Tᴏɴʏ "ɪʀᴏɴ ᴍᴀɴ" Sᴛᴀʀᴋ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
liverletdie) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2016-03-27 11:08 am
liverletdie) wrote in maskormenacelogs2016-03-27 11:08 am
[OPEN] Listen as the crowd would sing
WHO: Tony Stark and YOU
WHERE: Everywhere
WHEN: Throughout the pullpoint plot
WHAT: Actual piece of shit Tony Stark
WARNINGS: Likely. Will add as they come up.
❮ DAY 1 | ALL LOCATIONS ❯
He'd always thought he was immune to power fluctuations. He'd certainly protected himself against things like EMP blasts. He'd certainly safeguarded his sensitive nanites -- the part of him that made him more than the average human -- he'd made sure that he wouldn't fall victim to something that would hurt him ever again. Ever since the EMP blast back in the City, it was a concern. But that didn't mean the after-effects were so easily wiped away. Or ignored. Slaked off like rain on a tin -- or in this case iron -- roof. Instead, the after-effects were what he had to worry about, but it was so minor, so small, it felt like no change at all. Like a shift in awareness more than anything else.
The suit he was working on -- just another one of his multiples for use -- the shift was enough for him to decide painting it wouldn't be necessary. Bright was better, right? Maybe an adjustment here or there. It wasn't the same -- not the same at all -- without the symbiote attached, but with old and new memories coming into a sharp clarity -- he understood that the porter wouldn't be such a kind benefactor. He was fortunate he had even this low-grade, backwards, old version of the extremis virus. He could have gone with none, couldn't he? No symbiote, but that wasn't really a concern. He wouldn't have the same worry, would he? Nobody knew here -- he didn't have to worry about Murdock investigating, he didn't have to worry about Potts and her interference, or -- himself -- he took a quick mental scan. Something to sift through file after file, looking for backup after backup, but there was nothing. Absolutely clean and clear.
The finishing touches were revealed in the morning -- he'd worked through the night to finish, but it was easy when your lab was built to respond to every thought, every touch, every idle direction -- it was beautiful, how his brain could predict his needs even now. It was how he spent Sunday -- Easter Sunday -- soaring over a good portion of the import cities. All of them. He didn't need one suit -- he had multiples. Three -- in Nonah, Heropa, and Maurtia falls, he unfortunately had to use relics from a past. Red and gold frame that soared over the sky, watching with renewed eyes, transmitting directly into his visual cortex. De Chima, he was in personally, white chrome that reflected the concrete and steel beneath him. In each one, there was little trouble, but that didn't keep him from stopping occasionally, looking around -- each suit would stop periodically -- it was like he was there personally, in each one. He'd look around, before he took off again, eventually finding trouble only later at night, a random mugger or two -- surprisingly quiet, all things considered.
Then again, he wasn't there to stop crimes. He was observing the lay of the land with renewed eyes.
❮ DAY 2 | DE CHIMA [CLOSED TO FREDERICK CHILTON] ❯
The restaurant he'd invited the psychiatrist was on the expensive side. Exceptionally expensive side. With a full bar and some of the priciest food that small plates could hold. The kind of place that screamed "status" in a way Chilton would likely appreciate more than going just anywhere. Inside, the conversation was low, the kind of place where business deals happened, and the upper-crust looked down on the waiters, even if they never said a word.
Stark leaned back in his chair, casual and relaxed, evaluating. He'd read his book -- the one about Walter White -- a quick skim, and then a second and third skim just to be sure. It took him all of 3 minutes. Sometimes he wondered why he'd been pretending at all. There was no point, it held him back. He watched Chilton with sharp eyes, the confident curl of his lips was probably too self-satisfied, too all-knowing, but he couldn't wipe it off his face. He didn't suffer embarrassment easily, for certain.
"Have you decided what you'd like? They have a surprisingly large selection -- normally places like this are restricted, don't you think?"
He knew what he was getting. A thumb brushed against the liquor selection on the menu.
❮ DAY 3 | DE CHIMA TECH CONFERENCE ❯
The plan originally had been to talk about the projected StarkPhone and its peripherals, but... that was so petty, wasn't it? Another consumer electronics when there was capital here to be worked with. Why not do something big? Why not do something outlandish? Different. Something to shock and awe -- to make the world stand up and listen to not just him but the imports as a whole. He'd been twiddling his thumbs, he'd been sitting on his laurels, and doing nothing that would actually achieve. Doing nothing that would make an impact or a difference. Nothing that would change the damn future he so strongly protected.
That had to change, didn't it?
"I'd like to thank you all for coming out here today," he opened, before launching into a long speech about StarkTech's direction. It was a nice one, too. All about improving and changing the future. The direction they could take in that -- pharmaceuticals, human improvement, using technology to make humanity better. To improve and empower -- that was the key. He grinned, when he said that. The logo was only an "E" -- he'd deal with it later. This was a stump speech, a preliminary proposal. Full of hope, teases, and no solid details. He'd have to refine the formula first.
" -- And if you have questions, feel free to ask them. Now, or... one on one during the little soirée I've arranged. No need to have one of these things if we can't enjoy ourselves, am I right?"
Of course he was. He already knew he was right. He always was.
❮ DAY 4-6 | VARIOUS ❯
The rest of the week was almost a blur. Alternated between time spent in StarkTech -- inventing or dealing with investors, storming the hallways and looking like a man on a mission -- or going through meetings, a glass of champagne or a martini in hand like it was normal. Few had dared to even point that out, but one look normally quieted them. If he wasn't at StarkTech, he was out. Either at bars or nightclubs, a gathering readily, he threw his money out like it was water, amassing crowds to dance and drink with -- and follow him home.
Or, during the day, he might be found soaring over the Cities, in white-chrome armor, never painted and polished so it reflected the world back from him, stopping everything from petty crime to just standing around, speaking with the media, citizens, anyone who'd listen -- always magnanimous and pleasant -- the smile on his face was, perhaps, only slightly friendly.
[ Please feel free to tag in with whatever! If you'd like to work something out, you can always find me on plurk @![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
hundreds! ]
WHERE: Everywhere
WHEN: Throughout the pullpoint plot
WHAT: Actual piece of shit Tony Stark
WARNINGS: Likely. Will add as they come up.
❮ DAY 1 | ALL LOCATIONS ❯
He'd always thought he was immune to power fluctuations. He'd certainly protected himself against things like EMP blasts. He'd certainly safeguarded his sensitive nanites -- the part of him that made him more than the average human -- he'd made sure that he wouldn't fall victim to something that would hurt him ever again. Ever since the EMP blast back in the City, it was a concern. But that didn't mean the after-effects were so easily wiped away. Or ignored. Slaked off like rain on a tin -- or in this case iron -- roof. Instead, the after-effects were what he had to worry about, but it was so minor, so small, it felt like no change at all. Like a shift in awareness more than anything else.
The suit he was working on -- just another one of his multiples for use -- the shift was enough for him to decide painting it wouldn't be necessary. Bright was better, right? Maybe an adjustment here or there. It wasn't the same -- not the same at all -- without the symbiote attached, but with old and new memories coming into a sharp clarity -- he understood that the porter wouldn't be such a kind benefactor. He was fortunate he had even this low-grade, backwards, old version of the extremis virus. He could have gone with none, couldn't he? No symbiote, but that wasn't really a concern. He wouldn't have the same worry, would he? Nobody knew here -- he didn't have to worry about Murdock investigating, he didn't have to worry about Potts and her interference, or -- himself -- he took a quick mental scan. Something to sift through file after file, looking for backup after backup, but there was nothing. Absolutely clean and clear.
The finishing touches were revealed in the morning -- he'd worked through the night to finish, but it was easy when your lab was built to respond to every thought, every touch, every idle direction -- it was beautiful, how his brain could predict his needs even now. It was how he spent Sunday -- Easter Sunday -- soaring over a good portion of the import cities. All of them. He didn't need one suit -- he had multiples. Three -- in Nonah, Heropa, and Maurtia falls, he unfortunately had to use relics from a past. Red and gold frame that soared over the sky, watching with renewed eyes, transmitting directly into his visual cortex. De Chima, he was in personally, white chrome that reflected the concrete and steel beneath him. In each one, there was little trouble, but that didn't keep him from stopping occasionally, looking around -- each suit would stop periodically -- it was like he was there personally, in each one. He'd look around, before he took off again, eventually finding trouble only later at night, a random mugger or two -- surprisingly quiet, all things considered.
Then again, he wasn't there to stop crimes. He was observing the lay of the land with renewed eyes.
❮ DAY 2 | DE CHIMA [CLOSED TO FREDERICK CHILTON] ❯
The restaurant he'd invited the psychiatrist was on the expensive side. Exceptionally expensive side. With a full bar and some of the priciest food that small plates could hold. The kind of place that screamed "status" in a way Chilton would likely appreciate more than going just anywhere. Inside, the conversation was low, the kind of place where business deals happened, and the upper-crust looked down on the waiters, even if they never said a word.
Stark leaned back in his chair, casual and relaxed, evaluating. He'd read his book -- the one about Walter White -- a quick skim, and then a second and third skim just to be sure. It took him all of 3 minutes. Sometimes he wondered why he'd been pretending at all. There was no point, it held him back. He watched Chilton with sharp eyes, the confident curl of his lips was probably too self-satisfied, too all-knowing, but he couldn't wipe it off his face. He didn't suffer embarrassment easily, for certain.
"Have you decided what you'd like? They have a surprisingly large selection -- normally places like this are restricted, don't you think?"
He knew what he was getting. A thumb brushed against the liquor selection on the menu.
❮ DAY 3 | DE CHIMA TECH CONFERENCE ❯
The plan originally had been to talk about the projected StarkPhone and its peripherals, but... that was so petty, wasn't it? Another consumer electronics when there was capital here to be worked with. Why not do something big? Why not do something outlandish? Different. Something to shock and awe -- to make the world stand up and listen to not just him but the imports as a whole. He'd been twiddling his thumbs, he'd been sitting on his laurels, and doing nothing that would actually achieve. Doing nothing that would make an impact or a difference. Nothing that would change the damn future he so strongly protected.
That had to change, didn't it?
"I'd like to thank you all for coming out here today," he opened, before launching into a long speech about StarkTech's direction. It was a nice one, too. All about improving and changing the future. The direction they could take in that -- pharmaceuticals, human improvement, using technology to make humanity better. To improve and empower -- that was the key. He grinned, when he said that. The logo was only an "E" -- he'd deal with it later. This was a stump speech, a preliminary proposal. Full of hope, teases, and no solid details. He'd have to refine the formula first.
" -- And if you have questions, feel free to ask them. Now, or... one on one during the little soirée I've arranged. No need to have one of these things if we can't enjoy ourselves, am I right?"
Of course he was. He already knew he was right. He always was.
❮ DAY 4-6 | VARIOUS ❯
The rest of the week was almost a blur. Alternated between time spent in StarkTech -- inventing or dealing with investors, storming the hallways and looking like a man on a mission -- or going through meetings, a glass of champagne or a martini in hand like it was normal. Few had dared to even point that out, but one look normally quieted them. If he wasn't at StarkTech, he was out. Either at bars or nightclubs, a gathering readily, he threw his money out like it was water, amassing crowds to dance and drink with -- and follow him home.
Or, during the day, he might be found soaring over the Cities, in white-chrome armor, never painted and polished so it reflected the world back from him, stopping everything from petty crime to just standing around, speaking with the media, citizens, anyone who'd listen -- always magnanimous and pleasant -- the smile on his face was, perhaps, only slightly friendly.
[ Please feel free to tag in with whatever! If you'd like to work something out, you can always find me on plurk @
no subject
"You like to push, don't you?" he asked.
Watching him go through his things had been somewhat humiliating, and had put him on edge. But really, there was nothing to talk about, after all, he had plan after plan stored away in the information that his former self had left. Weapons. Items. Things that nobody who actually said they were done with designing superweapons would ever actually need. But then again, the man he'd been... he never actually gave it all up. He just pretended that he did. He did it for his own moral code, to make himself feel better, even if it did no good, he couldn't stop people from killing others. He couldn't stop war, he just guaranteed they continued for longer than necessary.
Go figure. He should have scared them all into behaving, like he did at home.
He stepped forward, then. The doors to the entrance closed on their own, and locked. The systems reacted to the lightest mental command from him and the suit -- now behind Qubit, moved, fast enough to shadow him.
"I think you've outworn your welcome. I've been more than open with you, so now that you've achieved your goal, why don't we go talk elsewhere?"
Like on top of his building. Where he could drop him off.
no subject
Instinct took hold. Qubit's hand flew to his watch. The controls were only partly psionic, but it was more than enough to make targeting and activation happen faster than a speeding bullet, especially within line of sight. A shining portal appeared next to him and he slipped through, but its twin was only a few yards away, still within the lab, roughly equidistant from both Stark and his chrome-plated buddy. This didn't put him outside the suit's range of motion, obviously, but he was far enough that catching him was a matter of who was quicker on the draw.
And Qubit was damned quick on the draw. He had to be, to have survived this long.
"I can see myself out, thank you," he snapped, starting to raise his voice. His mind raced, in the meantime. Elsewhere - that might not be a bad idea. But where? If Qubit took them someplace public, where Tony couldn't attack him without hurting his precious image... he ran the risk of Tony abandoning the image and eliminating witnesses. No. But someplace remote, and it could be years before anybody found his body - or whatever was left of it. (Would he revive? Maybe. But that armor probably had enough firepower to incinerate him, nanites and all, and he wasn't sure how fast he could take it apart.)
There really was no good place to have this discussion. Which meant there was no better place. At least in here, he was effectively armed.
"I don't know whether you're going for supervillainy here, or just trying to make a tidy profit off World War Three," he went on, with undisguised contempt. "But either way, you're a disgrace." To the imPort community, to the field of engineering, and not least, to himself.
no subject
He'd need to deal with him, and quick.
"No, you know what?" he asked, his voice sharp, jaw tight. "I'm the person I should have been for years," and he gestured, slightly, the suit started to pace, but didn't approach. He walked to a table, seemingly unconcerned, and pulled a bottle of liquor from one of the drawers. He'd stocked it rather well, considering how long it had been since he was ported in. Then again, he'd made a few runs to the liquor store. More than a few.
He opened the cap, and took a long drink from the bottle. "All this time, pretending that I was like the rest of them, surely you're smart enough, you can at least understand that," another drink. "Always dumbing yourself down, always pretending that you couldn't see six steps ahead, that you didn't know exactly how the future was going to end up, based on probability. How every 'new invention' was just another thing that you had in your back pocket, waiting until the right time."
He moved again, this time walking away from the table, taking long swigs from the vodka bottle, halfway empty now. "I got so damned tired of it all. The restraint, the holding back. It was going to hold me back, but not anymore. I know exactly how to get Russia and the US to behave from now on, and it doesn't involve either letting that weapon linger, or it being used." 3/4ths. He was drinking like a fish, circling, but not closing in.
"I'm going to ensure the future -- and it's going to be the best damned future it could be. Whether you ungrateful idiots like it or not."
The bottle -- now empty -- smashed against a table, showing shards of sharp glass.
In the same moment the suit reached to grab him in a bear hug from behind, the aim to lock his arms to his sides.
no subject
Of course Qubit knew what it was like. He'd known that feeling all his life. Even among friends, he usually felt like he was surrounded by idiots. In fact, Earth-β was the first place he'd really found people who could keep up with him intellectually (and weren't Modeus or aliens with minds beyond four-dimensional comprehension).
The rest of the speech was all too familiar, though. Being tired of self-restraint. Tired of using his powers for the good of people who, from the heights you can reach, look like ants. Insignificant, fragile, ordinary people. People who should be grateful for your help, who should adore you. Yeah, he'd heard this before. But at least this time, it wasn't from the mouth of a friend.
Qubit remained where he was, watching him through narrow eyes. Is this what it might have looked like, if the tables were turned? If he were the one who'd gone rogue? He couldn't say he'd never imagined such a scenario. How he'd do it. Or rather, how he'd do it if he lost all regard for human life. He didn't doubt he'd be nearly as terrifying as the Plutonian. He could be anywhere on Earth instantly. He could put every nuclear plant in the world into meltdown within an hour, probably. He could black out the power grid in half the country with a snap of his fingers, and he knew where to target to do it. He'd be able to plunge the world into chaos without firing a shot.
It was a dangerous road, all too easy to start down, but impossible to turn back from. It was the entire reason he held himself to such a high moral standard. There was so little to separate men from monsters.
Never again.
Tony was chugging hard liquor straight from the bottle now, with genuinely astounding speed. A normal person would have been unconscious and/or vomiting their guts out after half that much, but here he was, apparently unaffected. What was he, anyway?
Maybe because his attention was mostly on Stark, as the bottle broke, the armor managed to get the jump on him. Qubit found his arms painfully pinned, and it sent a momentary shock of alarm through him. He'd pushed far enough, come close enough to the truth, that Tony was actually going to try and kill him over it.
Try being the operative word.
"So that's how it is?" he shouted. Logic might still have his actions, but he let his anger out in his words. "You're going to take over the world, remake it in your own image? I can tell you right now, that's not going to work. You can be the smartest man in the world, and there'll still be variables you won't have accounted for."
Like, for instance, the fact that he was using a robot to restrain a guy whose power included making robots fall apart by looking at them funny. Someone hadn't done his homework. Qubit didn't make his move yet, though. Not until he could see the whites of Tony's eyes.
no subject
So you watch them. See how they react. You keep watch until they're so afraid of acting out. People were funny, when they thought they could get caught. They'd behave, and then year after year, they'd learn. Slowly, but surely, you could prune those impulses free, and then you had nothing left but actual people. The kinds that could build a future to be proud of. Technocratic? Maybe. Certainly not harmful. Hell, he hadn't even killed the man who'd protested him on TV. Qubit had...interesting views, on what he suspected was a pretty stark picture of black and white.
"I don't know, being a god's not so hard. I know Thor, I'm sure by now, I'm an expert," he chided, that arrogance that lilted in his tone was overconfident, and airy. Like it really was nothing. He knew better than to just tell someone his plans. Or get them to understand -- even if he suspected that if he covered the truth, if he really thought about it, he'd see that Tony Stark was completely right. And he really did love being right. Every time.
"I don't know why people like you think you know better than me," he chided, another step forward. The suit's arms gripped tighter. "But for some reason, you all think that way. Do you know how hard it is to get anything done around peers? Good thing there are memory wipes," he said simply.
Ah yes, memory wipes. He leaned in close, fingers tight around the neck of the broken bottle. "Maybe I'll just skim a little bit off the top, when I wipe yours."
no subject
He acted fast. Building machines was his expertise, honed over years of study and practice, but breaking them, that was as easy as breathing. A slight metallic crunch, not loud, was the only warning before the suit's arms fell off at the shoulders, freeing him (and his lungs).
One arm dropped to the floor, but the other Qubit caught with his elbow, grabbed by the wrist, and swung, using his body as counterweight. A pro baseballer he was not, so this wasn't an aimed shot - all he needed it to do was knock Tony off-balance long enough to slip away. As he moved, though, he kept hold of the arm, the shoulder end dragging on the floor. It was bloody heavy, true, but it was parts.
no subject
People never realized that until it was too late. After taking on Mallen, and after injecting himself with the extremis nanovirus, he was more than human. Not that he told people, or let them know. That was the key to it all. Nobody knew. He dumbed himself down and played pretend so people would be comfortable with him. Before he'd finally gotten sice of it, he'd always kept himself casual, simple. It helped, and people loved it about him. He was "down to earth", which made him more money.
And it also meant nobody expected it when he really moved. Creeping over his skin was the golden underarmor that he'd stored in the hollows of his bones -- an odd feeling, different than the organic symbiote of the suite he'd had now, but not...dissimilar. Close enough that the grin on his face said enough, when the metal of his suit hit hard metal on his ribs. "Careful," he said, his grin said enough.
Qubit made it easy, if he fought back. He reached out, and swiped with the bottle, aiming for his head, to get a good hit in with that at least.
And up over the rest of the lab, one of the suits stirred.
They were all operational, after all.