"Oh, so now you've got a leg to stand on? You're the reigning champion of every bodyguard in America, and you couldn't lay a finger on Spider-Man—and you've got the nerve to whine about it?" Tony unloaded on Happy in one long, furious breath.
"Spider-Man's strong, boss. He had you pinned in a couple of moves last night—you of all people should know that."
"All right, all right, stop bickering, both of you—big news!" Jarvis cut off the squabble and passed the laptop into Tony's hands.
"—Stark Industries stock is already limit-up? Every share, here in New York. Why?" Tony asked, baffled.
"The Spider-Man story gathering steam? Or the exposé of Aldrich Psychiatric Hospital?" Even Jarvis sounded uncertain.
"That's bizarre. Do ordinary people actually sympathize with mutants? Care about them?" Now Tony was genuinely confused.
"Simple. They've decided you're a businessman with justice and principles—which means they've decided to trust you."
At the sound of that voice Tony scrambled out of bed. "Pop—what are you doing up here?"
Old Howard had overheard the whole exchange and come rolling in on his wheelchair.
"Do you know what makes the ideal presidential candidate? White. Born middle-class. Graduate of a name school. A gentle wife, a pair of adorable kids. And—best of all—a wild, aimless stretch in his youth, followed by a great reckoning, a discovery of purpose, ten-odd years of good works. Something like that. Your situation's not far off. Young, talented—that's already on display. The womanizing counts as your aimless phase. And now you've found a positive, righteous purpose: to fight for justice to your dying breath!"
"And you're not like those other politicians—all empty wind and hot air. You've proven yourself through your actions. So go on, get out there and join the march. Have your secretary draft a speech. Lay the sentiment on thick."
Tony listened, and slowly went blank. After a long moment he asked, "So what do we do about... that whole business?"
"I put in a word with Washington this morning. And I agreed to sink three hundred million dollars into Trask Industries. So—I've already wiped your backside clean for you," Old Howard said with a smile.
"Trask Industries? What's that supposed to mean?" Tony asked, puzzled.
"The real owners of Aldrich Psychiatric Hospital."
Tony's expression shifted. His voice went hard. "No. We can't be a part of that. Spider-Man played me, and it makes me furious—but there's no question his actions were right. I don't care about mutants one way or the other, but running experiments on mutant children—that crosses every line. What Trask is doing, I will not stomach. Fine, I'll stop poking at them—er, actually, I never poked at Trask in the first place—but Stark Industries will not, under any circumstances, touch a project that depraved."
Howard's brow furrowed. "Tony, are you sure? If we don't offer some kind of compensation, Trask and the politicians behind him will treat us as enemies. Is it worth it? Don't forget—we're just arms dealers."
At that, oddly, it was Tony who looked puzzled. "Pop, you sure you took your pills this morning? We may be arms dealers, but we're dealers with a heart. You said it yourself: arms dealers are people too, and even we've got a basic line we don't cross. And experimenting on mutant kids? That's about as far past the line as it gets."
Old Howard's eyes flickered. Gravely, he said, "You're right, Tony. We should refuse."
"Besides, Pop—we're arms dealers, yes, but we're the biggest arms dealers in the world. You think we've got any reason to be scared of Trask? Hmph. He wants to come at me—heh, well, I've been thinking our biology division is downright pathetic. Forget Oscorp, we don't even measure up to Rand Enterprises. Trask's bio outfit ought to be good for something, wouldn't you say?"
As he said it, a flash of killing intent crossed Tony's eyes—not a trace left of the goofball who'd been trash-talking his bodyguard a minute ago.
"All right then. As long as you know your own mind, that's enough. I'm off—don't forget the march." And with that, Old Howard turned his chair and rolled away.
---
"Ugh—ugh—I'm so tired. Maya, how much farther? We already crossed the Williamsburg Bridge, we're all the way into Queens!"
Maya was out of patience. She shoved off Nana, who kept trying to slump against her. "Nana, you've been skipping your workouts—you've gone soft. We've walked less than five kilometers. Three miles! Look at everyone else—signs bigger than yours, voices louder than yours. You hear a single one of them complaining?"
"Half of them joined along the way! There's got to be a few thousand people marching by now—how many did our school bring?" Nana shot back.
"Okay, we're past the halfway point, we're almost there. And there are helicopters filming the whole thing from above—you don't want to show up on TV looking like a wet dishrag, do you? Chin up. You've got this," Maya coaxed.
HONK! HONK! HONK!
Right then, three open-bed trucks rolled up alongside the crowd and stopped. A man's voice came booming out of a loudspeaker.
"Hello, everyone—I'm Spider-Man, Tony Stark, and today I am overjoyed! Not because you answered my call, but because your actions have proven that the American people have a conscience, that they have a sense of responsibility. They prove there is still justice in this world. They prove I am not alone—that you stand with me, and with justice!"
"Whoa—Tony, you're gorgeous!" Nana squealed, going full fangirl.
(Author's note: as for what Tony looks like right now—don't picture Robert Downey Jr. There's a photo at the start of Iron Man 1; the man is spectacular, just about the best-looking lead in any Marvel movie or show.)
Maya lifted her head to look too—and who else would that be standing atop the truck cab but Tony? Coffee-tinted aviators, a loud plaid short-sleeve button-down up top, cream-colored slacks below, cutting a dashing figure in the ten-o'clock morning sun.
"But your turnout also supports the proposal I made last night. So I've decided to provide food and drink to every one of you, free of charge. Gatorade, Coke, juice—help yourselves. There are burgers and pizza on the trucks in back. Hungry? Eat up. Today's destination is Aldrich Psychiatric Hospital—and I will walk alongside you!"
Gulp. "Maya, you hungry? Want me to grab you a burger?" Nana's attention snapped instantly from dreamboat Tony to the rolling burger buffet behind him.
"I'm good, not hungry yet. Go get your food—I'll grab you a juice."
---
In a hidden conference room in Washington, D.C., the curtains were drawn and the lights left off, the whole place steeped in gloom.
One man jabbed a finger at the TV across the room, where Tony was mid-impassioned-speech. "This guy didn't just refuse our goodwill—he's doubled down and started running his mouth. And none of you have anything to say about it?"
"Senator Haydon, Tony won't budge an inch—nothing gets through to him. He even said that if we dare make a move, he'll hostile-takeover my company. If it comes to that, this gets a great deal harder to handle," said a short man.
"Mr. Trask is right," said a general across the table, his chest a wall of medals. "If we act on temper and disrupt Trask Industries' normal operations, that's a loss that isn't worth the gain."
"The truth is, Tony's move won't affect the larger picture. Losing Aldrich Psychiatric Hospital is no great pity. Our energy belongs on pushing through the Mutant Exclusion Bill. Gentlemen—generals, senators, and friends in business—it's time we brought our weight to bear. Let's get this bill through Congress inside two months. Once capturing mutants is made legal, an Aldrich will never happen again," Bolivar urged.