There’s been posts on my dash about Tony’s involvement in the Maximoff parent’s deaths so I thought I’d throw in my own two cents with a comparison.
1. Tony Stark might have designed the bomb, or someone else at his company might have, or somebody could have made a copycat bomb and painted the word Stark on it.
2. Tony only knowingly sold bombs to the american government, which means even if he did design the bomb it was probably sold behinds his back on the black market.
3. Tony did not personally fire the weapon, and the person who did fire the weapon is far more culpable for the deaths it caused.
4. Tony regrets his involvement in the creation of any weapons that were used against innocent people.
Now the Comparison
1. Albert Einstein was loosely involved in the creation of the A-bomb which was dropped on Japan at the end of world war 2
2. Albert Einstein wrote a letter to the president urging him to have the bomb built.
3. The A-bomb was dropped on japan killing a lot of people.
4. Albert Einstein later regretted writing that letter, and his involvement in building the A-bomb
The difference, if someone had tried to kill Einstein for his involvement in the Atomic bomb we would think they were crazy, the blame clearly lies with the war itself, and the person who ordered it be fired. How is the situation with Sokovia any different?
What exactly do we know about Eric and Dylan's suicide?
We know the following things for sure or are able to deduce the following from evidence given:
Dylan and Eric returned to the library and exchanged shots with law enforcement. Shots were fired between 12:02h and 12:05h, after which no more shots attributed to Dylan/Eric were heard.
The only survivors left in the library were Lisa Kreutz and Patrick Ireland, with an additional small number of people hiding in the back rooms adjacent to the library. Both Lisa and Patrick were critically injured and reportedly slipped in and out of consciousness at the time.
Because of the cover fire that was ongoing during the rescue operations outside, the witnesses in/near the library were unable to pinpoint the exact moment in time on which Eric and Dylan killed themselves.
The smoke alarm on the ceiling in the library was activated at 12:08h. It was located directly above the area where the bodies of Eric and Dylan were later found.
The fire that triggered the smoke alarm was reportedly caused by a molotov cocktail that had been placed on a library table near their bodies.
A CBI arson investigator later concluded that there was evidence on the table and near the bodies of Eric and Dylan that indicated that the suicides took place prior to the molotov cocktail catching fire. (I believe they found human tissue as the ‘evidence’ they indicate here.)
Eric died instantly from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the roof of his mouth. He was located in front of the bookcase in what is assumed to have been a squatting/crouching position, leading him to slump over against it after his suicide. Both the bookcase and the ceiling above him were splattered with his brain matter.
Dylan died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the left side of his head, though it is assumed he did not die instantly due to the presence of aspiration blood in his lower airway and lungs. He was positioned in front and to the left side of Eric. It is assumed that he was the one to light the molotov cocktail. A small pile of his belongings was placed in his bodybag, which indicates that he removed them at some point prior to his suicide.
Eric died before Dylan. There are quite a few indications to this, but one of the strongest is the fact that Dylan’s head landed on/near Eric’s left knee when he toppled sideways post-gunshot. You can see some of Dylan’s remains on and near Eric’s leg in the suicide photos.
There are no released photographs of the original positions the boys were found in, nor are there many detailed descriptions from law enforcement concerning the exact positions and circumstances the boys were found in. Some evidence and unused weaponry found on their bodies are described in more-or-less detail, but the same cannot be said for their positions. It is assumed that no photographs exist of the original positions they were found in, due to the fact that bomb squad and other officials searched their bodies for booby traps and explosives prior to the arrival of the forensic specialists.
Investigation confirmed that Eric and Dylan were dead by 12:30h, though their bodies were found only three hours later.
The “one-two-three!” report from Patti Nielson was guesswork and not factual reality. (See also this post.)
Lisa Kreutz reported hearing “are you still with me? we’re still gonna do this, right?” at one of the instances where Eric and Dylan were about to enter the library, but the lack of other witnesses confirming this has led myself and others to suggest that it may have been upon their second and not their first entry into the library.
Patrick Ireland heard someone coughing after the fire alarm jolted him back into consciousness. Seeing as Patrick was located near table 15 where Eric and Dylan killed themselves, it might be proof of Dylan having lived for at least a brief while after the gunshot wound to the head.
I can’t even imagine what it must have sounded like –
the alarms, the gunshots, the screams, the begging,
the praying, the laughter, the cheering, the crying.
I know the sound of Eric’s laugh. I know the sound
of Dylan’s voice. I’ve heard a fragment of a recording.
And I still can’t piece it together enough to hear the horror.
I can’t even imagine what it must have looked like –
the muzzle of a Tec-9 in your face,
the black boots walking past you as you hide under a table,
the boy in a trench-coat, in the hallway, with a shotgun.
Blood on the floor and blood exploding out of someone’s head,
and blood pouring out of a hole in someone’s back.
I can’t even imagine what it must have smelt like –
metallic blood, the stench of open wounds,
smoke from pipe bombs, shit and piss and sweat,
your own body odour, cafeteria lunch food,
linoleum floors, body spray, the inside of a toilet cubicle,
the inside of a storage cupboard, the smells of school and death.
I can’t even imagine what it must have felt like –
begging for your life at gunpoint while the killer laughs,
watching children being murdered
right in front of you, seeing TV violence in real life.
Closing your eyes and listening to people dying and begging
and crying and praying and whooping and whispering.
Realising that you might actually really die right here,
on the floor of a library, in an unlocked science room,
in a toilet stall, under the table of a cafeteria. Trying to pray
to any god listening that you want to live, please, please, please.
But what good did it do the other children? What good did it do
for the kids you heard getting killed?
Running out of the library and past a dead body and past
another dead body, with your hands above your head,
so the police don’t shoot you, of course.
Standing by a cop car with the images still playing in your head,
and the sounds of gunfire still ringing in your ears,
not knowing if your friends are dead or alive.
Being faced with cameras and reporters and microphones,
and an unending barrage of questions:
What did you see? What did you hear? How did you feel?
What happened? Do you know who the killers were? Why?
Where were you? What did you do? Did you talk to the killers?
Were you friends with the killers? Do you know the Trench Coat Mafia?
I can’t even imagine what it must have been like
to actually be a student or a teacher or a reporter or a photographer
or a cameraman or a journalist or a copy editor or an editor in chief
or a police officer or a SWAT team member or a paramedic or a nurse
or a doctor or the parent of a victim or the parent of someone injured
or a friend of a student or a bomb squad member or a family member.
We’ve all seen the chaos unfolding, live on the news.
We’ve seen the police standing behind cars and we’ve seen
students running for their lives, students bleeding on sidewalks,
parents hunting for children, parents hugging their kids,
people standing around and crying and holding one another,
ambulances racing and sirens blaring and cameras rolling,
but imagine living it.
Dear Columbiners, not everything is about Eric and Dylan, s.b.w.