It was 1991. Tony Stark’s mother, Maria, was singing and playing the piano. She stopped playing and looked over as Howard Stark pulled a blanket off Tony, who was stretched out on the couch. His parents had asked him to come home from MIT and watch the house for a weekend. “Wake up, dear. Say good-bye to your father.”

“Who’s the homeless person on the couch?” Howard cracked, holding up the blanket.

Tony got up and adjusted his Santa Claus hat, his way of displaying some holiday spirit. “This is why I love coming home for Christmas . . . ​right before you leave town,” Tony shot back.

“Be nice, dear,” his mother admonished. To Howard, she said, “He’s been studying abroad.”

Howard didn’t seem impressed. “Do me a favor,” he said, pulling the hat off and tossing it on the couch. “Try not to burn the house down before Monday.”

Now standing, Tony nodded with mock seriousness. “Okay, so it’s Monday. That is good to know. I will plan my poker party accordingly. Where are you going?”

“Your father’s flying us to the Bahamas for a little getaway,” his mother said.

“We might have to make a quick stop,” Howard added.

“At the Pentagon, right?” Tony asked. He couldn’t resist making a crack about his father’s secret military business. “Don’t worry. You’re going to love the holiday menu at the commissary.”

Howard looked at him, and Tony felt all the old conflicting feelings: love, resentment, and frustration. “You know, they say sarcasm is a metric for potential,” Howard said. Tony turned his back and walked away to the other side of the room. “If that’s true, you’ll be a great man someday.” He waited a beat, then turned to Tony’s mother. “I’ll get the bags.”

“He does miss you when you are not here,” Maria said quietly to Tony, trying to lessen the tension. “And frankly, you’re going to miss us. Because this is the last time we’re all going to be together. You know what’s about to happen. Say something. If you don’t, you’ll regret it.”

She was right. Tony turned to his father and said the things he’d never been able to persuade himself to say in real life. “I love you, Dad. And I knew you did the best you could.”

And then the adult Tony Stark appeared, observing the hologram projection of his younger self and his long-dead parents.

“That’s how I wished it happened,” he said. “By Barely Augmented Retro Framing, or BARF—​I got to work on that acronym—​an extremely costly method of hijacking the hippocampus to clear . . . ​traumatic memories.”

Tony leaned on the piano. The hologram rippled and flickered into a jigsaw pattern of pixels. Then the Stark living room as it had been in 1991 was gone. He was standing in an auditorium at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where he was being honored as a famous graduate. The stage was just white cubes and a stand‑in piano, to give the simulation some tactile reality. The emotional moment he’d just shown them . . . ​It had never happened. Not that way. It was all a simulation, and that was what he was there to talk about. He’d built the BARF system to re‑create memories so people could experience them again and try to confront them by doing things they’d never been able to do in real life. It was a great piece of tech, but it wasn’t making him feel any better.

“It doesn’t change the fact that they never made it to the airport, or the things I did to avoid processing my grief,” he said. Taking off his glasses, Tony looked out over the audience. They were hanging on his every word.

“Plus,” he added, “six hundred and eleven million dollars for my little therapeutic experiment. No one in their right mind would’ve ever funded it. The challenges facing you are the greatest mankind has ever known,” Tony said. They were silent, maybe hoping for some story about one of the Avengers’ battles. But Tony wasn’t here for that.

He shifted his weight, setting up for the speech’s big finish. “Plus most of you are broke,” he said, getting a small laugh. “Or rather, you were. As of this moment, every student has been made an equal recipient of the inaugural September Foundation Grant.” A few gasps sounded from the crowd as certain people guessed what this meant. For the rest of them, Tony spelled it out. “As in, all of your projects have just been approved and funded.”

The auditorium erupted in wild applause. Over the pandemonium, Tony called out, “No strings. No taxes. Just . . . ​reframe the future.”

Then he paused as the teleprompter showing his speech mentioned Pepper Potts. A shadow passed over his face, and he stopped following his prepared remarks. “Starting now,” he said. “Go break some eggs.”

He walked off the stage, leaving behind a lecture hall full of very happy students. The professor in charge of the event met him in the wings. “That, uh . . . ​that took my breath away, Tony. So generous, so much money. Out of curiosity . . . ​will any portion of that grant be made available to faculty? I know, gross, but hear me out. I have got this killer idea for a self-cooking hot dog. Basically, a chemical detonator embedded . . .”

Tony didn’t want to hear it. Seeing Pepper’s name had shocked him. “The restroom is this way, yeah?” he asked, pointing down the hall.

The professor nodded as an assistant strode up to him. “Mr. Stark, I am so sorry about the teleprompter. I didn’t know Miss Potts had canceled. They didn’t have time to fix it,” she said.

“It’s fine,” Tony said, waving the apology away. “I’ll be right back. We’ll catch up later.”

In the bathroom, Tony splashed some water on his face and looked in the mirror. He’d helped a lot of people today. That felt good. But the report from Lagos was heavy on his mind, and coming on top of losing Pepper . . . ​he was frazzled. Not that he could blame her. Not really. Tony had loved her, but she couldn’t always rely on him, and both of them knew it. Now she was gone.

After Tony took a minute to get himself together, he headed for the elevator. In the hall outside the bathroom, a middle-aged woman was waiting for him. A fan , was his first thought. They were always finding him in unexpected places. “That was really sweet, what you did for the young people,” she said.

“Oh, they deserve it,” he said, and meant it. “Of course, it helps to ease my conscience.”

She nodded. “They say there’s a correlation between generosity and guilt. But you got the money. Break as many eggs as you like. Right?”

Tony wasn’t sure what to say about this. He touched the elevator’s call button. “Are you going up?”

“I’m right where I wanted to be,” she said, and reached into her purse. Alarm bells went off in Tony’s head, and he took a step forward to grab her wrist.

She didn’t struggle. She just looked at him. “Okay, okay,” he said, and stepped back again. “I’m sorry. It’s an occupational hazard.” The longer he worked with the Avengers, the more Tony had started to see threats everywhere. He was jumpy, overtired.

She slapped a photograph into his chest and held it there until he accepted it. “I work for the State Department. Human Resources. I know it’s boring. But it enabled me to raise a son. I’m very proud of what he grew up to be.” Tony felt a terrible sense of dread that he knew what she was about to say. “His name was Charlie Spencer,” the woman went on. “You murdered him. In Sokovia. Not that it matters in the least to you. You think you fight for us. You just fight for yourself. Who’s going to avenge my son, Stark?” she asked, pinning him with her angry gaze and leaning hard on the word avenge . “He’s dead. And I blame you.”

She walked away. Tony held the picture of Charlie Spencer. For one of the few times in his life, he had no idea what to say. Because no matter how he sliced it, Charlie Spencer’s mother was right. The Avengers had killed her son.

It was 1991. Tony Stark’s mother, Maria, was singing and playing the piano. She stopped playing and looked over as Howard Stark pulled a blanket off Tony, who was stretched out on the couch. His parents had asked him to come home from MIT and watch the house for a weekend. “Wake up, dear. Say good-bye to your father.”

“Who’s the homeless person on the couch?” Howard cracked, holding up the blanket.

Tony got up and adjusted his Santa Claus hat, his way of displaying some holiday spirit. “This is why I love coming home for Christmas . . . ​right before you leave town,” Tony shot back.

“Be nice, dear,” his mother admonished. To Howard, she said, “He’s been studying abroad.”

Howard didn’t seem impressed. “Do me a favor,” he said, pulling the hat off and tossing it on the couch. “Try not to burn the house down before Monday.”

Now standing, Tony nodded with mock seriousness. “Okay, so it’s Monday. That is good to know. I will plan my poker party accordingly. Where are you going?”

“Your father’s flying us to the Bahamas for a little getaway,” his mother said.

“We might have to make a quick stop,” Howard added.

“At the Pentagon, right?” Tony asked. He couldn’t resist making a crack about his father’s secret military business. “Don’t worry. You’re going to love the holiday menu at the commissary.”

Howard looked at him, and Tony felt all the old conflicting feelings: love, resentment, and frustration. “You know, they say sarcasm is a metric for potential,” Howard said. Tony turned his back and walked away to the other side of the room. “If that’s true, you’ll be a great man someday.” He waited a beat, then turned to Tony’s mother. “I’ll get the bags.”

“He does miss you when you are not here,” Maria said quietly to Tony, trying to lessen the tension. “And frankly, you’re going to miss us. Because this is the last time we’re all going to be together. You know what’s about to happen. Say something. If you don’t, you’ll regret it.”

She was right. Tony turned to his father and said the things he’d never been able to persuade himself to say in real life. “I love you, Dad. And I knew you did the best you could.”

And then the adult Tony Stark appeared, observing the hologram projection of his younger self and his long-dead parents.

“That’s how I wished it happened,” he said. “By Barely Augmented Retro Framing, or BARF—​I got to work on that acronym—​an extremely costly method of hijacking the hippocampus to clear . . . ​traumatic memories.”

Tony leaned on the piano. The hologram rippled and flickered into a jigsaw pattern of pixels. Then the Stark living room as it had been in 1991 was gone. He was standing in an auditorium at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where he was being honored as a famous graduate. The stage was just white cubes and a stand‑in piano, to give the simulation some tactile reality. The emotional moment he’d just shown them . . . ​It had never happened. Not that way. It was all a simulation, and that was what he was there to talk about. He’d built the BARF system to re‑create memories so people could experience them again and try to confront them by doing things they’d never been able to do in real life. It was a great piece of tech, but it wasn’t making him feel any better.

“It doesn’t change the fact that they never made it to the airport, or the things I did to avoid processing my grief,” he said. Taking off his glasses, Tony looked out over the audience. They were hanging on his every word.

“Plus,” he added, “six hundred and eleven million dollars for my little therapeutic experiment. No one in their right mind would’ve ever funded it. The challenges facing you are the greatest mankind has ever known,” Tony said. They were silent, maybe hoping for some story about one of the Avengers’ battles. But Tony wasn’t here for that.

He shifted his weight, setting up for the speech’s big finish. “Plus most of you are broke,” he said, getting a small laugh. “Or rather, you were. As of this moment, every student has been made an equal recipient of the inaugural September Foundation Grant.” A few gasps sounded from the crowd as certain people guessed what this meant. For the rest of them, Tony spelled it out. “As in, all of your projects have just been approved and funded.”

The auditorium erupted in wild applause. Over the pandemonium, Tony called out, “No strings. No taxes. Just . . . ​reframe the future.”

Then he paused as the teleprompter showing his speech mentioned Pepper Potts. A shadow passed over his face, and he stopped following his prepared remarks. “Starting now,” he said. “Go break some eggs.”

He walked off the stage, leaving behind a lecture hall full of very happy students. The professor in charge of the event met him in the wings. “That, uh . . . ​that took my breath away, Tony. So generous, so much money. Out of curiosity . . . ​will any portion of that grant be made available to faculty? I know, gross, but hear me out. I have got this killer idea for a self-cooking hot dog. Basically, a chemical detonator embedded . . .”

Tony didn’t want to hear it. Seeing Pepper’s name had shocked him. “The restroom is this way, yeah?” he asked, pointing down the hall.

The professor nodded as an assistant strode up to him. “Mr. Stark, I am so sorry about the teleprompter. I didn’t know Miss Potts had canceled. They didn’t have time to fix it,” she said.

“It’s fine,” Tony said, waving the apology away. “I’ll be right back. We’ll catch up later.”

In the bathroom, Tony splashed some water on his face and looked in the mirror. He’d helped a lot of people today. That felt good. But the report from Lagos was heavy on his mind, and coming on top of losing Pepper . . . ​he was frazzled. Not that he could blame her. Not really. Tony had loved her, but she couldn’t always rely on him, and both of them knew it. Now she was gone.

After Tony took a minute to get himself together, he headed for the elevator. In the hall outside the bathroom, a middle-aged woman was waiting for him. A fan , was his first thought. They were always finding him in unexpected places. “That was really sweet, what you did for the young people,” she said.

“Oh, they deserve it,” he said, and meant it. “Of course, it helps to ease my conscience.”

She nodded. “They say there’s a correlation between generosity and guilt. But you got the money. Break as many eggs as you like. Right?”

Tony wasn’t sure what to say about this. He touched the elevator’s call button. “Are you going up?”

“I’m right where I wanted to be,” she said, and reached into her purse. Alarm bells went off in Tony’s head, and he took a step forward to grab her wrist.

She didn’t struggle. She just looked at him. “Okay, okay,” he said, and stepped back again. “I’m sorry. It’s an occupational hazard.” The longer he worked with the Avengers, the more Tony had started to see threats everywhere. He was jumpy, overtired.

She slapped a photograph into his chest and held it there until he accepted it. “I work for the State Department. Human Resources. I know it’s boring. But it enabled me to raise a son. I’m very proud of what he grew up to be.” Tony felt a terrible sense of dread that he knew what she was about to say. “His name was Charlie Spencer,” the woman went on. “You murdered him. In Sokovia. Not that it matters in the least to you. You think you fight for us. You just fight for yourself. Who’s going to avenge my son, Stark?” she asked, pinning him with her angry gaze and leaning hard on the word avenge . “He’s dead. And I blame you.”

She walked away. Tony held the picture of Charlie Spencer. For one of the few times in his life, he had no idea what to say. Because no matter how he sliced it, Charlie Spencer’s mother was right. The Avengers had killed her son. mDXj7FOJNaIljJuV1S7a3DZBrA5rZ8Ya++qCCs8Gm026W10HZK24WqPUS1IYW+Hx