A bill of despair

New York, Queens, six months after the Battle of New York.

The air was a complicated mixture.

First came the dust, an omnipresent, fine gray powder. It had once been the glass facades of skyscrapers, the brick walls of ordinary homes, the cafés and bookstores on street corners. Now it swirled in the wind like a flock of homeless ghosts, stubbornly clinging to the nasal passages and lungs of every living person.

It was sharp and pungent. Breathe it in for too long, and it made your head spin, giving you the illusion that the apocalypse had already passed and you had somehow survived as a relic.

Finally, there was the strange smell lingering around Zhao Fan's nose at that moment, one no earthly language could accurately describe.

That was the smell of Chitauri blood.

Zhao Fan gripped an industrial long-handled shovel issued by D.O.D.C. (the Department of Damage Control), mechanically repeating the same motion: scoop, turn, dump. His task was to remove the bodily fluids of a Chitauri soldier from a broken section of load-bearing wall, where they had congealed into a dark purple gel. The stuff was astonishingly sticky. Every shovelful was like tearing a piece off an enormous slab of taffy, requiring considerable effort.

"Hey! 9763! Are you tickling that thing?!"

The roar of the foreman, Big Mike, came from a distance, his voice grating in the open ruins. "If Zone A-3 isn't cleared before sundown, nobody on your team is getting their hazardous materials allowance this month! You hear me?!"

"Got it, Mike," Zhao Fan called back. He lowered his head. He didn't want to hear any more of those meaningless demands. Looking at his badly worn protective gloves, already faded white, and feeling the sticky sweat soaking through the back of his work clothes, he was overcome by exhaustion and a sense of absurdity.

Three months ago, he had still been an office clerk sitting in an office building, writing copy on a computer. His life had been ordinary and uneventful, his parents healthy, with no worries about food or clothing. It might not have been bliss, but it had at least been the kind of life most people longed for. Now he had become a literal "cleaner," cleaning up the mess left by an alien invasion at that. It wasn't as though he hadn't tried finding other work, but countless people had lost their jobs after the Battle of New York, and who knew how many were eagerly waiting for work. Nobody wanted him. Or rather, once they saw he was Asian, they waved him away without even letting him speak.

Transmigration.

The word that had once thrilled him now held nothing but cold reality. No golden finger, no fortuitous encounter, no system chiming "ding" in his ear. He had simply woken up one hungover morning to find himself lying in a shabby rental in Queens, New York, with an extra set of memories in his head: the failed life of another "Zhao Fan." Outside the window lay the hellish ruins of the city after the Avengers' fierce battle with the Chitauri.

He, Zhao Fan, employee number 9763, had become a temp responsible for sweeping trash off the stage of this grand epic.

"Hey, Zhao. Take a break."

A hoarse voice came from beside him. It was Jose, an older cleaner on his team, a Latino man in his fifties whom everyone called "Old Dog." Deep, furrow-like wrinkles covered Old Dog's face, and his eyes were always half closed, as though nothing in the world interested him. He handed Zhao Fan a military canteen.

"Thanks, Jose." Zhao Fan took the canteen, unscrewed the cap, and gulped down several mouthfuls. The water tasted of plastic and chlorine, but at that moment, it was like sweet spring water.

Old Dog leaned against a broken wall, fished a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, and lit it. He took a deep drag and slowly exhaled gray smoke rings. "Don't take Mike's bullshit seriously. If he actually dared dock our allowances, not a single fool would show up to do this tomorrow."

Zhao Fan said nothing, only nodded. He knew Old Dog was telling the truth. The job paid well, but it was extremely dangerous. You never knew whether your next shovelful would hit a live high-voltage cable or a still-active Chitauri bomb buried deep beneath the rubble. D.O.D.C.'s permanent employees had excellent equipment and substantial insurance coverage. For hourly contract cleaners like them, their only protection was a thin protective suit that was barely better than nothing.

Everyone who came here to work was like him, driven into a corner by life.

He tightened the canteen cap and looked past the layers of ruins into the distance. Even from this far away, even through the smoke and dust, the brand-new Stark Tower remained clearly visible, gleaming in the sunlight.

The enormous "A" atop the tower was like a badge of victory, proudly announcing who the city's new masters were.

A faint, bitter, self-mocking smile touched Zhao Fan's lips.

He knew better than anyone in this world what would happen next. He knew about Hydra's plot, Sokovia's fall, and the snap of Thanos's fingers that would erase half the life in the universe. He possessed "spoilers" capable of reshaping the world, but what good did that do?

To him now, those grand narratives were like clouds on the horizon, distant and unreal. His only concerns were scraping together next month's rent and getting his bank balance out of those humiliating single digits.

He pulled out his old phone, its screen covered in cracks, and lit up the display. Reception was poor, with only one bar. He opened his banking app with practiced ease, and the bright red number stabbed at his eyes.

Balance: $7.35

Next, he opened his messages. Pinned at the top was a message from his landlord, sent last night.

(Zhao, this is your final warning. Your rent is already a week overdue. If I don't see the money by this weekend, all your things are going out on the street. No more excuses.)

Zhao Fan silently turned off the screen and slipped the phone back into his pocket. A cold emotion called despair climbed his spine and closed around his throat.

Seven dollars and thirty-five cents. That was everything he owned. There were four days until the weekend. Even after his wages for today and all his overdue pay were settled, the total would still fall far short of that exorbitant rent.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Even the air seemed to carry the rotten stench of money. He remembered his life before transmigrating. Though he had worried every day about KPIs and project launch dates, at least he had never experienced the desperation of knowing he might end up on the street at any moment.

So, no matter the world, life for insignificant people at the bottom was nothing more than a struggle to survive. Superheroes had saved the world, but they weren't coming to save your bills.

"What are you thinking about, kid?" Old Dog's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "You look like you stepped on a Chitauri land mine."

"Nothing." Zhao Fan shook his head and tightened his grip on the shovel again. "Just thinking about dinner."

Old Dog chuckled, revealing teeth stained yellow by tobacco. "What else? A chicken sandwich and a beer, and you're living like a god. Come on, back to work. Finish this section early, and maybe we can try our luck over in Zone B-5."

"Zone B-5?" Zhao Fan sounded puzzled.

"A bunch of Wall Street idiots had their vault smashed open." Old Dog lowered his voice, a glint of greed in his eyes. "D.O.D.C.'s already been through it once and taken most of what was there, but little things, jewelry and such, always get left in the rubble. Us 'cleaners' need a little 'windfall' now and then too, don't we?"

Zhao Fan looked at Old Dog and understood. This was the rule of survival here. Official wages only kept you from starving. If you really wanted to survive, or even live a little better, you had to be like a vulture or a hyena, keenly sniffing out every trace of possible value in the wreckage of the battlefields the heroes left behind.

He said no more, silently putting more force into his work. The shovel struck the congealed purple gel with dull, teeth-grating sounds. Sweat slid down his temples and dripped into his eyes, making them sting. But he didn't stop. Instead, he worked even harder.

Because he knew he needed money.

The sun slowly sank westward, staining the sky a dark red indistinguishable from the blood on the ground. At last, the end-of-shift whistle sounded, echoing over the empty ruins, especially long and weary.

Zhao Fan felt as though every bone in his body had come apart. He tossed his shovel into the tool cart and dragged his leaden legs toward the temporary decontamination station at the edge of the area.

High-pressure jets sprayed liquid mixed with disinfectant and special chemical agents, washing the filth from his body. The pungent fumes made him sneeze several times in succession. This was a mandatory procedure before leaving work each day, to ensure they didn't carry any potentially dangerous "alien contaminants" back into the city.

After decontamination, he passed through a screening gate and approached a mobile payment terminal. He removed his helmet and held the chip in his employee badge up to the scanner.

The electronic time clock gave a crisp beep. The screen displayed his hours and estimated wages for the day, a pitiful sum that wouldn't even cover a decent lunch at a Manhattan restaurant. He could only afford cheap, discounted food.

Zhao Fan squeezed onto the commuter shuttle back to Queens. It was packed with cleaners as exhausted as he was. The air reeked of sweat and cheap tobacco. Nobody spoke. Most leaned against their seat backs and fell into deep sleep, their faces bearing the same numbness left by a life that had wrung them dry.

Outside the windows, the city gradually shifted from ruins to relatively intact neighborhoods. Neon lights began to glow, and people hurried along as though the disaster that had nearly destroyed the world was already far behind them.

The television on the shuttle was showing the news.

"...Renowned philanthropist and industrial titan Tony Stark donated another five hundred million dollars to the New York Victims Foundation today, pledging that Stark Industries would provide temporary housing and jobs for all citizens who lost their homes in the disaster..."

On television, Stark looked confident and full of vigor. Beneath the camera flashes, he was still the golden boy at the center of everyone's attention, the savior of this city.

A young worker on the shuttle watched the news, admiration shining in his eyes. "Mr. Stark really is a great man!"

An older worker beside him scoffed. "Don't be stupid, kid. That money comes out of our own pockets. Every cent he donates was squeezed out of the wages of people like us."

Zhao Fan didn't join their discussion. He simply leaned against the cold window, watching the streets race backward outside, his heart cold.

He neither thanked Stark nor resented him.

Because he knew they lived in two completely different worlds. Stark's kindness and generosity were like the sun overhead, able to illuminate the whole world, yet unable to reach his corner at the very bottom, in the deepest darkness.

After getting off the shuttle, he walked home numbly. The street on either side presented a jarring, post-apocalyptic contrast. On one side stood freshly repaired buildings, enormous LED screens looping promotional videos proclaiming "Rebuild New York, stay strong, United States," along with silhouettes of the Avengers fighting valiantly. On the other side, shattered walls still stood, their broken windows like black holes silently recounting the horror of the disaster.

Vendors on street corners hawked shoddy plastic Captain United States shield toys and T-shirts printed with Hulk's face. Children clamored as though that war had been nothing more than a grand cosplay party that would never end. Others stood silently before a temporary memorial wall, their fingers brushing photographs of the missing as they wept without a sound.

Life and death, hope and despair, prosperity and ruins, heroes and ordinary people were kneaded together into a bizarre panorama in this city.

Zhao Fan had long since become blind to it. He lowered his head and moved through the crowd.

He had considered many options. Searching for superpowered items that had yet to be discovered? Perhaps fragments of Tesseract energy forgotten in some corner? Even putting aside the fact that he had no idea where exactly they were, if he did find them, how could an unarmed ordinary man like him take them from under the noses of D.O.D.C. and S.H.I.E.L.D.?

He had even considered selling his "intelligence" on the black market, telling some mob boss that Hydra was still hiding within S.H.I.E.L.D. But he dismissed that idea a second after it occurred to him. He was certain that the moment he finished speaking, he would be taken for a lunatic or a spy and sunk to the bottom of the Hudson River to feed the fish.

Knowledge was power. In this world, that saying was a lie to him. Knowledge without power to back it up was nothing but a death warrant.

At last, he returned to his old apartment building on the outskirts of Queens, reeking of mildew and damp. He looked up at his little third-floor window. It was pitch-black. He didn't even want to open the curtains during the day, afraid of seeing the gray dust on the glass that could never be wiped clean.

He sighed and trudged up the creaking stairs. When he reached his door, his heart sank.

A sheet of stiff cardboard that looked like a wooden board was taped to the door with clear tape.

It was the all-too-familiar rent demand from his landlord. Only this time, the wording was harsher and ruder than the text message, with three exclamation marks drawn heavily in red marker on the final line.

"END OF THE WEEK!!!"

Zhao Fan reached out and tore down the cardboard with a trembling hand, forcibly crumpling it into a ball and clenching it in his palm. Its sharp corners dug painfully into his hand, but that pain was nothing compared with the cold despair inside him.

He opened the door and stepped into his pitifully small "home." The only furnishings were a mattress, a rickety table, and a chair.

He didn't turn on the light. Guided only by the pallid glow spilling through the window from the city's reconstruction sites, he walked to the table. He pulled out the chair, sat down, and tossed the crumpled ball onto the table, then took his last packet of instant macaroni from beneath the bed.

Boil water, tear open the packaging, toss the block of pasta and seasoning packet into a bowl, pour in hot water, put on the lid. He performed the entire process smoothly, as though he had repeated it thousands of times.

During the three minutes it took for the macaroni to soften, he sat silently in the darkness without moving.

He could clearly hear his own heartbeat, heavy and slow, like an engine about to be scrapped. He could also hear the ceaseless construction noise outside, like the pulse of the city rebuilding atop its ruins.

But none of it had anything to do with him.

He was merely an insignificant speck of dust in this great age. A gust of wind could erase him completely, leaving no trace.

Three minutes were up.

Zhao Fan lifted the lid, and a familiar, cheap aroma washed over him. He picked up his fork, wound up some macaroni, and stuffed it into his mouth. The pasta was a little hot, but he didn't care, chewing and swallowing in great mouthfuls.

He ate quickly, as though he weren't replenishing his energy but carrying out a task.

After drinking the last mouthful of broth and setting the empty bowl on the table, his gaze fell once more on the paper he had crumpled into a ball.

He slowly reached out, unfolded it, and smoothed it flat. In the dim light, those three bright red exclamation marks looked like three bleeding wounds.

Zhao Fan stared at the paper for a very, very long time.

Zhao Fan slowly sank onto the cold floor.

Endless exhaustion and despair engulfed him like a tide.

He couldn't understand why he, of all people, had transmigrated here. Why had he received no golden finger, yet had to struggle for the barest survival in a world where gods fought and mortals suffered?

He raised his head. Through that narrow, filthy window, he could see only the mottled wall of the building opposite and a sliver of gray sky cut into fragments.

Just like his life, trapped with no way out in sight.

His eyes shifted from their initial numbness to exhaustion, then despair. Finally, in that deathly darkness, a faint yet immensely dangerous light gradually kindled.

It was the look that appeared only when someone had been driven to the brink and was preparing one final counterattack.

Perhaps, he thought, it was time for a change.

Since I can't be a hero, or an ordinary person waiting to be saved.

Zhao Fan slowly lowered his head and covered his face with his hands. In the darkness, a strange, stifled sound, impossible to distinguish as crying or laughter, escaped between his fingers, then was swiftly swallowed by the noise outside.