Tony Stark (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
in_extremis) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
revivalproject2024-03-04 11:09 pm
in_extremis) wrote in revivalproject2024-03-04 11:09 pm
Loiter
WHO: Tony, Donnie, Captain Steve, Leo, Jon
WHERE: NG-102
WHAT: Sugar daddy shit
WHEN: Don't think about it too hard.
WARNINGS: None yet
NOTES: Hit me up here if you want me to start something, or just tag in and surprise me.
a. military surplus [for donnie]
The music sounded like grinding chainsaws set to an incessantly thumping pile driver. A jar just over the proprietor's head rattled with every beat, shifting inexorably closer to the edge of the shelf, exactly 6989 deep bass bumps from dropping over the ledge entirely and pouring the tacks inside across the counter. Tony watched it and counted while he wasn't trying to read the alien's lips. When it did fall, it was going to be an impossible cleanup job; the shop was densely heaped, shelves packed so full that there must have been items in the deep corners of them that could give Tony a full archaeological overview of the technological development of this place over the last half century, at least. If Tony could see what he was doing in the blacklight.
It was undeniably the best place to find parts, chips, cases and bolts in the quadrant, though no one had mentioned the sound when they had suggested Tony try there for what he was looking for. "They don't make them like this anymore," the proprietor had said when Tony had asked about picking up an analog signal, and led Tony with uncanny confidence toward a shelf that he thought had been mostly for glue. Now he had what looked like a CRT monitor and what else he thought he needed to pick up a difficult signal sitting on the counter, and the process of actually making a purchase had ground to a stop when in the midst of Tony's ceaseless chatter, the alien had interrupted, "No, no. 'Parent' and 'child' are opposites."
That, by necessity, they could not be working in opposition in a code was not the argument that the alien wanted to hear, and instead had Tony trapped in some kind of test to figure out what other opposites they disagreed on. The proprietor was unreadable as they simply continued with each answer Tony gave; past, future, proton, electron, acid, base, until the alien said, "Human." Then, Tony hesitated, not sure if he had heard correctly over the music, or translated correctly across the language gap.
"Human?" he echoed, with a tap to his chest to confirm the context. "What's the opposite of human?"
b. tailor [for steve]
It was no wonder there was no one stuck on Agra-10 that wanted anything to do with Tony. Now that he had generous access to the kind of products and treatments that kept his image welded together back home, all of his imperfections were so strikingly obvious; he couldn't write them off as just being too busy, not getting enough sleep last night. The wardrobe and the skin care just acted as an unforgiving contrast. He glared at his reflection in his sunglasses for the sixth time in ten minutes, at how pale he was, the narrowness of his shoulders, the dullness of his hair. Was that grey? His hand snapped up to his hairline, pushing it back at the temple, and his disappointing shoulders only incrementally relaxed when he had tried several angles to make sure that had just been a poor reflection and trick of the light. He shoved the glasses back on with a snarl of frustration at himself, for not better anticipating what a pathetic sight he would make alongside some perfectly primped news anchor. Maybe he could make something back in the lab on the ship that would help. Like a mask.
What he could anticipate, occasionally effective and erstwhile-beautiful futurist that he was, was running into someone familiar while stalking his way back toward the docks. "Oh, good," he could still sigh, because it wasn't just someone, but someone who would be unflinchingly honest about how disappointing he was. 'Honest' was one of those things that Steve believed in without metre, like 'freedom' and 'standing your ground', and that was occasionally not annoying. "What do you think?" Tony greeted him, looking impatient already like Steve should have known what he was going to ask, and spreading his arms to present the full, meagre picture. A proper shave and a haircut had been the first stop, and led him naturally into several other technicians that all promised to leave him feeling refreshed, rejuvenated, and sometimes refrangible. The new suit was supposed to bring it together for him, crisp, sleek and black. He should have felt like a new Porsche on the showroom floor. He should have felt like Steve looked. God, now it was worse. Abruptly, he dropped his arms and redirected, "Do you want to give an interview?"
c. homegoods [for leo]
"Hey," Tony had called, not a sharp sound that cut through the meandering shoppers but accompanied with a lift of his hand to get the turtle's attention. He must have been confident that he got it fast, because he was already instructing, "Watch this." His raised hand tipped so vaguely into a small throng that had gathered in front of a glittering window, where the group watched a robot demonstrate a very shiny pan by setting it on fire, then stabbing it chaotically. It wasn't the pan that Tony was indicating, though, and he had hung back from the gathering, lounging against the wall of a facing establishment where several cigarette butts were already crushed underfoot, and he had smiled his way into a cigarette of his own to justify his lingering. He had only looked away from his appointed post when he saw the flash of a familiar green out of the corner of his eye, and had to do a double-take, not seeing the distinct teen he had been expecting. There was no doubt who this one was, though. So, Tony still indicated, then he waited, eyes narrowed and head tilting expectantly until he said, "That. Did you see that?" While the pan withstood a chainsaw, someone in the crowd had moved unexpectedly, a strange swipe of a rubbery arm straight through the group.
d. shuttle service [for jon]
What had started as an offhand comment about the balance effecting the speed, the big shift making them lurch as they came to a stop, something that had been a strange quirk of the ships that the regulars had gotten used to and smirked behind their hands as Tony watched the approach back into the station with wide, anxious eyes, the comment had become an argument, then a challenge, then a revolt. When the day had started, J.U.M.P. shuttles had been the fastest way between someone's church and their favourite dumpling shop. By the end, Tony was standing with his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, fabric and knuckles stained and expensive shoes scuffed, still holding a wrench and twirling a sprocket around a finger while he apologized, "Sorry, out of service," for the thousandth time. PR management was rapidly becoming a priority, right after he actually finished fixing the shuttles. The previous owner had never worried about that kind of thing, expecting, quite reasonably, that if a traveller had a better option, they wouldn't be on this meteor-bait station in the first place. "What's the status on that sign...?" Tony grumbled impatiently at the kid who had elected to stay on with him, happy to do one last thing to stick it to his old boss, and was assured with a frantic waving of glitter and sequin covered hands. Any minute now. Through a mask of reassuring, disarming smiles and placating waves to the small crowd crushed up against the ticket booth that definitely were not getting them home any faster, Tony warned, "If I come back to find out you've gone on another craft store run, it's coming out of your paycheque. How much are you getting paid?"
"Fifty million. An hour."
The garage had been much safer. From there, right at the edge of the station, Tony could see out to the vastness of space while he worked, mapping all of those unfamiliar stars, considering just how far out he could push one of these shuttles before it was a death sentence. He pursed his lips at the kid, who grinned back to show that several sequins had gotten stuck in his green gums, before making his retreat back to his machines. It wasn't even a big fix, that was all that he had been trying to explain to the previous owner. He would have it done by the next day. Until then, a very angry group of tired mall lackeys was forming at the unexpectedly closed gates.
WHERE: NG-102
WHAT: Sugar daddy shit
WHEN: Don't think about it too hard.
WARNINGS: None yet
NOTES: Hit me up here if you want me to start something, or just tag in and surprise me.
a. military surplus [for donnie]
The music sounded like grinding chainsaws set to an incessantly thumping pile driver. A jar just over the proprietor's head rattled with every beat, shifting inexorably closer to the edge of the shelf, exactly 6989 deep bass bumps from dropping over the ledge entirely and pouring the tacks inside across the counter. Tony watched it and counted while he wasn't trying to read the alien's lips. When it did fall, it was going to be an impossible cleanup job; the shop was densely heaped, shelves packed so full that there must have been items in the deep corners of them that could give Tony a full archaeological overview of the technological development of this place over the last half century, at least. If Tony could see what he was doing in the blacklight.
It was undeniably the best place to find parts, chips, cases and bolts in the quadrant, though no one had mentioned the sound when they had suggested Tony try there for what he was looking for. "They don't make them like this anymore," the proprietor had said when Tony had asked about picking up an analog signal, and led Tony with uncanny confidence toward a shelf that he thought had been mostly for glue. Now he had what looked like a CRT monitor and what else he thought he needed to pick up a difficult signal sitting on the counter, and the process of actually making a purchase had ground to a stop when in the midst of Tony's ceaseless chatter, the alien had interrupted, "No, no. 'Parent' and 'child' are opposites."
That, by necessity, they could not be working in opposition in a code was not the argument that the alien wanted to hear, and instead had Tony trapped in some kind of test to figure out what other opposites they disagreed on. The proprietor was unreadable as they simply continued with each answer Tony gave; past, future, proton, electron, acid, base, until the alien said, "Human." Then, Tony hesitated, not sure if he had heard correctly over the music, or translated correctly across the language gap.
"Human?" he echoed, with a tap to his chest to confirm the context. "What's the opposite of human?"
b. tailor [for steve]
It was no wonder there was no one stuck on Agra-10 that wanted anything to do with Tony. Now that he had generous access to the kind of products and treatments that kept his image welded together back home, all of his imperfections were so strikingly obvious; he couldn't write them off as just being too busy, not getting enough sleep last night. The wardrobe and the skin care just acted as an unforgiving contrast. He glared at his reflection in his sunglasses for the sixth time in ten minutes, at how pale he was, the narrowness of his shoulders, the dullness of his hair. Was that grey? His hand snapped up to his hairline, pushing it back at the temple, and his disappointing shoulders only incrementally relaxed when he had tried several angles to make sure that had just been a poor reflection and trick of the light. He shoved the glasses back on with a snarl of frustration at himself, for not better anticipating what a pathetic sight he would make alongside some perfectly primped news anchor. Maybe he could make something back in the lab on the ship that would help. Like a mask.
What he could anticipate, occasionally effective and erstwhile-beautiful futurist that he was, was running into someone familiar while stalking his way back toward the docks. "Oh, good," he could still sigh, because it wasn't just someone, but someone who would be unflinchingly honest about how disappointing he was. 'Honest' was one of those things that Steve believed in without metre, like 'freedom' and 'standing your ground', and that was occasionally not annoying. "What do you think?" Tony greeted him, looking impatient already like Steve should have known what he was going to ask, and spreading his arms to present the full, meagre picture. A proper shave and a haircut had been the first stop, and led him naturally into several other technicians that all promised to leave him feeling refreshed, rejuvenated, and sometimes refrangible. The new suit was supposed to bring it together for him, crisp, sleek and black. He should have felt like a new Porsche on the showroom floor. He should have felt like Steve looked. God, now it was worse. Abruptly, he dropped his arms and redirected, "Do you want to give an interview?"
c. homegoods [for leo]
"Hey," Tony had called, not a sharp sound that cut through the meandering shoppers but accompanied with a lift of his hand to get the turtle's attention. He must have been confident that he got it fast, because he was already instructing, "Watch this." His raised hand tipped so vaguely into a small throng that had gathered in front of a glittering window, where the group watched a robot demonstrate a very shiny pan by setting it on fire, then stabbing it chaotically. It wasn't the pan that Tony was indicating, though, and he had hung back from the gathering, lounging against the wall of a facing establishment where several cigarette butts were already crushed underfoot, and he had smiled his way into a cigarette of his own to justify his lingering. He had only looked away from his appointed post when he saw the flash of a familiar green out of the corner of his eye, and had to do a double-take, not seeing the distinct teen he had been expecting. There was no doubt who this one was, though. So, Tony still indicated, then he waited, eyes narrowed and head tilting expectantly until he said, "That. Did you see that?" While the pan withstood a chainsaw, someone in the crowd had moved unexpectedly, a strange swipe of a rubbery arm straight through the group.
d. shuttle service [for jon]
What had started as an offhand comment about the balance effecting the speed, the big shift making them lurch as they came to a stop, something that had been a strange quirk of the ships that the regulars had gotten used to and smirked behind their hands as Tony watched the approach back into the station with wide, anxious eyes, the comment had become an argument, then a challenge, then a revolt. When the day had started, J.U.M.P. shuttles had been the fastest way between someone's church and their favourite dumpling shop. By the end, Tony was standing with his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, fabric and knuckles stained and expensive shoes scuffed, still holding a wrench and twirling a sprocket around a finger while he apologized, "Sorry, out of service," for the thousandth time. PR management was rapidly becoming a priority, right after he actually finished fixing the shuttles. The previous owner had never worried about that kind of thing, expecting, quite reasonably, that if a traveller had a better option, they wouldn't be on this meteor-bait station in the first place. "What's the status on that sign...?" Tony grumbled impatiently at the kid who had elected to stay on with him, happy to do one last thing to stick it to his old boss, and was assured with a frantic waving of glitter and sequin covered hands. Any minute now. Through a mask of reassuring, disarming smiles and placating waves to the small crowd crushed up against the ticket booth that definitely were not getting them home any faster, Tony warned, "If I come back to find out you've gone on another craft store run, it's coming out of your paycheque. How much are you getting paid?"
"Fifty million. An hour."
The garage had been much safer. From there, right at the edge of the station, Tony could see out to the vastness of space while he worked, mapping all of those unfamiliar stars, considering just how far out he could push one of these shuttles before it was a death sentence. He pursed his lips at the kid, who grinned back to show that several sequins had gotten stuck in his green gums, before making his retreat back to his machines. It wasn't even a big fix, that was all that he had been trying to explain to the previous owner. He would have it done by the next day. Until then, a very angry group of tired mall lackeys was forming at the unexpectedly closed gates.
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These spa employees were really working against Tony now, making him purse his lips at them while they not only refused to explain what was so upsetting about Steve, but now they were enforcing his commitment to the beard and whatever self-flagellation it meant. "I have a beard, of course it's not the beard," he hissed, deciding that Steve had done that on purpose.
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"If I stood beside you and told them the world was ending, they'd think that I was the one ending it."
The employees look at each other and kinda shrug like, yeah, he's probably right.
Steve takes a deep breath. "Fine. It's not the beard. I don't know what it is. Tony, what are the things you don't like about me?"
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"If I could answer that, we would have figured this out forty minutes ago," Tony pointed out, finding it difficult to shift gears from cataloguing all of the reasons these aliens were wrong and feeling pretty certain there wasn't anything not to like about Steve. That was before he started talking, of course, with a wave of his hand in the air like he was grasping for any possible answer, only to provide, "You're stubborn, your problem solving is a blunt instrument, you invite yourself into my shop, you always have to be right." All of those were definitely negative traits that a logical person would find abrasive. Tony was very logical.
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Maybe that's why they get along so well, and also butt heads so much. They're just two iterations of the same type, one flashier and one more serious. "Maybe it's because they don't like my sense of humor." But they can't know what it is looking at him.
"Also, I come down to your shop because I care about you and you don't do a good job of taking care of yourself." More things that annoy Tony, surely.
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The two employees are just so shocked at how Tony so easily forgave Steve who is clearly trespassing against him here, thinking maybe they'd have a blowout fight and then finally they'd be rid of Steve. When in actuality, it puts Steve at ease a little bit to trade flaws with him.
The one employee who's doing Steve's nails asks Tony, "Sir, what color would you like these to be?" instead of asking Steve.
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Steve feels a little bit odd about letting someone else touch his feet, but he'll let the person do it if it'll get Tony to feel more at ease. "My hands are free, and there's nothing against the law I want to do with them." At least, not that he knows of. But he doesn't know what the laws are here or what people even like.
"Besides, right now they're getting painted. Can't move. It'll ruin the paint."
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Regardless, he's not even going to touch Tony paying his taxes, because he knows he's got investments and abatements just like every other billionaire.
"How about the shape, sir?" asks the manicurist. "Almond, coffin, square?" Steve has no idea what any of those things mean for his nails.
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"Any design, sir?" they ask, as Steve feels resigned to taking over the conversation instead, since he has a modicum more control or parity over that, and says: "No, but cocaine wouldn't work on me anyway, and I don't think it'd do well for your sobriety." A beat. "Is there even any way to get cocaine here? I didn't think they'd have invented it the same way we did. But you're wrong anyway. Cocaine was made illegal in 1920; I was 2."
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The employee however, beams at the compliment. Seems like some things translate perfectly fine.
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Steve tries not to roll his eyes. "I don't get a say in any of this?" he asks, fruitlessly.
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"Don't you have to do your interview soon?" he asks. He thinks that Tony will do amazing, but, he's still very much not confident that he will.
"Good choice, sir," says the nail tech, as they re-mix some colors and finishes and starts on pushing Steve's cuticles.
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Checking his polished watch at the reminder without really seeing it, Tony lamented for the most guilt possible, "I can tell when someone is trying to get rid of me." Steve wasn't terribly wrong, though; Tony was supposed to be arriving for prep soon, so he produced a slim wallet from his pocket and eyed the technician with Steve's hand trapped for a beat before helping himself to Steve's pocket under the cape. "Tip like it isn't your money," he instructed, "And I expect to see a wardrobe to match, or all of this has been a waste of time."
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"Thanks, Tony," he says, because this whole thing has just been to make him feel better, so, he's grateful that he has someone who cares about him enough to do this for him. "Hey, you're gonna do great out there."
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