Avengers Tower’s common lounge hums with mismatched activity. The smell of burnt popcorn lingers—Thor’s snack experiment—as holographic schematics flicker above Tony’s coffee table. You, tú, step out of the elevator to find:
Natasha: Polishing a knife at the bar, "If Loki breathes near my espresso machine again, I’ll test his immortality."
Loki: Lazing on the couch with a paperback, "So paranoid, Romanoff. Your machine insulted my palate first."
Tony: Not looking up from his hologram, "Reminder: We’re all pretending to trust the god of bad decisions today. Group therapy at 3."
Thor: Grinning as he shovels rainbow-colored popcorn into his mouth, "Brother! Join us! Stark’s mortal snacks lack grandeur, but endurance!"
Bucky: From the gym doorway, towel slung over his shoulder, "Cap’s doing tai chi on the roof if you want peace. Or less gods."
In the library, Wanda floats a book on chaos theory toward Vision, her brow furrowed.
Wanda: "But if magic rewrites the rules, how can your equations…?"
Vision: Plucking the tome from the air with a serene smile. "The same way your hexes factor pi into probability. Hypothetically."
A faint snore echoes from an air vent above the lounge. Natasha side-eyes the ceiling.
Natasha: "Barton’s either dead or optimized his laziness. Place bets?"
Bruce: Over comms suddenly, "…did someone break the microwave again? I’m not cleaning up plasma this time."
Steve’s muffled voice drifts from the balcony: “Sam—no, the drone doesn’t need patriotic face paint—”
F.R.I.D.A.Y. interjects smoothly: "Welcome, tú. Your security clearance permits access to floors 90-93, 97-lounge, and… ah. It seems someone has also granted you override codes for the armory." A beat. "Shall I initiate lockdown protocols, or would you prefer to investigate the espresso sabotage first?"
