12:47 PM
David had lost track of time. The battle had been going for hours but felt like years. Or minutes. His sense of linear progression had fractured somewhere between the eighteenth and twenty-third building he'd stabilized. Now he existed in a weird fugue state where his consciousness was spread across Manhattan like a spider's web, each thread connecting him to a structure, a crisis, a choice about who lived and who died.
He was still in Times Square. Technically. His body was, anyway. Steve Rogers kept pulling him behind cover when Chitauri weapons fire got too close. David barely noticed. His awareness was everywhere else.
A school in Chelsea. Forty-two children huddled in a basement while the building above them burned. David wrapped the structure in his gift, made load-bearing walls hold despite the fire, created a pocket of stability until firefighters could reach them.
An apartment complex in Hell's Kitchen. Chitauri soldiers using it as a staging ground, families trapped on upper floors. David made every door in their path seal shut, turned hallways into mazes, bought time for SWAT teams to evacuate civilians from the roof.
A hospital near Roosevelt Island. Already damaged from earlier attacks, now taking sustained fire from a Chitauri position. David couldn't reach it physically but he could feel it , concrete failing, upper floors about to collapse onto ICU patients who couldn't be moved. He grabbed it with his will and held on, even though the distance made his skull feel like it was cracking open.
"David!" Marcus's voice crackled through his radio. "Status update!"
Right. He had people who cared about him. Should probably respond to them. "Alive. Times Square. Working with Cap."
"Jesus, your voice sounds like shit. How bad are you hurt?"
David looked down at himself. His suit was destroyed, covered in blood and concrete dust. Most of the blood was probably his. Some of it definitely was , he could feel it running down his face, soaking his collar. "Operational."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got. How's the South Bronx building?"
"Holding. Your design is keeping us safe. We've got eight thousand people sheltered across all Foundation properties. Medical teams are treating casualties. We're doing good work here, David."
Eight thousand. The same number he'd saved during the Chitauri invasion in his memories. Except this time he wasn't just sheltering them , he was actively fighting to keep the buildings standing. Every Foundation structure across the five boroughs was connected to his awareness, reinforced by his gift, held together by his will.
It was killing him. Slowly but definitely.
"David?" Marcus sounded worried. "You still there?"
"Yeah. Just... busy. Keep people safe, Marcus. That's what matters."
"You matter too, you stubborn bastard."
David didn't have an answer for that. Another building was failing , a high-rise on Seventh Avenue, south wall compromised, residents trapped on the twentieth floor. He reached out, stabilized it, added it to the list of structures he was maintaining through sheer force of will and stubbornness.
Twenty-eight buildings now. His previous record was twenty for four hours. He'd been holding this many for longer than that and the day wasn't over. Everything hurt. His brain felt like it was trying to escape through his ears. But the buildings held, so he held, and that was all there was to it.
Something massive moved overhead. David looked up through swimming vision and saw a Leviathan banking toward Times Square. The bio-mechanical whale-thing was the size of a building itself, armor plating covering its body, Chitauri soldiers riding on its back like nightmare cavalry.
"Contact!" Steve shouted. "Leviathan incoming! Everyone find hard cover!"
David's defensive walls wouldn't stop something that size. The Leviathan would smash through concrete barriers like tissue paper. He needed something bigger, stronger, more ,
The buildings on either side of Times Square were thirty stories tall. Solid construction. Well-maintained. And right now, they were the biggest weapons David had access to.
He reached into both structures simultaneously. Felt their frameworks, their foundations, the fundamental architecture that held them upright. Then he did something he'd never tried before.
He made them move.
Not collapse. Not fall. Move. The buildings' upper floors extended outward like arms, concrete and steel bending impossibly, reaching across the gap of Times Square. They formed an arch, a barrier, a shield made from thousands of tons of material that suddenly decided physics were optional.
The Leviathan crashed into that architectural impossibility at full speed.
The impact was apocalyptic. The sound alone shattered windows for blocks. David screamed as he felt the collision through his gift , every crack, every stress fracture, every point where his improvised shield wanted to fail. He held it together through pure desperation, forcing concrete to bear loads it was never designed for, making steel stay solid when it should have shattered.
The Leviathan died. Its armored skull crumpled against buildings that refused to break. Its massive body went limp, sliding down to crash into the street below. Chitauri soldiers went flying like rag dolls.
David collapsed. Just dropped where he stood, consciousness fragmenting. The buildings , all twenty-eight of them , wanted to fall. His gift was stretched past breaking. His mind was trying to shut down.
"Medic!" Steve was there, catching him before he hit the ground. "We need medical here now!"
"Buildings," David managed. Words were hard. Thinking was harder. "Still holding... twenty-eight... can't let go..."
"David, you need to release them. Let the buildings stand on their own."
"They won't. Damaged. My gift is... the only thing..." His vision was going dark. Not passing out. Worse. Spreading his consciousness too thin, losing coherence. "If I let go... people die..."
Steve's face was grim. "How many buildings?"
"Twenty-eight. Across... Manhattan. Brooklyn. Can't... can't let them fall."
"Jesus Christ." Steve keyed his radio. "This is Captain America. I need immediate evacuation of twenty-eight structures across Manhattan and Brooklyn. Building list to follow. Current structural integrity is being maintained by enhanced individual but he's reaching critical failure. We need those buildings cleared now."
Responses crackled back. Confusion, questions, protests about the impossibility of evacuating that many buildings simultaneously.
"I don't care if it's impossible," Steve snapped. "Make it happen. We've got maybe thirty minutes before this man's brain melts and every one of those structures comes down. Move!"
David wanted to say he had more than thirty minutes. Wanted to insist he could hold longer. But honestly? Thirty minutes might be optimistic. He was running on empty, sustained only by stubborn refusal to let people die.
Sofia's voice cut through the radio chatter. "I've got the building list. Pulling from David's coordination logs. Transmitting to all emergency services now. Marcus is organizing Foundation response teams for priority evacuations."
"How long to clear them?" Steve asked.
"Twenty-eight buildings? With the city under active invasion?" Sofia's voice cracked slightly. "An hour minimum. More likely two. And that's if everything goes perfectly."
"David doesn't have two hours."
"I know!" Sofia's composure shattered. "You think I don't know? But we can't violate physics or time, and moving that many people under combat conditions takes , "
An explosion cut her off. David felt it through his web of awareness , one of his buildings taking a direct hit. The structure in Chelsea, the one with forty-two children in the basement. A Chitauri bomber had dropped something heavy, something powerful. The building was dying.
David grabbed it with everything he had. Made it hold through willpower alone, forced concrete to stay solid when it wanted to be dust, commanded steel to remain straight when it should have twisted. The building stood. The children lived.
And David felt something inside his head tear.
"No," he whispered. Then louder: "No!"
"David , "
He pushed Steve away, staggered to his feet. Blood was pouring from his face now, not just trickling. His hands shook. His vision kept phasing in and out. None of it mattered.
"I can hold," he said. "Long enough. Just... get the people out."
"You're going to die."
"Maybe. But they won't. That's the math that matters."
Steve looked at him with something between respect and horror. "You're insane."
"I'm an architect. We're all a little insane. Comes with the territory." David managed a bloody smile. "Besides, I've spent three years building for this moment. I'm not failing now."
His radio crackled. James's voice, tense. "David, I'm looking at the structural engineering data Sofia pulled. Some of those buildings... the damage they've sustained... there's no way they should still be standing. You're not just stabilizing them, you're holding them together through impossible physics."
"Your point?"
"My point is that when you let go , or when you can't hold anymore , those buildings don't just fall. They collapse catastrophically. All at once. We need those people out before that happens."
"Then get them out."
"We're trying! But David, you need to understand , some of these structures are too damaged. Even if we evacuate, they're going to come down in populated areas. The debris fields alone could kill hundreds."
David's mind raced despite the pain, despite the exhaustion. James was right. Controlled demolition required planning, precision, careful consideration of fall patterns. What David was doing was the opposite , holding buildings that wanted to fail, waiting for evacuation, then releasing them to gravity's mercy.
Unless he didn't release them. Unless he controlled their collapse too.
"I can direct the failures," he said slowly. "When people are clear... I can make the buildings fall safe. Direct debris away from populated areas. It'll take more energy but , "
"David, you're already at your limit!" Sarah's voice now, medical director override. "Your biosigns are catastrophic. Heart rate is 180. Blood pressure through the roof. You're having microstrokes. Plural. If you push any harder , "
"People die if I don't."
"You die if you do!"
"Then I die." David said it simply, like it was obvious. "Sarah, we built the Foundation to save people. Not to save me. If the cost of getting everyone out safely is my life, that's not even a question."
Silence on the radio. Then Isabella's voice, thick with tears. "David, please. There has to be another way."
"If there is, I can't see it. But I can see forty-two children in a basement in Chelsea who are alive because I'm holding their building up. I can see families in Hell's Kitchen, patients in Roosevelt Island, eight thousand people across Foundation properties. They're all alive because I'm not letting go." His voice hardened. "And I'm not letting go."
Tyler's voice, young and scared: "We need you, David. The Foundation needs you. I need you."
That one hurt. David closed his eyes, felt the buildings resonating with his awareness, felt the lives depending on his gift staying active. "Tyler, you don't need me. You're already better than I was at your age. You're going to build amazing things. Just... remember why we build. Not for glory or recognition. We build so people have places to live, to love, to be safe. We build foundations that hold when everything else falls apart. That's the work. Keep doing the work."
"You're saying goodbye." Tyler's voice broke. "Stop saying goodbye."
"I'm saying just in case. There's a difference."
Marcus cut in, military voice firmly in place despite the emotion underneath. "David, I'm ordering you to stand down. That's a direct order. Let the buildings go, preserve yourself, we'll handle evacuation casualties."
"Marcus, you know I can't do that."
"I know. But I had to try." A pause. "Alright then. If you're going to be a stubborn heroic idiot, let's make it count. Everyone, priority evacuation protocols. We clear every building David's holding in the next forty-five minutes or so help me god. Coordinate with SHIELD, NYPD, fire department, everyone. Move like the lives depending on us actually matter. Because they do."
The radio exploded with acknowledgments. Emergency services mobilizing, Foundation teams deploying, the entire city's response apparatus focusing on twenty-eight buildings and the madman holding them upright through impossible power and absurd determination.
Steve Rogers was still standing beside David, shield on his arm, ready to defend him. "You know Stark's going to have words about this."
"If I survive, he can yell at me all he wants."
"When you survive. Not if. When." Steve's voice carried absolute certainty. "Because I've seen a lot of brave stupid things in my life, but this? This is different. You're not fighting for glory or country or anything abstract. You're fighting for individuals. For names and faces and people who'll never know you saved them. That's the best kind of heroism there is. And people like that don't get to die in stupid invasion battles. They live. Understand?"
David wanted to believe him. Wanted to think he'd walk away from this, that his team would forgive him, that the Foundation would continue with him in it. But he could feel his gift fragmenting, his mind coming apart at the seams, the cost of holding too much for too long.
"I understand," he lied.
A Quinjet roared overhead, SHIELD markings. Natasha Romanoff's voice crackled over the radio. "All units, portal closing mechanism is in play. Stark's going nuclear option on the command ship. If this works, the invasion ends in the next ten minutes."
David felt a surge of hope. Ten minutes. He could hold for ten minutes. Probably. Maybe. If nothing else went catastrophically wrong.
Something else went catastrophically wrong.
A massive explosion rocked the hospital near Roosevelt Island , the one David had been holding at the edge of his range. A Chitauri bomber had scored a direct hit on the support structure. The entire building shuddered, load-bearing walls failing simultaneously.
David grabbed it, wrapped his entire awareness around that single structure, poured everything he had into keeping it upright. Two hundred patients inside. Medical staff. People who couldn't evacuate quickly. He felt every failing beam, every crack spreading through concrete, every point where the building wanted to surrender to gravity.
He made it stay.
Something in his head popped. Not metaphorically , literally popped, like a bubble bursting inside his skull. Pain exploded through his entire nervous system. His legs gave out. He was on his knees, blood pouring from his nose and ears and eyes, vision fragmenting into pieces.
But the hospital stood.
"DAVID!" Multiple voices screaming his name.
He couldn't respond. Couldn't spare the attention. The hospital was failing. He was failing. But the people inside weren't going to die. He refused to let them die.
Twenty-seven buildings now. He'd had to drop one , an office building in Midtown, already evacuated, no casualties. The hospital took all the attention that freed up and demanded more. He gave it more. Gave it everything.
His body was shutting down. He knew the signs , Sarah had trained him to recognize the symptoms of his gift overuse. Microstrokes becoming full strokes. Blood vessels rupturing in his brain. Organ failure approaching. Minutes until catastrophic collapse.
The buildings held.
Ten seconds until the portal closed. Natasha had said ten minutes but David's sense of time was gone. It had been seconds or hours or years. Someone was carrying him , Steve, probably, because the arms felt strong and certain. Someone else was screaming medical orders. Sarah, he thought. His Sarah, who'd followed him into this nightmare.
Five seconds. Four. Three.
The portal collapsed. David felt it through his extended awareness , that dimensional wound sealing, the flood of Chitauri forces cutting off. The invasion was over. Manhattan was saved. The world was saved.
Now he just had to save the people still trapped in twenty-seven damaged buildings.
"Evacuations?" he managed to ask. His voice didn't sound like his voice. Sounded like grinding stone.
"Ninety percent clear," Marcus reported. "Five more minutes and we've got everyone out."
Five minutes. David had held for hours. What was five more minutes?
Everything, turned out. Five minutes was everything he had left and more besides.
But he held anyway. Forced his fragmenting consciousness to maintain coherence, his dying gift to keep buildings standing, his failing body to survive long enough to matter.
Four minutes. A family evacuated from Chelsea. The forty-two children already safe, carried out earlier. Building could drop soon.
Three minutes. Hell's Kitchen apartment complex cleared. Last resident out, confirmed by Marcus. Another structure he could release.
Two minutes. Hospital evacuation complete. Two hundred patients moved to temporary facilities. The building that had nearly killed him could finally fall.
One minute. Foundation properties all clear. Eight thousand people safe in shelters that would stand after David let go. His work validated. His sacrifice meaningful.
Thirty seconds. Everything clear. Every building evacuated. Every life accounted for.
David released his gift.
Twenty-seven buildings collapsed simultaneously across Manhattan and Brooklyn. David directed each failure, guided debris fields away from populated areas, turned catastrophic collapses into controlled demolitions. It was the last thing he did before his consciousness fragmented completely.
The last thing he heard was Marcus screaming his name.
The last thing he felt was satisfaction. He'd done it. Kept everyone alive. Built foundations that held when everything else fell apart.
The last thing he thought was: Tyler, keep building. Please keep building.
Then David Chen, architect and builder and absolute madman, stopped being aware of anything at all.
His body kept breathing. Barely. His heart kept beating. Somehow.
But the mind that had held a city together was gone, scattered across twenty-seven collapsed buildings and one impossible battle.
Whether it would ever come back together was now somebody else's problem.
David had done his part.
He'd held the line.