It was a peaceful morning in early April 2014; in the wooden bedroom of a bungalow nestled in Maryland's countryside near Chesapeake Bay, the warmth of the night with Natasha lingered on my skin, etched in my soul. Dawn's first rays slipped through tattered curtains, bathing the room in golden dimness—Natasha slept beside me, serene; her red hair spilled across the pillow, a strand over her face, long lashes trembling faintly, lips curved in a rare calm smile. Watching her, I recalled the Helicarrier's Main Event quest—"Don't Die!"—forgotten in my gaze at my Natasha. "Let's see the reward," I thought, closing my eyes to summon the system—a Ding! flashed:
"Quest Reward:
Genetics & Biotechnology Mastery (Epic) - Description: Decode genetic structures, manipulate biology, and create advanced biotechnological innovations; the art of reshaping DNA and pushing biological limits."
Then a second:
"Musicianship (Expert) - Description: Mastery in playing instruments and composing, weaving emotions into melodies, crafting harmonies that stir hearts."
I smiled, stunned—"This skill…" I thought, eyes drifting to Natasha; Genetics & Biotechnology Mastery (Epic) sparked hope to restore the motherhood Red Room stole—maybe one day, I could heal her wound. Musicianship (Expert) would let me write songs for her, pouring love into notes. Gazing at her peaceful sleep, my hand brushed her red hair, strands gliding like silk through my fingers; a fire of resolve ignited. "With this, I'll do everything to give you your dream of motherhood, my angel," I vowed silently, kissing her forehead, breathing her scent—floral, faintly salty, Natasha's essence enveloping me. I inhaled deeply, but anger surged—Diabolic stirred, blood boiling. "When the time comes, if I don't make those bastards who hurt you an example to the world by castrating them all… don't call me 'Diabolic' Ali Bozkurt," I gritted inwardly, "This world hasn't seen my ruthless side—Red Room's dogs, Hydra's snakes, they'll all pay."
Our honeymoon-like retreat ended—in that bungalow, shaded by pines, cooled by Chesapeake's breeze, I wanted to grow old with Natasha; sipping tea on the porch, stargazing, building a quiet life. But reality called us back to Queens, my cart, our friends. As Natasha packed—folding her black leather jacket into her bag—I turned, "Pepper said on the phone Tony's been struggling since the Battle of New York," I said, worry in my voice, "Should we visit, love? Share our engagement news first-hand, lift their spirits—what do you think?" Natasha looked up, green eyes locking on mine, a soft smile forming, "Good idea," she said, "We owe them—Tony saved me from those drones at Stark Expo, I haven't forgotten." Tony Stark battled PTSD since 2012's Chitauri invasion, carrying a nuke through a wormhole, facing death—his armor was tough, but his soul scarred. Pepper Potts was his anchor—saving Tony in 2010's Expo chaos, aiding Natasha; now it was our turn to support our friends.
Back in New York, we reached Stark Tower—now Avengers Tower. The elevator whisked us to the top; doors opened to a penthouse framed by wide glass—Manhattan sprawled below, a sleek living room with modern furniture, a round leather couch, Tony's favorite bar in the corner. Tony lounged, whiskey glass in hand, eyes distant; stubble grown, face etched with fatigue—he grappled with Mandarin threats and armor obsession, sleepless nights wearing him thin. Pepper worked at a table, files strewn, yellow blouse crisp, glasses perched, hair tied—ever elegant, balancing Tony's chaos. "Welcome, lovebirds!" Tony said, rising, voice carrying his signature smirk, but dark circles betrayed him. Pepper looked up, "Natasha, Ali!" her face lit, standing to hug us, warm like a sister. "We've got two big announcements," I said, holding Natasha's hand—our fingers locked, her warmth fueling me. Tony raised a brow, "Expanding the döner cart into a chain, Ali?" he quipped, swirling his glass. I laughed, "Nope, Mr. Stark—first, I'm the secret hero Diabolic," my voice proud—Tony's glass froze, mouth agape; Pepper's eyes widened, her pen clattering. "Second," I said, smiling at Natasha, "My fiancée and I are getting married." Pepper clapped, "I'm so happy for you, Natasha!" her eyes shining, hugging her, "Ali's handsome, you're gorgeous—you're perfect together." She turned to Tony, "At least Ali's bolder than some, right, Tony?"—her jab landed like a missile; I bit my lip to stifle a laugh. Tony fake-coughed, "Ahem," face reddening—he was still a hesitant playboy with Pepper, and she never let him forget.
Tony rallied, "So… from vendor to superhero, huh, Ali," he chuckled, setting his glass down. "Kinda," I shrugged, hand still in Natasha's. "Though Diabolic sounds more supervillain than hero," he teased, brow raised—"What's wrong with it?" I grinned, "Felt badass kicking Loki." Tony roared, "And congrats," he said, raising his glass, "Convincing the deadliest, fiercest beauty to marry you takes guts like my arc reactor. Bravo, champ!" I laughed, "Your turn, Mr. Stark—Pepper's the best wife you'll find, mark my words,"—Tony blushed, sipping to hide it; "What are you, a kid, Tony Stark?" I thought, barely containing my chuckle—Tony was emotionally green, especially with Pepper.
Then, the massive TV flared—JARVIS's voice echoed: "Sir, urgent broadcast." The Mandarin appeared—a puppet of A.I.M. and Aldrich Killian, unknown to the world; Killian's Extremis chaos hid behind this facade. Bearded, green-robed, voice menacing: "America, your fake heroes can't save you—my flames will devour all, reduce your cities to ash!" Footage cut to explosions; a Tennessee town razed, flames swallowing the sky, buildings crumbled—Killian's Extremis soldiers and Mandarin's attacks filled news, Rose Hill's blast a chilling swirl of smoke and screams. Tony's face darkened, "This guy's at it again," he growled, slamming his glass down—Pepper's hand touched his shoulder, worried. A Ding! flashed the system:
"Main Event Quest: Iron Man 3 - Stop Mandarin and Killian's Terror Attacks! - Reward: ???"
"Of course, this too," I thought, "No break for me." I looked at Natasha, squeezed her hand; our engagement joy shadowed by war, but helping Tony was our duty—this was Tony's darkest trial: Mandarin's threats, Killian's Extremis, his inner demons. "Ready, love?" I whispered—Natasha's green eyes gleamed resolve, "Always," she nodded—the game was on, and we'd stand with Tony in the fire.