You are tired. You've saved the world more times than you can count, and you have the scars to prove it. A soul with a choice to make, if you are to master your new unwanted powers, you must learn that the past is a place to learn from, not live in.

There was so much dust, what was happening? Someone was screaming. Your throat burned.

“Run!” Frank's arm was turning to dust. Then his leg, then his other arm, then his head.

Then, you heard chaotic, unfamiliar voices

“-pick a chil-”

“What’s happening to m-”

“Mr. Stark, please I don’t want to go-”

You scrambled back, trying to scratch the dust and the voices away from you. It hurt too much. Where was everyone?

Seconds passed, or maybe minutes? You weren't sure, you just knew that you were getting colder, your brain fuzzier. Then you hear a voice in your head.

“Hey kid! Get up!”

Huh? Someone was yelling? An older voice, a man? The yelling you were familiar with, but not the concern. Must not be for you then.*

“Jesus.” A flash of sadness, but it didn't feel like yours.

Since you're barely recovered from dying(?), it hurts worse than it should, and it takes you a minute or two to gather your wits. It takes you five more to stand up and brush yourself off. your clothes are covered in ash and dust.

You stumble out of the alley into the fading evening light and braces yourself against a street sign near one of the only functioning street lights. It said "Park Row". You don't recognize the street. You look up and down the block and realizes you don’t recognize that either. The skyline is all wrong for New York; no Empire State building, or anything that you can recognize from here. So you are definitely not back home, which is a shame. And also very typical for your luck