ArchivedLogs:Canvassing

Canvassing
with chutzpah.
Dramatis Personae Sebastian, Tony Stark, Pepper	2013-06-14 '
Location <NYC> Lower East Side
Historically characterized by crime and immigrant families crammed into cramped tenement buildings, the Lower East Side is often identified with its working-class roots. Today, it plays host to many of New York's mutant poor, although even here they are still often forced into hiding. Somewhere in the Lower East Side there is a familiar tattoo studio! And a familiar /face/ is walking out of it, though this one familiar from plenty of news rather than from Sebastian's own /house/. Tony is at least, tonight, as incognito as a man of his status can /be/. Jeans, button-down shirt, sunglasses (at night! He is in disguise as: douchebag. It's something of a natural state for him); he's on his phone as he leaves. Presumably. That or he's just crazy-talking into the air; the earpiece he wears is tiny enough to be easily overlooked. "-- reservation. Fifteen minutes. What? Of course you can. I have faith." The car he heads for is not a Stark vehicle! But a sleek deep burgundy Audi parked around the corner. He's also carrying a cardboard tube, nondescript and tucked under an arm. Somewhere en route from studio to car, Tony picks up a tail! It's -- not a very /stealthy/ tail, Sebastian is making no effort to hide. Trot trot trot! He is beelining for Stark somewhat quicker than he might otherwise have in weeks where lingering in the open was not likely to get him punched. He looks dapper! Pinstriped trousers, dark vest over pale button-down. The newsboy cap pulled down on his head does only so much to obscure his features -- very blue, very /sharky/. The gills alongside his neck are quivering. "Mr. Stark?" He's hurrying along behind the man, clutching a folder against his chest; a backpack bumps along at his back. "Yep. What, why, should I have gotten --" Tony is cut off by the sound of incoming shark! His initial reaction is to speed just a little bit faster towards the car. It's only a glance back towards the source of the voice that pauses him, one hand pausing just as it presses the keyfob to unlock the car. With another press he locks it once more. Beep. His sunglasses focus on Sebastian a long while. "Gills. Right. Do those work up here?" "Wh -- no. Sir. They don't." Self-consciously, Sebastian lifts a hand to touch his fingers to his gills. They lie flat, quieting their quivering. He hastens closer, but then stops a few feet from the car. "Mr. Stark, have you heard of the Mendel Clinic?" "Clinic?" This might not be what Tony expected to hear from the blue sharkboy. "Have I heard of the Mendel Clinic?" He's repeating this not so much like echo but like actually /asking/; at a delay and a brief listen to the voice from his headset he answers: "Clinic. That place for mutants. Sounds -- well, suicidal, really." "For its staff, maybe," Sebastian agrees with only the slightest of winces. "But, sir, I've seen the work you've done -- you don't seem like a man who /wants/ --" For a moment one of his hands uncurls from the folder -- its front carries a Mendel Clinic logo, a rod of Aesclepius over a backdrop of a rising sun -- to gesture to the street around them. "I think the events of this week just prove more than ever the need for a facility with both the willingness and the knowledge to deal with metahuman health. The need for --" "Are you hearing this?" Tony is asking this of his Very Small earpiece. "This is like the night for --" The keys jingle in his hand. He eyes the folder; there's a faint tic upwards of his head as his glance shifts to Sebastian instead. "I'm not in medicine. Well, much." "No, but Gradient is heavily invested in biotech. The Mendel Clinic is going to be heavily invested in the research and exploration of mutant abilities -- it's kind of a necessary corollary to treating them, there's almost nobody else out there /in/ the field," though at this statement Sebastian's jaw tenses, faintly, his gills flicker-fluttering once more before stilling, "so they'll have to be doing a whole lot of development there themselves. Even past the obvious need for someone to be filling that gap in the city, it's an incredible business opportunity." "Kid," Tony isn't saying this to Sebastian, he's distractedly /informing/ his earpiece of it, "tiny. /Blue/. Very blue. Fishy? -- that's one of my subsidiaries," now he is looking back to Sebastian, "you've done your research. -- Make the reservation for three." His conversation is disconcertingly ricocheting between teenager and earpiece. "You had dinner, kid?" Sebastian has been shifting his grip on the folder so that he can take a step forward, start to hold it out; this question makes his hand curl back in towards his chest. "Not yet, sir." It's just a little bit hitchy, his gills fluttering again and his black eyes very wide. "Good. Come on. Get in. I hope you like --" The car unlocks again, though here Tony stops to look at Sebastian again. "Do you even eat seafood? I don't know if there's a family thing going on there --" Sebastian's mouth opens, closes again, and his quick smile is bright and very sharptoothed for a moment before he carefully closes it. "Nosirthat'sfine." He hurries around the side of the car quickly. Probably worried about Tony changing his /mind/. "Ohjeez, OK, just don't -- those things," Tony's fingers flick in the direction of Sebastian's mouth, and then to his earpiece, "-- shark. Blue shark. There's no shark on the menu, is there?" He gets into the driver's seat, waiting only long enough for Bastian's door to close before he's driving away. --- The restaurant is an elegant one. At the pinnacle of New York dining, a chic Italian place with a seafood-heavy menu; situated on Central Park, it is probably not the kind of place most people can /get/ reservations for on fifteen minutes' notice. It's /definitely/ not the kind of place that lets in small blue sharkpeople under normal circumstances, and there's a spell of distinct uncomfortable tension when Sebastian enters; the maitre d' is quick to try and bustle him back /out/. But reservations from Tony Stark are not normal circumstances, and it doesn't last all that /long/ before the owner himself (also the chef) is hurrying over apologetically to escort them to a table where a bottle of Tony's favorite wine is already waiting patiently. The hostility seems to wash over Tony (hey, it's not directed at /him/!), save for a distinct /impatience/ with the process. "Service here's getting worse," he says as he sits down (though Zagat has rated it a 26/30 on service: excellent to perfection!) Sebastian doesn't look impatient, just -- reeeeally wide-eyed. Really out of his /element/. His gills flutter above the collar of his crisp dress shirt (clothing borrowed from his twin, today he looks /polished/, pinstripe slacks and neat vest and pale dress shirt and bow tie; the newsboy cap he's worn on the street has been taken off, in here) and his solid black eyes have widened to dominate his pixie-thin face. He has a backpack on his back, still, and a folder clutched against his chest as he trails Tony mutely to the table, looking -- somewhat like he expects to either be tossed back out or maybe /filleted/ and served with the rest of the seafood. "I did tell them that you were coming, but." Pepper Potts gives Tony a /look/ - a look you don't often see assistants giving their bosses, at least, where they can see: a look of long-suffering annoyance. "They had to bump a judge. I thought the maitre'd was going to have a stroke right then and there, and then...." Her lips purse and she extends a hand to Sebastian, eyes flicking over the teenager. The smile looks a tad fixed. "Pepper Potts. I'm Mr. Stark's assistant. Please," she says, gesturing to one side of the booth. She sits down across from him, keeping the table between herself and CLAWS. "What. Blue. Sharky. I told you I was bringing --" Tony stops to look at Sebastian. "-- this kid," whose name he has not yet bothered to get, oops! "He was talking at me, I was hungry. I didn't get a tattoo." This is added Totally Offhand and not at /all/ like someone who is trying to win points to assuage the ire of bringing a small blue shark to dinner. "Mendel Clinic. Mutant research. Going to be the future." His brusque tone doesn't say he's convinced. Sebastian's claws are carefully retracted when he accepts this handshake, but they're still /there/, gleaming tiny and black and razorsharp at the ends of his webbed fingers. "Sebastian Nguyen," he gives as his name; he does not pronounce it 'win'. "I'm assistant to Dr. Saavedro." After the handshake, he extends his folder to Pepper, instead! It's thick, embossed at the front with the Mendel Clinic logo. Inside there is a wealth of papers. Everything a potential donor could hope to know, from the clinic's mission to the plan for services they will offer to the plan for what sort of research they will cover to more gritty details of finance. Sebastian takes his seat a little gingerly, perching on the edge of it like he's not quite sure about /staying/. His tone is confident enough, though, in contrast to the maybe-about-to-bolt posture. "Mr. Stark's philanthropic efforts are well-known and the need for these services in the city is becoming more clear every day. But, also, the opportunity to get in on the ground floor of one of the only organizations in the world focusing on metahuman medicine and research -- Stark Industries' biotech efforts could only be helped by an investment here." "You didn't get a tattoo." Pepper's voice softens slightly - slightly - at this, as she accepts the folder from Sebastian and opens it to look through it. "Doctor Saavedro is the person who was arrested in Central Park not long ago giving a speech about the clinic. The founder, I think? Ah, yes." She tugs a piece of paper to the front of the folder, looking over it carefully. The audited balance sheet. "We don't usually think about philanthropic donations from the point of view of investment." "I did get a painting. Not on my skin. Canvas. Oil. We can hang it." Tony is starting out with a glass of the wine; he doesn't look at the menu. "Arrested. Good, good, you want me to support criminals now. This place," he's taken off his sunglasses, now he looks up at Sebastian for a moment, "going to offer dental, too? I can see why it appeals to you." Sebastian's lips press closed over his sharp teeth. "I don't find a lot of need for dentists, actually, sir," he answers, "my teeth grow back." He takes his backpack off his back, setting it carefully down by his chair. "This week highlights the need for the services the clinic provides, but it didn't create it. A medical facility to take on mutant issues won't just be good for us. Sick and hurt mutants can be dangerous to treat and can be more dangerous /not/ to treat. The entire city would benefit from having a place for them to go." "Not another Van Gogh. I thought we decided you weren't getting another one after what happened to the last one," Pepper murmurs, voice a quiet hiss. A slight pause, and she leans in to whisper even quieter into Tony's ear. "One of our major beneficiaries is the felon rehabilitation program, remember?" She pulls back, smiling at Sebastian. "Doesn't that seem more like a role for the government?" "Nono. This one is a local. Original Holland. Could put it up in the tower, I'm sure that'd -- draw a lot of eyes. It's very -- colorful." There is a pause, here, for the waiter to come take their orders! Which he does with a very stiff fixed smile and not a lot of eye contact with Sebastian. Tony gets a small plate of oysters and a crab-and-sea-urchin pasta, and he continues even while the waiter takes the other orders: "The government, well, that's interesting I've been hearing a lot tonight about what the government's been up to. Not very competent. We could do better." "It seems like it should be, miss, yes," Sebastian allows very carefully, "but the government hasn't seemed wholly interested just yet in stepping in on matters like these. In some cases even acting --" "-- Government, right. Which judge did you boot? Was it Gregor, I hope it was -- I've got some things to tell you about his recent, ah. Did you know," Tony isn't very good at not beating around the bush, "the police were stealing mutants for some kind of --" "-- cage matches, I'm aware," Sebastian says this quietly but with a sharp flutter of gills again, a small press of his lips. He looks at the waiter uncertainly; his order of swordfish is very quiet. "Death matches. Attended by a good number of government officials." His hands have moved down to his lap, hidden beneath the table; there's a sudden increased tension to his posture. "I don't think that this is very high on their current priorities." "Holland?" Pepper's forehead creases for a moment in consideration, before annoyance strikes again. "It wasn't Judge /Halpert/." Pepper gives Tony another Look, before turning her attention back to Sebastian. "Horrifying, if true. Still." She purses her lips and nods, once. "I find myself agreeing with you about the government not exactly putting mutant healthcare on the top of their priority list. It is not, in general, on their priority list, for anyone." A pause, as her eyes slide back to Tony, waiting. "Very enterprising, though," Tony is commenting, "I bet those teeth of yours --" Pepper's elbow gets a brief introduction to Tony's ribcage. Hello - nice to meet you. "-- Horrifying, yes," he amends. "Of course it's not a priority for anyone else. If it were a priority for other people why would we even be sitting here talking? I'm not usually in the business of -- other people's priorities." He picks up his wine glass, but then nods at the bottle. "You should try some. Best Cabernet Sauvignon there is." Sebastian's gills flutter further at those first comments, his lips pressing thin together over his teeth. "It's true, miss," he tells Pepper, after his gills lie flat again, and his tone is calm and even, "I was there. The Governor just attended the funeral of the man who ran it. It's things like that that make it that much clearer to me that a whole lot of people could benefit from this. Not to mention the research side of things. I know a girl who can regrow bones. A man who collects solar power far more efficiently than any battery invented. If --" There's just the slightest hint more rigidity to his spine, here, but his tone stays even, "-- if there's a safe place that can study people and learn more about these abilities, the advances in even more fields than just medicine could be astounding." Pepper rests one hand on Tony's knee in a futile attempt to restrain him. "Is the Mendel Clinic intended as a research facility?" Pepper asks, curiously, opening up the folder once more and paging through it. "I thought it was more of a... hospital?" This, she says unsurely, glancing back over the materials before returning her attention to Sebastian. "If you know someone who can regrow livers, now, I think there's a huge market." Tony says this /as/ he refills his wine, and pours a second glass for Sebastian. "I -- do, actually," Sebastian flushes slightly darker with this admission. Darker still as he takes the glass of wine, pulling it closer to regard it with a small measure of uncertainty. "Clinic, miss. Not a hospital. But in order to treat mutants they're going to have to study them; there are so few people in the field already they'll have to do the bulk of legwork in research on mutant health themselves." "Quite the undertaking," Pepper says, politely. She takes a glass of wine as well, sipping at it delicately. Her eyes dart back and forth between Tony and Sebastian, a little apprehensively. She opens her mouth then reconsiders, closing it once more. "There must be a lot of people interested in visiting," she tries again. "More people this week than there were before," Tony remarks, before a long drink of wine. "I want a press conference. This is good. This'll be good. Perfect counterpoint. Death matches, clinic. Whole circle of life motif." Sebastian tries not to look surprised at this -- it's what he was here for, after all! But he can't help a small coughing splutter on his sip of wine. He blots his eyes against the back of his hand. "I can work with you," he says to Pepper, once he has cleared his throat, "on scheduling, to make sure Dr. Saavedro is present." "And I can work with you to make sure that Mr. Stark is present," Pepper says, smoothly, as if the man was not sitting right next to her - as if he was not the one who said he wanted the press conference. She reaches into a pocket and pulls out a card, extending it with only the slightest apprehension. "My contact information." Two waiters arrive just as she does so, carrying the plates of food for the three of them. They are, it seems, far more apprehensive of Sebastian, when they place the seafood down in front of him. "You know, they can smell fear," Tony tells the skittish waiters. Probably the last thing he gets in before being shushed by Pepper again! But, thankfully, there is food here. It'll keep him quiet for the next little while. At least thirty seconds of peace.