Whatever It Takes

2.2

We move out of the conference room to the lounge, getting more comfortable to continue the long conversation we're already in the middle of. Stark lays back on a chair, a hand over his face as the Falcon and Rhodes grovel behind the Captain, who's reading through the entire book of the Accords silently.

"Secretary Ross has a Congressional Medal of Honor, which is one more than you have," Rhodes says.

"So let's say we agree to this thing. How long is it gonna be before they LoJack us like a bunch of common criminals?" the Falcon bites back.

"117 countries want to sign this. 117, Sam, and you're just like, 'No, it's cool. We got it.'"

"How long are you going to play both sides?"

"I have an equation," Vision announces, interrupting the squabble.

"Oh, this will clear it up," the Falcon gripes.

"In the eight years since Mr. Stark announced himself as Iron Man, the number of known enhanced persons has grown exponentially. Ehm, during the same period, the number of potentially world-ending events has risen at a commensurate rate."

"Are you saying it's our fault?" the Captain asks.

"I'm saying there may be a causality. Our very strength invites challenge. Challenge incites conflict. And conflict... breeds catastrophe. Oversight... Oversight is not an idea that can be dismissed out of hand."

"Boom," Rhodes says quietly, glancing to the Falcon. The bird glares at him.

"Tony," Natasha starts. "You are being uncharacteristically non-hyperverbal."

"It's because he's already made up his mind," the Captain answers for him.

"Boy, you know me so well," Stark quips. He sits up, rubbing the back of his head. "Actually, I'm nursing an electromagnetic headache." He stands, walking into the kitchen. "That's what's going on, Cap. It's just pain. It's discomfort." He picks up a mug beside the sink and reaches in, fumbling with some silverware in the basin. "Who's putting coffee grounds in the disposal? Am I running a bed and breakfast for a biker gang?" He pulls the french press from the sink, walking it over to the counter.

He pauses, looking over all of us watching him. He can tell we know he's not himself. Even his little phrases lack a certain Stark quality. He purses his lips, pulling a device from his pocket and nestles it into the fruit basket, tapping it and allowing a holographic screen to emerge. An image of a smiling young Black man looks back at us. Stark sighs, then points to the picture.

"Oh, that's Charles Spencer, by the way. He's a great kid. Computer engineering degree, 3.6 GPA, had a floor-level gig at Intel planned for the fall." Stark pours himself a cup of coffee from the press. "But first, he wanted to put a few miles on his soul before he parked it behind a desk. See the world. Maybe be of service. Charlie didn't want to go to Vegas or Fort Lauderdale, which is what I would do. He didn't go to Paris or Amsterdam, which sounds fun. He decided to spend his summer building sustainable housing for the poor. Guess where. Sokovia."

Stark snaps a sugar pack against the counter. Wanda looks down, almost ashamed. We all listen to his words, not able to look anyone in the eyes.

"He wanted to make a difference, I suppose," Stark continues. "I mean, we won't know because we dropped a building on him while we were kicking ass." He stops, growing heated and taking a sip of room-temperature coffee to cool down. He sets down the mug, rounding the counter and leaning against it. He crosses his arms. "There's no decision-making process here. We need to be put in check! Whatever form that takes, I'm game. If we can't accept limitations, if we're boundary-less, we're no better than the bad guys."