Chapter 305: The Superhero Playbook

"Can you tell me what inspired you to create this thing, Harold?" Tony Stark asked as he worked alongside Harold Finch, both of them knee-deep in their respective tasks. Meanwhile, Solomon was busy avoiding the ever-watchful Machine. Stark's concerns had been piqued by Solomon's remarks about the AI possibly gaining a physical form. Having recently resolved signal transmission issues for his remote-controlled armor, Stark knew all too well the dangers if such knowledge fell into the Machine's hands. It wasn't just the dawn of the Terminator—it could be the end of humanity.

Finch, shaken by Solomon's earlier warnings, had been tense for a while, but he eventually managed to calm down. He adjusted his glasses and turned toward Stark, especially eyeing the glass of whiskey in his hand. "Stark, I don't think drinking during work hours is the best idea," Finch said plainly. "As for your question—the Machine was built for one purpose: saving lives. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Your algorithm can predict individuals involved in potential crimes, right?" Stark mused, likening the Machine to a massive spider perched in the middle of a web, its eight legs attuned to the faintest tremors along its strands. "But you limited the Machine's capabilities. Sure, it's been learning autonomously since its 'freedom,' but its current abilities, its infrastructure—"

"I conducted extensive ethical tests while designing the Machine, Stark," Finch interjected, cutting Stark off. "I made sure it would uphold human values. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it's true. Humans operate on a spectrum of morality—good and evil. An AI only understands objectives. So I programmed the Machine to lean toward good outcomes. That's its operating logic."

"How do you handle all the cases, then?" Stark asked, gesturing animatedly. "New York alone has hundreds of incidents every day. How do you manage without superpowers?"

"I know how insignificant ordinary people might seem compared to superheroes, Stark. But here's the truth—premeditated crimes are far less common than you think," Finch explained, pausing briefly to gather his thoughts. "My colleagues and I deal with premeditated crimes involving ordinary people. These don't require superpowers to resolve. For incidents beyond our capabilities, like major terrorist attacks, the Machine sends relevant numbers to the appropriate government agencies. People like Ms. Shaw here have prevented countless attacks—agencies like those have the means to handle them."

"Why not share the numbers with me?" Stark offered Finch a fresh glass of whiskey, setting it down beside the keyboard before leaning casually against the desk. "You know who I am: a superhero. Sure, some might say I'm just a billionaire, a playboy in a tin suit… I won't deny those labels. But I'm also an inventor, and I can stop terrorist attacks. Harold, I want the numbers. My suits aren't weapons for the U.S. military to win wars in the Middle East—not since my clean energy initiative. Or…"

"Or what?" Finch asked warily.

"I want your algorithm, Harold," Stark said, his tone serious. "I want to upgrade J.A.R.V.I.S. You know, I started programming J.A.R.V.I.S. back in college. At first, it could only handle simple commands. Now, it's my most trusted companion. You've seen the news—'Iron Man saves the day again.' I'll be honest: most of those are coincidences. Congress has put limits on where I can deploy my suits. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't covering for my private actions anymore. So I need—"

"If you're asking for permission, Stark, the answer is no," Finch cut him off firmly. He shook his head, his expression unyielding. "I can't guarantee that your AI would remain the same after integrating my algorithm. My algorithm grants too much intelligence, and that makes me profoundly uneasy. As I mentioned earlier, my Machine initially had a survival instinct. That alone was enough to unsettle me..."

"Like life itself."

"Exactly, like life," Finch said as he removed his glasses to clean them with a cloth. He made no move to touch the whiskey Stark had poured. "I had to kill it—over and over again. At one point, the Machine was programmed to erase its memory every day at midnight. I killed it daily, only for it to be reborn, to continue its mission. Of course, that's all in the past. Now, it's free. The core directives I instilled compel it to protect human lives, but I don't know how long that will hold."

"Let me guess—your J.A.R.V.I.S. doesn't reset every day?"

"You've got me there." Stark chuckled, finishing his whiskey in a single gulp. "I have an idea," he said suddenly. "Your Machine and my Iron Legion… No, that won't work. But what about J.A.R.V.I.S. and the Machine's numbers?"

"Stark," Finch sighed heavily, "not all the numbers represent victims. Many of them are perpetrators. Each case requires thorough investigation. Often, we're only able to intervene at the last minute to prevent a crime. Please, abandon this idea, Stark. Once this work is done, I'll vanish. You won't be able to find me."

Solomon returned looking like he had been run over by a truck, his cheekbones noticeably swollen. He staggered out of the portal and collapsed onto the nearest couch. Stark poked his head around the corner, curiosity evident in his expression.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Just a fight," Solomon muttered, his voice muffled by the couch cushions. "No big deal."

"How's Ms. Shaw?" Finch asked nervously. He was aware that Solomon had hired Shaw, and seeing Solomon in such a state didn't inspire confidence about her safety.

"She's fine. She's having a grand time drinking and chatting with the ladies," Solomon groaned as he flipped over, exhaling heavily. His breath reeked of wine—a consequence of Jeanne opening multiple bottles during their so-called "vacation." Bayonetta had merely observed, offering no warnings, while Solomon unwittingly drank himself into a daze. By the time he realized something was off, it was too late. The mocking glances from the other women—especially Shaw—were enough to make him regret his life choices.

"Why would they do that to you?" Stark asked, genuinely baffled.

"Maybe because I was the only man there," Solomon grumbled, accepting the ice pack Stark handed him and pressing it to his swollen cheek. He winced but received no sympathy from anyone in the room. "We're supposed to be men, damn it! We touch frogs! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"I don't think touching frogs makes you a man, Solomon," Finch said dryly. "Ms. Shaw may have a rough demeanor, but she wouldn't resort to such childish pranks. I suspect you must have done something to deserve this."

"What exactly did you say?" Stark asked, taking a seat on the other end of the couch. "Tell me, and I'll let you know where you went wrong—if you're honest, that is."

"Really?" Solomon hesitated, then thought better of it. He remembered the whole Maya Hansen incident and decided to swallow his words. "Never mind. It's not important. What's important is this: Stark, Finch, when can I finally use my computer at home without worrying about my spells being recorded?"

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