Marvel: The DnD Game Master in the Shadows

It was bad. The aftermath of the Avengers' victory over the invading Chitauri had left Manhattan in shambles. The very foundation of the city seemed to tremble as buildings lay crumbled and broken. Alien and human bodies lay strewn across the landscape, a haunting testament to the brutal conflict that had unfolded. The catastrophe had plunged the entire neighborhood into a state of crisis, leaving thousands suddenly homeless and the process of rebuilding lagging far behind the urgent need.

Yet, amidst this chaos, a darker opportunity emerged. The fabric of the neighborhood began to fray further as established criminal syndicates saw a chance to expand their dominion. The Mafia, the Yakuza, the Cartel—these notorious factions seized the turmoil as a means to solidify their control. With law enforcement tied up in aiding the recovery efforts, the gangs claimed territories and extended their reach like never before.

2012 cast an indelible shadow over the city. The road to restoration appeared steep, and reclaiming the sense of normalcy that once defined Manhattan seemed a monumental task. The destitute populated the streets, their makeshift havens and impromptu kitchens bearing witness to their struggles. In a quiet corner, nestled along Yancy Street—a modest pathway threading through the Lower East Side, linking the Bowery to the Williamsburg Bridge spanning the East River into Brooklyn—an unassuming public kitchen stood.

As winter's chill drew near, the homeless gathered, clad in worn, heavy coats, congregating in search of sustenance. The meager offerings from the kitchen were simple—a bowl of porridge, a modest ration of water—but for many, these meager provisions represented the lifeline between one day and the next.

Amid the throng, a young boy stood out, his age barely crossing the threshold of thirteen. His features spoke of his vulnerability: cerulean eyes shone against a backdrop of fiery red hair, his frame slender, bearing the signs of malnourishment. The boy appeared solitary, devoid of family, friends, or guardians.

Aligned with his fellow homeless, he queued for the meager porridge, a fragile hope held within the line's progression. Yet, the length of the line hinted that today's portion might slip through his fingers, a sentiment shared by the other destitute souls surrounding him. Fearing starvation, some among them began to target those smaller and weaker, those queuing just like him.

A voice pierced the air behind him. "Hey, kid." The boy turned, encountering a rugged figure towering over him. "Do us a favor and step aside. The adults here need the food more."

Meeting the man's gaze, the young boy remained silent, his response a quiet hum. Glancing past the man, he noticed others watching with narrowed eyes, their intentions clear. Not a word escaped his lips as he acquiesced, allowing the line to flow past him.

"Good," the gruff man muttered, a flicker of embarrassment and remorse dancing across his features. He had, after all, just threatened a child. "Find your food elsewhere."

The boy took in the scene before him. Not a trace of remorse could be detected from anyone present—men, women, or otherwise. Their silence spoke volumes, their gazes aligning in reluctant agreement with the man's actions. They were all driven by the faint hope of securing that meager bowl of porridge.

A sigh escaped the young boy's lips, his gaze shifting away from the queue. He now fell in step with the others who had received their portion and were now departing from the tent. Amid this procession, another peculiar yet predictable spectacle unfolded. Those still on the queue had begun to turn predatory, harassing those who had managed to clutch their prized bowls of sustenance, their intentions clear: wresting the bowls from their rightful owners.

His attention snagged by an unfolding drama, the boy's eyes locked onto a particular unfortunate soul ensnared in this vile act. A girl, scrappy in appearance, with disheveled blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, seemed to be caught in the crossfire. Her age, similar to the boy's own, painted her as an easy target. Two men, clad in leather jackets with a gang’s symbol that betrayed no necessity for the food, had cornered her.

"What do you want?" the girl grumbled, her grip on her meager provisions unyielding.

"Hand it over," one of the leather-clad men commanded, a pointing finger aimed squarely at her bowl.

"Go to hell," the girl spat back, her vocabulary rich with expletives. A curious twist danced across her features, however, as she scrutinized the gang insignia on their jackets. "Tombstone's gang, huh?"

"Caught onto that, did you?" one of the gang members sneered. "Kid, you've got guts to lie to us."

"Lie? The hell are you talking about?" The girl's voice rumbled like an angry canine, a sentiment cut short as the man's open palm slapped her bowl from her grasp. Porridge splattered, the food rendered unsalvageable on the ground.

"Come with us," the man continued, a sinister undertone in his voice. "He wants a word with you."

Fury intertwined with the girl's disbelief, her focus momentarily seized by the sorry sight of her wasted dinner. "You..." she stammered, her voice momentarily trailing off. "That was our dinner, you son of a bitch!"

Without a hint of warning, the girl's fist found its mark—right in the vulnerable territory of the man's anatomy. A sharp intake of breath followed, pain registering immediately on his features. Doubled over, he clutched his balls, collapsing to the ground.

"You imp!" The other man seized a handful of the girl's grimy hair.  Yet, before he could proceed, an unexpected intervention occurred. The tent's kitchen guard materialized, military garb adorned with assault rifles that were swiftly trained on the aggressor.

"Hey, release the girl!" the guard's voice rang out, authoritative and unyielding.

Confronted by the guard's resolute presence, the second gang member relinquished his grasp on the girl's hair, a storm of frustration brewing in his expression. He hauled his fallen companion to his feet, his annoyance palpable, and the two made a swift retreat from the unfolding confrontation.

As the gang members departed, the girl remained rooted in place, her gaze fixed pensively upon her now-empty bowl. Approaching the scene, a guard strolled over, concern etched on his features as he inquired, "You alright, kid?"

The girl's response held no words; instead, she lowered herself into a crouch, delicately retrieving the bowl from the ground, its contents of porridge having already spilled.

"Can I… have another one?" she ventured with timidity, an almost immediate shift apparent in her demeanor.

A sigh escaped the guard's lips, his eyes scanning the lengthy queue before him. "The kitchen's nearly empty," he replied, his gaze returning to her. "The line is still long. Maybe you might have a chance in another kitchen a few blocks away."

A soft hum was the girl's sole reply as she straightened herself upright. "Alright. Thank you," her voice murmured, scarcely audible, as she stepped away from the bustling crowd.

In a quiet corner, the young boy observed the scene, lingering until its resolution. Once it concluded, he too took his leave, his path curiously aligned with that of the departing girl.