Logs:Death and Taxes
| Death and Taxes | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-12-04 "I can't decide if this makes you a cynic or an optimist." |
| Location
<NYC> Elie's Pointless Addiction Charity - Somewhere in New York | |
These offices are minimalist and elegant and, currently, filled with a quiet putter of busy activity -- what is the activity, what is it accomplishing, it's very hard to discern. In this conference room people certainly look quite engaged and busy; in this kitchenette a couple employees are talking in hushed and urgent voices. As a few federal agents in solemn dark suits are exiting through the lobby, they're casting slightly startled looks to the man lounging on a sleek and modern couch. What is Tony Stark doing here -- well, on the face of it it's very obvious, if the why is less so. He's draped languid across the sofa in a chalkstripe suit as sleek as the couch he's claimed, sipping a vodka martini paging through a polished glossy pamphlet that promises a lot while saying a little, his brows hiking high while he looks through the polished promotional material. What is David Smith doing here -- actually, perhaps the question should be who is this guy anyway? He's dressed a little too nicely to be a run-of-the-mill charity worker, his suit solemn and dark yet not quite solemn and dark enough to be an agent, his herringbone tie and pocket square providing a subtle pop of blush pink. As he bids the clustered employees in the kitchenette farewell, the worry lines on his forehead are smoothing out like they were never there, and though he is giving Tony Stark an emptily pleasant smile, it's eerily absent any smile lines or crow's feet. He's drinking from a plain plastic water cup, though judging by his bracing swig and accompanying grimace, he is not drinking water. "My word, can that be Tony Stark?" he says -- this too has a debonair substancelessness to it. His dark eyes cast back into the hubbub inside, (strangely) (bitterly) (melancholically?) amused. "I don't suppose you're looking to get into the nonprofit sector? It's not usually so exciting." "Is this --" The man on the couch is waggling the pamphlet, "-- exciting?" But then, he's waggling it towards the departing backs of the agents -- "-- is this, ah, exciting. Whole --" This time the pamphlet is waggling in a lazy circle around them. "Operation. Drugs, death." He swings his legs down, drops the brochure back in with -- not the ones it came from, but it's in with some other pamphlets, anyway, with a flick of his wrist. "Does it get hard to tell?" "This --" David waves one dismissive hand back into the building, then after the agents, then wraps his arms over his chest, his cup tucked close against him like a security blanket. "That. Exciting." He leans against the front desk, crosses his feet at the ankles. "Drugs and death are rather mundane, actually, don't you think? It's the, uh, autism stuff that sets Mme Tessier apart from the other do-good dullards. But any hyperspecificity will do." He tilts his head down at Tony, then lazily across to the display of pamphlets. "Hard to tell? I don't follow." "Hyper -- hyperspecificity? Please. These Rainman kids are a trend. Cuter than junkies. The sad --" Tony(?) waves his hand towards the glossy brochures. "pamphlets for heartbroken parents are, ah. More self-indulgent. Kid ODs, you fucked up. Kid's disabled, you're the victim. Do think covering her bases is a nice racket." He stirs his toothpick through the drink, slides one of its several olives off with his teeth. "Mean around here. Company you keep. She keeps. They die, come back, die -- feel like the --" The toothpick, now, is describing a twirling circle in the air. "Revolving door. Make targeting all this --" With a waggle towards the literature. "Confusing. Guess most junkies do stay down for good. Give it -- mmm. 50/50 on Raleigh?" He looks up at David, brows hiked, and maybe the man isn't all that familiar with Tony Stark's mannerisms, but there's something that glints hard and wicked in the crooked pull of his smile that is jarringly unlike any of his press photos. "You a betting man, David?" "Any idiot can make a killing in this business if the cause is cute enough," says David, delicately but drolly; he's swilling his paper cup of vodka around in his hand like it's a very fine wine and not a paper cup of vodka. His eyebrows quirk quizzically, pulling in over his nose, this too does not have much sincerity to it, just more wry amusement -- "I can't decide if this makes you a cynic or an optimist," he says. His blink of surprise is a little too affected to appear actually surprised. "I worked in tech, Mr. Stark, you know I am. Aren't you?" "Gotta pick one?" the man is tipping his glass one way and then the other, as if evaluating the liquid still inside it. "Maybe I've just seen a lot." He plonks his toothpick and its remaining olives back into his glass. Sinks back into a corner of the couch, arm slung casually over the back of the sofa. "Not sure good money's on Tessier after all -- well." He clears his throat, a small quiet heh. "Not this Tessier, anyway." He's taking another sip of his martini, eyes level on David and his tone so idly curious: "... those tech bets. Pan out well?" David's eyes are still fixed on the other man, dark and inscrutable, though there's strangely no air of thoughtfulness about his look now, just bleak, bitter humor. He chuckles, oh-so-lightly. He finishes his vodka in one last, slow sip. | |
