Logs:Disarmed
| Disarmed | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2020-04-27 "Can't blow 'em all up." |
| 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. It's another gray spring day in the City, April showers sprinkling in desultory fashion, rolling down in rivulets over the immense plate glass windows. There's a fire--not roaring, being gas-powered and very discreet--in the long stone fireplace. The holographic display embedded into the coffee table is displaying the market's reaction to Tony's recent press conference in real-time--charts tracking Stark Industry's plummeting stock, demo footage of various Stark military technologies, reporters and talking heads all silently overlapping in a media feeding frenzy. "I can't believe you did it." Bruce says softly, settling down into the curve of the leather couch with a glass mug of steaming tea. He's wearing a forest green windowpane button-down, brown pleated trousers, and light brown brogues, his thick-framed black glasses sliding down his nose. "I know you don't care who you piss off, generally, but...I'm guessing Stane had words for you after? Poor man looked poleaxed." He darts a sideways glance at the displays, then looks back to Tony. "Do you want to...turn all that off?" "Piss off, who -- why would I piss off, they should be thanking me." Tony is not turning off the display. Still dressed from his briefing in sleek dark gray sharkskin suit over a gleaming white spread collar shirt, all exquisitely tailored to his diminished frame, his bold red tie tempered with a subtle chevron pattern and a gold tie pin in the shape of the acute arrowhead of the Stark Industry logo; he has an old fashioned in hand and has just flicked from one newscast to another. Steadfastly ignoring the phone that lights up over (and over) (and over) with new messages where it sits on the arm of the sofa. "New York might be on the upswing but there's a whole country -- whole world still struggling. You'd have to have -- what. What, been in a cave for the past month not to, not to see the opportunity here." Bruce starts to smile, but a shadow of concern passes over his face. He hides both behind a slow sip of his tea as his eyes track back the the newest report on the display: some grim-faced financial analyst explaining the disruption Stark's move will cause the entire defense industry. "I agree," he says gently, "and I'm so glad you did it, but I worry what your board and the rest of your officers might try to do. There's just so much talk flying around about your mental health--" His mouth pulls to one side, his tone rueful. "--and the fact they weren't worried about your mental heath until today is telling." He cocks his head, studying Tony's profile thoughtfully. "No matter how much equipment the feds seize, the world's not going to be short on ventilators forever." "As it so happens I had a lot of time -- a lot of time to think this through. I've been kind of the social distancing champion it gives -- plenty of room for consideration." Tony swirls his drink in his glass, wandering away from the display now and toward the window. "People are dying out there and we -- we could profit off it. Same thing we've always been doing. Should I have led with that? You think it'd get Stane off my, uh --" He gestures with the glass towards his unanswered phone. Takes a gulp of the cocktail. Bruce's gaze follows Tony as he rises--skipping aside briefly to the bar, then back to his friend. "I think it would have, actually. As it is, he's probably hoping you'll pivot back as the pandemic subsides." He frowns at the newscast, which has moved on to a clip of a YouTube personality ranting in profoundly over-the-top fashion: "...that's a weapons company that doesn't make weapons!" The corner of his eye twitches and he rises, going to the window and looking out at the dreary cityscape below. "I don't think it's the same thing, though. That equipment is going to save lives, not destroy them." Tony's hand strays absently to his chest, fingers flicking lightly against a button on his shirt. "World's got a whole mess of problems. Can't blow 'em all up." He drains his glass, eyes fixed on the rain-streaked window for a moment as well. "God knows it hasn't been for lack of trying." Bruce lifts his tea to his lips, but stops short, his eyes lifting back up to Tony . "You sure can't," he murmurs, following his friend's line of sight. "Tony, you're doing the right thing--it's not enough, but it's a step, and an important one." He glances down at the empty glass in Tony's hand. "Want another drink?" Tony looks down at the empty glass in his hand. "They don't warn you beforehand," he's pulling himself away from the window and back to the bar, "damn near impossible to get a good Manhattan in those caves." | |
