Logs:Very Stable Genius

Very Stable Genius
Dramatis Personae Tony Stark, Steve
In Absentia	2020-11-16 "Evil counterpart or no, you should know better than to mess with yourself."
Location <NYC> NYPD 121st Precinct - Staten Island
The 121st Precinct station house is one of the newest in the borough, its unique top-heavy outline eyecatching where it perches at the top of its hill. There are no police officers in sight now, though, nor any cruisers out front, though some remain in the actual parking lot in back. There are instead quite a number of commercial vans (Strategic Pest Control and Mold Remediation, they read, beside an incredibly generic geometric logo) parked in the circular driveway, and workers in coveralls coming and going at regular intervals. It's growing late, and the buzz of activity in the abandoned station has quieted to only this: the hum of a lot of equipment down by the holding cells, the clink of bottles, the distinctive sound of Tony's voice just-a-little-too-loud where he's wandered closer to the unseen but very much felt tear between worlds. "Whoosh," is his current verrrry scientific proclamation -- it comes in time with a paper airplane veering through the rift and vanishing. "These'd be a hit on TikTok." He's just putting his phone down from where he has been filming this. Slipping it back into his pocket. "Scale of one to ten," he's asking -- leaning up against the side of the bars, taking a gulp of Scotch, "how quick you think Fury would -- redact --" He's pointing the phone directly at Steve, now, "you." Steve has stripped out of his jacket and his tie and is just in a blue dress shirt and black slacks now, his shield hanging from its harness on the back of the chair that he's dressed over to humor Tony while he plays with the rift. "In a heartbeat," he replies, evidently unconcerned about his potential impending TikTok stardom. "Besides, you don't really want my publicist after you." He rises smoothly, bringing his own squat glass of Scotch with him as he ambles over stand beside Tony. Squints at the dimensional tear. "Sooner or later, I reckon someone on the other side has got to notice." He leans forward over the barrier, tilting his head one way or another. "Even if there's no one around to see the -- paper airplanes." "It's Staten. Island." Tony's scoffing dismissal comes with confidence. "How many drones have we sent. How many --" His Scotch-hand waggles in the air. "Spies. Haven't been invaded yet. -- You know what your publicist would love more." He's pushing forward as Steve leans across the barrier, shoving at the other man's back -- it's only after this that he swears under his breath. Pats at his pocket. "Wait," comes a second later, as he is, also, clambering over the barrier through the chill tear in space. "Didn't have my phone." Steve evidently trusts Tony a great deal more than he perhaps should, because he is wholly unprepared for this treachery. He loses his balance and tips forward, dropping his glass to the floor where it shatters into a million fine boozy shards. He himself, though recovers from the tumble easily, tucking his head in, touching down on the outside of his shoulder and rolling neatly to his feet, coming up in a low crouch in -- -- an empty cell. But darker, quieter: the only light is New York's skyglow from the window, the only sound the muffled forlorn wind. In many respects this is the same cell he had just been peering at, only long-abandoned. By the open cell door is a paper airplane, starkly bright white on the dingy gray floor. Steve straightens up and nabs the airplane, gazing around him suspicious and wide-eyed. "Eerie," he mutters. Tony is soon to join Steve. Upright, glass in hand. He graciously offers Steve his Scotch now that Steve has somehow! mysteriously! misplaced his own. Besides which, he needs to pluck his phone from his pocket as he peers around the dusty-dim room. "Brave new world, Cap." He's frowning in the dim light. Picking his way toward the open door. "-- that we're just gonna. Slam the door on. Brilliant." Steve accepts the glass from Tony and drains half of its remaining contents. "Not all that different from ours, except they somehow managed to screw up even worse." He frowns, but follows the other man readily enough. "We have no concept what the long-term effects might be of leaving it open. And your data indicates it fluctuates. No telling if it's truly stable." Even though the building seems completely empty around them, he's treading quietly. "What would you have us do? Make contact?" "That --" Tony snaps his fingers, eyes lighting as he points at Steve, "Genius." He's beelining for the door, now. DETERMINED. "Top of my list, seems like -- it's years past due for someone's fists to make contact with my -- not-my. Other-my..." Now he turns back on a heel, cheek clicking against his teeth as he looks to Steve. "This work better if we assign him an alias? NegaStark? Shellhead? Either way. Earned some kind of. Comeuppance." Steve's eyebrows arch slightly. "Call him what you like, but it's going to be terribly embarrassing when we barge in there unarmed, get nabbed by NegaStark security and thrown into a laboratory somewhere. Imagine the volume of snark from Agent Romanov when they have to come rescue us." He hooks his arm through Tony's and starts guiding him back toward the rift. Presses the Scotch back into his hand as if by way of compensation. "Evil counterpart or no, you should know better than to mess with yourself." "Low. It would be -- low. That pair are very quiet with their snark. Sneaks up on you." Tony accepts the glass as he's turned back around, gulping down the rest of it. "Shellhead," he corrects emphatically, undermining this correction a second later with, "though I do seem to be. No less capable here -- bet we'd have this rift sewn up in a jiff with evil-Stark's. Help. Not," he admits, "that he'd be number one on my preferred. Team. List." After a pause for thought. "Two, maybe." "Barton?" Steve glances aside at Tony. But then, after a moment's consideration, nods. "Alright. I see that. He's -- quiet about it, though." Then, with a soft huff that could have been movement towards a laugh. "Wait... So your warmongering, genocidal alter ego is your second choice." This isn't a question. He stops just short of the rift itself, invisible but palpable in its own strange way. "Who's your first?" "Please. What would he get out of being loud?" Tony tries to take another mouthful of whisky, but frowns when the glass comes up empty. Looks around -- remembers where they are and turns back to the rift. "Believe it or not," a sliver of a smile flits across his face, just before he pulls them back towards the frigid tear, "first choice? Even less available."