Due to the practical constraints of her situation, President Maya had been channeling most of her energy into biological research.
You heard that right, and she wasn't exaggerating.
Physics and chemistry experiments required extensive equipment, instruments, and materials. Biological research did too, of course—but in the early stages, the single most critical piece of equipment was the electron microscope, and that was something President Maya could replace entirely with her supernatural perception.
This gave her a meaningful window into 1993's cutting-edge biological sciences. Research institutions were certainly running covert studies on mutants—she was sure of that. But the available technology was what it was. A world-class chef still can't make a masterpiece without the ingredients.
If Science magazine announced tomorrow that a researcher had successfully cloned a human being, Maya would be stunned—but she wouldn't doubt it for a second.
If Science announced that an American university had cracked genetic encoding technology, and that all children born after 1993 could become Coordinators—that everyone would grow up to activate their SEED—President Maya would throw the magazine straight in the trash.
Same logic as Jack Ma and cashierless stores. Jack Ma says: "Next year I'm opening unmanned supermarkets in every city—with mobile payments, everyone's life gets easier." People nod, vaguely excited. And sure enough, the concept launches. Turns out unmanned supermarkets turned out to be a bit of a... well. You know. Still, the man wasn't lying.
Now, if Jack Ma said: "The Alibaba Group, after years of research, will open an Academy City on Mars next year where everyone can come learn superpowers—"
People would say: "Ma's finally snapped. Alibaba is done."
In 1993, when scientists couldn't even reliably clone a mouse, President Maya refused to believe the Americans had working Sentinels. Unless extraterrestrials had clocked in at DARPA.
And so she quietly committed Aunt Lan's address and time to memory. Aunt Lan had been careful—but Maya just happened to have a built-in cheat code.
Meanwhile, Howard Sr. was seeing his son Tony off.
"Old man, why am I flying to Germany?"
Tony looked rough. A patch of hair had been shaved at the crown of his head, covered with a bandage. His face was a patchwork of purple and blue. His right leg was in a cast. He'd been pushed into a wheelchair—same as his father.
"Orthopedics. Germany has the best. You didn't know that?"
"We could fly the German doctors here. Why do I have to go in person?"
"America's unsettled right now. A few months in Germany will do you good. I've also arranged a new bodyguard—Hap! Come over here." Howard waved him forward. "Tony, you can trust Happy completely. Going forward, you need to..."
Howard went on with introductions while Tony sized up the broad-shouldered young man with the honest face.
Happy walked over, said a brief hello, then snapped back to attention—standing rigid, face unreadable, silent as a statue.
That was all Tony needed to get ideas.
"Happy—the news is saying I became Spider-Man because I was taken advantage of in college, and that my "kidney deficiency" is why I couldn't hold the rope and fell out of the sky. You're built—tall, solid. Maybe you could tell reporters that you're the one who—"
Happy didn't flinch. "Sir," he said, without missing a beat, "even if you needed to film a video of you topping and me bottoming and put it out there—I'd be willing."
Tony felt like he'd bitten into what looked like chocolate ice cream and discovered it was something else entirely.
He turned to J.A.R.V.I.S. "J.A.R.V.I.S.—call four models. We'll meet the press before we leave for Germany. My right leg is broken, but the middle one is perfectly intact—I need to prove my kidneys are just fine."
Howard didn't stop him. He'd been no different at Tony's age.
Once J.A.R.V.I.S. stepped out, Howard added: "Tony, I'll be honest with you. I've been dealing with your mother's murder all this time. But the government's sudden pivot against mutants has me worried—something feels off. Going to Germany is also about laying low. And on Spider-Man: issue a denial statement and leave it at that. Don't arrange fake alibis—it only makes things worse."
"Can't you just tell me about Mom directly?"
"It's complicated. There's an old friend of mine involved—you shouldn't get pulled into this. Once I've settled everything, I'll tell you the whole story, start to finish. I promise."
"What's the story with the mutants?"
"I don't have the full picture yet. Something about new legislation—very bad for mutants. I've been tied up handling the last loose ends around Maria's accident and haven't been tracking government movements. Let me get up to speed and I'll fill you in."
"Are you going to ask the Illuminati?" Tony said.
Howard blinked. "How do you know about that? They shouldn't have approached you yet—"
"I... hacked in—no, I mean, a secret shared between two people is already not a secret, so—" Tony scrambled for footing.
"You hacked my computer?" Howard let out a long breath. "Fine. You'd have found out eventually. But don't breathe a word of this outside these walls—people who can't keep their mouths shut never get invited in."
Howard had worn himself out talking. He was nearly ready to leave when Tony spoke again.
"What do you think—what if, when Spider-Man shows up again, I have someone wearing my suit appear at the same time? Let people see two Spider-Men?"
Tony still hadn't surrendered. He genuinely regretted the whole mess—years of carefully cultivated persona, demolished in a single evening. Overnight he'd gone from high-flying playboy to "psychologically disturbed crossdresser." He just wanted to be a playboy. Not Batman, dammit!
Howard looked at his son the way a man looks at someone who has said something irretrievably foolish. "Don't you think the experts will work out both are your plants inside of ten seconds?"
"But I really am innocent here!" Tony's voice was pained.
Howard considered it for a moment, then actually offered: "Tony—find a way to actually meet that Spider-Man. Buy out the Spider-Man name if you can. Lean into it. A street hero could suit you—better than chasing women. Before that, though, upgrade the suit. Add some side fins and tail fins; if anything goes wrong next time, you won't shatter your leg on landing. I could help design it, if you want."
"Christ—great career advice, Dad! You're supposed to be on my side. Flying around risking my life, getting called a freak—versus a life of pleasure and beautiful women. Any idiot knows which to pick."
Howard tilted his face up at a forty-five-degree angle, gazing at the ceiling the way a man does when he's remembering a wilder time. Then, with the quiet authority of someone who had been there, he sighed:
"Tony—all this partying, the weed, the girls, every single night—it takes a toll. Your body can handle it now. But the damage catches up. As the old saying goes: get high when you're young, have your fun—rush to the psych ward when you're old."
"Is that what happened to you?"
Howard thought it over. Then, for the sake of his son's future health, gave a slow, honest nod.
In the amber of the evening light, father and son sat in silence—two wheelchairs drifting gently side by side. It could have been a painting.