Earth's Mightiest Broke Heroes

It all began with a blinding purple light that bleached the entire universe to white.

One second, the Avengers were on the ruins of Titan, locked in a final, desperate battle with a Mad Titan wielding a gauntlet studded with six Infinity Stones. The power of the Reality Stone twisted uncontrollably in the hands of the tyrant named Thanos, and in an instant, the laws of space, time, and even existence itself were churned into a boiling, chaotic soup.

The next second, the light was gone.

Tony Stark was the first to regain his sight. His sleek, nanotech Mark 85 armor was still emitting a low crackle, overloaded energy readings flashing wildly across his HUD. But the air he felt was no longer the thin, dust-and-blood-filled atmosphere of the battlefield.

Instead, it was an… an overwhelmingly complex, human chaos, a potent assault of the greasy perfume of hot dogs, the cloying sweetness of cheap perfume, the acrid bite of car exhaust, and the thousand different scents of a crush of humanity.

"FRIDAY?" he called out reflexively, his voice raspy from the fight. "Report current environmental parameters. Where are we?"

"…Sir, I am unable to connect to the Stark satellite network. Cannot acquire location. Attempting to connect to local… unknown network."

FRIDAY's voice was choppy and full of static, as if filtered through ten thousand signal jammers.

Tony frowned. He retracted his faceplate and then froze.

What he saw was not the red desert of Titan, nor the vast grasslands of Wakanda.

It was a jungle of steel and glass, composed of countless giant, flashing, ever-changing electronic screens. A river of bizarrely shaped metal boxes he'd never seen before (he would later learn they were called "cars") was gridlocked on the ground below. And most incredibly, there was the crowd—a dense, swarming mass of people, moving like worker ants.

They wore a bizarre assortment of clothes, and every single one of them was staring down, mesmerized, at a small, glowing glass plate in their hands.

Above them, on a screen the size of a Star Destroyer, a woman with garishly applied lipstick was hawking a tube of… lipstick, with a passion he couldn't begin to comprehend.

"What the f—" Tony’s curse was cut short by another voice.

"Everyone! Defensive formation two! Stay alert!"

Steve Rogers, Captain America, had already reflexively raised his red, white, and blue vibranium shield, sheltering Natasha, who was closest to him. His deep blue eyes were filled with vigilance, like a lion entering an unknown forest, scanning the bizarre, potentially hostile environment.

"What is this place? Some kind of mass illusion?" his voice was steady, a sliver of order in the chaos.

"This realm… is strange," Thor, the God of Thunder from Asgard, said, gripping Mjolnir tightly as he surveyed the scene. "I cannot feel the presence of Asgard, and the Bifrost's energy is completely cut off. The branches of Yggdrasil here… are dead."

"The laws of space are… viscous," Doctor Strange said, hovering mid-air, the mystic discs in his hands flickering erratically, his brow furrowed. "I can feel the presence of space, but I can't 'fold' or 'cut' it as easily as usual. It's like… trying to swim through a block of setting resin."

Dr. Banner looked nervous, pushing his glasses up his nose as he instinctively backed away from the throng, terrified a careless bump might bring out "the other guy."

Only Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton, the two most "normal" members of the team, were the quickest to adapt.

"Easy, Steve," Natasha said, gently pushing his shield down. "They're not hostile."

She pointed to the surrounding crowd, who were all holding up their glowing glass plates (they'd later learn they were called "phones") and frantically filming them. There was no fear on their faces, no hostility, only a mixture of curiosity, excitement, and a thrill-seeking glee.

"They think we're…" Clint lowered his bow, a deeply strange expression on his face. "…some kind of… performers?"

Just then, a young woman in a giant "I ♡ NY" t-shirt, looking like a walking paint palette, shrieked and charged towards Thor.

"Oh my God! Thor! It's really Thor! Your cosplay is so realistic! Even the hammer glows!" She held up her phone, completely ignoring Thor's thunderous "How-dare-you-mortal" glare, and squeezed in next to him, flashing a peace sign.

Click.

Thor, Prince of Asgard, Son of Odin, the mighty God of Thunder, had just taken a historic, culture-shock-filled photo with his first "fan."

"What… in the hell is this place?" Tony muttered, watching the absurd scene unfold. For the first time, he felt his super-genius brain begin to crash.

The chaos began when Thor's patience finally ran out.

After being harassed by the seventeenth influencer demanding he "strike a cool pose," the Prince of Asgard finally snapped.

"Enough! You chattering Midgardian mortals!" he roared, raising Mjolnir to the sky, trying to awe the impudent crowd with his divine might.

A tiny, silver serpent of lightning crackled from the hammer's head.

It was meant to be a prelude to divine punishment.

In Times Square, however, it was interpreted as an incredibly realistic, self-contained sound and light prop.

"Whoa! Cool! Do it again!" Cheers erupted from the crowd.

Thor was incandescent with rage. He began to spin his hammer, the wind pressure sending people stumbling back.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, but they were filled more with excitement than fear.

"Hey! You, the big blond guy! What do you think you're doing? Stop it!"

Two NYPD officers in blue uniforms, guns at their hips, blew their whistles as they struggled through the crowd.

Steve immediately stepped forward, trying to explain. "Officer, it's a misunderstanding. My friend, he—"

"And who are you? 'Captain America'?" one of the cops said, rolling his eyes at Steve's iconic uniform and massive shield. "Can you performance artists give it a rest? This is Times Square, not Comic-Con! That hammer has a live current, and that shield—those are restricted props! You know that?"

"Restricted… props?" A look of pure bewilderment crossed Steve's face for the first time.

"And you!" the other cop pointed at Tony. "Walking around in that tin can! What if it shorts out? You're a public safety hazard!"

"Tin can?" Tony felt his blood pressure skyrocket.

In the end, after a "conversation" that was a masterclass in cross-cultural and cognitive dissonance, and given that the Avengers were "carrying dangerous props, disturbing the peace, and unable to produce any valid identification," they were "invited" into a squad car by the two officers and the equally exasperated backup they had called.

As the police car, with its flashing red and blue lights, slowly pulled away, carrying Earth's mightiest heroes, Tony stared out the window at the still-cheering, picture-snapping crowd and the woman on the screen tirelessly selling lipstick. He finally, with every ounce of strength he had, spat out the curse he'd been holding in for so long.

"What the FUCK."