ArchivedLogs:Out of Curiosity
| Out of Curiosity | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2015-03-07 "I don't think terrorists are that polite." |
| 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 kind of difficult to tell weekend from weekday, around here. Tony's dressed in jeans and a dark grey tee but that's not much to go on; there's AC/DC playing on the sound system but /that's/ not much to go on. He's down on the lowest floor of his home, busy working, but /that's/ not much to go on. His phone is switched off -- very possibly it has been trying to notify him he has an appointment to make. But again, weekday or weekend, it could be all the same. What /is/ happening is that he is frowning, deep and furrowed at a small holographic display in front of him. Some kind of power source, split apart and broken down; he reaches in to pull one piece out, replace it with another. It doesn't change his frown. Weekend? What's that? It's a day when Stark Industries runs on 75% personnel in the building rather than the usual 95%. 'Time off' is when the phones aren't ringing and Miss Virginia Potts isn't keeping everyone and their mothers (sometimes quite literally) from reaching Tony when he doesn't want to be reached. A 'frown' usually means Tony doesn't want to be disturbed. Or at least 'reached'. Pepper is set at another small table over a tablet, looking over schedules, glancing up at her boss every few seconds before yet another poke at the screen sends yet another message over the aether. Sighing when it seems to -her- that he's plugged in the same bit a couple of times (though looks can be deceiving, she's no engineer!) she makes it loud enough to perhaps make it through the music playing. Just in case, however, she speaks up, "You've been at this for awhile Tony. You're about ready to psychically summon your eyedoctor in the distinct chance you're going to eventually go cross-eyed at it." Rising from her spot, she takes a couple of steps to close a bit of the distance between them. "Food." "Not bulgogi, right?" Admittedly, Tony kind of loves bulgogi. A small swipe of hand sends the piece he's been working on spinning in midair. "What's the point of my eye doctor then? Can't he just --" Tony's hand waves at his (still frowning!) face. "/Un/cross them?" His hand catches at the piece, stops its motion. "Holland-Zedner." There's not a lot of /lead-up/ to this, though he seems like he expects an answer to this declaration. "Seem like a terrorist to you?" "The entire point of my statement," Pepper diverts her course and reaches an unsurprisingly untouched pitcher of ice water. A glass is taken and she makes a show of pouring clear, un-alcoholed water into the glass before setting the pitcher back down and heading back to Tony with it as an offering, "Was to keep you from having to have him //uncross// them for you." The question regarding what sort of food brings a tight lipped but amused smile with a shake of her head. "Man cannot live by bulgogi alone. No. I was thinking something of a healthier sort. With green things. And maybe some red things. You might even need to use a knife and fork." Pepper is used to shifts of thought; she never truly knows what triggers it, but when it does happen, she's in a position to try and catch up. Brows rise at the question, and she begins slowly, "Do you have one in particular in mind?" "Of course not. My diet is varied. Bulgogi and galbi." Tony's brows lift at the mention of knife and fork -- or maybe it's at the offered pitcher of water. Either way, he looks /offended/. Taken aback. "I'd have to use my /hands/ for that. I /need/ my hands." He gestures to the holographic display by way of demonstration. /Hands/. /Busy/. Very /gingerly/, he takes the water. Sniffs at it, sets it aside. So that he can gesture, lifting a hand at -- small-height. The way one might indicate the height of a child -- or a very tiny sharky blue teenager. "The -- fishy one. Polite. Small. Makes me money." Pepper exhales in what won't be the only theatrically exasperated sigh of the day, and likely isn't her first either. "And shwarma, yes I know." The show of hands gesticulating in the air only gains that arched brow response complete with a slight dip of her head, the amusement not easily escaping green eyes. "Okay. I should know better than to ask. I will just order you something." Though now, with train of thought on a different track, Pepper shakes her head slowly. "Was there something that was said or done...?" She lets that linger momentarily, "No. She.. he.. no." She's still working with that. "I don't think terrorists are that polite. Nor do they have a tendency to want to work for you, much less make you money." After all, doesn't Stark Industries have a reputation and all of that? "Terrorists need money. Don't terrorists need money? Bombs cost money. Guns cost money. I should know." At least Tony isn't rejecting the notion of ordering food. That's as good as an acceptance, really. "I wrote him a recommendation letter. MIT." Maybe Pepper's pronoun-slip is contagious. Tony doesn't seem to notice, really. "Not so much done as will be -- have you been sleeping alright? Just," he asks, glancing briefly back to his display. "Out of curiosity." "Yes, but terrorists don't tend to put in long hours working for someone else. They do," here, Pepper pauses and hand gestures must be contagious as well, "terrorist things. Kidnapping and ransoming I think is a biggie?" Unless, "Well, not unless they want access to a high tech system and learn trade secrets..." That thought is quickly dispelled and the admission of that letter of recommendation gains her employer a smile. "Putting your name down for someone. That's something. And no, I don't think," pause, "they are a terrorist. Too polite." Pepper makes a point of keeping the water where it is, even if it is rejected for the moment and looks ready to turn to depart the room to do that which she's threatened. The question stops her and she twists around and looks at Tony for a long, lingering moment, studying him. He's asking about someone else's health? "A few strange dreams here and there," but before she can pretend he'd worry about it, a warm half smile rises, "Nothing I wouldn't expect from working here, and everything that's been going on in the news." Hint. Zombies. Hint. Now, however, she narrows her eyes at Tony, studying him, "Hold that thought. I'm going to order us dinner. And make pleasant dinner conversation." Maybe. With that, she does make good her departure to do just that. | |
