Logs:Edge Case

Edge Case
Dramatis Personae Steve, Tony	2021-12-13 "Where does it leave me?"
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. "You eaten?" Tony is, it seems, also only just getting back to his apartment -- still dressed in a crisp navy business suit whose jacket he's currently stripping off, tossing over the back of a chair. There's a spread of Chinese take out containers already waiting on a counter, but he's ignoring those, heading to the bar to pour himself a squat glass of whiskey, raise the bottle and his eyebrows in offer to his guest -- who he's looking over with a brief and critical sweep of a glance. "Kinda becoming a regular thing, huh." Steve is shrugging gingerly out of his black canvas jacket, eyeing the food laid out on the table with interest before Tony has even asked. "Not recently enough to turn down food. And yes, please." This last bit with a nod to the offer of a drink. He's wearing a red and black check flannel, comfortable faded jeans, and yes, black combat boots, the snowflake shield sling casually over one shoulder. He follows his host, albeit slower, his steps stiff even if he's not quite limping anymore. "Becoming?" he echoes thoughtfully. "On average I'd say I get shot at a lot less often than I did just a few years ago. Or do you mean the Guardians running amok?" Tony pours a second glass of whiskey alongside the first. He huffs short and sharp as he moves to hand Steve his drink. "Please. You I expect to wear bullets like a fashion accessory." He takes a swig of his whiskey before moving to peruse the food offerings. There's just a hint of relief in his expression when he seats himself at a stool in front of the counter, propping an elbow up on it and leaning down against it. He nabs a carton of noodles, a disposable pair of chopsticks -- what is plate anyway, though someone's set out dishes for them he's just starting to munch from the carton. "You'd think after the -- second? Fourth? Dozenth? Time those tin cans turn all Dalek someone might reconsider having them on the street." Steve accepts the drink with a nod and sinks down to sit at the counter himself. Picks out a carton of beef and broccoli and dumps the whole thing onto a plate with a heap of rice. He wields his chopsticks left-handed, still. If he objects to Tony's characterization of his inclination toward getting shot, he does not raise much fuss. Only, mildly, "I've been trying to cut back on the -- bullets. I appreciated the care package, anyway, thank you." He frowns. "The Daleks, though -- well, I don't expect most humans are too fussed so long as they mostly stick to exterminating mutants." His jaw sets tight, and the chopsticks splinter and snap in his hand before he's had a chance to start in on his food. He looks down at them, faintly dismayed. "I suppose trying to murder Captain America might draw them some negative attention, but I won't be surprised if the talking heads conclude it was my own damned fault for trying to defend a terrorist." Setting aside his broken utensils, he sucks down a generous gulp of whiskey, instead. His movements are quick and jerky. Tony watches Steve's twitchy motions with a small twitch of his lips. "Mmm." He flicks a fresh pair of chopsticks in their paper wrapping down the counter toward Steve. "This time last year, I was gunning to put Leonid Concepcion in prison." He pokes up another chopstick-load of noodles. Doesn't eat them. "-- though, there, Vector had a body count the size of Staten Island. Be a fool's errand trying to guess how many he's saved here. Guess the boundaries of terrorist get a little --" His hand wobbles in the air. He glances to the shield. Takes his bite, finally. "You won't always be there." Steve's eyes flick aside to Tony, sharp. "You know damned well 'terrorist' means exactly what the government and the media want it to mean at any given moment." He discards his broken chopsticks and picks up another pair. Sets it down again in favor of his drink, his shoulders tight. "No. I won't." For a moment the glass looks in danger of being crushed in his hand, too. He sets it down. Doesn't look directly at Tony. "It's happening, you know. I guess it always was, but now --" His lips compress. "-- mutant registration is rolling out in a couple of months." Tony's expression doesn't change, much. He does pause before his next bite, very briefly, just long enough for one quick blink before he downs the noodles. "Huh." Chomp, chomp. "Thought that was dead in the water. Who's been pushing it?" "Beats the heck out of me." Steve unwraps the chopsticks, then puts them down again. "It's the Department of Homeland Security's unholy offspring, but it's not been in the news much at all since it passed a couple of years back." Tosses back the rest of his whiskey all at once and adds, darkly, "Wouldn't shock me if Osborne's been shoveling money in the relevant directions, though." "There's always money." Tony reaches back for the whiskey. Slides it down to Steve, too. "Something like this comes back to life, someone's getting rich off it. Mutants -- just the collateral damage." Munch, munch. He washes the noodles down with another mouthful of whiskey. "Where does that leave you?" Steve takes the bottle without comment this time and refills his glass. "Collateral damage," he echoes, disgusted. "Where does it leave me?" His shoulders hitch in a small and lopsided shrug that draws a simultaneous flinch out of him. "Where does it leave any human who gives a fig?" Though here he frowns. "The genetic test said I wasn't a mutant. Guess that isn't the same as saying I'm human, but that's the conclusion everyone seems to have drawn. I hadn't actually considered how I would register, if I were to register." His eyes cut aside to Tony. "Doesn't seem likely to matter much. Country's already decided it's fine for me to have power, whatever I am." "Huh," comes Tony's reply again, before another mouthful of noodles. "How long you had that?" His chopsticks are jabbing in the direction of the shield. "All these years wrapped up in that flag, you still think what you do won't matter in this country? Gotcha." He sets his carton of noodles down. Picks up his whiskey, to drain it. "But if I were standing where you were, I'd give the question some thought. I'm not. But if I were. Public opinion's one thing, the law? Might be another." Steve huffs, and this time the pained wince might or might not be injury-related. "That one? Couple of years." He does not look at the shield. Sharper, here, "Of course I think what I do matters in this country, but I don't see how..." He quiets now. After a moment. "I doubt they've thought much about how they'd classify me, or someone like me -- if there are any -- either." His frown deepens. "You think...it could throw doubt on this whole system if they don't know what to do with me?" "I think governments are big, dumb engines." Tony's hand turns outward, glass waggling with the motion of the shrug. "Only takes so much grit thrown in there. Grind them to a halt." "Government's been pretty eager to smooth things over for my sake so far." Steve takes a sip of his whiskey this time, and seems to have remembered there is food in front of him at last. "And unless there's a lot of supersoldiers out there just waiting for me to raise the clarion call of justice, there's just me." He picks up the chopsticks, more delicately this time. "Guess I'd better work on being more abrasive."