ArchivedLogs:Metamorphosis

Metamorphosis
Dramatis Personae Bruce, Tony Stark, Jarvis
In Absentia	2015-08-24 "Did you by any chance watch the news?" (The morning after smashing.)
Location <NYC> Tony's Penthouse - Stark Tower - Midtown East
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. It's never really /entirely/ quiet in the huge office tower down below, but it's early enough right now that the building lacks much of the bustle it'll take on once the work day starts in earnest. Up here in Tony's apartment things have been awake for some time. There's already the smell of breakfast cooking -- sausages and omelettes and English muffins -- from elsewhere in the apartment where the long arms of a robotic chef are tending the stove. Here in Tony's gym, though, there's enough smell of sweat to imply Tony has been in here for a while. The room is filled with music -- Led Zeppelin's "Black Dog" -- and the erratic thwackthwackthwack of gloves against a speed bag. Whapwhapthwack. Smack. Tony's tank is clinging to him, damp. Bruce enters, looking hesitant and disoriented. By comparison to his usual presentation, he looks downright shabby wearing an old, threadbare seersucker shirt in blue, green, and purple plaid, unbuttoned to reveal the white A-shirt underneath, ancient, comfortable-looking blue jeans, and scuffed brown oxfords. The shadows under his eyes bespeak inadequate sleep, and his olive skin looks rather ashen. He lingers by the door and rubs one forearm slowly with the opposite hand. "JARVIS told me you were here," he says at last, his voice hoarse. "I need a word with you. Maybe when you're done punching things." Thwapwhap. Tony dances around to the opposite side of his bag so that he's facing the door. "You," he informs Bruce, just a trace of Winded in his voice, "look like shit. Have /you/ considered punching things? Does a world of good sometimes." He gestures towards a cabinet at the side of the room. "Extra gloves. I can punch. /And/ talk." Bruce actually winces, though he does start moving toward the cabinet Tony indicates. "No, I ah, don't want to /punch/ anything. I'll just..." His hand wheels in the air. "...watch you. Punch." He crosses his arms, hugging them as if cold. "I feel like shit," he admits. "Had a rough night." Falling silent for a moment, he just stares. Then shakes his head rapidly. "Ah, did you by any chance watch the news?" "Watched, read --" The thwapping starts back up as the song switches over. AC/DC/ "Back in Black". "JARVIS feeds it to me every morning. Then I come down here. Get my appetite back so I can actually stomach breakfast." He hooks an elbow around the hanging bag, leaning in against his arm. "I know you're, ah, the sensitive type but." His other hand gestures to Bruce. "Is the world getting to you that much?" "It's...there's a lot of terrible news, yes." Bruce rubs his temple in slow circles with the index and middle finger of one hand. "The world got to me a long time ago, though. You know that." This softly, almost mumbled. "But I was in Central Park last night. Bethesda Terrace. And I...I'm not exactly sure how just yet, but think I'm in a lot of trouble." Tony is starting to straighten, but at this he settles back into his lean. His brows hike up. The crook of his arm tightens against his bag. His eyes skip up and down and up again over Bruce -- quickly. Skimming. Toootally not in concern. "You don't look like you need a hospital. That's a good start." "No, I'm unharmed as far as I can tell. Just feel...kind of hung over?" Bruce does not seem very reassured by this, however. "This woman had approached me in the park mistaking me for someone else. She was a mutant, and not very good at controlling her powers, or maybe she was just high...in any case, not actually trying or succeeding in hurting anyone. Just splashed water all over me." He sucks in a long, shuddering breath. "Then the cops turned up, guns drawn, and that's when things get hazy for me. The next thing I can clearly remember is waking up around midnight on top of a building in Upper East Side. Naked." Tony straightens, finally moving away from his equipment to take a seat on a bench at the side of the room. He picks up a water bottle, taking a long chug from it. "I don't think," he finally says, "you can blame this one on a home invasion. You could try something else. Mugger? Hit your head, carried you off, stole all your clothes?" The lift of his brows is marred by the slight wrinkle between them. Bruce digs the knuckles of his fingers into his temple. "No ah..." He leans heavily against the side of the cabinet. "I think the most logical explanation is that I'm mad. Which isn't a new joke among transhumanist researchers, but...it's happened before. I lose time--hours, days, even /months/. People tell me I've done things I can't remember at all, say I've acted in ways I--I just don't know. But this? Last night?" His hand looks for something at which to gesture, but fails and just sweeps vaguely at an empty stretch of floor. "I just don't understand. I've run tests, I've sequenced my genome. Maybe I should do it /again/." His breathing grows shallower, the faint beginnings of panic creeping into his voice. "Sequence your genome. Ah, yes, the common reaction to dissociative episodes." Tony takes another gulp from his water bottle. "Of course, episodes that leave your lab in -- we'll politely call it disarray --" His fingers drum against the side of his bottle, quickly. "JARVIS? Can you grab us the news? Footage. Yesterday afternoon." There's only a mild delay before Jarvis responds. Quiet. Polite. Only the faintest touch incredulous. "All the news, sir?" There's already small holo displays starting to come to life against the walls. Quite a lot of them. Muted. "What?" Tony shakes his head. "Don't be ridiculous. Central park. There was a thing -- police. Mutants. Bethesda Terrace. Shouldn't be hard to find." "Of course, sir." The displays begin to fade out. "Thank you for narrowing that down." Bruce opens his mouth, then closes it again without speaking. Scrubs the heel of one hand against the dark stubble on his chin and starts to pace. Jarvis, meanwhile, has brought up three recordings along the walls: videos recorded from phone cameras in poor lighting. Two of them start out focused on the police officers, one with his sidearm pointed at a man and a woman standing beside the Bethesda Fountain. A third one, shot from nearer to the fountain but with considerably less skill and steadiness than the other two, mostly strives to show the unnatural movement of the water, though the wielder of the camera prudently moves away when the police approach. All three recordings abruptly shift focus several seconds in, when the man standing near the fountain doubles over in evident agony, then topples under the force of a wave conjured from the fountain. His hunched form suddenly expands, tearing through clothing and changing to a deeper, distinctly greenish color. The muzzle flash from the police's pistol tells of shots fired, despite the muted audio, and at this point two of the recordings end in a sickening blur of fleeing. The person behind the third recording backs away even farther. Between failing light and shaking hands, the video only vaguely shows the huge green beast throwing back its head and roaring even as the police fire upon it. The recording ends as the creature charges its assailants, evidently too near even for that intrepid cop-watcher's courage to bear. Bruce covers his mouth, his eyes wide with horror. "That...that's me. That thing. See this--" The index finger of his other hand jabs at the recording faded to black. "--this is why I need to recheck my genome. I need--I need to calm down." He starts pacing, not at all calmly. "Stress triggers dissociation. Dissociation triggers--situationally manifesting metamorphosis? There has to be literature on this, I have to find some literature on this." "Sir," JARVIS interjects, “I am detecting an acceleration in respiratory rate as well as alterations to vocal inflections that would indicate --” “-- indicate,” Tony cuts in, “that I’d like my gym to stay in one piece. Don’t you have a chant for this kind of thing?” He gestures with his water bottle towards his speed bag. “I’m telling you, you should’ve taken me up on my -- punching things is very calming. I’ve personally never turned into a giant green monster while boxing.” His eyes are flicking back and forth, a small rapid tick to follow Bruce’s pacing. Bruce stops short, mid-stride. One of his hands drops into a pocket and comes out with a lotus seed mala, its beads worn smooth with use. "You're quite right, of course." His words come out careful, measured, his breaths long and deep. "I just--I didn't /used/ to turn into...anything. /Physically./ When that happened. That I know of. It was all in here." His free hand touches his temple. The beads of the mala slip rhythmically between the thumb and middle finger of his other hand, then stop abruptly. "Abject failure. Oh, no, no, no.../I/ did this, to myself. The experimental treatment must have done it somehow. I'm /not/ a mutant, which means this might be curable." There's a feverish light in his eyes, but he catches himself spiraling out this time, and his hand starts moving over the beads again. "I really don't think I need to be punching things; it seems like a poor idea in my particular case. What I need is data. On..." He gropes for words that do not come, finally gesturing at the screen where the last video had played. "...that /thing./ The Hulk." “The rampant destruction, that does seem to be an exciting new development.” Tony gets to his feet, popping the cap back down on his water bottle. “I’ll say this for you, when you fuck something up you don’t do it by halves. That’s what I like about you. You commit.” His hand claps down to pat Bruce heavily between the shoulderblades. “Hulk? Mmm. Does slip off the tongue easier than ‘giant green rage monster’. I like it.” He waggles his water bottle towards the door. “Jarvis, I think we might want some tea sent down to the lab. Tea is calming, right?” Bruce chuckles weakly, without much real humor. "Yeah, I'm very dedicated." He frowns. "But wait, this means..." His eyes flick to the holo displays, inactive now. "...It /wasn't/ a complete failure. The treatment /did/ something--something terrible, I'll grant, but we were onto something, I /knew/ we were." He jumps when Tony claps him on the back. "Maybe I should contact my team from Project Ouroboros. While we're conducting our own tests. You must have some kind everything-proof chamber, right?" This as he falls into step with Tony, still clutching his mala. "Tea, yes. Tea is calming. Darjeeling, Jarvis, if you would?"