In 1991, Tony Stark's mother, Maria, played the piano and sang as sunlight filtered through white lace curtains, illuminating her tightly styled blonde hair bun and the pearl necklace around her neck. Howard, his hair entirely white, pulled back the blanket on the sofa, revealing Tony Stark lying underneath. Maria paused her playing and looked at them with a warm, smiling expression. Howard Stark had asked Tony to come back from MIT just to house-sit. In truth, Tony enjoyed the job—provided his parents were home, or he didn't know what was about to happen.
"Who's the vagrant on my couch?" Howard Stark said teasingly. Tony sat up and adjusted the Santa hat on his head—a festive touch that now looked a bit pitiful.
"This is exactly why I come home for Christmas—because you're never around this time of year."
"Watch your tone, dear," Maria scolded, disapproving of her son's sass. But she quickly turned to Howard. "He's been away studying for so long. It's rare for him to come home."
Howard Stark merely raised an eyebrow, unmoved. "I need you to do me a favor." He tossed the Santa hat back onto the couch. "Try not to burn the house down before Monday."
Tony gave a mock-serious nod and stood up. "Got it. Monday. I'll adjust the poker party schedule accordingly. Where are you two off to?"
"Your father is taking me to the Bahamas," Maria said.
"We might have to make a stop first," Howard added.
"The Pentagon?" Tony couldn't resist the jab, always poking fun at Howard's secret military dealings. He bent down toward his mother and said, "Don't worry, you'll love the cafeteria's holiday menu."
But the joke didn't amuse Howard Stark. Tony could see the conflicted emotion in his eyes—a complex blend of love, resentment, and frustration. "You know, they say sarcasm is a measure of potential," Howard said. Tony turned and walked across the room. "If that's true, you're going to be a great man someday." Howard waited for Tony to throw a retort, but it didn't come. He turned to Maria and said, "I'm getting the bags."
"He really does miss you when you're not around," Maria said softly to Tony, who was leaning against the doorframe. Her voice was low, as if trying to spare both men's pride. "Honestly, you'll miss us too. Because this is the last time we'll be together. You know what's coming. Say something—if you don't, you'll regret it."
Her words unlocked years of pent-up emotion. Tony turned to his father and said what he could never convince himself to say in real life. "I love you, Dad. I know you did your best."
Solomon, dressed in a suit, stood at the back of the auditorium, arms crossed, watching as the present-day Tony Stark appeared in a holographic projection, revisiting the past and the long-dead parents. "This is what I hoped for," he said. "Using a binary retrostructural reconstruction—'BRC' for short—I'll need to study that acronym more—controlling the hippocampus to clarify traumatic memories. An extremely expensive method." Tony Stark leaned against the piano, disturbing the holographic projection into ripples, pixelating into fragments. The 1991 living room faded slowly, replaced by the stage of an MIT auditorium. On the stage stood a small white room and a piano, constructed to simulate a sense of realism. The scene he presented to the audience was poignant, but it never really happened. "This doesn't change the fact that they didn't make it to the airport. And it doesn't change the lengths I went to in order to cope with the grief."
Solomon left the audience area and headed backstage.
He watched as Tony Stark wove past rambling professors begging for funding with ridiculous pitches, and an assistant apologizing for a prompter malfunction. He watched Stark exit the restroom, dejected, heading toward the elevator. Solomon was tempted to approach, but someone else was already waiting for Stark—a middle-aged Black woman. Tony's first thought was that she was a fan; his admirers always had a knack for appearing in the most unexpected places.
"What you did for those young people was amazing," she said.
"They deserved it," Tony Stark replied sincerely. "Of course, it helps me sleep a little better too."
"Someone once said that generosity and guilt are related. But do you think your wealth gives you the right to act recklessly, to make mistakes without consequence?"
Tony was momentarily speechless. He pressed the call button on the elevator. "You coming up?"
"I'm staying here." The woman opened her wallet. Tony immediately tensed, stepping forward and grabbing her wrist. She didn't resist. Instead, she looked him straight in the eye with such intensity that it sent a chill down Tony's spine. He let go, apologized, and stepped back, explaining that it was a reflex—an occupational hazard. It was the truth. Since joining the Avengers, he'd seen too many terrible things—let alone the even stranger world beyond.
Solomon watched as she placed a photo against Tony Stark's chest.
It was an accusation from a mother who had lost her child—one that should never be interrupted.
"His name was Charlie Spencer," she said. "He died in Sokovia—because of you. It might mean nothing to you, because you think you fight for us. But really, you're only fighting for yourselves. Who's going to avenge my son, Stark? He's dead, and it's your fault." She turned and walked away, leaving Tony Stark standing there with the photo of Charlie Spencer. In his life, there had been very few moments where he was left speechless. This was one of them. Because no matter how he tried to explain it, Charlie Spencer's mother was right. The Avengers had caused his death.
"Life is a number." It wasn't until Solomon spoke that Tony noticed him leaning against the wall. The mystic's posture was relaxed as he lit a cigarette and exhaled slowly. But Stark was startled, instinctively pressing his fingers to his watch—a special device that could deploy defensive measures in emergencies. Solomon didn't care about the gesture, because nothing here posed any threat to him. "From a macro perspective, life is a number—but a tremendously heavy one," he repeated. "Emotionally, I agree with her. But rationally, I have to reject that weakness."
"What the hell are you doing here?" Tony Stark demanded, advancing with fury.
Solomon didn't answer the question, instead continuing his own train of thought. "Think about it. At the time, the Avengers faced two choices. One, let Ultron drop Sokovia, triggering earthquakes and volcanic eruptions across Europe, killing over a billion people—people who might have otherwise been saved. Or two, do everything in their power to stop him, save as many as possible, no matter how many that was." He said, "If you weren't the one responsible, then it's a simple math problem: billions versus thousands. Do you have the right to forfeit the lives of those billions? Or are the dead no longer entitled to human rights? Who gets to deny their right to live?"
"Why are you doing this?" Tony Stark stepped closer, his voice full of rage. "You started a war. You've killed innocent people. You even tried to launch a nuclear attack! I don't know why you're doing all this, but right now, you're nothing more than a butcher! What happened to the Solomon I knew? That kind, funny teenage Solomon?"
"Let me ask you: do you have the right to sacrifice billions of lives just to avoid sacrificing a few million?" Solomon said. "The answer is obvious. That's why I did what I did, Tony Stark. The problem I face is whether to sacrifice hundreds of millions to save 3.5 billion people. Do I have the right to let those 3.5 billion die, just to protect the lives of a few million?"
There wasn't a shred of expression on Solomon's face. "I once thought about waiting—waiting until the alien fleet began its invasion, until humanity's infrastructure and governing systems collapsed. Then I could step forward and lead humanity in resistance against the alien solar fleet. If I'd done that, the obstacles I face today would be reduced to one percent of what they are now, because by then there would be no remaining force on Earth capable of opposing the organization I've secretly cultivated. Isolated survivors would be swallowed by powerful armies, transformed into part of the organization, and continue the fight. My voice would travel unopposed across the Earth. All I'd have to do is keep the secret of the alien fleet to myself, keep collecting resources, and I'd eventually seize supreme power. Guess what—why didn't I do that?"
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