Boom! Boom! Boom!
At this moment, the caliber of a Level 10 S.H.I.E.L.D. operative was on full display. Nick Fury fired three precise anti-air bursts, striking the jet's engine cleanly.
He avoided detonating the fuel tank—saving the pilot's life—while successfully preventing the launch.
However—
Just as Fury allowed himself the slightest breath of relief, another nuclear-armed jet launched without informing the bridge. It catapulted off the deck before anyone could react.
Fury froze for a split second. By the time he tried to retarget, it was already too late.
Staring at the fading engine flare, he clenched a pager tightly in his hand and muttered blankly:
"It's over… It's all over…"
"When that kid Leon comes back, he's going to kill every last one of us…"
"No!"
"Sir, it's not over yet!"
Maria Hill didn't hesitate for even a second. She immediately transmitted over the Avengers' priority channel:
"All Avengers, be advised. A nuclear-armed jet is inbound to New York."
Tony's eyes widened behind his helmet.
Wait— I was joking before. You people were serious?!
"Mmph! Mmph!"
Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff struggled violently beside him, steel restraints binding them, metallic gags silencing them.
"How long?"
The only unbound Avenger—Hawkeye (Clint Barton)—spoke calmly over the shared channel.
"Three minutes at most."
"Two and a half until it reaches launch position."
"If it fires successfully, Manhattan will be vaporized."
Hill's voice was steady, but urgent.
"Leave it to me."
Among the Avengers, Hawkeye's raw power ranked at the bottom.
Yet at this moment, his composure gave Fury and Hill aboard the Helicarrier a greater sense of reassurance than even Tony or Thor ever had.
"How are you going to do it?" Fury demanded, his right thumb subtly easing off the pager he had been preparing to use to summon Captain Marvel.
"Sir," Clint replied evenly, "you know how."
"Shit… give me a second…"
Rooftop – Manhattan
Hawkeye was surrounded by more than a dozen Chitauri soldiers.
He flipped to avoid incoming laser fire and ducked behind a rooftop water tower for cover, counting silently in his head.
Three.
Two.
One.
Now.
Without even looking, he hooked the nearest Chitauri soldier's neck with the curve of his bow and, in one fluid motion, strangled it with the bowstring.
He snatched the Chitauri pulse rifle from its hands. After firing two test shots—blasting apart two advancing soldiers—he adjusted the weapon to rapid-fire mode with remarkable speed.
Using the noise from the test shots to draw the remaining troops' attention, he circled to the other side of the water tower.
Pewpewpewpew—!
The continuous pulse blasts formed a sweeping beam of energy, cutting the remaining Chitauri cleanly in half at the waist.
Threat neutralized.
Clint retreated behind the tower once more.
"You know, sir," he said quietly over comms,
"I'm not as strong as Thor or the Hulk. I don't have Banner or Tony's genius. I don't lead like Captain Rogers. And I don't have Natasha's courage… or her sacrifices."
"All I can do… is shoot arrows."
With that—
He rolled out from cover, retrieved two arrows embedded in Chitauri corpses, and slid them back into his quiver.
He tapped the sensor pad on his bow grip twice.
At the base of the mechanical quiver, the cylindrical chamber rotated with a soft whir, refitting the arrows with specialized heads of his choosing.
Clint drew a grappling arrow and fired precisely at a passing Chitauri chariot.
The hook latched on.
He launched into the air—swinging in a perfect arc like a certain web-slinging someone who wasn't here—
And landed smoothly on the rear platform of the alien craft.
The Chitauri pilot froze in confusion.
Before it could react, Clint kicked it off the chariot and seized control.
Then he accelerated—
Flying away from central Manhattan.
Away from the battlefield.
It looked like he was running.
Ground Level
"Look," said Ebony Maw · Leon, as though unaware of Clint's true intention. He gestured lazily toward the fleeing figure.
"Your final companion has abandoned you and fled."
Beside him, pulverized concrete dust swirled into a three-dimensional projection, broadcasting a live image of Hawkeye riding the stolen chariot—just in case Tony and the others couldn't see it clearly.
No one responded.
Only fury and defiance burned in their eyes.
A tear slid down Natasha's cheek.
To her, Clint Barton was the man who pulled her out of the Red Room. Her partner. Her comrade. Something more than a friend—less than a lover—almost like a second mentor.
Don't…
She pleaded silently.
But Clint couldn't hear her.
And even if he could—he wouldn't turn back.
The Chitauri army continued its devastation.
Yet compared to the destruction wrought by aliens, the true prelude to annihilation was humanity turning its weapons on its own people.
New York was losing hope.
Because—
Through Arcee's livestream, the world had already learned that the government had authorized a nuclear strike on Manhattan. They had been abandoned.
"Who can save us now?"
"Where are you, savior of New York?"
Arcee clasped her hands before her chest, tears glistening in her eyes as she prayed dramatically.
Behind her stretched the ruined battlefield of Manhattan.
No one questioned how she remained untouched in that exact location—how Chitauri soldiers passed by her as though blind.
At this point, her livestream chat was exploding:
"You built that nuke with taxpayers' money just to murder those same taxpayers?!"
"Where's the government? Where's the military?!"
"Are you all completely useless?!"
"Maybe shove that missile up your own—"
"Today it's New York. Tomorrow it could be Los Angeles. It could be any of us!"
"Someone help my daughter—she's trapped under—"
The chat scrolled so fast it blurred.
Most messages were furious condemnations of the U.S. government and military.
Very few were from actual New Yorkers.
Because they were too busy running for their lives to watch a livestream.
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