When Jack woke up, his phone was vibrating with news alerts.
"Mass breakout at superhuman detention center"
"Multiple high-risk supervillains escape custody"
"Spider-Man suspected of involvement"
"Iron Man has secured the Times Square attack site"
"City Hall urges residents to remain calm"
Jack stared at the last one for three seconds.
"Tch."
Remain calm.
That phrase usually meant someone was already very far from calm, and was probably wearing a suit that cost more than ten times as much as his, sitting in an office that would never burn down.
Jack sat up on the temporary mattress.
The temporary housing provided by Stark Industries was very clean.
White walls. A folding table. A kitchenette. Two beds. An emergency contact number stuck to the fridge.
And a welcome card that read, "We stand with New York."
The lettering was beautiful.
So beautiful that Jack wanted to tear it down and use it as a coaster for his coffee.
He didn't.
Alice's lunch vouchers were tucked underneath it.
Alice was still asleep.
The little girl was curled up on the other bed, hugging the stuffed rabbit salvaged from the rubble.
Half of one of the rabbit's ears was blackened with smoke, and it smelled like burnt marshmallows.
Jack had originally planned to throw it away. Alice had cried for seventeen minutes. The rabbit stayed.
That was modern family management. Democracy, voting, and then the kid won.
Jack eased out of bed and slipped his feet into the slippers issued to them.
The slippers were very soft.
So soft it was as if Stark Industries wanted to tell him through foam padding: hey, buddy, your home might be gone, but your life can still have a little arch support.
How thoughtful.
Capitalism with massage nubs.
Jack walked into the kitchenette, turned on the