The transformation of the skyline was nearly complete. What was once a monument to one man's ego had become a beacon for a team. Avengers Tower stood tall, its jagged silhouette slicing through the New York haze. Yet, despite the speed of Stark's wealth, a full reconstruction of such a technological marvel would take months, if not years. For now, Tony had focused on the skin of the beast—the reinforced glass panels glittered flawlessly in the sun, hiding the skeletal steel and unfinished corridors that still groaned within.
Veiled by his own sorcery, Noah drifted closer to the penthouse. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he caught a glimpse of Tony Stark, looking uncharacteristically relaxed, swirling a glass of amber liquid as he leaned in close to Pepper Potts. Their laughter was a muted vibration against the glass. Noah didn't linger. He hadn't come for social calls. He turned his gaze downward, toward the restless sea of humanity at the tower's base.
The streets were choked with people. Tourists and locals alike stood behind police cordons, their necks craned back, cameras clicking incessantly. They hovered near the construction sites like moths to a flame, drawn to the carnage of the Chitauri invasion as if searching for some lingering spark of the divine or the demonic. If the private security teams hadn't been so disciplined, the mob would have surely stormed the lobby just to touch a piece of history.
«Don't these people have lives to get back to?» Noah grumbled, his voice a low rasp. It seemed the terror of the alien «gods» falling from the sky had been replaced by a voyeuristic obsession that would fuel tabloids for a decade.
Satisfied that the Avengers were sufficiently distracted by their own fame, Noah banked hard, his body cutting through the air like a silent arrow.
Boom!
A thunderous crack echoed across the sky—the violent protest of the atmosphere as Noah shattered the sound barrier. Below, the crowds flinched, looking up at a sky that remained mockingly blue and empty, the source of the shockwave already miles away.
Interestingly, Noah had left his sleek «PROJECT» armor in the depths of his storage. He wore simple, rugged clothes today, feeling the bite of the wind against his skin. He had begun to realize that relying too heavily on the suit's artificial enhancements was a trap. It was a crutch that threatened to wither his own innate potential.
«If the smith never strikes the anvil, how does the blade grow strong?» he muttered to himself. The armor was a tool, a ceremonial garb for world-ending threats, but for the day-to-day grind, he needed to feel the weight of his own muscles, the raw heat of the Runes and the Infinity Stones coursing through his own veins.
His flight path took him toward a neighborhood that felt like an old, scarred friend: Hell's Kitchen.
«It's been a lifetime, hasn't it?» He allowed a thin, predatory smile to touch his lips. This was where it all began. This was the blood-soaked soil where he had harvested his first rewards, «retiring» the local filth with a finality that the law could never provide.
He surmised that in the wake of an alien invasion, the rats of the Kitchen wouldn't be hiding; they would be feasting. And he was more than happy to provide the check.
Hovering thousands of feet above the tenements, Noah let his senses expand. The criminal landscape had changed since his days as the «Storm Swordsman.» His systematic purge had sent the smart ones fleeing for the suburbs or the Jersey docks. Those who remained had been cowering in the dark, waiting for the shadow of the sword to pass.
But the Chitauri had changed the math. The chaos of the invasion had left behind a bounty of alien debris—scrap metal that hummed with forbidden energy and weapons that could turn a street gang into a small army. The fear of a lone vigilante was being eclipsed by the allure of cosmic fire.
In the daylight, the Kitchen wore a mask of weary peace. But Noah saw through it. He saw the «sentries»—men with jagged tattoos and hard eyes—leaning against brick walls, their pockets heavy with more than just switchblades.
He could practically smell the energy signatures. Chitauri tech had a distinct, sickly-sweet ionic hum. It was like a beacon in the dark, highlighting the basements and backrooms where the «salvage» was being hoarded. He debated simply raining fire down upon them, but a more subtle thought occurred. Tony would be salivating for this data. Perhaps he'd trade the information for a favor later.
Wait...
Noah's internal radar spiked. His eyes locked onto a narrow, filth-streaked alleyway three blocks over.
«What in the hell is that?» His brow furrowed as he felt a sudden, discordant ripple in the local energy field.
Down in the shadows, between the overflowing dumpsters, a nightmare was unfolding. A man stood there, but his silhouette was wrong—his skin was erupting in a forest of long, obsidian-black quills. He moved with a blurred, frantic violence, skewering a group of panicked thugs against the brickwork. It wasn't a fight; it was a slaughter. As the last man fell, the quills gave a wet, sliding sound as they retracted into the stranger's pores, leaving behind a shivering, ordinary-looking human who scrambled to scoop up the fallen blood-stained cash.
Abilities... Who is this? Noah's mind raced through the archives of his memory. A bit-player from the films? A mutant?
He reached out with a thread of his power, brushing against the man's soul. The reading was strange—jagged and artificial. Within the man's biology, he detected the faint, lingering radiation of the Mind Stone. It wasn't the pure, overwhelming presence of a wielder, but a residue, like a burn mark left by a hot iron.
A mutation triggered by the Scepter? Noah realized. It was the same signature he would expect from Wanda or Pietro Maximoff. In this universe, «mutants» weren't a natural evolution of the X-gene; they were often the broken results of Hydra's tampering or cosmic accidents. This «porcupine-man» was a stray spark from the same fire that had created the Scarlet Witch.
But the question remained: where had he encountered the Mind Stone's energy so recently? The Scepter should have been under lock and key within S.H.I.E.L.D. or stolen by Strucker.
Driven by a cold curiosity, Noah folded his wings of magic and plummeted toward the alley, a silent reaper descending upon the unwitting monster.
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