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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐒𝐄 𝐏𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒, 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐀
ELEANOR
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To be said simply, tonight never came.
With Tony's departure, the articles crammed into my office every ten minutes. Investigative journalists from nearby Tabora were mailing in their newfound reports from onsite and the security footage from where the explosion had initially happened. Ninety-six civilians and counting were harmed in this bombing and seeing from the shreds of evidence, it was most likely a suicide attack. The scale of such an attack—it was unbearable to see so much death in place as small as Tabora.
My calls to Tony bounced, redirecting to Pepper. I had a quick word with her regarding the situation and receiving her take on it. She was alarmed at how the world could be so small-minded as to point fingers at the only successful ex-weapon's manufacturer in the world. She was furious and so was I.
My statements for the board were to be as diplomatic as possible given the intimacy between me and Tony. When hunting for evidence, the plot revolved around anything Stark related and by the time the press had come in, the word of the attack had reached Tony Stark. Being involved in weaponry for more than decades, of course, the world would think it was him.
It is unquestionably futile, I had written out of pure emotion, to place accusations on any functioning tech corporation of our society when the clean up is still underway. To resolve the cause of the explosion at a point like this is to determine the outcome before a war. This marketplace in Tabora was invested in by the late Howard Stark and his descendant would know better than to lay bones to the dogs by planting weapons of destruction onto land that is lawfully Tony Stark's. How much ever we grieve for the loss of lives in Tabora, faults lie with the suspects that are yet to be sought for.
So, yes. I was angry, annoyed and ticked off by the fact that the world would try to rest the fault over a man who had saved the world from eternal annihilation multiple times. The falsely evidenced stories kept streaming in even after the statement had been provisioned to the board and the public, like the world, and they couldn't seem to catch a break.
'Cal, where's the media coverage from Tanzania? The one—' I searched for the correct words to describe it, but my trusty little assistant beat me to it.
'—that hasn't reached the press?'
Calico Quinn was my personal assistant and she had the job of handling everything I could never work without. I was a bit of a newbie in the head sector of the tower so Cal assisted me to schedule my every move and planned the agenda of the day. Without Cal and her crazy whirls of blonde hair, my work life and my personal life would be a spiralling mess of insignificance.
