Summary: On the battlefield, Steve Rogers leads a team through collapsing streets as Chitauri descend. Just as they start to lose control, a low roar rolls through the city—not from the sky, but from below. A Leviathan begins to fall apart midair, its armor cracking inward from something inside. Then Garou appears—climbing it like a living fissure, tearing it open as he rises.
Smoke curled between broken towers.
Captain America dashed across 42nd Street, shield up, leading civilians away from a collapsing building. Behind him, Thor's lightning cracked against a Leviathan's side—but it barely swerved.
"They just keep coming," Natasha muttered, vaulting over debris beside him.
Cap tapped his comm. "Banner, you seeing this?"
No reply.
He ducked as another Chitauri speeder crashed through a transit sign, skimming so low it shattered the sidewalk. Steve threw his shield—it ricocheted once, twice, and clipped the speeder into a barrel roll. It exploded on impact.
"Nice," Clint called from a rooftop perch. "But there's three more just behind it."
Steve caught the shield. "We need the heavy hitter. Where's Stark?"
"In the air," Natasha replied. "Fighting five fronts."
Then it happened.
A low, muffled boom—not from the sky, but from the ground. Like something punched through concrete three blocks over.
Steve froze.
The sound rolled under their feet like thunder under pressure. Then, above them, a Leviathan let out a shriek—not pain. Panic.
Its wings beat erratically. It swerved off-path, then tilted downward, spiraling slightly to the left.
Then they saw it.
A shape clinging to the side of the Leviathan's neck.
Not flying.
Climbing.
Bare hands and feet dug into armored plating. With each step, the armor bent under him. Not chipped. Not slashed. Collapsed inward.
The thing—the man—was tearing it open like it was weak.
"Is that—?" Natasha started.
"Garou," Steve said, quietly.
The Leviathan tried to roll. He adjusted.
It dove. He rose.
He wasn't just climbing—he was moving against gravity, straight up its spine like a fault line cracking under stress. With each movement, chunks of Chitauri tech went flying.
A gun platform dislodged. A wing joint fractured. One of the internal fuel tubes ruptured.
He jammed his palm into the Leviathan's central plate—just once.
It buckled.
Then he vanished into it, through the seam he'd made.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
Then the Leviathan screamed.
Not a battle-cry. A death cry.
It began to fold from the inside out, armored segments collapsing like dominos. Black smoke poured from its mouth.
Steve and Natasha backed away as the creature spiraled down, crashing into the Hudson with a final, thunderous impact.
Silence followed.
Until—through the settling ash and steam—he walked out.
Garou stepped onto the shore, chest rising slow. Shirt shredded. Skin marked with ash and Chitauri blood.
He looked up at the battlefield.
Then started walking toward it.