A/N: Sorry for the lack of updates, I've been trying, along with working on the latest in a series of essays, research papers on anatomy, and note compilations, to string together my new ideas in a somewhat (if only by crack!fic) believable manner. As it is, I hope you enjoy it (and all the little references I've sprinkled in).
Happy (belated) April Fool's Day (or Happy Fred and George's birthday, it's the same thing really. I hope you didn't forget to stick fish on each other's backs, to those of you lovely people in Europe who carry out the "April Fish!" tradition!). Also, in case I don't update again soon, Happy (belated) Earth Day (and I hope you all remembered to draw a circle!), and, for today (or yesterday, they never gave specifications), Happy 450th birthday to William Shakespeare! Even if people don't know the exact point of the start of his existence, the man made some darn fine plays and sonnets, and Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, MacBeth, and King Lear are works that I am proud to have revisited both today, and these past few days in honor of it. Now, by the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes...to you! Please enjoy!
DISCLAIMER: As usual, I own nothing but this story's idea. Please don't smite me with flaggings to the authorities for the references shown here.
The day didn't improve for the Avengers. By the time noon had arrived, Central Park had gotten a time-traveling Beatles concert (which, fortunately for any government cover ups, vanished as quickly as it came, though not without Tony recording the event with the aid of J.A.R.V.I.S.), several blocks going to, through, and past Steinway Street had become subject to disembodied piano music, and the "giant chicken dilemma" was still ongoing, leading several S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to be dispatched to help contain the damage and direct the physically altered civilians to the nearest restrooms, where warm water and vigourous scrubbing and pulling was applied to get the feathers out.
By mid-afternoon, it had gotten, if possible, even stranger. The Empire State building had turned a multitude of colours for the past several hours, but, almost like a psychedelic cuttlefish choosing a new favourite camouflage, had recently become stuck on bright, almost-but-not-quite-eye-watering blue.
Stark Tower had been given a makeover, the "A" that had been the sole survivor of the whole name from the Chitauri invasion recoloured to bright red due to being covered in thousands of tiny, perfectly ripe apples, which promptly rotted several hours later, showering the balcony with thousands of wriggling green worms. Tony's private pool had drained, a gigantic pedestal rising out of it, hosting a gigantic library devoted only to books on either cats or Norse mythology, and smelling distinctly of temporal dust, store-bought vanilla custard and freshly-baked fish fingers. The lab and workshop were, surprisingly, left unharmed, although Pepper, upon checking that there was no lasting, harmful damage to the Tower, found Dum-E whirring and chirping happily in binary, apparently oblivious that the foam being liberally applied to the cars from the fire extinguishers had been dyed a bright, eye-watering shade of lime green, complete with creating huge clouds of soap bubbles upon each spray. When they popped, Pepper was rather dismayed to discover that they let out a painful screeching sound, which in turn set off all the car alarms in Tony's expensive, and extensive, antique car collection.
There was a huge parade of "Pepto-Bismol" pink elephants that had materialized like a bad LSD trip ride right in the middle of Broadway's latest production, causing the stage director to run off the set, screaming that his childhood was coming to haunt him.
Clint had gotten trapped in an ice cream parlor downtown by a blockade of customers, all of whom were causing massive worry of airborne toxin-caused hallucinations in the waitresses, ice cream scoopers, and the woman manning the register because the moment they stepped through the door, everyone would turn into a penguin. Judging by the frantic shouts of the archer audible through the team's communications network, Clint was trying rather valiantly (although he was failing) to keep the cashier from calling 911, the F.B.I., or the nearest local news station to explain the situation. To her credit, the cashier was putting up a rather impressive fight, repeatedly squirming out of the archer's attempt at restraining her with the help of several years of dedicated yoga practice, and all the while shouting that she didn't care that he was an Avenger, she wasn't getting paid anywhere near enough to both work the register and be a zoo keeper.
Natasha had become embroiled in a massive takeover of Times Square, which had become the location of a sudden, explosively loud flash mob rendition of Mamma Mia...in rather melodic verses translated, save for the actual songs, entirely in Swedish. She would have finished establishing crowd control earlier, but halfway through the production, the nearby subway entrance spat out a slew of white-collar office workers heading out for a lunch break, and the new crowd promptly stared at the Mamma Mia production, and responded to it by lunging forwards shouting an explosive exclamation of,"BRAVEHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!" at the tops of their lungs. The Mamma Mia people answered with a shout of "FOR NARNIA!", and a dance-fight broke out, with the white-collar workers giving a jig, and the Mamma Mia actors and actresses fumbling through the dance moves from West Side Story.
Steve had perhaps the least painful job of chaos containment, given that he was currently trying to save a rather adorable stripey orange kitten, who, true to the stereotype for his kind, had gone and ended up getting stuck up one of Central Park's trees while chasing a rather fat pigeon. It wouldn't be so bad, except the little furry bundle was more stubborn than a 100-year old patch of mold in the sewers, and was firmly refusing to come down, despite Steve's gentle pleas, coaxing, and offering of organic salmon or chicken-flavoured feline treats. The supersoldier's attempts to climb the tree, reach out, and pluck the resisting feline from his perch had only come to two out of three steps before the poor man had received a rather sharp swipe at his face by the tiny set of claws.
Staring up at the teeny orange puff-ball enthroned on a high bough of the tree, Steve set his jaw, eyes darkening with determination to royal blue. One way or another, he was going to get that kitten out of that tree, even if he had to call in Agent Coulson to set a selection of pillows and mattresses all around so he could shake the stubborn bit of adorable fluff loose without risking the humane society hunting him down and stringing him up by his spandex suit.
Tony...was not having what could be called "fun" by any human definition of the word, much less that of a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist's definition of the word.
But, to his credit, being the unwelcome target for bird poop by what seemed to be every single pigeon and pet bird in the entirety of New York City was not his favorite thing to be. Constant swerving, diving, ducking, and weaving in and out of city traffic could only put off the pesky battalion of birds for so long, and J.A.R.V.I.S. had been incapacitated with a harmless but nonetheless very annoying loop of background music that caused the theme for the Angry Birds game to play every time the AI relayed instructions to Tony for where to hide from the terrifying avian mob.
Tony wondered vaguely, as he ducked into the nearest subway to hide for a few precious minutes, if he was being subjected to the more sadistic cousin of the Birds cult film situation. If he was...
Well, I suppose it's a good thing I willed all my shit to Pepper. Whatever the hell Loki put in the water today, it's turned the city upside-down, inside-out, and left it reeling on the mother of all acid trips.