It was unnervingly obvious how uncomfortable the kid was with a weapon in his hands. That was one of the innumerable problems these young 'heroes' had, these kids that idolized singular powerhouses like Captain America; they thought, as the 'good' guy, they could rise above the 'evil' and never kill anybody. And they were right, in a way; that was the last option, not to be done recklessly and lightly, but when the 'evil' had the obvious upper hand, outgunned, outnumbered and outclothed, and they were lacking the resources that helped them avoid the messy killing business, sometimes it saved a lot more people a lot of pain just to commit. Sometimes, 'good' guys had to shoot a man in the back, too.
Tony's hand slid across Billy's shoulders, slippery and warm, leaving a sticky smear of blood across his white skin while he struggled to his feet and out of the way of the man with the scalpel in his chest that slumped forward, kneeling in the milky puddle, soaking the knees of his pants. Keeping his eyes on their captors, attackers, freaky surgical terrorists, whatever they were, Tony wiped his mouth on his shoulder and slowly passed his hand over Billy's arm, like he meant to encourage him to lower the weapon and surrender. They were three against two-- one weapon-- it was obvious who would win that gunfight.
The captors, attackers, freaky surgical terrorists visibly relaxed, unburdened of the surely thorough reprimand they would be in for for shooting their merchandise. When one broke away from the group, Tony finally glanced at Billy, gritting his teeth as he leaned away to put his weight against the table again, fumbling through the thin sheet where the wires in his chest were pulled taut. He wasn't going to get away with stabbing this guy's buddy without his own punishment.
The butt of the captor's gun was blocked by a heavy battery, Tony grunting then slamming it forward into the dude's face with a flurry of the sheet twisted around his wrist. Two against one. Not the time to be a good guy, kid.