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WHO: Tony Stark, dangerously open
WHERE: Tony's Calibration Room
WHAT: You're stuck in Tony's head and good luck, buddy, he doesn't want to be there, either.
WHEN: During the Calibration Event (June 3rd - July 10th)
WARNINGS: Some body horror under the cut, but otherwise it depends on you. Digging for Tony's secrets is still going to be a challenge here, so if you work for it I'll assume you want to see that nasty stuff. I'll update as necessary.
Update: Horny, as usual.

There is bright, dazzling light in the eye immediately upon entering this room, another door directly in front of the entrance peppered with bursts of camera flashes and roving spotlights illuminating the fine, gold silk drapes around the open frame, flashing through intricate, stained glass mosaics set into the stone flanking the entryway, and glinting off of the golden struts where a velvet rope had hung but had been knocked carelessly to the floor, an open invitation. Through it is a sweet-smelling party, packed with beautiful people in even more beautiful clothes, laughing among the sumptuous chime of crystal in a warm, welcoming hall. The wall stretching away from either side of it reaches almost to the extreme edges of the room, incrementally decaying from polished brickwork to raw, cracked stone, tumbling down into rubble that litters the way further into this room around the corner from the rich door.

This building the door is set into is just a wall from the other side, built up into a dark cave of that raw stone. Tony is pacing behind it, nowhere in the cave welcoming enough to sit or linger, jagged piles of scrap metal where there wasn't cold stone lining the walls and scattered in piles that would have to be carefully navigated to avoid sharp edges glinting readily to slice into ankles. The lone occupant isn't dressed nearly as charmingly as anyone at that party that would have been such a good time, his once white shirt wrinkled and tattered and rolled up to his elbows, open at the collar and liberally stained black down the front with whatever dripped from his hands, thick and dark like oil and charcoal. In one hand, coated in this viscous liquor, his ever restless fingers worked erratically and mercilessly over a dark knot. The sweet smell of the hall is long gone here, overtaken quickly by acid and whiskey and a bitter, sick smoke.

Set into the back of the wall, there is a computer monitor, spilling a soft blue glow across the stone floor with a constant generation of lines of code in an alien alphabet that Tony throws judgemental glances at as he paces back toward the front of the cave. Most of the light comes from the back of the room, though, the roof of the cave opening to a bright, blue sky, where soft clouds make a slow march across and birds wheel freely, well above the curl of smoke that whisped up out of the cave and dissipated.

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"And yet I'm here," Tommy muses, keeping his advancement up. Going to move until someone stops him. "But you were never ready for someone of my caliber."

"Yeah, back here in the alley," Tony pointed out. "Try to pay attention, would you? The party, Speedo. Do you really think you could slip in there without being caught?"

"Super. Speed. Yeah, I can go anywhere I want," Tommy answers, head tilting to the side.

But mostly he moves to follow Tony, because the man is interesting. Come on, let him poke at you.

This really sounded like it should have been working, but Tommy kept insistently edging around the wall instead of heading back to the party door, making Tony impulsively try a much less solid tactic; he slid out from behind the wall to brace his hand on the cave surface across from it, putting himself in the last few inches between his wall and the limits of the room at this side to lounge as casually as he could in Tommy's way, other hand on his hip working the dark knot he carried like a stress ball. "So you've come to see me. I'm touched, really," Tony grinned.

"Hopefully nowhere that I'd have to report to the authorities," Tommy teases before moving away. "So, you're hiding shit. Cool. That works for me. I mean, your head has to be a shit hole, full of all sortsa trauma, right?"

Tony rolled his eyes, that didn't even make sense, and slouched against his braced arm to rest his temple to his blackened hand, glad Tommy was at least going back the way he was supposed to. All sortsa something, anyway, that Tony wasn't eager to share. Except this-- "Hey," he called, immediately regretting it and turning his face against his hand like he might just be able to turn around and leave it there so Tommy could finally pass through the doors to the party. With a deep breath and no further warning, he turned back and trusted Tommy's reflexes as he tossed the slimy muscle he carried his way. "Try not to make a scene, huh?" he smirked.

Tommy frowns and his hand goes up to catch the heart. And he cringes. The thing is ugly.

"Scenes can't start until Tommy's around. Promise I'll make it a good one. After all, I'm not chaperoned."

Of course it was ugly, what else would it look like? And Tony didn't expect Tommy to actually hold onto the thing, making him quickly duck back behind the wall again, massaging around the stain on his chest fretfully, not sure how to take that as his next breath came out in an icy gust.

The hall beyond the door was extravagantly expensive, all marble, gold fixtures and crystal chandeliers, from the welcoming lure of a plush red carpet up to the massively vaulted glass ceiling revealing a starry night sky that could barely be seen through the glittering lights reflected from the party below. As large as this space felt, it was densely packed with people who all seemed to be smiling and sharing toasts and dances, the mood celebratory but not raucous and clearly strained at the edges for it with some of the wooden restraint of proper society behaviour. These people were wealthy, and very used to it, and wanted everyone around them to be aware of it. While that meant no one was wearing any extravagantly flashy costume, they did all seem to be in some kind of mask, from a dainty silk tied around the eyes to a cravat tied up high over the nose.

Straight ahead, leaning roguishly on the curling banister of a sweeping staircase that dominated the back of the hall, was a man who didn't quite seem to fit the restraint, draped in a long, pale gold cape and holding a red and gold kabuki mask up against his chin, its painted visage a metallic man with an electric blue scowl that didn't match the glitter in the grey eyes behind it, and the ribbons that would have tied it around his head trailing and twisted around his arm. He straightened, turning his shoulders slightly toward the door and away from the group that chattered easily around him, letting the mask slip slightly to the side in his hold to peek around it and offer a welcoming grin.

If that seemed dangerous, there was another door to the left where less of the masked people were crowded. It looked distinctly shabbier, like it could not have belonged to this posh hall, but a more suburban neighbourhood. A few younger looking people lingered around it, not masked or dressed for the gala, but in jeans and t-shirts, mostly carrying red solo cups and sharing cigarettes before slipping away through the door.

A third option to the right stood open, but no one seemed to be moving closer to or beyond it. It was darker in there, what light there was cooler and more subdued than the warm glitter of the gala.

Suburban neighborhood, that was all Tommy's thing. It was the sorta place he'd grown up, and the sort of party he would sneak into before juvie happened. This was more his speed, and Tommy was in there in a flash, leaving the heart on the first surface he can find that isn't too dirty. Like, seriously, ew. This was something he was going to have to talk to Tony about later.

No creepy organs. Thanks. And damn, he wanted whatever was in that cup, and maybe to snatch a smoke too. Memory smokes probably can't damage real lungs.

The house Tommy stepped into didn't turn out to be entirely suburban, crowded quite close to the buildings around it, its shabbiness a symptom of its age as it felt closed off inside in an old architectural style of narrow halls and arched doors, the floorboards underfoot giving easily in a way that suggested they must creak but completely drowned out by the thump of a sturdy stereo system vibrating bass notes through the struts. It was tightly packed, but those drinks that Tommy was hoping for seemed to be freely flowing in the crowd, a raucous offering around a keg stood at the centre of what would have been a tidy dining room for a large family fifty years before to one side of Tommy, and the kitchen through it with counters littered with half-empty bottles of dubious mixes. The walls throughout were dressed in the red and grey livery of M.I.T., or clearly more adored renderings of a string of greek lettering that could be heard being chanted somewhere in the house at almost any point. To Tommy's other side, through the crowd and lounging on a threadbare couch with his legs crossed and head in his hand, two fingers spread across his cheek with the third pressed to his lips, someone who was too young to be mixing with this crowd, and definitely too young to be the only one among them in a sharply tailored suit, just the right amount of his sock calculated to be showing even in this posture, only his collar open with the knot of his tie loosened around it. He couldn't have been more than fifteen, somewhere closer to unable than unwilling to cultivate his distinct beard, but Tony's unmistakable cold eyes locked onto Tommy as he entered the frat house.

Frat house. Yeah, that sounds like Stark alright. For a moment, once he catches the eyes of young Stark, he considers going over there. And then he peels off to the kitchen to grab one of the bottles. Dubious mix sounds like exactly his speed. Once he's got that he moves over toward Stark and plops himself down right across the currently younger looking Stark's lap.

"When I was your age, I would have given anything to be in a place like this. But sometimes I forget you were a fucking genius or something."

This Stark might have had a few inches of growing left to do, but he still raised both of his hands, innocent of wrongdoing and a surrender, as Tommy appeared in his space like he might have a moment ago when Tommy was threatening reports. The severity of his expression either didn't suit this age, or he hadn't learned yet to sculpt it into the warmer ease he used to charm the cameras because he looked deadly serious even as he cocked his head as though he hadn't heard any of that over the music, sorry, definitely not sorry. It was only when he settled his head back in his hand, draping the other along the back of the couch and out of the way, that he conceded, "I never really liked them much," as though that wasn't obvious from the outfit. "But they served a purpose." He caught the eye of a tall blonde man as he passed down the hall and swung around to head up the narrow stairs, making the man start slightly at the sight of Tommy then offer Tony a very familiar slow smirk before raising a hand, five fingers, and continuing up on his way.

“To get the dude bros to give you space outside of a dorm? I hear dorm living isn’t the greatest.”

And that’s what he has, sipping at the bottle in his hand. Yeah, Tony gets to deal with a Tommy blanket, precisely because Tommy is being an ass. That’s just who he is.

“You’re a bit of a wet blanket on a really cool looking party, Stark.”

"You think I'd live here?" Tony asked, offended somehow by the implication, perhaps illustrated by the sudden animalistic howling that erupted around the keg, followed by the chanting of their chapter letters again. The twinge of irritation only softened when he looked down at Tommy, realizing this probably looked like money to him and not the performative asslicking that Tony saw enough of at home. They grew up on radically different planets. It was only a brief reprieve from Tony's severity, though, and he plucked the bottle away from Tommy for the insult to take a long drink before offering his assessment, "Putrid. There's mouthwash in there." He still finished with a final sip before handing it back. "I'm only here as an alibi, so we can do whatever you think we should be doing at a cool party."

"Can't get drunk," Tommy shrugs. "For me, it's about the experience. Putrid is an experience."

Still, he looks at Tony, smirking widely as he takes his bottle back.

"Alibi? What crime were you committing?"

This time, Tony took a beat to drop his head back into his hand to spread a knuckle against his lips and press back his own smirk in response, only partially effective as he held Tommy's gaze. It was probably for the best he couldn't get drunk, he was already like this, taking up Tony's space stone-cold sober. "Inappropriate touching," he warned, fingers on the hand spread across the couch flexing like he would do it if Tommy kept this up, but quickly curled to hold the cushions again, out of sight. "There's a football field, not far from here. Game tomorrow. Beautiful green, absolutely impeccable. That guy--" he gestured to the man who had gone up the stairs, then more vaguely around the room, of course, "Is supposed to play. It's not our field, though, and a home game, well, that's worth the real celebration." He took a breath, glancing around the room as though it mattered at all now who heard him, if they even could over the music, and said, "It's such a perfect space, a satellite is about to make an unscheduled landing."

"So you're just ruining sports by landing a satellite of yours here?"

Nope, he's not moving. If you hands get weird places, he's calling you on the fact that you're feeling up someone WAY younger than you.

"Not just 'sports', that's Harvard Stadium," Tony corrected, jeez, did he have to spell everything out? Did Tommy not know the history here? Tony frowned, realizing no, probably not, Tommy probably didn't have any reason to ever think about the insular squabbles of the Boston collegiate, and that was just one small part of a youth he didn't properly experience. Maybe they could correct that, in a way. Before that, Tony took the bottle again and continued, "And it's not my satellite. Do you think I'd go to the effort just to leave my name on the evidence? It's a Hammer Industries satellite. Their defense system is total garbage." Taking another drink, he snuck his free hand as best he could, knowing he didn't have much of a chance with Tommy's reaction speed, to tickle the back of his neck for looking so confident where he was and taking advantage of an uncomfortable old man. That always got Cassie's nose out of the lab, or so Tony had thought then, at least. Clearly, she took a few trips without his noticing.

See, Tommy doesn’t even get the significance there, other than ‘Harvard is where smart people go’. Where David had wanted to go. Where they wouldn’t let him go because he was a mutant. So it was the place that smart people went unless you were a mutant because admissions was racist. Simple as that.

Besides, shit like that didn’t matter to the kid that only had a GED because the Kaplans had harassed him into it. Problem with Tommy Shepherd? He’d been told far too many times in his life that he was stupid and could never amount to anything academically, to the point where he believed it. Which was a shame. Being able to think as much as fast as he did meant he could achieve a lot more than he did. The only person that had bothered trying to learn that of him had been the Vision that had been here on Agra 10, the father he never had, the one that tried to interact with Tommy on his own level.

Hilariously, though, Tommy doesn’t bother to flinch away from the hand, just closing his eyes and letting Stark do that. His nerves were too fast for tickling to even be a thing for him, so he could just lay there.

“So you are fucking with a stadium of Smart-but-Super-Racist College because they’re, what, rivals? Or just to thumb your nose at a school that really shouldn’t be bothering with sports at all. And then you’re furthering it by fucking with a corporate rival. Man, Stark, either your pranks are horrible or wonderful. Can’t decide. Actually, no, changing my mind. Horrible. Pranks that require the levels of thought you’ve got are just boring. And you’re here to...? Prove you didn’t fuck with the satellite?”

That was the opposite of the intended effect. What kind of hardass little kid wasn't ticklish? Smoothing his hair back down, Tony corrected, "This prank is perfect," but otherwise Tommy wasn't far off, he got the important structural elements; it wasn't that complicated, it didn't take much thought. "And all of these people are going to gladly say that they saw me here tonight, nowhere near a computer." If they had seen him with the guy with the striking white hair, that would have been an unforgettable image, Tommy might have come in handy at the time if he wasn't doing it by invading Tony's space. Where did he learn that manipulative game?

Tony didn't want to get rough with any of these kids, Billy's teeth notwithstanding, special circumstances, Tommy was in trouble, but he tried a pinch to Tommy's neck instead with a challenging purse of his lips. "What kind of pranks should I have been pulling, sensei?" Since he obviously had specific pranking requirements. Tommy wasn't in any way prepared to take on the task yet, though, he didn't know what he was getting into. "Wait. If you're going to be an honourary MIT hooligan, you have to pick a major. Gotta know who your people are."

Not a kid, Tony. Legal to join the military, legal to fight wars and die in them, hell, old enough to have been experimented on because he's a mutant. He's a fucking adult, no matter your arbitrary rules.

And really, he's Magneto and Ultron's grandson. Manipulation runs in the genetics. He grins up at Stark and shakes his head. Which just happens to be so perfectly timed as to avoid that pinch. Ha, he IS paying attention.

"Way I understand it, most of college involves kidnapping mascots or filling uniforms with itching powder, that sorta shit."

Wait, honorary what? Tommy's eyes narrow at that suggestion.

"Dude, MIT's probably as racist as Harvard. They wouldn't want me being an honorary anything. And they probably don't have a GED equivalent major."

There wasn't a lot Tommy could do to convince Tony he wasn't somehow sixteen years old for the rest of his life, and he wasn't doing himself any favours by listing off some truly underdeveloped pranks. Despite losing his shot at the pinch, Tony raised his eyebrows at that with a wry grin; he would have to insist Tommy left the pranking to the adults if that was the caliber he was going to be working with.

Surprised that Tommy's answer to his request wasn't as simple as Tony thought it was going to be, his first instinct was to defend his alma mater, about to point out that his graduating class, at least, wasn't all white guys and what did that have to do with their admittance of Tommy, but that answer came to him faster than Tony had to ask for it. He didn't have a defense for that one; he couldn't think of a single mutant in any of his classes, as least not one that couldn't pass for baseline. That didn't really matter though; Tony was in charge of admissions right now, and that made it his job to laugh and point out, "That's not really how that works," as he tried to make another grab for Tommy's ear. "Did you want to be a pitiful undergrad then, spend some time figuring out your options? I mean, it's your college experience, I won't stop you, but that's shooting your shot pretty low."

No, it's totally how it works. Racism, systemic, it's right there. No one wants a mutant. And no one wants a mutant that didn't finish high school.

"I don't get to go to college, Tony," Tommy rolls his eyes before taking a swig. "Smart people go to college. Super smart people go to MIT."

"Now who's the wet blanket," Tony grumbled, slouching back into his repose with his arms along the back of the couch again, head in hand. Tommy was the one that said this was a cool looking party and he would have given anything to be here, but obviously the company was bringing the tone down enough to bring out the worst in him instead. "Are you like this on a date, too? Oh, I haven't even thought about marriage, baby. Don't even ask me about dessert, I don't deserve that kind of commitment. I'll be going home alone tonight." One of Tony's hands flipped up to ask where that behaviour was coming from, but this wasn't really where he wanted to delve into why Tommy didn't think he got to do things, so the question ended with the gesture. That wasn't the kind of thing a guy wanted competing with a rowdy singalong with the Beastie Boys. "You're here now, so do you want to keep being a little asshole about it, or did you actually want to do something with the time?"

"I don't date," Tommy points out. No one asks him. He rolls his eyes at Tony's stupidity. "That't the thing about you rich white people. You figure it all works out for everyone the way it works for you. You do remember why I was put in that place my team busted me out of, right? Blowing up my school? No one would ever welcome me into an institution of higher learning. Only got the GED because the Kaplans forced the issue."

He'd missed two years of high school. Finished it in two weeks and aced all his exams. He just doesn't get it. America had really serious concepts of what 'intelligence' was, and Tommy would never fit the bill. And no one tries to cure him of that misconception.

"But I get plenty of desserts and I've gone home with a lot of people. And frankly, the point here was to be annoying, so I think I've won. But if you've got an idea of something to do while stranded in your no doubt very precious brain, lay it on me."

listen he isn't pietro he doesn't have like seventy of them just the one

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This is my copypasta sorry. Pick a door, any door!

To the Left to the left, everything you love in a box to the left

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