, counting off on his fingers. He nodded toward Natasha…
"Alright, alright, you win," Tyson interrupted, throwing his hands up in surrender. "No yearly ass-kicking."
Bruce, who had been quiet, perked up. "Wait, backup. Natasha?" He looked between them.
Natasha maintained her poker face, though the corner of her mouth twitched.
Thor's booming laugh cut through the tension. "My friend, you remind me of Fandral in his younger days!"
"I don't think that's a compliment," Bruce observed quietly.
Clint snorted into his drink. "Definitely not."
"It's not what it sounds like," Tyson insisted, though his tone was unconvincing.
"It never is," Logan remarked dryly.
Steve, still processing, looked genuinely concerned. "That doesn't seem like appropriate behavior."
Tony clapped Steve on the shoulder. "Different century, Cap. Different rules."
During the laughter, Thor's attention drifted. He looked at the hammer leaning against Tyson's chair, and the laughter left his face. He looked at it. Looked at his own Mjolnir. Looked back.
"Tyson." Thor's voice went low, the shift abrupt enough that Tony paused mid-quip. "How is it that you carry Mjolnir?"
The table went quiet.
Tyson ran his thumb along the hammer's handle. "It's a long story."
"Then give me the short one."
"Another version of your hammer. Time travel is the best explanation I can give right now."
"My father sent you after Loki. You returned without him."
"I tried." Tyson didn't dress it up. "Even with Mjolnir and all my power, I failed that mission. Loki is alive, but I lost him. I'm sorry."
For a moment, the only sound was the building settling. Thor's jaw worked, and the others at the table had the good sense to stay silent.
"Loki is difficult to hold onto," Thor said finally. "It isn't the first time we've lost him. We will find him again."
"We will."
Thor nodded once, his hand settling on his own Mjolnir's handle. The gesture was unconscious, possessive.
Tyson set down his food. "Wait a second. Jessica." He looked around the table. "Did anyone see her during the battle?"
Most of the faces staring back at him were blank. Steve shook his head politely. Thor, Bruce, Clint, and Natasha all wore variations of the same expression. No idea who he was talking about. Tony shrugged.
Logan stopped chewing, thought about it, then shook his head. "He's right. Didn't see her during the fight." He swallowed and reached for his drink. "Figured she was out on patrol." He set the glass down and scratched at his jaw. "But now that you mention it, she wasn't around at all after we found out you were safe. Wasn't on comms." He grunted. "Check the tunnels. If she's not running rescue efforts topside, she'll be down there helping with the civilians."
Tyson nodded.
"So this magic school," Clint interjected, clearly trying to steer the conversation away from Tyson's complicated love life. "Is that where you learned to do... whatever it is you do?"
Tyson recognized a lifeline when one was thrown to him. He was grateful for it in a way that had nothing to do with the relationship jokes. There was something deeply comfortable about this table. The ribbing, the warmth, the banter were easy. It required exactly the surface layer he had available right now. Tyson knew he was using it the way you use a hot shower after being out in the cold. He knew it and chose it anyway because the alternative was sitting in a restaurant with plaster on your shawarma and thinking about He Who Remains.
Tyson seized the opening gratefully. "No, that's where I'm going to study to learn more, under the Sorcerer Supreme."
"Sorcerer Supreme," Tony repeated skeptically. "Sounds like a pizza topping."
Logan finished the last of his meal and pushed his plate away. "Well, while you're off playing Harry Potter, some of us have real work to do."
"Like what?" Tyson asked.
"School year's ending soon," Logan replied gruffly. "Got a bunch of new mutant kids showing up at House of M who don't know which end of their powers is up."
"You? Teaching children?" Tony looked genuinely alarmed by the prospect.
"He's actually not bad at it," Tyson admitted. "But I didn't realize we were running a school, too. What the heck were you guys up to while I was gone?"
Cap straightened in his chair. "I've been doing some PSAs to help out. Schools, mostly. Videos about discipline, physical fitness, doing the right thing."
"Steve," Tony said carefully. "Are you telling me that Captain America has been making after-school specials?"
"They're educational."
"So hi, I'm Captain America, and I'm here to talk to you about the dangers of—"
"That is not how they start."
"That is absolutely how they start," Natasha said, looking genuinely entertained.
Logan snorted. "I'd pay to watch those."
"You wouldn't have to pay, they're free. That's the point," Steve said, and the sincerity in his voice was so total that no one had the heart to keep going.
"Did you wear the suit?"
Steve hesitated one beat too long.
"He wore the suit," Clint confirmed, not looking up from his food.
"They tested very well," Steve protested.
"I'm sure they did. With who? Eight-year-olds?"
"The target demographic is—"
Bruce tried to suppress a laugh and failed. "I'm sorry, I'm just picturing— 'So, your body is changing—'"
"I did NOT—" Steve's face turned a shade of red. "That was not one of the topics."
"Yet," Tony added. "Did you do one about waiting your turn? Please tell me you did one about waiting your turn."
"There's nothing wrong with patience," Steve said defensively.
"I would like to see these videos," Thor announced. "On Asgard, warriors are expected to train the young. It is an honor."
"Thank you, Thor."
"Though," Thor added thoughtfully, "we use less talking and more combat."
Natasha hid her smile behind her drink. Clint didn't bother hiding his.
Moonstone landed outside the window, her aura fading as her feet touched the cracked pavement. The restaurant patrons turned at the sound as Dr. Karla Sofen stepped through the doorway. She surveyed the room, taking in the collection of heroes with the barest lift of her chin.
Bruce Banner took the opportunity to speak up. "Not that mutant education programs aren't interesting," he said, adjusting his borrowed shirt, "but we're just going to ignore that he has so many girlfriends."
Dr. Sofen had entered and caught the exchange. She pulled up a chair between Tony and Natasha, helping herself to a leftover portion of shawarma.
"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation about Tyson's complicated romantic situation," she said. "We've discussed his polyamory extensively in counseling."
Tony snorted. "Polyamory. Is that what we're calling it now?"
"Actually," Dr. Sofen continued, undeterred, "it's a perfectly valid relationship structure when approached with honesty and clear communication. Approximately 4-5% of Americans practice some form of consensual non-monogamy."
Honesty and clear communication. There were names missing from Logan's count, one that nobody at this table had ever heard of.
Sylvie.
He'd held her hand at the end of time. She'd pressed her back into him in an elevator barely large enough for their group, and the warmth of her had been the only real thing in a building that existed outside reality. He didn't know where she was now. He sat in a room full of people who cared about him, some of whom he'd been intimate with. Dr. Sofen would probably have something clinical to say about that. She'd probably be right.
Steve looked thoroughly confused. "So... everyone knows about everyone else?"
"In healthy polyamorous relationships, yes," Dr. Sofen confirmed. "It's not about deception."
Logan grunted. "Doesn't make it any less complicated."
"On the contrary," Dr. Sofen replied, "explicit communication often reduces complications. The problems arise when expectations aren't clearly established." She cleared her throat. "Perhaps we should consider the immediate practical concerns rather than relationship issues."
Natasha asked, "Tyson, you mentioned going to study with the Sorcerer Supreme. When do you leave?"
"I need to get my affairs in order first. It feels like I've been away from the city forever."
"Affairs being the operative word," Tony muttered, earning a sharp look from Steve, but chuckles from others.
"And what of the rest of you?" Dr. Sofen continued. "What are your plans? We all came together to fight as a team. From a psychological perspective, it's perfectly natural to form attachments after shared trauma. The intense experiences we've been through together create powerful bonds."
"We don't need therapy right now, Doc," Logan growled.
"Everyone needs therapy," Dr. Sofen replied smoothly.
"She's not wrong," Bruce murmured.
"The point is," Natasha said, redirecting the conversation, "everyone needs to decide what happens next. Thor takes the Tesseract back to Asgard. Tyson goes to magic school. What about the rest of you?"
"I'm going back to House of M," Logan stated. "Got kids to teach."
"And I've got a tower to rebuild," Tony added.
"SHIELD will want debriefings from everyone," Natasha continued.
"SHIELD doesn't need to know everything," Tyson said firmly. "Keep in mind, the World Security Council runs SHIELD, and they're the ones that fired the nukes, and tried to claim the Tesseract."
"Agreed," Steve surprised everyone by saying. "Some things are better kept between us."
Nobody spoke for a moment. Steve didn't look at Tyson when he said it. That was the tell. Whatever his agreement to keep some things secret was built on, it wasn't trust in Tyson, specifically. It was built on something Steve had arrived at through his own reasoning. The question of what Pierce had said, what had happened in the moment when he abruptly changed his mind, and what Steve had registered in the space between sat unspoken between them like a piece of furniture that both men were walking around carefully. Tony had gone quiet like he'd already done the math and didn't like the answer. Natasha, who had been watching Tyson since Stark Tower, let her gaze settle somewhere above the table, which was its own kind of signal.
Tyson thought about Mobius, standing in the library under a thirty-foot statue, saying they get it with the tone of someone choosing a side. He thought about the specific heaviness of Pierce's face in the moment the conviction shifted.
Some things are better kept between us, Steve had said. Tyson thought that was probably the most honest summary available.
— Rogue Redemption —
He left the table before the conversation could circle back to him. There was only so long the mask held before someone noticed the fit was off, and Logan had been watching him a beat too long for the last several minutes. The old man knew what carrying something looked like. Better to move before the question came.
The streets between the restaurant and the tunnel entrance were apocalyptic. Twisted cars, shattered glass, a fine layer of dust over everything. Tyson barely registered any of it. His feet knew the way, and the rest of him was elsewhere. He entered one of the evacuation tunnels leading from street level underground into the Alley. The transformation struck him immediately. He had opened these pathways months earlier, before leaving for Project PEGASUS, but back then, they'd been bare concrete and exposed wiring, functional but nothing more. Now, elegant tilework lined the walls, matching the historic subway system's aesthetic. The old late 1800s, early 1900s style had been recreated with modern materials, making it look both authentic and new.
"They actually made it beautiful," he muttered, running his fingers along the smooth ceramic tiles.
The lighting was warm, not the harsh fluorescents he'd installed. Someone had taken his rough blueprint and transformed it into something that belonged in classic Manhattan, something that would outlast the current crisis.
As the tunnel widened, he entered the Alley proper; the massive underground corridor stretching the entire length of the island. What had once been an emergency concept was now a fully realized underground community. Organized chaos spread before him in both directions, extending miles beneath the evacuated sections of Manhattan.
Food stations dotted the space at regular intervals, with volunteers distributing meals from makeshift counters. Medical areas had been sectioned off with privacy screens, where doctors and nurses treated the injured. Shelter zones filled the spaces between; families clustered together on cots and sleeping bags.
Children played in designated areas while adults queued for supplies or gathered in small groups. Despite the circumstances, something like community was forming: people helping each other, sharing resources, making the best of their displacement.
He continued walking, observing how different sections had been organized. Water stations had been set up with proper plumbing, not the temporary solutions he'd initially designed.
"Hey, isn't that—" someone whispered behind him.
Tyson glanced back. Several people had stopped what they were doing to watch him pass. He kept moving, but more heads turned. A small group began to follow at a respectful distance.
"That's him. It's Mirage."
The crowd grew as he moved deeper into the Alley, though they kept their distance. Their silence unnerved him. New Yorkers weren't typically this quiet or respectful of personal space. He tensed, but their faces showed only curiosity and something that looked uncomfortably like reverence.
An elderly woman nodded to him as he passed. "Thank you," she said simply.
He nodded back. What unsettled him more than the gratitude was the continuity. These people had been living their lives, using his tunnels, building community, surviving, all while he'd been gone. For Tyson, time had looped, branched, and folded over itself in ways that his body still hadn't reconciled. He kept having to remind himself that it was May. That he hadn't lost months from these people's perspective, even though he carried the memory of every one of those months.
As Tyson approached the section beneath Grand Central Terminal, the population density increased dramatically. This area, ground zero for the Chitauri invasion, had the highest concentration of evacuees. Medical stations were larger here, treating those who'd been injured during the attack.
A man with his arm in a sling recognized Tyson and nudged his neighbor. The whispers spread outward.
"Is it really safe down here?" a woman asked, stepping forward from the growing crowd.
Tyson paused, turning to address her. "The structure is sound. I designed it to withstand more than just falling debris. Even if another attack came, you'd be safer here than anywhere above ground."
His answer seemed to satisfy not just her but many others listening. More people joined the group following him, though they still kept a respectful distance. There was something almost processional about it, as though he was leading them somewhere, though he was simply exploring what had become of his creation.
A child broke from the crowd, running up to tug at his pant leg. "Did you really move all the dirt with your mind?"
Tyson crouched down to the boy's level. "Something like that. But it took a lot of people to make it into this."
The boy's mother hurried forward, apologizing, but Tyson waved it off. As he stood, the crowd behind him had swelled to hundreds. Still, they didn't bother him, just following, watching the man who had created their underground sanctuary.
Tyson finally found Felicia and pulled her into an embrace. Not the quick, public kind, the kind where his arms wrapped around her fully and his face pressed into her hair and he held on. Her familiar scent of vanilla and jasmine mixed with leather grounded him in a way that nothing else since his return had managed. The press of her body against his, the way her hands spread flat across his back and pushed in, was the first thing all day that matched the world he remembered leaving.
She returned his embrace fiercely, then pulled back to study his face with the particular attention of a woman who knew something was wrong.
"You look different," she said.
"Long day."
"Longer than everyone else's, I'm guessing." She didn't push.
"How are things?" he asked, brushing a strand of white hair from her eyes.
"Going as well as can be expected. We're doing better than FEMA at least."
"You've done amazing," he said, and kissed her, slowly this time, not the quick reassurance of a greeting but the kind of kiss that said he'd missed her more than the length of his absence should have allowed.
"Mon ami! Welcome back to the underground kingdom!"
Gambit popped out from around a corner, his trademark duster was torn. He approached with his usual swagger… No, that was a limp. He was hurt; Rogue was at his side, supporting him. Marrow followed close behind, bone protrusions visible beneath her worn t-shirt.
He noticed Rogue the way he always did. Aware of the distance she kept, the gloves, the care near other people. He'd stopped finding it sad a long time ago; he'd lived it after all. Now it was recognition. He thought about it for a half-second longer than usual as something crossed his mind; not a complete thought, more the beginning of one that hadn't found its ending. The Citadel at the End of Time. The reaching, the grabbing of He Who Remains, and its failure.
Rogue had stopped his power in the way a mirror stopped a reflection.
He Who Remains had stopped his power because where there should have been something, there'd been nothing at all. Not resistance, not a wall, just empty space where something should have been.
The two data points sat next to each other in his head, not yet forming anything with a shape. He hadn't decided yet if those were the same kind of failure or two entirely different things. He suspected, in a way he wasn't ready to sit with, that the answer mattered. He filed it. He had a whole drawer now.
"Remy," Tyson greeted him with a nod. "Good to see you all."
Gambit spread his arms wide. "When you call, Gambit answer."
"Thank you. All of you. Pass it on to the rest of the Morlocks for me, too, please. Couldn't have asked for better people to help with this."
Felicia shrugged. "We've established a decent system."
As they spoke, Tyson raised his hands, a steady warmth gathering in his palms, and worked the damage closed. The limp straightened out of Remy's posture one degree at a time; ribs resetting, the strain leaving his face the way tension left a room when the door finally opened. Gambit rolled his repaired shoulder experimentally.
"You could have led with that, mon ami," he said, a grin breaking through at the end of it. "Merci."
Rogue, who had been supporting him from exactly the right distance, close enough to catch him if he'd needed it, far enough to keep her skin clear, let out a breath.
Afterward, a shift in the ambient noise. The constant murmur of thousands of displaced New Yorkers grew in volume and focus. What began as scattered whispers consolidated into something purposeful.
"Mirage is here."
"That's him."
People stopped what they were doing, turning. The crowd parted as someone pushed through.
Tyson turned back to Felicia. "Have you seen Jessica? She wasn't around for the battle."
Felicia's mouth tightened. "There are some things I just haven't been able to get to. Octavius's reactor activated this morning. He'd intended to wait until after you got back, wanted you there for magnetic containment in case there were any complications. Now it's stable and powering Manhattan." She paused. "And Jessica... I haven't seen her in days. Nobody has."
"Nobody?"
"I asked around. Remy asked around. She just stopped showing up."
Tyson processed that. Jessica didn't disappear. Occasionally, she found rooftops to sit on and think, but she didn't vanish without telling someone.
"And the reactor?"
"Running. Otto's been down there monitoring it. His reports have been sparse, infrequent." She crossed her arms. "He spent weeks muttering about acceptable risk tolerances and how he wouldn't activate it without you, not wanting to repeat the failure at the Stark Expo. Then it just activates on its own."
That sounded like Otto. The reactor running was good news. But Jessica being missing sat wrong.
"Heads up," Marrow muttered. "Trouble at two o'clock."
Felicia tensed beside him. "This is supposed to be a sanctuary, not a media circus."
"Looks like someone slipped through," Rogue said.
The muttering grew louder as a small group cut through the parting crowd. A man with a familiar flat-top haircut and mustache led the charge. Behind him, a cameraman struggled to keep up, equipment bouncing against his shoulder.
"MIRAGE!" The voice boomed through the underground space, silencing conversations and drawing all attention. "I NEED AN INTERVIEW!"
Jonah Jameson stepped out of the crowd, jabbing a finger in Tyson's direction. His cameraman scrambled to get into position, the red recording light blinking to life. The crowd fell silent. Jameson stood defiantly, camera crew at the ready, while hundreds of displaced New Yorkers watched.
After a moment's consideration, Tyson nodded.
"Alright."
Jameson's eyebrows shot up. He clearly hadn't expected cooperation.
"Please sit if you're able," Tyson called out, his voice carrying through the underground space.
The crowd responded immediately, settling onto the floor like elementary students preparing for story time. Parents pulled children into their laps, elderly folks were offered makeshift seats, and those who couldn't sit comfortably leaned against walls. Hundreds of people arranged themselves around Tyson and Jameson.
Tyson held out his hand toward a nearby wall. The metal paneling trembled, then peeled away in strips that flowed through the air like liquid silver. The crowd gasped as the metal reshaped itself, forming two sturdy chairs facing each other. With another gesture, more metal coalesced into a makeshift stand perfect for the oversized camera the cameraman struggled with.
"That should help," Tyson said.
The cameraman looked genuinely appreciative as he settled the heavy equipment onto the stand. "Thanks, man. This thing weighs a ton."
Jameson cleared his throat loudly, drawing attention back to himself as he settled into one of the metal chairs. "Well, let's get started then."
Tyson took the seat opposite him, aware of the hundreds of eyes on them. Felicia positioned herself behind his chair.
Jameson nodded to his cameraman, who gave a thumbs-up when the recording light blinked on.
"This is J. Jonah Jameson, reporting live from beneath the streets of Manhattan, where thousands of New Yorkers have taken refuge following what many are starting to call 'The Battle of New York.' I'm here with Mirage, Tyson Smith, one of the so-called heroes who participated in the defense of our city."
Jameson leaned forward, his intense focus fixed on Tyson. "Let's start with the obvious question. Who exactly were those things attacking our city?"
"They're called the Chitauri," Tyson replied. "They're an alien race from beyond our solar system."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Though many had witnessed the attack firsthand, hearing it confirmed so plainly shocked them.
"Aliens," Jameson repeated flatly. "And why exactly did these 'Chitauri' decide to attack New York City? Why not Tokyo or Moscow or literally anywhere else?"
"They didn't choose New York specifically. They were after an energy source called the Tesseract, which happened to be here. Their leader, Loki, opened a portal above Stark Tower to bring their army through."
"Loki?" A woman in the crowd called out. "Like the Norse god?"
Tyson nodded. "The same. He's from Asgard, another realm. It's easiest to think of Asgard as another planet. Thor, who fought alongside us, Viking looking with a magic lightning hammer, is his brother."
More whispers through the audience. A man near the front raised his hand tentatively, and Tyson acknowledged him with a nod.
"Are they actually gods?" the man asked.
"They're extremely long-lived, powerful people from an advanced civilization that visited Earth thousands of years ago. Ancient humans considered them gods. Are they? I suppose that would depend on your personal beliefs, but they're real, and they're the ones from the stories and mythology."
Jameson huffed impatiently. "Let's get back to the invasion. Are we expecting more of these attacks? Should people be preparing for another alien army to drop from the sky?"
"The specific threat from the Chitauri has ended," Tyson said carefully. "Their army was destroyed."
A teenage boy stood up from the crowd. "What about the Avengers? Is that really what you guys call yourselves?"
Tyson smiled slightly. "Word travels fast. But, yes."
"And who exactly are 'they'?" Jameson interjected. "Who's funding this group? Who's providing oversight? Who do you answer to?"
"Currently, we're working with SHIELD. But the Avengers came together independently to defend Earth."
An elderly woman raised her hand. When Tyson acknowledged her, she asked, "Will you continue to protect us? Is this team permanent?"
"We'll be there if Earth needs us again," Tyson assured her. "Though I hope it won't be needed any time soon."
Jameson scoffed. "That's convenient. A team of super-powered individuals with no clear accountability, deciding when and how to intervene in global crises."
"Would you have preferred we stayed home?" Tyson asked mildly.
The crowd chuckled, and Jameson's face reddened.
"Of course not," he conceded grudgingly. "But the collateral damage to the city is estimated in the billions. Who's paying for that?"
"Stark Industries has already pledged significant resources toward the rebuilding efforts," Tyson replied. "And I've been working to make repairs as best as my power allows. Expect to see lots of metal patchwork for the next few months."
A young mother with a child on her lap spoke up. "Is it true you built all this yourself? The whole underground system?"
"Not exactly. Not sure if I should be saying this, but much of this place was built by the government during the Cold War. I created many of the accessory tunnels and framework for the more developed areas down here, but hundreds of people have worked to make it what it is now. The Morlocks, especially, have been instrumental in organizing everything."
"The who?" Jameson interrupted.
"The Morlocks," Tyson repeated. "They're a community of mutants who've lived underground. They know how to create livable spaces beneath the city better than anyone. If you recall our last interview, I spoke about them. They were the mutants being killed in the sewers. Now they're the ones who helped save so many lives today."
This revelation caused another stir among the listeners. Mutants were still a controversial topic, and many New Yorkers had never knowingly interacted with one.
"So you're saying mutants are running this shelter?" Jameson asked, his tone suggesting scandal.
"I'm saying mutants, humans, and everyone in between came together to help their fellow New Yorkers when it mattered most," Tyson corrected firmly. "This shelter exists because people put aside their differences to help each other survive."
A small girl, no more than seven, raised her hand high and waved it frantically until Tyson called on her.
"Are there going to be more monsters?" she asked, her voice small but clear in the hushed space.
Tyson looked at her. "There might be. The universe is bigger and stranger than we ever imagined. But that's why groups like the Avengers exist. It's why so many stepped out of the shadows and into the light today, to face those threats."
"And we're supposed to just trust you?" Jameson pressed.
Tyson gestured to the underground community around them. "You don't have to trust us. Judge us by our actions. We're not perfect, but we're trying to protect what matters."
The words came easily. Too easily. But the ease of it sat wrong. Less than an hour ago, he'd stood six inches from Alexander Pierce and reached into the man's mind and rewritten his convictions. He'd watched Pierce announce a position that wasn't his own, because Tyson had made him believe it.
Another child stood up and declared, "I saw Spider-Man! He saved me. Is he an Avenger too?"
Tyson chuckled, his face warming at the mention. "He's not an official part of the group. He's still just a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. He's New York's hero."
"You're New York's hero!" someone yelled from the back of the crowd. "He's just a menace!"
Jameson straightened in his chair, pointing triumphantly. "He's right! Spider-Man is a masked vigilante operating outside the law, causing property damage wherever he goes!"
Tyson held up his hands, turning serious. "Now isn't the time for that kind of rhetoric. Despite your opinions, the fact is that Spider-Man has always fought for this city." His voice gained an edge. "You can't deny that he helps everyday people. Yeah, I've been around for the flashiest fights like the battles in Times Square and on the bridges, and today. But I hardly ever patrol. Spider-Man is in the streets every day. Helping people like all of you."
The crowd murmured their agreement, many nodding.
"And I'll be leaving soon," Tyson finished.
The statement sent an immediate ripple through the gathered crowd. Faces that had been relaxed moments before now showed concern, even alarm.
"Where are you going?" called out a middle-aged man near the front.
"Are the aliens abducting you?" a little boy asked, genuinely worried.
Jameson spoke over the growing murmurs, leaning forward intently. "Where are you going? And why now, when the city is still recovering?"
Tyson was quiet for a beat. Not the kind to settle the noise of the crowd, but the kind where you had two answers and were choosing which one to give. For a moment, the real answer sat just behind his teeth.
Because today I met someone I couldn't read, couldn't drain, couldn't fight to a draw, and he sent me home like he was doing me a favor. Because I have a drawer in my head that's getting heavy and I need to understand what's in it before it starts opening on its own. Because I found my ceiling, and I need to know what's above it.
He looked at the crowd, at the parents with children, the elderly, the city that had just survived, and he decided the honest answer was not for here.
"The city is in good hands. Spider-Man does the bulk of the heroing around here." He gestured to the underground community surrounding them. "House of M is still going to be running shows and will be open to any mutant who needs help or shelter." He looked to Felicia, who stood behind him. She nodded.
Tyson reached out, gently pulling Felicia to his side. "This is Felicia Hardy. She's the CEO of Mirage Enterprises, the company that runs House of M. She'll make sure everything continues running smoothly. Mary Jane Watson is around somewhere, probably helping the relief efforts, but she'll continue as our spokesperson."
"We've already begun coordinating with relief efforts above ground," Felicia said. "Our goal is to make this transition as smooth as possible for everyone affected by the invasion. House of M will be expanding its services to provide shelter, care, and food during this crisis," she continued. "And will continue expanding those services, including coordination with local food banks, restaurants, and supermarkets to make sure food is getting to those who need it."
A young woman with a toddler on her hip raised her hand. "Will we be able to stay here until our homes are repaired?"
"Yes," Felicia answered without hesitation. "No one will be forced to leave until they have safe housing to return to."
An older man with a bandaged arm spoke up. "What about medical care? My insurance doesn't cover 'alien invasion.'"
This drew a ripple of nervous laughter through the crowd.
"We've partnered with several hospitals and medical professionals," Felicia explained. "Anyone injured during the attack will receive care regardless of insurance status. We're working with city officials to ensure all invasion-related injuries are covered."
She fielded questions like a pro, and the crowd responded to her confidence.
"Ms. Hardy has been instrumental in organizing everything you see here," Tyson added when there was a lull in questions.
"The Morlocks deserve most of the credit," she deflected. "They protected the tunnels."
Gambit spoke up from where he'd been leaning against a wall. "Gambit and friends happy to help. We protect our own, and today, all New York is our own, non?"
"House of M has always been a safe haven," Rogue added in her distinct southern accent. "Now it's just extending that protection to more folks."
Marrow remained slightly apart, her bone protrusions making her stand out. But several children near her showed no fear, instead looking at her with fascination.
Jameson cleared his throat loudly, clearly displeased at having lost control of his interview. "Yes, well, that's all very commendable. But you still haven't explained why you're leaving when the city is in crisis, Mirage."
"As I said, the city is in good hands," Tyson replied simply.
"With Spider-Man?" Jameson scoffed. "That wall-crawling menace?"
"With Spider-Man," Tyson confirmed firmly. "With Iron Man, when he's in the city. With the Morlocks. With House of M." He squeezed Felicia's shoulder gently. "And with Ms. Hardy."
Jameson jabbed a finger toward Tyson, his face reddening. "Now hold on. We need to talk about the robot army you were secretly keeping, the mutant army you recruited, where all the alien technology disappeared to because none of it was left on the streets—"
"We're not going to settle all those today," Tyson interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. Jameson opened his mouth to protest, but Tyson continued before he could speak. "But I will say this. What would have happened without those interventions? How many New Yorkers would've died in the streets if the tunnels weren't open to shelter them, and the mutants didn't fight to keep the paths clear? How far would the destruction have spread if the Sentinels hadn't been there to keep the aliens contained? Who would've been here otherwise? The National Guard is just arriving now. Not to throw shade at the military, they aren't intended or equipped to handle fights of this scale. Maybe one day, but not today."
A middle-aged man with a bandaged head rose shakily to his feet. "Thank you, Mirage," he called out. "My family's alive because of these tunnels."
His simple statement broke the dam. Voices rose from throughout the crowd.
"The Sentinels stopped an alien before it got to my daughter!"
"The woman with bone spikes carried my grandfather down fifteen flights of stairs!"
"That card-throwing guy saved our whole block!"
Gambit tipped an imaginary hat at this last comment.
The testimonials continued, each one a story of survival against impossible odds. Parents clutched children closer, elderly couples held hands, and strangers nodded to each other in shared understanding of what they'd lived through.
Jameson's usual bluster was momentarily silenced by the outpouring. His cameraman panned across the crowd, capturing the genuine emotion on display.
Tyson raised his hands, waiting for the voices to quiet. When he spoke again, warmth filled the underground space.
"Thank you, all," he said, looking around at the gathered faces. "I came to New York with nothing, just me and a friend, no money, nowhere to live. You all embraced me. Despite being a minority, a mutant, and initially, a vigilante."
Felicia stepped closer.
"This city," Tyson continued, "has a reputation for being tough, unforgiving. But I found the opposite. I found community. I found people willing to look past differences to see what matters."
A child sitting cross-legged near the front called out, "Will you come back to visit?"
Tyson smiled. "Believe it."
Jameson cleared his throat, seemingly recovered from his momentary speechlessness. "Well, that's all very touching, but what about the black-suit Spider—"
Whatever he planned to say was lost as someone started clapping. The applause spread rapidly, growing from scattered appreciation to thunderous approval. People stood, their faces transformed by genuine gratitude.
Marrow, usually stoic and suspicious of humans, was surrounded by children who clapped with particular enthusiasm. One small girl reached out to touch a bone protrusion on Marrow's arm, curious rather than fearful.
Rogue accepted a handshake from an elderly woman, careful to ensure her glove remained secure. The woman pulled her into an unexpected hug, which Rogue returned after a moment of surprise.
Gambit bowed dramatically to a group of teenagers who cheered his name.
Through it all, Tyson stood with Felicia at his side, her shoulder pressed against his arm, her fingers loosely intertwined with his in the space between them where the crowd couldn't quite see.
He leaned down, lips brushing her ear. "I'll come back to you."
She didn't look up. Didn't need to. "You'd better." Her fingers tightened around his. "I'm not done with you."
The exchange took three seconds. It held everything they didn't have time to say about where he'd been, about where he was going, about the particular kind of trust required to watch someone you loved disappear and believe the promise that they'd return.
As the applause continued, Tyson raised a hand in farewell. The crowd's cheering intensified, people standing on tiptoes to see him one last time. Parents lifted children onto their shoulders, and those at the back craned their necks for a final glimpse.
Then, in a blink, Tyson disappeared from sight, leaving only a faint shimmer in the air where he had stood.
The crowd gasped collectively, then broke into even louder applause. Jameson stared at the empty space, his mouth hanging open. His cameraman lowered his equipment.
Felicia smiled at the spot where Tyson had been, then turned to face the crowd.
For a moment, she was just herself, not Tyson's CEO, not the voice behind House of M. Just Felicia Hardy, standing in an underground city she had helped build with an invasion timeline and sheer organizational will, while several hundred people looked at her the way they'd been looking at him. Like she had answers. Like her continued presence meant something. She hadn't positioned for it. She hadn't performed it into being. It had happened because she'd shown up and done the work, and the work had been good, and people recognized good work eventually.
"Alright, everyone," she called out, her voice carrying authority. "Let's get back to work. We've got a city to rebuild."
The gathering began to disperse, people returning to their recovery and assigned tasks. Children chattered excitedly about the disappearing act, while adults discussed what they'd heard with thoughtful expressions.