Tony Stark found Hill's behavior amusing. It seemed like every woman who entered a small restaurant like this would instinctively wipe down the chairs and tables, even though it was hardly a spotless place. Perhaps it was just a matter of psychology.
Shaking his head, Tony Stark said,
"Don't let the average cleanliness fool you. The barbecue here is incredible. I've tried countless places, but this one is the most authentic."
Since Tony Stark insisted, Hill didn't argue. She lifted her trench coat slightly and sat down.
Once she was settled, Tony Stark called out,
"Waiter!"
A girl of about seventeen or eighteen came over. Her skin was smooth, her features delicate, and her figure graceful.
"Sir, madam, it's my pleasure to serve you."
Tony Stark gestured toward Hill.
"Bring the menu to the lady. See what you'd like to eat, and order whatever catches your eye."
Hill skimmed through the menu and added a few skewers of grilled green peppers, enoki mushrooms, and other vegetables.
Tony Stark glanced at her fair face and asked,
"Would you like something to drink?"
The question made Hill tense. The last time he had asked her that, she had embarrassed herself. She could still vividly remember the burn of that glass of white liquor.
"I'm not drinking that again!"
Tony Stark chuckled.
"Relax. You don't pair barbecue with white liquor. Let's do thismiss, bring us a pitcher of white beer."
"Of course, sir."
The young waitress jotted it down and went to the kitchen.
When the food was served and the beer arrived, Tony Stark stood, filled a glass, and said,
"About last time, I owe you an apology. I didn't realize you couldn't handle white liquor. Let this glass be my apology."
He drained the glass in one go.
Hill brushed her hair back behind her ear.
"I should be the one apologizing. I ruined your shirt last time, so I invited you tonight to make up for it. I'll drink too."
Tony Stark watched as the beautiful woman tilted her glass of beer back. Her elegant, slender neck moved as she swallowed, and for a moment, his thoughts drifted.
"Since it was just a misunderstanding, let's not dwell on it. Let's eat."
His stomach was already growling. He grabbed a few skewers of kidneys and chicken wings. Hill parted her lips delicately, tore off a piece of chicken, and chewed slowly. The flavor was extraordinary.
The cumin and sesame mixed with the smoky fragrance of the grill created a burst of flavor no other cuisine could match. Especially when washed down with beer, it was both refreshing and satisfying.
After a few skewers, Hill raised her glass.
"Mr. Stark, I want to thank you for what you did at the border. If not for you, the damage would have been enormous. I probably would have faced disciplinary action as a Level Nine agent."
Tony Stark quickly set down his skewer, lifted his glass, and smiled.
"Oh, that was nothing worth mentioning. Punishing evil and protecting the people is our duty. We both serve our country, so helping one another is only natural. You're giving me too much credit."
They clinked glasses, drank, and soon moved on to lighter topics.
One was a wealthy heir and the head of a major corporation; the other, a high-ranking officer in the world's most secretive organization. In S.H.I.E.L.D., Hill was second only to one, commanding countless classified operations.
Naturally, their talk turned to the extraordinary. Hill asked,
"I've always wondered how you developed the Hellfire Armor. That kind of technology is decades ahead of the world. Why not mass-produce it? With more defensive equipment like that, wouldn't the world be safer?"
Tony Stark shook his head.
"Weapons don't make people safe. What matters is who uses them. Look at America everyone has a gun, yet has the crime rate gone down? If anything, it rises every year. Once weapons fall into the wrong hands, the consequences are catastrophic. There are 650 million privately owned guns in the world, half in America alone. How many people die from gun violence every year? You know better than I do. So it's not that I don't want to share my technology, I'm afraid of extremists exploiting it. If that happens, even world leaders won't be able to sleep peacefully."
After finishing, Tony Stark poured himself another glass of beer.
Hill parted her lips.
"But the Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution states: 'A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed.' It's written into the Constitution. It's sacred."
Tony Stark shook his head again.
"The men who wrote that never imagined automatic rifles firing hundreds of rounds a minute, let alone nuclear bombs or atomic warheads or someone building the Hellfire Armor. Rules are good, but clinging to them without adapting is dangerous. That Constitution was written in 1776 over two hundred years ago. We live in the internet age now. Did they have the internet back then? Today is the era of big data. Did they know what that was? This is the information age. Did they forget it. Let's treat this as a rant. We're not the ones making decisions, and neither are you."
"Come on, drink!"
Hill shook her head slightly. His words weren't without reason, but they clashed with principles ingrained in her since childhood. Freedom, equality, and the right to bear arms had always been presented to her as sacred truths. Coming from a privileged background, she had been far removed from the struggles of the lower classes. She didn't truly know what people needed or feared. Her worldview came from her parents, her teachers, and her books not from the people themselves.
It was like the old saying: "Why don't they eat porridge made of meat?"
Yes, good people with weapons weren't the issue. The problem was bad people. They would love nothing more than to get their hands on nuclear weapons. If that day came, they could march into the White House and demand money from the president himself.
Thinking this, Hill set aside her doubts, raised her glass, and clinked it against Tony Stark's.
A gust of cold wind swept in as the door opened. Tony Stark turned his head to see a family of four walk inside.
Leading them was a chubby little white boy, no more than eight or nine years old.
(End of Chapter)
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