A cut lay just above Tony Stark's right eye, and he ran his index finger slowly and deliberately along the wound. Stark sat quietly in his office at Stark Tower. The lights were off, a half-finished glass of gin sat on the desk before him. The billionaire turned slowly in his chair, gazing out of the window absently. Pillars of smoke still rose between the concrete alleyways and streets from where Azrael had unleashed his attack.
"What has happened?" Stark muttered aloud to himself.
The sun shone over the city, reflecting off of the harbor, casting a brightness over Stark's dulled eyes. Without shifting in his chair, Stark reached backwards and picked up his drink. Slowly, and without hesitation, he brought it to his lips, finishing the glass in a long, single sip. A tie hung loosely around his neck, creased from sitting in his briefcase for so long. The industrialist's lackies and assistants had scheduled a press conference for later that evening. Though the last thing he wanted to do on an evening like this was address the public, someone had to do it. Even as he sat stroking the gash on his forehead, Stark realized that that "someone" had to be him. After his use of his nanites to eliminate dozens of hybrids, the public would surely want to make a villain out of him and his armored alter-ego.
Stark smiled in spite of his situation, though, as he gazed out above the city. Everyone, each inhabitant of the Big Apple, would want someone to blame, someone to levy their guilt and anguish upon. While Tony Stark might be too formidable and recognizable of a figure to be made into the "bad guy," Iron Man was still a mystery, despite the public's knowledge of his identity. And that, the enigmatic aura that surrounded his alter-ego, was whate made Stark so confident. The fact of the matter was that however wrong may exist in the city, however many things might go wrong, the people of New York would always have someone to blame other than themselves.
The city had endured too much suffering as it was. Even Antonio Stark wasn't big enough to condemn it to anymore.
As he sat, Stark heard the door to his office open behind him.
"Mr. Stark." Pepper's voice echoed throughout the glass office.
"It's time."
Stark's head dipped. It wasn't every day that he thrashed his reputation in the press.
"I'm on my way." He replied, straightening up out of his chair.
Potts, placed her armful of files on a nearby coffee table and briskly made her way towards her employer.
"What're you doing?" Stark asked quietly.
"Your tie is a mess." She growled, adjusting the silk garment draped over Stark's neck.
"Pepper." Stark sighed, realizing that her fuddling with his tie was simply a means of putting off the inevitable. Her gaze was utterly fixated upon the knot just below his chin, fumbling with it over and over again.
"Pepper." He said, once more, wrapping his hands around hers.
Her shoulders dipped, as she continued to glare at the knot. Slowly, her eyes fell to the floor, and her body loosened.
"I'll tell the media you're coming." She said, turning on her heel and returning to her stack of folders.
The door slammed behind her, and Stark stood for a moment with his hands at his sides, wondering what he was going to do with himself. Nodding quietly, he adjusted his tie and made his way through the office to the front door, leaving the office behind him to sit in the setting sun vacant.
The elevator ride to the ground floor was short, and gave Stark little time, if any, to compose his thoughts. With a natural talent for public speaking, he found little need to even write down his thoughts, remarks, or talking points. When they needed to, his words simply seemed to flow.
As soon as he stepped into the lobby of his building, flashbulbs captured Stark's image.
Silently, he made his way to a podium that had been erected and placed his hands on the side of the pedestal.
There was a distinct hum and murmur as everyone in the crowd waited for Tony Stark to begin.
The microphone was on, tape decks were recording, and the cameras were rolling. Everything was ready. All he had to do was speak.
"I don't know what to say, really." Stark muttered.
"In the past month, we've seen some of the hardest days our country has faced as a nation. And, yet, it all has come down to today."
As he grew more comfortable, he eased his right hand into the corresponding pants pocket and continued.
"Either we can come together and heal, now, as a city... or... we're going to crumble. Day by day, minute by minute, until we're finished."
With his free hand, Stark pointed at a steady column of smoke rising in the distance. His hand remained fixed on the pillar as he spoke.
"We're in Hell, right now, my friends. Believe me. And, we can stay here, get the s**t kicked out of us, or... we can climb our way back."
His hand rose slightly, now pointing at the setting sun.
"Into the light. We can climb out of Hell... even if it is only one day at a time."
Stark's hand found its way back to the podium.
"No one person can do it for us, though. I walk down the streets of this city and I think. I mean, I've betrayed every confidence that's ever been placed in me. I've kept hold of all my money, believe it or not. I've chased off..."
His eyeline met with Pepper's and Rhodey's before dipping to the ground. He dared not face anyone.
"Anyone who's ever loved me. And, you know, lately, I can't even stand the face I see in the mirror. I have billions of dollars, and I use it to make this, this building, this... empire. When, in all honesty, I should be using it to help people. Without people, ladies and gentlemen, I would be nothing. People put me where I am, people are directing me where to go, and people will see me out when I die... a time that, as anyone familiar with me knows, is looming nearer daily."
Stark felt a clench in his stomach and ran his hand up his torso, feeling a silver flask in his breast pocket. He clenched it through the fabric for a second, debating whether or not to sip from it. Drinking would only help to alleviate his pain, he wouldn't lose control, slur, or let something slip from his tongue.
Yet, even so, he replaced his hand at the podium, as flashbulbs blew.
"I've made my share of mistakes. That much is certain. I've... hurt more goddamned people than I'd care to admit in this life. Whether with the Iron Man project, my hording of my money, or even my self-destructive pattern of behavior." At this, again, he glanced at Potts.
"No-one is left unscathed for knowing me."
"For months, years, even, I have been fine with this style of living. In short, I've told the world to go to hell, as I've driven myself there in a silver sportscar with a bottle of gin in-hand. I've lived a life of cavalier and hubris... a life that came to a head about a week ago."
Never before had anyone in the audience, including Potts or even James Rhodes, experienced such a candid moment with the elusive figure known as Antonio Stark. His typical demeanor was one of arrogance and self-assuredness. For once, Stark was neither. His humanity, now, was showing through, and it became plainly evident just how very much he loved the city of New York.
"As everyone in the general public and the media are now aware, the city of New York was viciously and uncompromisingly attacked two weeks ago. A virus unleahed itself upon our people. Our friends. Our neighbors, and our brothers. The safest and most effective method of putting this threat to bed was to do just that... to eliminate the problem."
Stark, for once, found it difficult for himself to find words.
"The only issue with that theory is that the 'problem' in this case... the dilemma... involved human lives. Beneath the fangs, the silver skin, and the cold eyes... those people were still New Yorkers. I know - I know that I didn't have a right to do what I did. I know that I'll be punished. I'll be shunned, I'll be ostracised, and you will lose your faith in me. For that, and for my actions, I am most humbly and deeply sorry. To you, New York, I am endebted. My livelyhood, usefulness, and... vindication... all rely upon you. But, look."
He pointed into the sky once more, at a symbol far in the distance above anyone's head.
"That building is still standing tall. Just as our city is. And for that, my friends, I will make noapologies."
"Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen, I dare not make light of the lives that anyone has lost in the struggle against the many challenges this city faces, but.... we are what we are. What is done is done. What has been made... cannot be unmade."
Stark's hand emerged from his pocket, and he gazed out over the crowd as he carefully chose his final remarks.
"It reminds me of a poem my father read to me when I was a much younger man than I am now. Though written in 1833, Tennyson's Ulysses holds as much weight today as the day it was first written. It tells the story of Ulysses, a great warrior of Greece, and, on one voyage, his ship is wrecked. His crew lay strewn about the broken planks and piece of their vessel. The beach is gritty beneath their feet, and it looks that none will survive the night. Through the mist and foams, Ulysses rises upon a rock and glances down at his friends, soldiers, and wards. He gazes upon them, not knowing what to say at first, and they gaze back, eager. At last, he speaks."
Stark's tone grew quieter.
"It may be that the gulfs will wash us down.
It may be that we shall touch the happy isles
and see the great Achilles whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides.
And, though we are not now that strength which in old days
moved both Earth and Heaven,
that which we are, we are.
One equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate.
But, strong in will.
To strive, to seek, to find.
And not to yield."
He nodded quietly to himself.
"We have face triumphs and disasters alike, my friends. We have stood the test of time as a symbol and a model for all other statesmen to look up to. Our experiences have only served to embolden us. We will not, not ever, yield."
Anthony felt his eyebrows lift.
"No matter what 'they' throw at us. Thank you."
Silently, he stepped down from the podium, ignoring the questions hurled at him by the media. His elevator was waiting for him.
The day was done.
Night had set upon New York City as Stark finished his speech.
And, like every evening that had come before it, a new day would follow this one.
