Marvel:Why Return Borrowed Magic?

Late at night, but Aron doesn't feel a trace of fatigue. Maybe because of the time difference. Maybe because of everything spinning in his head.

The streets are still alive. He's not the only one wandering.

New York, the center of the world. Everything here is alive, even the worst parts of the city.

Even Hell's Kitchen.

The lights don't go out. The city pulses.

On the street, women with heavy makeup. People gather in front of clubs, chatting, entering dark alleys. Tattooed guys hanging in groups at entrances, exchanging looks, arranging something.

Aron just walks past. He doesn't pay attention.

"Is this really the Marvel world?" he thinks.

Feels fake. Where are the villains? Aliens? Thieves? Where's the chaos they promised him?

You can't even witness a petty theft.

"This is Hell's Kitchen, right?" he asks quietly, sarcastically.

—

"Hey!"

A voice behind him cut through the night.

Hell's Kitchen. Knows how to deliver.

"Give me the money! Now!"

Aron turns slowly.

In the dark stand two guys, African Americans, masked, knives in their hands. Not exactly discreet.

"That's why I didn't see them earlier…" he thinks with relief.

"Hey! I'm talking to you, are you deaf!?" one of them yells and steps toward him, swinging the knife.

Aron doesn't even give him a chance to finish the motion.

Hits him with a slap.

He tried to be gentle. Didn't use full strength, the memory of Kamar-Taj and what could happen if he overdoes it is still fresh.

But still – WHAM!

The guy flew backward as if hit by a log.

A flight of teeth and blood in the air.

Slammed into a building. Stayed down. Blood spreading beneath him.

The other one just stood there. Frozen. The knife fell from his hand.

"Your buddy's got a nice build. You, lie down, pretend you're sleeping."

Aron looked at him, then pulled out the Glock Mordo got him.

"Now… money."

When he saw the gun, the guy snapped out of the shock. Instincts took over. He pulled out everything he had.

Quickly, precisely, without a word.

"Still, a gun works best," Aron said as he stuffed the money into his pocket.

A nice way to double your budget without a single invoice.

"Wait. I have a question."

As soon as he saw the thug trying to slip away, Aron aimed at his head again.

"You know about the Avengers?"

"Of course!"

The guy's eyes lit up.

"Just the other day they took down aliens! Saved New York! My favorite is Captain America! He's been my idol since I was a kid!"

He started talking nonstop, as if he forgot a gun was still pointed at him.

When he saw the barrel again, he fell silent.

"So... right after the Battle of New York. After Avengers One."

Aron aligned the timeline in his head.

As soon as he heard this guy idolized Steve Rogers, he raised an eyebrow.

"So, your idol taught you to threaten people with a knife? Great."

"All right, leave the phone too."

The guy handed him the latest model, still with the price sticker on the back. Freshly bought.

"Save next time you go shopping," Aron muttered and turned around.

Morning.

Aron was in the presidential suite on the top floor of the most expensive hotel in Hell's Kitchen.

Price per night, tens of thousands of dollars.

He was awakened by a call.

"Hello?"

"Rama, this is Franklin. Have you thought about what I told you last time?"

The connection was bad. The voice on the other side sounded like mumbling through a cigar.

"Get your head out of your ass. Stop harassing the workers and staff. You hear me?"

Aron cursed and hung up.

Only then did he remember, the phone wasn't his. It wasn't even planned. He took it last night, along with the money.

But more important than the phone itself, the SIM card was still active. Someone else's.

"I'll need a new card," he muttered, stretching.

No documents, no identity. A black user. But who cares? America.

Here, everything can be bought, for the right price.

Problem?

"I have no money..."

He looked at what he took last night – a bit over a thousand dollars. Nowhere near enough for what he needs.

Not to mention identity. Even the hotel staff were white guys with Harvard attitudes.

"Mordo was right," he said quietly. "Teleportation is the most practical magic."

He got up, took a shower, put on the ring.

A second later, alarm.

Breaking through the building, security was rushing toward the suite.

And Aron was already sitting a few hundred meters away, in a local Chinese restaurant, eating buns and soy milk for breakfast.

On the phone, not a word about Sokovia. Nor about Ultron. Nor about the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D.

"So…" he mumbled while scrolling through the screen, "the timeline is after the Battle of New York, before Winter Soldier and Age of Ultron."

The battle was already several months ago. Stark Tower had been renamed, now Avengers Tower.

On the internet, everything's burning. Avengers are the main topic. Stream, trend, number one.

Perfect.