Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

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"Woooaah." Henry let out a long whistle. For someone to leave that deep a scar on the future Iron Man's pride, Mister Fantastic must've really hit a nerve.

But it also made Henry notice something else. Yes, both Tony Stark and Reed Richards were billed as Marvel's great minds—but their archetypes were very different.

Strip away the superhero branding:

Reed Richards was a pure scientist.

Tony Stark was a capitalist first, scientist second.

Which meant Reed's greatest weapon was his raw intellect, while Stark's real trump card… was his bank account.

So Reed's life trajectory boiled down to: make breakthroughs, cause disasters, clean them up, repeat. With "mooch research funding wherever possible" as a side quest.

Even his love life reflected it. According to one version of his backstory, Reed only married Sue because she was already in the team—so hey, might as well keep it in the family. In another timeline, he nearly dumped her outright, claiming women interfered with his research. Romance was basically a lab experiment.

Henry, baffled by the mindset of these science savants, finally asked:

"Even if Mr. Richards thinks his work is too advanced, surely he could toss out a few scraps? Doesn't have to be revolutionary—just a little beyond current tech. That'd be enough to keep Wall Street's wolves happy, right? You're telling me he won't even do that?"

Tony snorted. "Because to do that, he'd either have to hand over his actual research for someone else to 'downgrade'… or waste his own time creating downgraded versions. He refuses both. Everyone who's ever worked with him comes out grumbling."

Henry nodded slowly. "So that's why people say he's just a scam artist living off grants."

"Exactly."

Henry pressed further. "What about your father? What does he think of Richards?"

Tony's jaw tightened at the mention of Howard Stark, but the memory was sharp.

"The old man said, 'Tech that's thirty years ahead of its time is nothing but flashy toys. Fine as concepts, not worth building. Because to push future tech forward, you're killing off existing industries—and that means stepping on entrenched interests. Unless you share the profits, those people will block you. Unless you have the political clout to shut them up—which also means trading away your own benefits—you're going nowhere. Richards hasn't figured that part out, so he'll keep spinning his wheels.'"

Ah. That was vintage Howard Stark. Capitalist wisdom distilled: a worldview born from decades of wrestling with both markets and politicians.

Henry chuckled. "So your father never thought about recruiting him?"

Tony shook his head after a pause. "I don't think he'd ever hire someone who's basically a mirror of himself. And honestly? It's not our job to teach him how to survive. If he's truly a genius, he'll find his own way."

But Henry couldn't help thinking of how many "geniuses" burned out and vanished without ever finding that path. Anton Vanko. Ivan Vanko. People chewed up by the Stark orbit, depending on which universe's script you followed.

Then suddenly Tony's irritation flared again. "Seriously, what's wrong with these people? They make incredible tech, then refuse to share it, refuse to even let anyone know about it. So what's the point? Richards is like that. And according to my old man, there was another crank just like him. Hank something. Same disease."

Henry almost smacked himself. Why didn't he bring a recorder?

If he had Tony's words on tape, he could've played them back years later—when the U.S. Department of Defense demanded Tony hand over his Iron Man suits. Watching future Tony get slapped in the face by his younger self's hypocrisy? That would've been priceless.

Alas.

Tamping down the urge to gloat, Henry tapped the bone-conduction mic at his neck and smoothly announced:

"Now approaching is Bloomberg's CEO, Mr. Michael Bloomberg, accompanied by his wife, Mrs. Susan Brown."

Sure enough, Howard and Maria Stark had finally wrapped up monopolizing Audrey Hepburn's time, clearing the way for the next power couple to step in.

Tony eyed Henry's little gadget and asked, "You can build something like that. Why settle for being someone's assistant? You could start your own company—hell, at least live comfortably. Be like me."

"Like you?" Henry shot back, voice tinged with mockery. "I don't have a rich daddy."

Tony sniffed. "Hmph. Since college, I've covered all my own expenses. Never relied on anyone else."

"Oh? And how?"

"Patent royalties."

Henry tilted his head. "You even know how long a patent application takes?"

Tony waved dismissively. "No idea. My lawyers handled it. A few days at most, right?"

The ignorance was almost adorable.

Henry chuckled coldly. "Try seven to eleven months, on average—including reviews. And during that time, big corporations get wind of your patent. If they're interested, they'll approach you. If talks fall through, they have… other methods.

"And don't think selling your patent to a big company means you're set for life. They'll pay top dollar just to bury anything that threatens their business model. Better the tech never sees the light of day than let you profit.

"So yeah—patent royalties aren't exactly easy money. Without Stark Industries' legal muscle, the only reason an 'ordinary person' hangs on to their patent is because the big players didn't think it was worth stealing. Maybe it's small fry. Maybe it's easily replaced. Either way, it won't make you rich.

"From that angle, it's not hard to see why Richards won't sell his tech scraps for funding. He knows the game."

Tony fell silent. Henry smiled faintly.

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