Two weeks later – Mid-June 2012
The skyline of Manhattan had always been a jagged crown of ambition, steel, and glass piercing the sky like it had something to prove.
Tonight, that crown wore a new jewel: a swirling, electric-blue vortex tearing open above Stark Tower, its edges crackling with unstable energy that lit the night in unnatural hues.
The portal pulsed like a wound in reality itself, wide enough now that the first silhouettes of Chitauri skimmers were already visible against the starless void beyond.
High on the tower's rooftop terrace—once Tony Stark's private playground of excess, now a makeshift altar to conquest—Loki stood motionless, cape billowing in the unnatural wind whipping off the portal.
The God of Mischief looked almost serene. His armor gleamed under the azure glow; the scepter rested lightly in his grip, its gem pulsing in time with the Tesseract's accelerator below.
The device itself squatted at the center of the roof like an obscene mechanical flower: concentric rings of alien alloy studded with glowing conduits, the stolen iridium core humming at its heart.
Erik Selvig—eyes glazed, movements mechanical—hunched over the controls, fingers dancing across holographic interfaces only he could fully comprehend. The man who once spoke of harmony between worlds now muttered equations of invasion under his breath.
Loki tilted his head, listening to the distant roar of the city below. Screams. Sirens. The low thunder of military jets scrambling too late. He smiled thinly.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "They will look up. All of them. And in their final moments, they will see only me."
The portal had not opened by accident. Two weeks ago, a frost-blue rift had spat him out here—courtesy of the white-haired mortal woman who had dared strike him with lightning and banish him like refuse. He had landed hard on the tower's helipad, ribs cracked, pride more so.
But gods heal quickly, and rage faster. Selvig had already been here, mind still loosely tethered from the earlier scepter touch, the iridium secured during the Stuttgart distraction (eighty dead in the streets to keep the mortals' eyes elsewhere).
The tower's arc reactor—Tony's pride, buried deep in the building—provided the obscene surge of clean, endless power needed to jumpstart the Tesseract and hold the gateway wide.
Loki had simply... waited. Let the pieces fall. Let the mortals squabble over names and loyalties while he prepared his monument.
Far below, in the war room of the newly repaired Helicarrier hovering over the Atlantic, screens flickered with live feeds from Manhattan.
Fury stood at the center, arms crossed, face carved from stone. The room smelled of burnt circuits and recycled air.
"Stark Tower," he said flatly. "Of course it's Stark Tower."
Steve Rogers—shield strapped to his back, uniform still bearing faint scorch marks from the Helicarrier brawl—leaned over a tactical display. "It's not random. Loki's an attention seeker. He wants spectacle. A stage where the whole world has to look up and see his victory."
Tony Stark, helmet off, armor half-unlatched, snorted from the corner where he nursed a tumbler of something amber. "My tower. My reactor. My skyline. Guy's got taste, I'll give him that."
Bruce Banner sat quietly nearby, hands clasped, trying very hard not to think about the Other Guy. Clint Barton—finally free of the scepter's haze, though the shadows under his eyes spoke of guilt—stood at the rail, bow in hand. Thor was absent; the Asgardian had vanished into the ether days ago, chasing leads on the Tesseract or perhaps his brother. No one knew for sure.
The team on the Helicarrier wasn't called the Avengers.
Not anymore.
Fury had tried. The name had legacy, gravitas. But paperwork—some very insistent, very ironclad paperwork filed years earlier through shell companies and proxies—had surfaced. Trademark. Branding rights. Ownership tied to a private entity that no amount of S.H.I.E.L.D. clearance could override.
Jennifer Marie Hale owned the name "Avengers."
Fury had cursed for a full minute when the legal brief landed on his desk. Then he'd pivoted.
"Justice League," he'd announced to the room. No fanfare. Just fact.
Steve had raised an eyebrow. Clint had smirked. Bruce had just nodded, relieved to have any label at all. Thor—when he'd briefly reappeared—had shrugged; Midgardian names meant little to him.
The team was provisional anyway: Cap leading, Hawkeye on overwatch, Banner as the reluctant heavy hitter, Thor the occasional thunderous ally. No mansion. No charter. Just a job to do.
Meanwhile, across the city, in the shadowed penthouse of Jennifer's five-story Manhattan mansion—windows tinted against the growing chaos—two figures watched the same feeds.
Natasha Romanoff sat cross-legged on the leather couch, tablet in hand, cycling through drone angles of the tower. Her expression was calm, professional, but her fingers betrayed tension as they tapped the screen.
Jennifer stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, arms folded, snow-white hair catching the blue flicker from outside. The Casket's influence lingered in her veins; even now, frost rimed the glass where her breath touched it. Lightning danced faintly between her fingertips when she clenched her fist.
"He's using the tower," Natasha said quietly. "Selvig's device is active. Portal's widening."
Jennifer didn't turn. "I know."
"You portaled him straight there. Two weeks ago."
(A/N: Natasha knows about Jennifer's portal thing now)
A beat of silence.
"I was angry," Jennifer admitted. "Coulson was dead. Hulk was loose. You were in danger. I didn't think."
Natasha set the tablet aside. "You saved me from the big green guy. Zapped him right in the face. I remember."
Jennifer finally looked over her shoulder. "And then I left you on the Helicarrier to chase after Barton. Tony fixed the engine. You all... moved on without me."
Natasha stood, crossing the room in slow steps. "It wasn't like that."
"Wasn't it?" Jennifer's voice stayed even, but the air around her grew colder. "Fury's calling his squad the Justice League now. Cute. And here we are—the actual Avengers. You. Me. Tony. The trio that started this whole thing in Monaco, before gods and cubes bullshit."
Natasha stopped a pace away. "Tony's up there somewhere. Probably flying circles around his own building, mouthing off to Loki. The others are inbound. We can still—"
"No." Jennifer turned fully now, icy blue eyes meeting green. "Not yet. Let them play their parts. Let the 'Justice League' assemble. Let the world see what happens when they try to do it without us."
Outside, the portal flared brighter. The first wave of Chitauri poured through—sleek, armored, screaming metallic war cries as they descended on the city like locusts.
Natasha glanced toward the window. "It's starting."
Jennifer summoned a single bolt of lightning between her palms, letting it arc and crackle. "Good."
She stepped closer to Natasha, close enough that frost dusted the red curls framing her face.
"When the time comes," Jennifer said softly, "we'll remind them who really holds the name. And who holds the storm."
The city below erupted into chaos. Explosions bloomed along Fifth Avenue. Leviathans—massive, armored serpents—coiled out of the rift, carving through skyscrapers. Quinjets screamed overhead. Somewhere, Thor's hammer cracked thunder that wasn't his brother's.
But in the mansion, two women stood in the eye of their own storm—watching, waiting, the true Avengers poised on the edge of re-entering the fray.
The Battle of New York had begun.
And it was no longer just Loki's monument.