Civil War Prose Novel

by Stuart Moore

  THE minute Tony Stark stepped up to the podium, his stomach jumped. He looked around, puzzled. He’d conducted dozens of press conferences here, in the main Stark Enterprises press room. Its white walls and wide picture window were almost as familiar to him as his home or his lab. Today the room was filled to overflowing, extra folding chairs crammed around the sides of the room, reporters milling and muttering in low tones.

  Suddenly he realized: That’s it. The last time the press hall had been this full was two years ago, when—unplanned, on impulse—he’d revealed to the world his secret life as Iron Man.

  Tony cleared his throat and leaned in to the mike. “Have we been here before?”

  A smattering of laughter rippled through the room. Tony glanced back at Pepper Potts, standing ramrod-straight just behind him, her expression professionally blank. Happy Hogan flanked her on one side, with the U.S. Secretary of Homeland Security on the other.

  Pepper frowned at Tony, gave him a mock nudge forward.

  Then Tony noticed another similarity to that other press conference. In the front row, her lovely legs crossed, sat Christine Everhart of Vanity Fair. When his eyes settled on her, she cocked her head and shot him a challenging look.

  He flashed her a quick smile and looked down. He consulted his cue cards quickly, then tossed them onto the podium.

  “Usually, when I stand up in front of a group of people, I begin with these words: ‘My name is Tony. And I’m an alcoholic.’”

  The crowd laughed again, a bit nervously. At least they’re not hostile.

  “This is different, of course. And yet, it’s oddly similar.” He paused for effect, took a quick sip of seltzer. “One of the first things you learn in recovery is that you have to come clean with people, on every level. I started that process two years ago. My identity as Iron Man is a matter of public record; so are my taxes, my family history, and a painfully detailed record of my personal failings. My life isn’t just an open book; it’s practically an open-source electronic text released under the Creative Commons license.” More laughter.

  “But there’s something people who don’t have my…problem…often fail to understand. An alcoholic doesn’t seek help when things are going well for him. Some of us have to hit bottom. Others reach a point where the lifestyle, the cumulative effects on himself and on other people, become too much to bear. And still others experience a moment of clarity. A brief, vivid glimpse of his future, of the terrible fate that awaits him if changes aren’t made.

  “Ladies and gentlemen: Stamford was my moment of clarity.

  “I have a lot in my life to feel ashamed of, but I’m very proud of my career as a super hero. I’ve saved thousands of lives, put hundreds of dangerous criminals behind bars, and stopped dozens of catastrophes before they could happen. I founded the Avengers, the world’s foremost super hero team, whose long record of good works speaks for itself.

  “No no, please don’t clap. I don’t want your applause today; that’s not why I’m here. Because another lesson I’ve learned is that deciding not to take a drink is not the end of an alcoholic’s journey toward the light. It’s barely Step One.

  “And for me—for the superhuman community I’m proud to be a part of—my decision to go public, to reveal the details of my life to you, was Step One. This, today, is the next step.”

  He paused, throat dry. Swept his gaze around the room, taking in the sea of reporters, scribbling and tapping furiously on note-taking devices.

  “Superhumans, metahumans, heroes, villains. Whatever you call them, they have proliferated enormously in the past decade. Some of them are born with superior physical and mental abilities; others receive their powers through accidental means. Some, like me, have developed technological methods of enhancing our natural gifts. Some, having no actual powers, take their lives into their hands by donning costumes and taking to the streets. And still others are actual alien beings, either full-blooded or partly human.

  “We live in a frightening, uncertain world. Wars rage in the Middle East and elsewhere; fear of terrorism has not abated. All over this country, families face the threat of economic ruin, of the loss of the American Dream that has always been this country’s promise. The Dream that has been so very good to me, personally.

  “So I stand here today, one man, to pledge to you: I will do what I can to make the world just a tiny bit less frightening. I can’t solve the world economy, and I can’t do much about suitcase nukes or biological attacks. But I can, and will, solve the problem of superhuman weapons of mass destruction.

  “From this day forward, any man, woman, or alien being who takes to the streets or the skies, who seeks to use his or her natural or artificial gifts in a public setting, must perform the following steps. He must first register online with the Department of Homeland Security, a quick, painless process. Among the information required: The applicant’s real name, address, twenty-four-hour contact information, level of experience, and the extent of his superhuman abilities, if any.

  “That application will be swiftly evaluated by myself and the Homeland Secretary.” The Secretary nodded once. “Depending on our evaluation, several things may happen next. The person may be approved for metahuman activity under the terms of the Superhuman Registration Act. She will be given a contract, apprised firmly of the guidelines of appropriate behavior, and issued a S.H.I.E.L.D. affiliate’s badge. She will also receive a salary commensurate with her experience and skill, along with medical benefits, all under the oversight of the federal government and the international S.H.I.E.L.D. charter.”

  Tony took a breath. “If the applicant is less experienced, a conditional license may be issued instead. This will allow him to practice his abilities after, and only after, he has completed an intensive eight-week course at one of several training facilities being established by S.H.I.E.L.D. These facilities are top secret and located far from any major population centers, so there’s no danger to civilians during the training process. Once the applicant has completed the course, he will be evaluated by a board of experienced super heroes. If he is deemed responsible and competent in the use of his powers, a full license will be issued. If not, he will have the option of retaking the training course or retiring from the process.

  “Of course, there will be those applicants who pose a clear or potential danger to the public, either through recklessness, lack of moral character, or the sheer uncontrollable nature of their power. They will be denied the ability to practice their abilities. This, we believe, is only fair and just. A man may possess the knowledge of how to build an atomic bomb, but that doesn’t give him the right to assemble one in the middle of Times Square.” Tony paused. “Believe me, I learned that one at age nine.”

  The group laughed. This is working, Tony thought. They’re really with me.

  “I’m going to take a few questions now, and then I have a surprise for you. But before you ask anything, let me remind you that none of this is my decision. It’s the law; it’s been voted on duly by Congress and signed into law by the president. He has asked me, personally, to oversee implementation of the Superhuman Registration Act, and I have accepted. This is my privilege and my duty, in more ways than one.

  “Yes, Gerry.”

  A stout man stood up. “What’s the situation with super villains, Mister Stark?”

  “Well, if they choose to register, they’ll obviously fall into the third category—they’ll be refused a license to operate. Unless, that is, they show both a desire to reform and a willingness to undergo training. Believe it or not, we have reached out to some high-profile offenders and are beginning a dialogue.”

  “Even if they’re wanted for crimes?”

  “There are…a few cases…that will receive special treatment. But that’s, I want to stress that’s a very rare situation. We fully expect most super villains to fail to register, which automatically places them in violation of the law. I can’t go into details about our plans in that area without tipping off those very s
ame criminals. But I will say this: We’re developing radically new, stunningly effective methods both of capturing villains who refuse to register, and of holding them securely.

  “Melissa?”

  “What about super heroes—not villains, but those who are publicly known to have stopped dangerous criminals, to have saved lives in the past. What happens if they don’t register? It sounds as though they’ll be treated the same as the villains you’ve just described. Is that true?”

  Tony stared straight ahead, for just a moment.

  “It is,” he said.

  The room erupted in questions. Reporters leaned forward, hands raised, trying to outshout each other.

  Then one voice cut through the clamor. Christine Everhart stood up, her dark eyes boring into Tony. He swallowed, suddenly nervous again.

  “Mister Stark,” she said slowly. “I think the public will want to know something. Why should a vigilante, a self-styled super hero, receive a salary and federal benefits when so many regular Americans are out of work?”

  Tony nodded; he’d prepped for this question. “That’s a very good question, Chris—Ms. Everhart. First off, only those heroes who are approved and agree to public oversight will receive such benefits. Second, you should know that the Senate debated this very point at length, and decided that the ‘carrot’ of salary and benefits was the most effective tool in recruiting a maximum number of superhumans to the program quickly.

  “But on a larger point: I don’t think we Americans are at our best when we ask ‘Why should my neighbor receive this?’ I think we’re much better served to ask ‘How can more Americans prosper the way my neighbor has?’ That’s how we build a better society. That’s my goal here today, and every day I step through the doors of Stark Enterprises.”

  Applause. But Everhart remained standing, her mouth twisted into a frown.

  “Follow-up.” She gestured around her, at the STARK banner on the back wall. “Since you brought up Stark Enterprises: Isn’t the new law going to bring in an enormous windfall of new government contracts to this company? A company that you own, a company that has already benefited enormously from the post-9/11 boom in homeland security spending?”

  Tony could feel the eyes of the Homeland Security secretary on his back. Pepper shifted slightly, high heels clacking on the dais.

  “Ms. Everhart,” Tony said, “As you know, Stark Enterprises no longer manufactures munitions. That’s another promise I made to the world, and one I intend to keep as we move forward.

  “However, yes, we are of course a partner to the United States government in the war against terror, superhuman and otherwise. And I would be naive to deny that that connection, that partnership, is a major reason why the president has asked me to oversee this program. The safety and security of the American people: That’s the top priority of the current administration, of Stark Enterprises, and of Anthony Stark himself. I see no conflict there.”

  The secretary stepped forward, clapped meaty hands together in applause. The reporters joined in, louder than ever.

  Everhart sat down, glaring. Guess I won’t get another night with her, Tony thought.

  Then again, you never know.

  “One more—yes, Dan.”

  A friendly man in a rumpled suit stood up. “How much does that suit cost, Tone?”

  Laughter. Tony smiled, fingered his Armani jacket. “A lot.” He gestured to Pepper, and she handed him a briefcase. “But not as much as this one.”

  He clicked open the latch and held out the briefcase, over the podium. The gleaming red-and-yellow helmet of Iron Man popped up, surrounded by the neatly folded metal mesh of the bodysuit. Gauntlets and boots tucked neatly in the corners.

  “This is my job,” Tony said. “This is what I do, who I am. I built this suit with my own two hands, over the course of a lot of years. That’s why I’m standing before you today, why I’ve agreed to administer this law: so that everyone in this country will have the same opportunity, the same freedom, the same security to work their tails off and build a bright shiny future, that I have been so privileged to enjoy.

  “And on that note, I want to introduce you to a very important woman. Ms. Miriam Sharpe lost her son in the tragic Stamford incident, and it was she who made me aware of my own, complicit guilt in that event. I owe her reparations, and she’s become my conscience in this whole endeavor, as well as the spokeswoman for civilian rights on this issue. Please give Ms. Sharpe a big hand.”

  Ms. Sharpe stepped out, confident and smiling. She’d undergone a subtle makeover since the funeral: Her suit was neatly tailored, her makeup meticulously applied. But she still looked like an ordinary housewife, the kindly mother next door.

  The room rose to its feet, applauding wildly.

  When Sharpe reached Tony, she burst into tears. “Thank you, Mister Stark. Thank you just, oh, just so much.”

  Tony took her by the shoulders, stared into her eyes. “No, Ms. Sharpe. Thank you.”

  A rustling overhead. Tony glanced up, then hastily positioned Ms. Sharpe next to him.

  “And likewise…” Tony gestured toward the ceiling. “…I’m pretty sure the amazing Spider-Man needs no introduction.”

  Spider-Man swung down gracefully, trailing a webline behind, to land in a perfect three-point crouch. He wore his old costume, the red-and-blue cloth number. Tony had discussed it with him, and they’d agreed it would provide the maximum public recognition factor.

  Tony stepped aside, and Spidey leapt forward, toward the applause. As soon as he stood at the podium, though, his demeanor changed. He seemed hesitant, almost shy.

  “Umm, thanks. Really.” Spidey scratched his neck nervously. “It’s really…inspiring to hear Tony say all that, and to see how strongly his message resonates with you guys. It makes this all a lot easier. Well, a little easier.”

  Nervous laughter.

  “See,” Spider-Man continued, “the Registration Act gives us a choice: We can go the route Captain America advocates, and leave people with powers completely unchecked. Or we can go legitimate, and earn back a little public trust.”

  Come on, Peter, Tony thought. Do it.

  “I’m proud of what I do. Of who I am. And I’m here to prove it.”

  Spider-Man reached up and whipped the mask off his face. The crowd gasped; cameras flashed, folding chairs clattered as reporters shot to their feet. The man in the spider-suit looked briefly panicked, then smiled shyly.

  “My name is Peter Parker,” he said. “And I’ve been Spider-Man since I was fifteen years old.”

  Tony Stark stepped forward again. He put an arm around Peter and exchanged a long, grateful glance with the young man.

  Then Tony turned to face the crowd.

  “Any questions?”

  “MORE coffee, Mister Hendrick?”

  Captain America frowned, adjusted his tie. The fake mustache felt itchy on his lip.

  “Mister Hendrick?”

  Cap looked up, saw the young waitress holding out a glass coffee pot. He shook his head quickly; she rolled her eyes and walked away.

  Goliath laughed. He leaned across the table, tweaked the nametag on Cap’s work shirt.

  “Better get some game, Hendrick.”

  Four of them sat at the table: Cap, Goliath, Daredevil, and Luke Cage, all in various types of disguise. Goliath wore a worn leather jacket; Daredevil was almost unrecognizable in short white shirt, vest, and tinted, trendy glasses.

  Cap frowned. “My name is Brett Hendrick,” he said for the fourth time, in a low voice. “I’m a security supervisor at a shopping mall in Queens.”

  “That’s it,” Daredevil said. “Now, my name is Cooper Peyton, and I’m an electrical engineer from Long Island.”

  “Victor Tegler,” Goliath said. “Community Outreach Worker, based in Harlem. Man, I’m still not sure about that. I’m a West Coast kid.”

  Daredevil shrugged. “Bigger men than you have started out as community organizers.”

  “Cage?”
>
  Luke Cage looked up from his notes. His massive, muscular frame was crammed into a black suit, and he seemed distinctly uncomfortable.

  “What kind of name is Rockwell Dodsworth?” he asked. “And sweet Christmas—I.T. consultant for a major international finance corporation? I asked you to get me somethin’ cool, like a race-car driver. Music producer, maybe.”

  Daredevil frowned. “This is what my contacts had available.”

  “Matt risked a lot to get us these new identities,” Cap said. “He could be disbarred for this.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Daredevil almost smiled. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  “Besides, the I.D.’s aren’t important. They’re just a place to go to ground when we aren’t doing the important work.”

  “I’m actually getting into the new secret identity thing,” Daredevil said. “I’m experimenting with new foods, new favorite movies. New bands.”

  Cap studied the blind adventurer for a moment. They’d been underground for almost three weeks now, a difficult time of adjustment. But the experience had apparently energized Daredevil. As long as Cap had known him, DD had been a dour, grim vigilante with a strong nihilistic streak. Now he seemed alert, purposeful.

  Maybe change is good, sometimes.

  “Ah, never mind.” Cage stretched his arms, grimaced. “I’m just still sore from that beatdown we gave the Sinister Six yesterday.”

  “You’re sore?” Goliath clapped him on the back. “Man, I had to grow to eighteen feet to trip up the Rhino.”

  “That was good work,” Daredevil said. “And we’re only just getting started. Right, Cap?”

  “Hm? Sorry.” Captain America looked up. “Just thinking about an appointment I had to break, with a kid from the Make-A-Wish Foundation. I told him we’d play baseball in his yard today, but the place is probably crawling with Tony’s cape-killers.”

  “Sucks,” Goliath said.

  “It’s the little things they’ve stolen from us,” Cap said, “with this registration garbage. The little things that make us who we are.”