Avengers · Marvel · Conversa

New York, 2012. The fluorescent lights in the workshop hummed. Tony Stark stared at the interface on the armor's forearm, twirled the screwdriver in his hand three times, then put it down. He couldn't say what was wrong—he just didn't want to be alone tonight. Steve Rogers finished a cup of coffee outside the convenience store. The cashier didn't recognize him, and he thought that was a good thing. Bruce Banner counted the crack overhead and heard the water pipes vibrating in the wall next door. He pressed his hand to his chest. His heartbeat was steady. The guy inside him didn't weigh in tonight. In the S.H.I.E.L.D. briefing room, Clint put the final coat of wax on his bowstring. Natasha wasn't wearing boots, her feet on the floor. Neither of them spoke, and neither rushed the other. Nick Fury stood before the empty command console, several files spread out in front of him. Stark, Rogers, Banner, Romanoff, Barton. He laid the files out one by one and tapped his fingers twice on the desk. Outside the window it was as quiet as yesterday. But the weight of the air had already changed. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Redirect the conversation</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>