At Tony's suggestion, everyone ended up at a place called Shawarma Palace.
Surprisingly, it was still standing. Unsurprisingly, it wasn't open.
But a few quick calls from Stark—backed by some impressive name-dropping and a borderline threatening promise to leave a Yelp review—solved that problem. A crew was roused, keys were turned, and soon the shutters rolled up.
Tables were wiped down. Lights flickered on. Chairs were dragged into something close to a circle. And for the first time since the madness began, the Avengers—and a few others—finally got to sit.
Food was served. Greasy, spicy, glorious food. And for once, no one had to think about saving the world while chewing.
Nathan sat at the far end, half-listening to Clint argue with Stark over who technically got the most Chitauri kills. Steve was mostly silent, nursing what looked like his fifth helping. Thor was explaining the divine similarities between shawarma and goat meat from Alfheim.
Gwen, across the table, had her legs folded beneath her, absentmindedly poking at her food while occasionally glancing his way.
Nathan didn't say much. He just watched.
The aftermath of the battle was far worse than he remembered. Buildings still smoldered in the distance. Emergency sirens sang their steady dirge. For a moment, guilt tried to crawl into his throat—but he forced it back down.
Yes, he could've stopped this. Probably. But then what? Delay the inevitable? Make himself the sole shield while others never learned to raise their own?
He couldn't afford that.
Worse things were coming. He'd seen the signs. Brainiac was still out there—lurking, calculating. Nathan's little failsafe code running out of Wakanda might hold for now, but it wasn't going to keep Brainiac contained forever.
He needed these people. All of them. Strong. United. Capable of standing on their own.
But that was a worry for later.
Right now, he bit into warm shawarma, grease dripping onto a napkin as he leaned back and sighed.
Just for a moment—he let himself enjoy it.
The warmth of food and the buzz of quiet chatter slowly filled the once-deserted Shawarma Palace. Plates scraped. Drinks clinked. The low hum of tired but alive energy settled over the room like a comforting blanket.
Max Tennyson, never one to waste an opportunity, stood at the back counter with something bubbling in a pan that looked… unholy. Purple sludge-like sauce hissed around meat that shimmered with an iridescent sheen not found in nature—or at least not on Earth.
"Anyone want a bite of Graxan Tentacle Stew?" he called out, cheerfully oblivious to the fact that the dish looked like it could crawl off the plate and file for citizenship.
Barton paused mid-chew and stared. "Is it… supposed to move?"
Max just grinned. "That's a good sign—it means it's fresh."
Thor leaned forward eagerly, eyes lighting up. "I've definitely eaten something like this before. Might've been on Niflheim? Or possibly that one wild hunt on Moordax… can't quite remember. Smells nostalgic!"
He took a hearty bite, nodded approvingly, and slapped Max on the back. "Delicious."
Everyone else quietly pushed their trays further away from Max.
Nathan sat with a glass of something non-alcoholic—lemon, mint, and maybe a little alien zest Max had thrown in. He swirled the drink in his hand and glanced around the room.
Jessica and Gwen were gone.
He spotted them a few seconds later, tucked into a quieter corner by the windows. Jessica was leaning in, her arms folded on the table as she said something low and teasing. Gwen's response was a quiet laugh and a playful swat at her arm. Her cheeks flushed ever so slightly, and when Jessica smirked knowingly, Gwen shoved a fry in her mouth to hide it.
Nathan didn't eavesdrop. He just smiled faintly and looked away.
Cap and Max, oddly enough, had pulled their chairs closer and were deep in a conversation about wartime field logistics.
"We didn't have any of that tech back then," Steve said, sipping his drink. "Just grit and whatever we could scrounge."
"Tell me about it," Max chuckled. "Out in the Null Void, we had to improvise everything—sometimes you had to build a field transmitter out of chewing gum and salvaged xenonite."
Cap raised a brow. "That's… actually not far off from some of the stuff we did with Howard."
Kevin had found his way over to Tony, who had a pile of napkins covered in crude schematics. Kevin pointed to a shape with a grease-smeared finger.
"That's not going to work unless you add a dampener coil. The flux from Plumber-grade engines is ten times what Earth reactors can handle."
Tony blinked. "Kid, you just described what my team's been trying to solve for six months."
"Yeah, well… I build cars from crashed alien warships for fun," Kevin replied with a shrug.
"...I like you," Tony muttered, already sketching again.
Barton and Thor sat shoulder-to-shoulder, exchanging very few words but a lot of food. Hawkeye reached for another wrap, clearly trying not to acknowledge the weird tentacle-shaped thing slithering near his elbow. Thor just laughed heartily, shoving another handful of Max's mystery stew into his mouth.
"You Midgardians really don't know what you're missing!"
The lights hummed softly above. Somewhere in the back, the sounds of a city trying to heal bled in through cracked windows—sirens, a distant news chopper, the low roar of repair crews moving in.
But here, in this odd little bubble, surrounded by warriors, aliens, soldiers, scientists, and friends—it was calm.
Nathan leaned back in his chair, watching them all. Not as a leader. Not as a god. Just… watching.
For now, they were safe. For now, they had time. And he would take every second of it before the next storm came.
After some much-needed rest, everyone began the most important work: dealing with the aftermath.
Sure, the government was stepping in. The fire department was doing what it could. Volunteers were showing up in droves. But so could they—and they did.
Unsurprisingly, or perhaps very predictably, Nathan, Gwen, and Jessica naturally fell into a rhythm, forming a team of their own. Gwen, ever sensitive to the world around her, honed in on the life signs buried beneath the rubble. Jessica, all strength and precision, tore through the debris to get them out safely. And Nathan—currently transformed into Speed-o'-Sound Sonic—rushed the rescued to nearby medics with blur-fast efficiency, barely a shadow passing between destruction and safety.
The trio moved like a practiced unit. No commands. No overthinking. Just instinct and trust.
By the time the sun stood high overhead, exhaustion had caught up with everyone. The fight might have ended, but the city was still groaning under the weight of recovery. Bruised, cracked, and burning in parts—but still standing.
SHIELD, to their credit, had arranged helicopters to give the heroes a lift home. A rare display of actual gratitude.
Nathan's place, nestled in a quieter part of New York, had miraculously made it through unscathed. Then again, most of the destruction had targeted people, not structures. The Chitauri hadn't been interested in architecture.
What did surprise him, however, was Gwen.
He'd expected her to head back with Max. The safe choice. The obvious one.
Instead, she was now sitting on his couch, flipping through a news channel with a half-empty glass of water beside her. She hadn't said much—just walked in like she belonged. And honestly? He hadn't minded.
Nathan wasn't clueless. He didn't consider himself some dense anime protagonist. But with everything else going on—Michael, Lucifer, Gabriel, the Stones—he decided to shelve the mystery for now.
Relaxing a little he fell asleep on the couch.
Waking up around the time of late night, he found that the news was still on,
"…and that's when the mutant with glowing hands just—bam—sliced through a Chitauri glider mid-air! I'm telling you, Sharon, it was like something out of a comic book."
Nathan blinked blearily at the TV, the soft flicker of light washing across the dim living room. The news was still running, the volume low. Gwen, still asleep, had somehow curled more tightly around his leg, while Jessica crunched casually on something from the next couch over. Whatever it was, it was loud.
On screen, the anchor kept her poise—flawless makeup, jet-black hair, and that smooth, polished news-voice that made everything sound like it mattered just enough.
The feed split into two guest panels. On the left: an older man, stiff-collared and silver-haired, with the deep frown of someone who still believed the Cold War hadn't ended. On the right: a man in his early thirties, keen-eyed and quietly simmering beneath his diplomatic tone.
Anchor: "We're continuing our special coverage of the New York invasion and those involved in the city's defense. With us tonight are two experts—former federal advisor and defense consultant, and a historian focusing on powered individuals and civil rights. Gentlemen—back to the question at hand. How do we evaluate the role of mutants in this event?"
Older Man: "Let's not pretend they showed up out of the goodness of their hearts. The mutants we saw were protecting themselves—many of them were already based in affected zones. They were defending their homes, not the people. That's not heroism, that's self-preservation. And frankly, most of them disappeared after the fight ended. Meanwhile, we had actual heroes out there, people who stayed behind and helped with the aftermath. That's the difference."
Younger Man: "So we're judging them for surviving and then leaving before the authorities could round them up again? They didn't owe anyone anything, yet they still helped. They ran into collapsing buildings, pulled out civilians, fought side by side with others—and didn't stop to ask for thanks. That's something."
Older Man: "It's not enough. They don't answer to anyone. That's dangerous. Today it's aliens—tomorrow, who's to say they won't turn those powers on us?"
Younger Man: "Or maybe tomorrow they save your grandkids from a burning building. That's how trust starts."
The anchor raised a perfectly shaped brow, tapping her notes with a practiced smile.
Anchor: "Strong opinions from both sides. But shifting gears now—reports are coming in of three unidentified young individuals spotted during the conflict. Eyewitnesses describe them using what appeared to be elemental powers, none of which match known mutant abilities."
Footage rolled—blurry phone camera clips, a streak of lightning against metal, a brief shot of water surging through a Chitauri formation. Nothing concrete, but enough to stir the mystery.
Anchor: "According to several respected voices in the enhanced community, these individuals aren't registered mutants. One reportedly carried a bronze sword and led the others in coordinated defense maneuvers. Another generated a localized flood across Fifth Avenue. A third may have summoned actual lightning—without any visible equipment."
Eyewitness Clip (Male Voice): "They weren't dressed like superheroes. Just regular clothes. But that girl—she called down a lightning bolt like she meant it."
Eyewitness Clip (Female Voice): "One of them yelled something about pushing the line back. She moved like a soldier, not a civilian."
Anchor: "Who are these young people? Are they part of an unknown group? Are we seeing the rise of new defenders with no formal affiliation or oversight? That remains to be seen. But one thing's clear—New York wasn't defended by one team alone."
Nathan leaned back into the cushions, watching the screen fade to the next segment.
Jessica glanced over, catching the flicker of interest in his eyes. She didn't say anything. Just took another crunchy bite.
Beside him, Gwen stirred slightly, curling tighter against him in her sleep.
Romance could wait. Questions could wait.
For now… the world was reacting.
And it was only going to get louder.
[Check out the Shop,] Raphael reminded him.
{The Shop
Everything can be bought here, as long as you can pay for it—and are lucky enough to see it on display.
Display resets in: 23:59:12
---
Portable Hole
A fine black cloth, soft as silk, folded like a handkerchief. When unfolded and thrown against a surface, it creates a hole leading to a personal dimension roughly the size of a gymnasium. The space is stable and tethered to the cloth itself.
Price: 1 kg of a Rare Mineral (Note: You may use the Shop to determine the rareness.)
---
Blood Bucket
When magic demands sacrifice, most turn to the simplest source—their own blood. But why waste time or pain when you have this? A metal bucket, filled to the brim with your own blood. No curses, no side effects, just... blood. Use it for dark rituals, forbidden alchemy, or questionable interior design. And if you ever run out? Just look away. It'll refill.
Price: Announce your greatest secret to the largest media outlet you know.
---
Natural Hair Dye Pills (10)
Swallow one while thinking of a color. All your hair will fall out—don't panic. It will grow back within three hours, perfectly dyed and completely natural. No roots, no fading.
Price: $10,000
---
T-X Terminator
A hyper-advanced endoskeleton based on the T-950 series, equipped with mimetic polyalloy skin and onboard weapon systems. Fully programmable. Possibly overkill. Probably cool.
Price: 0.8 kg of gold
---
Dimensional Lance
A holy weapon favored by angels. Designed specifically to destroy Hellspawn, whose thick carapaces create dimensional interference. This lance must be brought close to the target before activation. Once used, it creates a resonant dimensional spike that tears the creature from reality—like pus from a boil.
Note: Useless against anything that isn't a Hellspawn.
Price: The luck of a Tier-2 Kingdom
---
Aleha – The Last of the Darkest Void Phoenix
Aleha will protect you for five years. After that? She still won't kill you. Loyalty not guaranteed, but at least she won't roast you alive. Probably.
Price: The most expensive item you own}