Logs:Hospitality
| Hospitality | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-07-03 "I fit right in." |
| Location
<PRV> Tony's Penthouse - Midtown Manhattan | |
Accessible only by private elevator, this home takes up the top four floors of Stark Tower. Three of them are residential, a luxurious sprawl of space equipped with state of the art technology and a wealth of comforts. Private gym, terraced pool room whose glass walls can be rolled back in summer to turn it into an outdoor balcony, full bar equipped with robotic-armed bartender, extensive home entertainment system. For all its opulence, the place is decorated tastefully, careful coordination through its wood-and-stone look. The views, through many windows, terraces, balconies, might be the best part of all of it; from this perch high atop the tower, the city spreads out beneath. The lowest floor of the home is less residential, more technologically bent; packed with a host of robotics, monitors, equipment. Where Tony does the bulk of his personal work, it may well be the real heart of Stark Industries' R&D. The elevator dings and opens to just a raccoon in a red and black flight suit with a rolling case. "Hello?" He takes a few steps out and glances back as the doors close behind him. After the sound of the elevator retreating down the shaft begins, a sudden voice speaks. JARVIS says, "Greetings, sir. I am JARVIS. As our guest, please let me know if there is anything you need." Rocket's head tilts up and looks around at the sound of the robot butler. "Hell yeah." --- "--And so he tells me that I should figure it out with my big smart brain! Like compound words in this stupid language always make sense. What the hell is a blue tooth? Honey moon? Scape goat?" rants Rocket, waving his glass of fancy scotch in his animated recounting of said events, "And I don't read food, how many ascorbic acids and sodiums erythorbate are they wanting me to memorize! These people are maniacs-- Clink me, JARVIS." The robotic arm of the barkeep faithfully indulges in his request, having its own glass after Rocket's fervent insistence that it's weird to clink without any beverage. "Jarvis, what have I told you about --" Tony is only just returning after some days away, with a small rolling suitcase of his own in tow. He doesn't get as far as explaining what he was planning on grousing at JARVIS about, because as he rounds the corner to approach the bar (obviously the first and most important stop upon returning) he is stopping short. Staring at Rocket -- tilting his head as if a slightly different angle of staring will fix the view. "JARVIS, were there -- holes," he's hitting upon this as the evident answer, "did we leave some holes unpatched. Some alien sized holes somewhere that -- there's a raccoon." JARVIS's "Welcome home, sir," does not actually sound resigned -- unflinchingly polite in its neutral tone. There is, though, the faintest hesitation before he continues, just enough to make his next words sound a little stilted with care: "Our home is back in good repair. Given that Master Rocket has been displaced from his own, Ms. Potts thought --" Tony is cutting JARVIS off here. "Bruce's place," he tells Rocket. "Couple floors down. Man's a vegan. Big friend to the animals." "What?!" exclaims Rocket at the rapid eviction, "*You're the animal, I didn't even--" The raccoon pinches the bridge of his snout and then reaches back to snatch the bottle of scotch his drink was poured from. "You know what? Fine. Fine! I'm taking this. Thanks for the hospitality, JARVIS, you're a pro." He pushes off the stool with both glass and bottle in hand and saunters towards the elevator, turning around to walk backwards as he gives his farewell to Tony: "Happy birthday, ya bastard!" --- When the elevator doors re-open, Rocket advances and places his arm along the doorway, a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other. "Hello? Bruce? The king dick upstairs told me to go down here to stay with you instead." He peeks his head out a little further to get a better look around at the place. Bruce isn't here right now, but Hulk is sitting on an oversized bean bag painting with an oversized paint brush. His work in progress is a field of black filled with slices of bright color, but he abandons it readily when their guest arrives. "KITTY!" He cries enthusiastically, hopping to his feet quickly enough to shake the floor. "WELCOME KITTY!" Rocket doesn't have much time to be alarmed by the prospect of gigantic pettings. Hulk stops in his tracks, grumbling "You looking for Bruce" before promptly shrinking down to a regular sized fella. Bruce doesn't look much bothered by existing again so abruptly wearing only extremely stretchy black shorts. "Oh! Sorry there, I hope he didn't scare you. He's pretty gentle with--well, I'm not sure if he even knows what you are!" He plucks up a long lab coat hanging from the coat rack on his way to greet Rocket. There's a pair of glasses in the pocket that he unfolds and dons to get a better look at their guest. "To be fair, I'm not all that sure what you are, either! Would you mind answering some questions for me?" He's already producing a notebook and pen from another pocket, eyes keen with interest. "And a DNA sample, ideally. I've got my own laboratory right in the back..." Rocket's arm remains in the elevator door to keep it open through all of this, and he only is shocked into movement again when it starts to buzz in protest of being held up for so much time. Without any change in expression, he throws back the scotch in his glass, places the glass on the floor of the elevator and hits the close door button with his small clasped fist. --- Rocket is walking down the sidewalk, his small case rumbling behind him as he goes, and he waves his increasingly empty bottle in a wide sweep, "Hello! New York! You're a buncha jerks!" While said New Yorkers give him a wide berth, they do not so much as look at him further. They've got places to be after all. He is on his way to SHIELD tower. More to himself now, he bows his head, takes a drink from the bottle and grumbles. "I fit right in." One of those New Yorkers is bucking the trend -- as he also approaches the door of SHIELD Tower, Lucien is not avoiding Rocket and is giving him a closer look. He has been plucking his SHIELD badge (very blandly proclaiming him "Contractor") out of an inside pocket of his jacket and reaching to pull the door. Hold it for Rocket. He's eying the case, and then Rocket, one brow lifting thoughtfully. "I do hope you have found your way home, and you are not moving in here. FitzSimmons will not give you a moments' peace, they have been dying for someone new to poke and prod at ever since Jackson precipitously checked out." "Ship's still out of order. And I have to stick around here anyway, species preservation project and all," says Rocket, yanking at his case violently to get it over the threshold, but pauses there and rubs his face. "I do not want any damn science man poking and prodding. I want to eat food, drink drinks, ride bikes and work on machines I want to work on!" He takes another swig from the bottle and then he says to Lucien in a tone that seems utterly bewildered. "I'm not even from here!" "Those all sound like eminently reasonable desires." Lucien extends one leg, nudging at the base of Rocket's case with a toe to help it up over the threshold. "I do apologize if this planet has been less than hospitable. I have no bikes to offer, but if you would prefer your food and machinery in a poking-free zone, I have space to spare. With my schedule these days, someone might as well get some use out of my apartment." Rocket stumbles back a little when the case suddenly gives, but stops and looks up at Lucien. He exhales and nods, "I'll make use of it, thanks. Big thanks. And just so I know... when's your birthday?" | |
