New York City was many things: loud, crowded, magical, broken, rebuilt, and always teetering on the edge of a new disaster. But today… today was weird.
Because a man wearing polka-dotted suspenders, mismatched socks, and a t-shirt that read "Certified Reality Hazard" was currently sprinting through Central Park with a live chicken under one arm. And the chicken? The chicken wore aviator goggles.
"ALFREDO, NO! YOU CAN'T START A STREET PERFORMANCE IN FRONT OF STRANGE THEATER KIDS! THAT'S HOW WE LOST DETROIT!"
The chicken—Alfredo—let out a defiant squawk and flapped hard, launching itself from his companion's arms. It did, in fact, land in front of a group of theater students rehearsing Les Misérables. And like a divine reckoning, chaos was born.
Feathers flew. Screams erupted. The music never stopped.
Enter MC. No other name, no heroic title. Just MC. He wasn't from around here, but no one could tell you where "here" was either. Reality sort of bent sideways when he grinned. He wasn't evil, or good. He was… hilarious. Like a cartoon who decided to trespass in a live-action universe and absolutely refused to leave.
MC tipped his invisible hat and plucked a banana out of thin air. He used it like a microphone. "Dear New York, today's special feature: One man, one chicken, and fifty-four drama majors. Who will win?"
Cue the explosion in the hotdog cart behind him.
The Avengers noticed.
—
Somewhere across the city, in the sleek halls of the Avengers Compound, Friday's voice chimed calmly:
"Alert: localized anomaly in Central Park. Unidentified comedic entity. Chicken involved."
Sam Wilson looked up from his coffee. "Did that thing just say chicken?"
"Yes," Friday replied. "Chicken confirmed."
Sam blinked. "Steve never warned me about this."
Wanda leaned into the doorway, holding a glowing mug that might or might not have been enchanted. "I'm not dealing with another alternate dimension poultry incident. The last one laid an egg that bit Rhodey."
—
Back in Central Park, MC was now attempting to host an impromptu game show using sticks, three pigeons, and a mime who'd wandered too close.
"Welcome to 'Cluck, Marry, Avoid!'" he declared, spinning around in a tornado of glitter that didn't come from anywhere. "I'm your host, your problem, and your best friend if you let me be!"
Alfredo flapped once and landed atop a nearby taxi, now covered in scribbled equations. The driver screamed something in Spanish and promptly joined the growing crowd of confused civilians recording everything.
And that's when Doctor Strange stepped out of a portal.
He was not smiling.
"What in the name of the Vishanti—"
"STEPHEN!" MC beamed. "Buddy! Good to see you. Quick question: do you think reality is subjective or do you just pretend you understand time loops to seem hot?"
Stephen blinked. "How do you—?"
MC zipped up next to him. "I know everyone. I make it my business. It's not creepy if it's narratively convenient."
"Stop... whatever this is," Strange said, fingers glowing.
But MC's eyes twinkled. "Why? Everyone here is smiling. Even the mime's smiling on the inside. You're just mad 'cause your cloak likes me more."
The Cloak of Levitation hovered behind Strange and gave a little wave to MC. Betrayal.
"Besides," MC added, striking a pose, "I'm here to help. You folks? Sad. Grumpy. Traumatized. Super boring. I'm the emotional support cartoon this franchise never asked for."
Wanda arrived, hovering beside Strange. "What the hell is going on?"
"Therapy," MC replied. "But with feathers."
Alfredo squawked again and somehow launched a custard pie at a squirrel. It hit with surgical precision.
—
Meanwhile, the Fieldmaster—yes, that Fieldmaster, the one known for orchestrating reality-bending games across dimensions—watched from the Void, sipping a milkshake.
"This one's not playing by my rules," he muttered. "Interesting."
—
MC eventually collapsed into the grass beside Alfredo, both panting as though they'd just run a marathon. The sun dipped lower, casting a warm, golden glow on the strange scene.
Children laughed. Adults filmed. And for a brief, wild afternoon, Central Park felt less like a battleground and more like a fever dream directed by a stand-up comedian with unlimited reality-bending powers.
Sam finally touched down with his wings extended, surveying the aftermath. "You. Chicken guy. What are you?"
MC sat up, raised a finger, and with absolute conviction said, "A hug in a world full of knives."
Then he offered a high-five.
Sam stared.
Alfredo high-fived him instead.
—
Elsewhere.
Nick Fury frowned at the footage. "Get me everything on this 'MC' and his emotional chicken."
Maria Hill squinted. "You think he's a threat?"
Fury took a long breath. "No. Worse. He's an unknown variable... and that's always trouble."
—
End of Chapter One.