Yang Ming pulled out his ancient Nokia. The rubber edges of its buttons were worn, and its screen was scratched. He deftly dialed a number.
Finding someone who could lift this lousy hammer really wasn't difficult. The rules Odin had laid down were rather mystical: selflessness, devotion, and pure goodness.
Across all of New York, politicians were full of dirty schemes, gangsters robbed and murdered, and even those police officers who proclaimed themselves righteous had their share of shady dealings behind closed doors.
But there was one exception. That foolish kid who traveled the streets and alleys of Queens every day, who would rather go hungry himself than pass up helping an old lady cross the road or finding a little girl's balloon.
Peter Parker. In this universe, no one fit the label of "pure goodness" better than he did.
The call connected after three rings. Wind howled over the line, mingled with car horns.
"Sir! Good evening! I'm patrolling Broadway. I just helped an old lady find her missing orange cat. Is something urgent? Does the clinic need repairs, or is someone hurt and needs bandaging?"
Peter Parker's rapid-fire voice poured out of the receiver, accompanied by the ripping hiss of webs under tension. Even over the phone, it was easy to picture him hanging upside down from a streetlight, chattering away.
"Hell's Kitchen. 47th Street. Be here in five minutes." Yang Ming kept it brief, giving him no chance to keep rambling.
"Roger that! On my way!"
Yang Ming hung up and slipped the Nokia back into his pocket.
At the bottom of the crater, Thor's face was covered in muddy water as he sneered. "Calling for help? Call whoever you like. The mortals of Midgard have no understanding of Mjolnir's weight. Even if you summon the strongest