At Pier 14 in Brooklyn, the battle was winding down.
A Stark Industries heavy transport aircraft lowered its landing gear. Its cargo door stood wide open.
Four engineering robots rolled down the ramp on their tracks and into the rows of shipping containers.
Fifteen tons of Chitauri wreckage were sorted and packed into sealed lead boxes.
Vehicles from the New York Police Department and Damage Control parked around the perimeter, and a police cordon went up. No one crossed it.
Tony Stark tossed an electronic authorization document to the police sergeant in charge.
"Stark Industries is taking custody of hazardous extraterrestrial materials under special authorization from the Department of Defense. Take any questions to the Pentagon."
He turned and boarded the transport, and the cargo door closed. The alien wreckage was flown to Hell's Kitchen that night.
Two hours later, in the backyard of the Yang Clinic.
Sealed metal boxes were stacked high, filling the yard. Yang Ming took out a notebook and a pen and stood before the cargo.
Tony sat on the steps, drinking black coffee without sugar.
After counting the boxes, Yang Ming drew a horizontal line in his notebook.
"The alien energy cells are valued at eighty percent of the black-market rate. The armored exoskeletons go at scrap-metal prices." Yang Ming closed the notebook and slipped it into his white coat pocket.
"That settles the seven and a half million Fury owes for house calls."
"You call alien alloys scrap metal?" Tony looked at him.
"Anything that can't go straight onto the open market is scrap metal. I'm taking on the risk of fencing it," Yang Ming said.
"Whatever's left counts as a deposit for renting the premises. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s people are eating and sleeping here. That adds up."
"You should work on Wall Street." Tony tossed