We stay motionless as marble statues unmoving in the night air, waiting in trepidation as the snarling and gasping and footsteps thunder ever closer. I'm not sure what I had imagined in my head — something painfully human; a cavalry of men in red uniforms with swords, or foot-soldiers marching in perfect succession. Perhaps even a cartoonish 'left, right, left!' bellowed between steps. What emerges from the trees instead is disturbing and nightmarish.
I'd seen the footage of the Avengers in New York. I'd seen the chitauri, even marvelled at them, horrified, along with the rest of the world. But when these foul beasts come ripping and snarling from the thicket on the other side of the clearing, visible only in the moonlight, I do not even recognise them at first. It's only upon Tony's verbal confirmation, clear as day in my right earlobe, that I reconcile the creatures for who they truly are.
"Were we expecting this?" I ask Steve, as Bruce rips into the Hulk.
"I knew it was a possibility," he says grimly. "Let's go."
The flying Avengers shoot off overhead. Wanda takes down rows of the creatures as they erupt into the clearing, while Thor gets busy landing hard on them, using mjolnir to knock the beasts unconscious. Even Loki's smirk is wiped from his face as his eyes narrow in concentration, twirling his blade amongst his fingertips.
The most chilling part is just how cold-blooded the chitauri are. There is nothing resembling human emotion in their expressions. No indication that they feel anything at all. Just a blood-curdling wail, distorting their already horrific faces, and then a grotesque scene of blood or bone as they die. Hulk rips them apart easily, as if they are made of no more than paper. But it's all in defence, for everyone. No matter how skillfully we manage to take one down, we are still hopelessly outnumbered.
I have no time to ponder my own mortality. I barely have time to think at all. I become a whirl of blades and fists, each of my senses on high alert, as though unlocking some instinctive part of me dating back to when humans were no more than survivalists ourselves. I do not consciously use any of my training, choose my attacks, recall tactics. I simply sink the blades into flesh — if you can call it that — and then turn to deal with the next closest threat.
I quickly realise why the chitauri are so easily fought. They attack viciously, but they do not dodge returning blows very well. There is no nimble athleticism, only brute force. Once their patterns become apparent to me, the fight becomes little more than a dance. I try not to get too comfortable, too reliant, on this assumption, but my hysteria dulls just slightly as my confidence grows. Just dodge the first attack, then take them down.
A rare swell of pride overcomes me when I realise I am holding my own, amongst the Avengers, no less. Even Tony calls out a 'nice job, fireball,' when he shoots past during a particularly lethal blow I deliver. I feel like less of an impostor. Just a few hundred of these, and we'll be done. Just push through, and this will soon be over.
"Guys…" Peter's voice rings clear in my ear as I take down two more. "Are you seeing this?"
"It's not exactly the time for sight-seeing kid," Tony replies. "What is it?"
"It's… It's heading your way."
"What?" Steve's voice now, not a second's delay as I see him call out from just a few feet away. "What is it, Peter?"
But for all his stunned silence, our own is just as severe as the anomaly comes into view.
A hideous, gnarled spaceship descends slowly through the air, casting a long breeze about the clearing that whips at our hair and faces. The fighting halts for a moment, as humans and chitauri alike scamper from the centre, thinking only of escaping being crushed by the thing.
"Nope," Tony says. "Nuh-uh. Not today."
In a flash of red and gold he approaches the ship. Battling wildly against the wind, he seizes the bottom rung and powers up all jets, trying with all his might to fight against the immense power anchoring the thing towards the ground. For a moment it hovers, and it looks as though Tony's making progress. But then it shudders even more powerfully downward, speeding with such force it takes a moment to register what's happening.
"Tony!" I call out, as I watch the tonnes of other-worldly metal descend on top of him.
The spaceship drops with a boom that shakes the whole clearing in a cloud of dirt and dust. No, I think to myself. No, it can't be. Not Tony…
It's as though we all become one in that moment. We merge into a single unity, spurred on as the spaceship doors open, and countless more hordes of the chitauri erupt into the fight. We become ruthless machines of murder, swinging and stabbing and shooting. Tears well in my eyes.
"Tony," Natasha whispers, her breath coming through the earpiece.
"What?"
I flinch, stunned, as Stark's voice rings through my ear, as surely and strongly as it did moments before.
I turn to look in awe as he swoops down from the treetops, grasping two chitauri by the heads and banging them together, sending them flying and dropping to the ground. His suit's a little cracked, and one of his jets is sparking considerably, but otherwise he's unharmed. A gasp of relief escapes my chest, but there's no time to think further, as seas more of the chitauri seep into the clearing.
It's like a never-ending supply. Thrice, even four times, the original number of opponents. Steve yells encouragement into our ears, Stark tries to make jokes, but there's a tension and worry even in their eyes. We are all tiring. It has been hours at this point, and the first light of dawn threatens to break through the trees. We keep fighting, keep moving, but grow clumsy. Loki sustains a nasty slice to his cheek, and Wanda misses her targets more than once. If we had a sub bench, we'd all be tapping out, conserving energy before going another round. But the only sub bench here is death.
Our virility, our strength united, fizzles to an end. The chitauri are still unrelenting, clambering over their fallen kin, snatching spare weapons from the stiff hands of the corpses.
"We could use a bit more light," Thor calls to me knowingly, taking out a handful of beasts with a small stumble.
I glance helplessly to the sky. "It's not yet daybreak," I call back.
I try, regardless, my gaze fixed upon that spaceship. Surely to set it alight would be a help. Only the chitauri roam in the immediately surrounding area, with all our side airborne or at the fringes of the clearing. An explosion right there, at the source of the never-ending surge, would even the playing field. It would give us a chance.
But as I fight to call forth the fire to my hands, I know it is futile. They glow red and hot, like a branding iron, but refuse to produce any flames. The sun has not yet risen to claim her domain, and so I am at the mercy of the moon, the feeble imitation of light. And at this dusky hour, with neither yet ruling the skies, there is simply no power source from which to draw.
And then the unthinkable, the horrific, happens. I watch in what feels like slow motion, still stabbing and slashing at chitauri of my own, as Steve launches his shield through the air. He's done it countless times this battle alone. But the chitauri in the firing line looks at him with different eyes. He is not like these others — there is an intelligence about him. And, instead of the shield knocking him dead or unconscious, he reaches forth with both hands and grasps it.
At once, a terrible wheezing and clicking comes from where his mouth should be, as he holds the shield up like a souvenir. A low growl escapes from my chest. I leap forward, sprinting towards the hideous thing, knocking any other chitauri out of the way with my knife. It does not see me approaching. It does not feel my breath upon its neck until it is too late, my knife already protruding from its stomach. There is something intimate about the kill — the flesh flush against my torso, my arm cradling it as it falls — and it is with gentle hands I retrieve Steve's shield. He is close enough, with a clear path, that I run to hand it back to him.
There's no time for displays of gratitude, but we exchange meaningful glances in the briefest of seconds, before he blocks a gun blast aimed at my head. I need to get back in the game, I realise, and so I take a moment to calibrate my surroundings.
It is the most helpless moment I have experienced in my life. Tony is pinned to the ground, trying to fight half a dozen off him, and more keep clambering on. Loki bleeds profusely, from a head wound, staggering about behind a birch tree. The floor of the clearing is no longer visible, but covered instead in piles and piles of chitauri bodies. How much longer can we do this for?
As if to answer my unspoken question, at that moment, a familiar rustle hops along the breeze. I turn to Natasha, just feet beside me, and we exchange horrified glances. I glance up to the sky, praying I am mistaken, praying it is a plane full of help for our side instead. But it is another spaceship. Identical to the first. This time, the chitauri do not even wait to land before leaping out of the doors.
My head snaps forward, completely on instinct, just as a blast erupts from the gun of a grinning chitauri. I do not even think. It is not a conscious decision. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, something guides me. It's intangible. The same force that guides you to wake in the morning, to tidy your books when they become cluttered, to shower after training. This intangible force pieces together that Natasha is still staring, open-mouthed, at the spaceship. And though her head moves at the sound of the blaster, it is too slow, she cannot see what I can see. I leap in front of her to protect her. It happens too fast — I don't grasp that I am taking the blast shot. I simply do it.
The sensation of burning is not unfamiliar to me. My hands burn each time I use them. I feel the heat when I walk through my own fire, my body just doesn't blister. But this wound does more than blister.
It feels as though it's splitting me in half. My vision turns white and the burning is so hot it's like ice. At the school, the military school, the one I do not think about but I am not thinking clearly at all, they forced me to receive gun shots, to become desensitised to the sensation. If I wasn't expecting it, I barely felt it at all, until the warm seeping of blood through my uniform. A blaster shot is completely different.
I'm aware of voices inside my ear, of hands cradling my head, my neck. I think I whimper — it hurts — and I think someone hushes me. I feel my eyes drift out of focus. I feel the gates of Hades open to welcome me.
And then, the most beautiful, exquisite thing happens.
Rays of golden sunlight break through the trees. Warm stripes dance across my skin, turn the backs of my eyelids pink. I feel myself smile. This isn't such a bad place to die.
Lazily, sleepily, I raise a hand, the crook of my elbow bending. I point my fingertips to the sky, to this glorious sun. I let out a deep, content sigh. Everything is warm. Everything is okay.
The fire rushes to my palms, my fingertips, in the most heavenly release. But — I frown — something is different. It's not free to roam, spread, expand. It's guided through narrow channels, much like the lanes at a bowling alley. Like tubes, like rays of sunlight themselves. I do not dictate the direction of the fire, I simply channel it, power it. The smell of acrid, burning flesh reaches my nose, but I am at peace.
I am at peace.