Agent Hill never expected to encounter Aldrich Killian, the man responsible for Happy's injuries, at Stark Tower of all places. Meanwhile, the chaos surrounding the Mandarin's terrorist broadcasts had reached a boiling point, especially after he hijacked TV signals during the President's speech. If it hadn't been for the military's stubborn refusal to accept S.H.I.E.L.D.'s assistance to save face, Nick Fury would likely have been at the White House rather than sitting in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Triskelion headquarters.
But S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't allow this situation to spiral out of control. Though they had evidence connecting Killian to the Extremis Virus, it wasn't enough to act decisively. The project was partially funded by the military, and investigating it would mean clashing directly with them—a headache S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't willing to take on. Fury wasn't foolish enough to invite such trouble, especially when he had other priorities to manage. He didn't even have time to attend congressional hearings on the matter.
Maria Hill refrained from sharing too much with Pepper Potts, knowing that certain details were classified. S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't openly explain how they had uncovered information about Extremis—it was all obtained through espionage, after all, and not something they could admit. Pepper, despite wanting to accept S.H.I.E.L.D.'s offer of protection, was held back by Tony Stark's stubbornness. Though Tony had privately sought help, he outwardly insisted he could handle everything on his own.
As a man grappling with the psychological fallout from the Battle of New York, Stark's struggles ran deeper than they seemed. The trauma of encountering forces beyond human understanding had left a shadow over many lives, and Stark was no exception.
According to NYPD statistics, crime rates in New York had risen even faster than unemployment rates after the battle. Alien weapons were beginning to surface on the black market, with every gang in New York vying for a piece of the pie. Drug sales skyrocketed, turning the city into the nation's largest hub for narcotics. In fact, one in five Americans had reportedly experimented with marijuana, and other, harder drugs were spreading rapidly.
One case involved a homeless man, formerly a standard urban white-collar worker with a wife, children, and loans to pay for his car and house. He abandoned his job and let his family believe he had died after the Battle of New York. By the time the NYPD found him, he hadn't shaved in months. They discovered him sitting among a group of vagrants, smoking a marijuana joint and drinking. He adamantly refused to return home.
"What's the point of working?" he said. "When the aliens come back, we're all going to die anyway. And those Avengers… they shouldn't have saved the world. How much worse could this world get, huh? Look at me—if I was still alive, I'd have to keep slaving away until I died. One slip, one layoff, and my whole family's screwed… hic... At least if I was dead, my wife could live off the death benefits for a few years."
The police also found a tattered copy of Le Morte d'Arthur among his belongings. "This makes more sense than the National Guard," the man drunkenly claimed. "I saw Arthur's figure myself that day in the office building. The world's changing too fast, but at least there's something familiar now. My daughter loves this story, and I love it too… My grandmother, a British immigrant, used to tell it to me. I told it to my daughter. And I know other things—like the Lady of the Lake and Irish leprechauns… The world's moving too fast. We need something old-fashioned, some jazz, some coke-laced sodas. We need to go back to the colonial days of the 17th century and use religion to fill the emptiness inside."
This was the undercurrent of anxiety rippling through post-battle America. Stark's way of combating this anxiety wasn't through drugs or endless parties but by obsessively improving his Iron Man suits. Only stronger armor could keep his fears at bay. Admitting defeat would mean conceding to the terrorists—and worse, acknowledging that his armor couldn't protect him from extraterrestrial threats. The fear would return tenfold.
Thus, Stark refused to accept any help that came knocking at his door. When Solomon returned to the material plane, Stark didn't even want to tell him what was going on.
"Solomon, wake up!" The mage's eyes snapped open. He had been dozing off at an art salon hosted by Athena, unable to resist the lure of sleep even in the noisy surroundings. It wasn't until Athena pinched his ear that he fully woke up.
Tears welled up in Solomon's eyes as he rubbed his sore ear. Only then did Athena release him. "Today we're celebrating Vanessa's successful art exhibition," she said, holding a champagne glass and speaking in a low voice. "Whether or not those paintings sell, you need to put on a hopeful demeanor. Do you understand?"
"Why me?" Solomon grumbled, rubbing his ear and stifling a yawn. "Couldn't Lorna do it? Little Lorna is so cute, and she looks amazing in a gown. I still have classes to attend, you know. I'm only sleeping three hours a day."
"Because I'm your mother, and you're my son. You're my pride." Athena deftly avoided discussing Lorna. The girl had recently entered a rebellious phase, becoming obsessed with pop culture. While she wasn't staying out all night like some of the other girls at her school, her obstinate refusal to listen to anyone was a headache. Bringing Lorna to this pretentious event would be like tossing a bomb into the room.
Solomon yawned again, letting Athena adjust his suit and tie before accepting her kiss on the forehead. "Honestly, I don't like these events either," he admitted, his eyes narrowing like a lazy cat. "I much prefer seeing you in armor, wielding a spear. That suits you better. Gowns don't enhance your brilliance, but armor does, my beautiful goddess of Olympus."
"No amount of flattery will get you out of combat training," Athena retorted, though her expression betrayed her enjoyment of his words. "Now, stand up, go greet those artists, and show them your latest work." The goddess of wisdom and war tried to appear indifferent to his compliments, but her face gave her away.
"Do you happen to have any of Circe's potions?" Solomon asked. "I'd love to spike the drinks. Facing a bunch of pigs would be amusing enough, but dealing with vain pigs who look like humans is another matter entirely. These people are the kind who insist the salmon must have listened to jazz while being smoked."
"I wouldn't risk angering a heartbroken woman just to help you dodge a social event."
"Circe's still not over her heartbreak? It's been over two thousand years! Odysseus really was a jerk."
"Don't be jealous. For now, my affection belongs to you, Solomon," Athena said, laughing as she dragged the mage toward a group of artists. Lowering her voice, she added, "Hecate is on Earth. Next time, go to her in advance and ask if she has any potions to help you skip banquets."
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