Logs:Dissembled

Dissembled
Dramatis Personae Bruce, Steve, Tony Stark
In Absentia	2019-03-09 "It wasn't all propaganda was it?"
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. A casual glance around the elegant, open living room with its own long bar suggests someone has recently worked through lunch--and perhaps a couple of other meals before that. The work table has been pulled to standing height, its central holographic projector showing several rotating 3D models of what looked like a massive tangles of colorful noodles, though the lines upon lines of chemical formulae beneath suggest otherwise. Bruce is pacing slowly back and forth between the table and the immense curved window. He's wearing a forest green dress shirt, a purple satin paisley tie sitting and ill-tied, and slightly rumpled black slacks. He's fiddling with a holopen, tapping it rapidly against the side of his face such that every time he passes near one of the floating displays they try to register his nonsensical input. As he paces he shoots critical glances at the diagrams over the tops of his thick-framed glasses. Tony isn't pacing. Standing by the window in a dark vest and slacks, deep red tie, pale dress shirt, he holds a Scotch on the rocks that he's not currently drinking from. The ice clinks in the glass as his hand jiggles it. He looks out over the wide view of the city with his other hand tucked into a pocket. "Sir," J.A.R.V.I.S. pipes up on the speakers, "Captain Steve Rogers to see you." Is there something more than the usual pleasant neutrality in his voice? The elevator when it arrives admits one Captain Steve Rogers, neatly attired in a pale blue dress shirt, silver-blue tie patterned with a subtle hexagonal tessellation, gray trousers and black oxford shoes. He carries a navy blue peacoat and his shield slung over one shoulder, and he smells /distinctly/ of fresh-roasted coffee. After only the barest moment of hesitation, staring around at the vast space into which the elevator had deposited him, he says, "Good afternoon." He stops looks over the two men and the holotable, eyes lingering on the abstruse 3D models. "If this is a bad time, I can...reschedule?" Bruce stops pacing when the AI speaks. He doesn't stop tap-twirling his pen, though, until the elevator doors open. His intense interest in their visitor is practically palpable, and it looks like a monumental effort for him to /resist/ circling Steve for a better look. He pushes his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose and scuffs at his five o'clock shadow with the backs of his knuckles. "Huh!" Not quizzical. He nods slightly to himself. "Oh, uh. I'm not Tony Stark. That," this comes with a sweep of the holopen toward Tony, "is Tony Stark." Then, almost like an afterthought, "I'm Bruce Banner." Tony's eyes stay fixed out the window as Jarvis speaks and even as the elevator opens. He takes a large gulp from his glass, turning only after Steve has spoken. Even without Bruce's helpful indication, it's likely clear enough which of them is Tony Stark. It's written into the line of his jaw, the sharpness in his warm brown eyes as they give Steve a quick once-over. Older, yes, but from the careless swagger in his step to the hook of his smile (half-hidden behind his next sip of Scotch) as he moves -- more brazen than Bruce, /he/ has no compunctions about circling Steve. "/Huh/," his echo of Bruce isn't quizzical either. "What, and risk waiting another seventy-five years for the next chance?" He's reaching out one hand as he circles, knocking the rim of his glass sharply against the center of the shield and lifting his eyebrows at the (lack of) sound that ensues. "Good lord, I really thought he was lying." Steve gives a polite nod to Bruce's slightly inverted introduction, but when Tony starts moving his attention is entirely on him. His expression doesn't change -- the small furrow in his brow, the slight defocus of his eyes. But the moment Tony's glass taps the shield, he spins into motion so quickly it might be hard for human eye to follow. He drops half a step back and settles his weight lower, slinging the shield onto his left forearm to properly brace it. It's only after assuming this defensive stance that he seems to recognize the 'attack' had been made with a lowball glass. A faint flush of pink across his cheeks, he straightens up, adopts a stiffly /casual/ posture. "I'm sorry. I really appreciate your agreeing to meet with me." Suddenly he looks a bit lost -- smaller, somehow, though his bearing hasn't changed. "I didn't think I would.../be/ anything more to you than a tall tale." Bruce flinches when Steve drops into his fighting stance. "Tony--maybe, don't /poke/ your guests?" It almost sounds like an earnest /question/ rather than a request. "...Your /combat-tested supersoldier/ guests." To Steve, with an embarrassed smile. "No offense." Tony just nods to himself, as if Steve's reaction is itself some additional confirmation. He takes another sip of his Scotch, tipping the glass toward Bruce afterwards. "From the tall tales I've heard, this one's very durable. Should stand up to some poking. That was," he's directing this to Steve with a lift of brows, "kind of the whole point, right?" "None...taken?" Steve sounds vaguely disoriented. "I don't think resistance to /poking/ was necessarily what your father and Dr Erskein set out to achieve, but -- very broadly speaking, yes." He pauses. Considers Tony closely. Starts to say something, but seems to think better of it before it comes out. Instead, "There've not been a lot of people who just...accepted my story. I'm curious why you believe me -- /if/ you believe me, only I doubted you would have made time to see me otherwise." "I don't think it's all that clear what they were setting out to achieve," Bruce allows, leaning against the edge of the holotable, "but the results are pretty remarkable, if..." Here he glances uncertainly at Tony. "...we accept your story. You certainly are a dead ringer for the photos." "Have you been telling, ah, a lot of people your story?" Tony is wandering back further into the room. "Yeah I can see how that wouldn't go well. Still. After all /I'd/ heard about you all my life -- hard not to be curious. Do you drink?" He's set his glass down on a long bar to refill it from the bottle of Scotch that still sits out there. "From what I have to go on you spend a lot of time with a sidecar in one hand and a woman hanging off the other, but I feel like maybe the propaganda didn't get it 100%." "Actually not all /that/ many, I guess." Steve frowns, considering. He still doesn't seem to quite know what to do with himself in the cavernous space of Tony's...living room? "Scotch would be great, thank you." To Tony's estimation of his wartime diversions, he just lifts an eyebrow. "Unless you're just itching to make a sidecar? I have a hard time imagining /that's/ what Howard told you I did during the war." Bruce's gaze bounces between the two other men until he starts looking vaguely like "Hey um, would you like to sit down?" This is presumably directed at Steve, although he hasn't actually indicated a particular place /to/ sit. "Propaganda is rarely concerned with accurately representing reality. But...it wasn't all propaganda was it? The strength of ten men, etcetera." "I'm not sure /everything/ my father told me is entirely reliable, either." Tony gets another glass out, pours a second measure of Scotch alongside his own. "The way he used to talk about Captain America, he may as well have been writing the propaganda." He returns to offer the second glass to Steve. The drink comes with another quick once-over and a questioning lift of brows. "You didn't come here for the Scotch, though." "Thank you." Steve accepts the glass and lifts it in a casual salute before taking a sip. The flush of his cheeks is probably not from the strength of the liquor. "I didn't think he'd buy into it like that, having -- actually /known/ me. I /am/ very strong, but I'm not the pinnacle of humanity or anything like that." Steve walks over toward Bruce and the holotable, staring with undisguised fascination at the images floating above it. "I...was hoping you might be willing to share some information about Project Rebirth. It /should/ be declassified by now and clearly, it hasn't been. But Howard wasn't military, and he always did things his own way." His smile is fleeting but fond. "He believed that this..." Gestures down at -- all of himself. "...could be used to benefit humanity -- create vaccines, cure diseases, and more. I don't know if he was right, but I'm interested in finding out. Just...not necessarily on the government's terms." Bruce /does/ circle around Steve now, studying him as the other man studies the holograms. "I don't doubt he was right," he mutters. "It would probably have been impossible in your time to reverse engineer how the serum did what it did. Now, though..." He strokes his stubbly chin, eyes fixed unblinking on Steve. Tony exhales a breath -- quick and sharp, maybe a laugh. Maybe not quite. "Yeah. Yeah, he always did." He leans back against the bar, taking a small swallow from his glass. "Interesting stance for a soldier to have. Whose terms did you sign up to --" His glass mimes Steve's own gesture down at -- all of him, his eyes fixed on Steve with an open curiosity. "Benefit humanity under?" Steve's expression doesn't change significantly, though he does turn to look at Tony for a moment before replying. "The Army. But I feel I have discharged my responsibility to those terms by now." His tone is cool and even. "I didn't sign up to be owned forever." "The military wants you back, I'm sure, but they're probably not trying to uh, /own/ you?" Bruce says, conciliatory. "/Now/, anyway. Early 20th century research ethics in general was not really heavy on informed consent." "Historic champion of autonomy, the military." The twitch of Tony's lips is fleeting. His gaze skates away to the far window, glass lifted for a slower swallow this time. "Thankfully, we're not them. We're not Howard, either, though if that's not a problem -- I'm sure we can help you find some of the answers you're looking for." Steve's brows furrow at Bruce's reassurance, but he doesn't reply. Just takes a big gulp of his drink. "The agency that brought me back didn't inspire a lot of confidence, no." He looks back at Tony, gives a small nod. "I wasn't expecting you to be your father, Mister Stark, and I appreciate your consideration. I know you're a busy man, and I wont bother you any longer. Should I give my telephone number to Jarvis on my way out?" "Certainly, Captain Rogers," replies J.A.R.V.I.S., pleasant and neutral. "I will handle the necessary arrangements." "It was an honor, Mister--uh, /Captain/ Rogers." Bruce seems to finally remember his manners and goes to offer Steve a handshake. "Maybe we will get a chance to work together." Just the barest pause. "In a thoroughly informed and consensual fashion."