Logs:Tuvix

Tuvix
Dramatis Personae DJ, Tony
In Absentia Dawson, Hive	2024-07-22 "Sounds like you got a solution right there." (later the night of running into Ansel.)
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. Nobody's told Tony, apparently, about drinking and operating heavy machinery. He's in his workshop, casual in jeans and a grey tee and near to hand, his squat glass has been freshly refilled with Scotch and not for the first time. He himself is in an oddly shaped futuristic-looking vehicle that very much resembles a car. Thankfully, at least, he's buried elbow-deep in its strange mechanical guts and not trying to drive the thing; probably, if anything goes wrong here, the only casualty will be Tony and several puttering helper robots. Bon Jovi's "Keep the Faith" album is blaring, currently halfway through "Bed of Roses", and Tony's head bopping along to the music is maybe not the most wise idea with his current task. He's, maybe predictably, just hit his head against the open hood of the vehicle. His sharp cursing summons over a concerned little robot -- very prepared, it's armed itself for an eclectic range of potential Tony Emergencies, fire extinguisher in one limb, first aid kit riding on its back, crystal decanter of Scotch tucked in a holder, front display queued up to call Pepper. Has Tony updated his security system, yet? Has he updated it enough to account for DJ? There's a flutter -- somewhere -- and maybe his AI assistants catch it, and maybe they don't, but he's plucking up the first aid kit from the robot before JARVIS or Friday have had a chance to offer a warning. "You know, sometimes, when it's not infuriating," he's peering at Tony's head thoughtfully as he drags over a stool and sets the first aid kit down on it, "it's just kind of embarrassing how long you had us on the run." Tony is wiping at the small scrape on his forehead, examining the blood that comes away on his fingers before wiping it off against a rag. "Hey. Peon," he's addressing the robot and not DJ, "I look like this needs a whole doctor?" He is tossing the rag to the side (where Dum-E quickly snatches it up off the floor and puts it in a nearby bin for used rags) and leaning against the front end of the concept car, eyes flicking up and down over DJ. "How -- how often would you say it's not infuriating?" His mouth twitches a little to the side. "Me, Prometheus, the, ah, entire U.S. government." Maybe 'not taking sole credit for a large group effort' is as close as Tony is ever going to come to apology. DJ has gloved up and is dabbing the small wound with stinging disinfectant. "Will need a doctor if you keep rubbing grime in every scrape. Infection killed way more of us than..." He ends this sentence with a quiet huff, eyes flicking to his mechanical limb. "S'actually been. Really hard to be mad at you." Tony might perhaps be forgiven a skeptical glance at this assertion; no matter how big his ego it is not quite enough to think that his Very Charming Personality alone can paper over a genocide. He's quiet during this bit of uninvited solicitude, maybe because just allowing it affords him some time to cycle past the first several quips he wants to make and drum up one modicum of tact. "Have been pretty busy with your cult." It's a very tiny modicum. Because DJ is a grown man who is trying very hard to practice Christlike love, he does not roll his eyes. He does, just a little, whack Tony in the forehead with the blunted end of his bandage scissors as he cuts the tape. "Trust me, I am very capable of being angry at church." He pulls back, handing both the first aid kit and the trash to Peon and taking a seat on the stool. "Normally. It's just been -- a lot harder, lately. The things I get angry at aren't my..." He's looking down at his hands where they fold between his knees. "I'm angry a lot, but it's all things that happened to someone else. My life is starting to feel like it was. Someone else." "Someone else." Tony is going back to his drink, taking a large swallow of his Scotch. "Right. Ah. How long till your --" He's waggling his fingers in the direction of DJ's head, "Goes all Malignant. Wake up with your wives all dead around you." "It's not like that. He --" DJ's jaw clamps tight. He presses his fingers firmly against the plastic knuckles of the other hand. "That's not what I'm worried about." Tony quirks up an eyebrow. "Then what?" "Nothing," protests DJ, much too immediate. He shakes his head, his grip slowly easing. "Nothing, it's. I just don't know who we are. What we are." "Thought that was just how it went with your, ah. Brain. Parasite." Tony waits only a beat before clarifying, "The other one." "It's really more of a mutualism." DJ's tongue clicks in the mildest disappointment at this scientific error. "But that's the thing. With Hive I always -- we always feel like more, together, than just the sum of us. It doesn't feel like I'm losing anything. But this -- him, it's different. There is no us. Half the time I barely feel like --" He cuts himself off with a quick shake of head. "It just feels like there's less and less of us all the time than there was before." Tony's fingers tap rapid against the side of his glass for a time, as he considers this. He tosses back the Scotch in a quick gulp, and then refills it. "What's the other you think?" DJ's expression twitches, a flit of frown that tightens all his features for just a moment. "Think he wishes as much as I do that I'd stayed home." Tony runs his tongue up over his teeth, his eyes tipping up to the ceiling. He knocks back half of this drink, too. "See, if Tuvix had wanted to die there'd be no dilemma." This reference is, evidently, very lost on DJ, whose brow just wrinkles up in puzzlement. "Huh?" "There's a show here -- nevermind." Tony is glancing towards one of the several large screens in his workshop, but then just waves a dismissive hand. "You don't want this, he doesn't want this, who does? Can't you just --" His hand makes a demonstrative chopping motion across his neck. "You have some kind of gadget down here that can separate minds? This is a bit beyond even the best brain surgeons, I think. As long as Hive and I are --" This time, it's DJ who is fluttering an indicative hand toward his head. "-- I think it's just going to be. What it is." "Uh --" Tony is glancing around the workshop thoughtfully before answering. "You wanna guinea pig something, I could --" He shrugs a shoulder and sets his glass back aside. "Anyway, sounds like you got a solution right there. How much of your sanity is one extra wife worth." He's turning back to his car -- maybe at least a little cognizant that the extra Scotch is not making him any less accident-prone, because he is, at least, beckoning DJ over. "C'mon. Could use a couple extra hands." DJ's eyes fix hard on the inside of the car. He's silent a long while, and slow to pull himself off his stool. When he finally does, it's with a small and mostly humorless smile. "Sorry. You only get the one."