Obie.
This one isn't a thanks, you dickhead.
I never really got to talk to you, I realise now. I never got to ask why.
You...saved me, Obie. You saved me so many times I thought you were goddamn Jesus Christ, taking the sin off my shoulders…. until you tried to condemn me.
Until you tried to kill me.
Why?
Was the boozy playboy not working for you? Did you get sick of the bad press?
I got you your weapons, I worked and made and did it all. There was no problem. You were already sneaking stuff past me. You could probably still be doing it now, but you got greedy.
That really sums it up, doesn't it? You got greedy.
Do you know what Raza said, once, " you paid us to kill a prince with trinkets."
I was a prince. You were the king, if you really wanted, you could have done so much more. But that was the problem, wasn't it?
It wasn't entirely greed, it was frear, too. Fear growing since my father had a child and a heir, since your partnership with my father had an expiration date.
You never had the vision.
Not like me.
Not like father.
You knew, eventually, I'd wake up. I'd take control of the company, and I'd edge you out.
I did wake up, and I really should thank you, on second thought.
You made me.
You made Iron-Man, you made your downfall, you made someone who wouldn't sit by anymore.
And guess what, Obie?
You made a king.
