.... [He's quiet for a short while, as he moves with the chair.] My work is good, Professor. Best in the world. But even with that, there's a chance of the electromagnet shifting, of interference, of muscles shifting so the current can't be carried right. It aches like a bitch sometimes, having fifteen pounds worth of metal crammed in your chest, pushing through muscle and bones, pressing right up against my lungs if I bend a certain way. The constant knowledge that my heart's screwed up enough, now, with two rounds of experimental surgery in a cave in Afghanistan, if there isn't a current running to it, it'll stop in under ten minutes. Shrapnel worming its way through my bloodstream or not.

[In other words, he lives with a disability of his own. A ticking time bomb in his chest. One issue with the arc reactor taken care of, recently, a dozen more in its place. A lifetime of necessary upgrades.]

It can... kind of fly, now.