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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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Just the knowledge...? Tony wasn't sure how to interpret this mutation Tommy presented to him, leaving him frowning thoughtfully about the implications while Tommy was drinking, idly searching for another viable bottle himself. If he could just copy knowledge, that would save a lot of reading time. A mutant like that would have to be smart to do anything with it, or all of that information would be useless detritus.

Tommy's grin was enough for Tony to brighten and smile back, though, and he slouched back on one hand like he could in any way hope to exude any kind of humble indifference to his dazzling talents, waving the drink in the other hand theatrically, oh, this old thing? "Of course I didn't get caught, but do you think I'd let anyone forget how smart I am? Please. It was all Hammer. He's already a billion years old at this point, and the second my dad dies, he's the leading aerospace engineer on the planet. His options are to admit the rival's kid with centuries less experience could possibly have that kind of control over his systems and tank the company stock, or claim it was an internal error and fire a few interns to cover up a total sweep of the security team. Still cost him a few million, sure, but that's petty cash."

Knowledge and skills. So yeah, David was fucking awesome. The guy was a super genius. A genius's genius.

But he considers Tony for now and frowns.

"So that's why you did it? To cost him money and frustration? Not, you know, because it was funny?"

Had Tommy already forgotten the whole point of the prank in the first place? Tony pouted back, nose wrinkled in irritation, not pleased with having to defend his ingenious antics again against Tommy's demanding critique. "Those were just excellent bonuses to a perfect plan. The football game, remember?" he pointed out. "MIT and Yale are rivals," he said, sitting up to knit his fingers together around the neck of a bottle to demonstrate the tight link of the two schools. They practically shared territory and everyone acted like Yale was the alpha and omega of prestigious academia, even though they knew all of the heavy hitters always came out of MIT. "And they're not nearly creative enough to fuck with us, because none of them are that smart, but that hasn't stopped us from fucking with them every chance we get. It's tradition. And it's funny." He glanced around, knowing a few of these brothers were football guys, but not sure if he would spot any of the memorabilia on the walls of this house to show Tommy what he meant. They didn't actually play Yale that often, they weren't in the same league, so they didn't have much to show for it. Tony definitely didn't want to talk to any of them about it, though. Waving the thought away, he said, "Again, I invite you to come up with a more flawless prank. Hasn't been done since."

“I’m more interested in how than caring about sports rivalries,” he shrugs. But it’s all interesting.

“Just a lot of work for make them look bad. Guess I’m just not smart enough to get it.”

Even after the conversation he still doesn’t see himself as intelligent enough to get the joke. Kid really is clueless.

It was such a clueless statement that Tony had to take it as a joke, snickering around the mouth of the bottle as he emptied it before flipping it in his hand to knock lightly against Tommy's head, checking if it was really that hollow. "Never heard a better definition for a prank," he said. "That's probably how Yale justifies it. They're above putting in that kind of work."

It’s literally nothing for Tommy to duck to avoid the bottle. Don’t mind him. But he does stare at Tony. And for a while.

“No, seriously. If somehow you were caught wouldn’t that be serious jail time? Are sports really that worth t? Especially for someone smart like you? How can you risk throwing it all away? All the shit you could have in your life and you risk it for a, truly epic don’t get me wrong, prank. One no one will ever know is that.”

"It's not sports, it's..." It didn't honestly matter what the justification was. The fact was, most of the other MIT students who had pulled their own version of this stunt on that field did see jail time, were expelled, and while they enjoyed infamy on campus, might have thrown away a greater life just like Tommy suggested. That didn't have much to do with how smart they were, but the resources at their disposal; at the end of the day, even if Tony wasn't clever enough to cover his tracks, daddy wasn't about to let him spend one minute behind bars. Above a certain tax bracket, those sort of problems were dealt with differently, and Tony lived as if numb to plenty of risks because he knew that. Tommy didn't have that luxury.

With a sigh that muted the bravado he was going for, Tony replied, "Good thing I'm too smart to get caught." With a frown, he slid from the counter, leaving the bottles behind to hook a hand over Tommy's shoulder, pushing him aimlessly out of the kitchen and away from that line of thought. "You haven't ever done something that wasn't for the notoriety?" he lead instead. "Don't get me wrong, seeing your name in print is basically seeing the money being printed, but the handiwork has to be the satisfaction sometimes." It didn't really matter that anyone knew the satellite had been Tony's fault, it still crowned the game and practically the rest of the school year, and the photos still hung in Building 33.

"Tony... I blew up my school. I can't handle any more notoriety," Tommy points out.

Surely Stark had looked into his record, probably hacked himself access to Tommy's not so sealed record.

"And I wasn't even trying to do it. So no. All the good I do is as Speed and I guess that could be for something other than notoriety, but people know I did it."

Of course Tony had dug up every word about the Young Avengers that ever hit a network, but he still attempted a very unconvincing look of mild surprise before abandoning the front entirely with an apologetic shrug for both trying the lie on, and maybe a little bit for invading Tommy's privacy like that. It was need to know information, though, and that was the kind of thing that kept Tony out of jail; knowing what to expect. It was much harder to see the future without all of the information.

Pushing Tommy's hair up the back of his head again, this time to grab it for a small shake like he might knock the interference loose, Tony accused, "You're doing it again." He was much easier to talk to when it was about science. "You couldn't have led with one of those good things? You've never run for somebody's glasses they forgot at home?"

Doing what again? Getting down on himself? Some things are ingrained because of how other people treat you. He stares at Tony for a long moment then shakes his head.

"No. Usually Billy summons things like that with magic."

"You're intolerable," Tony groaned. Obviously, he hadn't shaken hard enough. They were standing in the narrow hall by then, between the front door and the back room where Tommy had entered the house and tucked next to the creaking stairs. It wasn't exactly a thoroughfare, most people were lounged and talking already by the door or bouncing around to the music down near the couch, but Tony looked up and down at this crossroads, not sure which way now would lead Tommy to some basic self-respect. Tony might not have been the authority on the matter, but even if Cap was here, he was very focused on teaching the Young Avengers a different lesson, in Tony's experience; someone else had to take up the mantle. This left them in position for the blonde man, heading back down the stairs now, to offer them the same smirk and report, "Seven," as he passed them for the kitchen, eyeing Tommy judgmentally again.

Perfect. "I have to get eight phone numbers," Tony reported, tagging Tommy in with a slap to the chest. "That's not a job for Billy, too, is it?" There was no way Tommy could claim he wasn't the twin Tony was looking for here, Tony had met Billy.

"Oh, you do do you?" Tommy asks, grinning. "And you're calling in a ringer?"

Tommy loves it, and laughs. If there was one thing he was confident about, it was his skill with the ladies. So this was something he could help with.

"So, written down or what? People got cell phones? I could lift them and get their numbers. How much time am I working with here?"

Looking aghast, as though Tony had never cheated a game in his life and bringing in Tommy for assistance clearly wasn't against any stated rules, he had to insist, "Honour system." Tony could have just written down a bunch of random numbers, too. "You don't get to..." he gestured, his approximation of Tommy shaking the goods out of people's pockets as he tried to work out the right phrase, "pinata people for their phone numbers." They were in the golden age of Nokia and flip phones, but of course Tony's model was more advanced as he drew it out of his pocket to slide it open, cringing slightly at the image himself, and show Tommy the number he was working with. "You get them to text you. It's not the dark ages." Despite appearances. With the phone still out, he checked the time to report, "Ten more minutes and the news of the satellite reaches us, and Ty comes to collect."

"Give me your phone number. They'll text you," Tommy grins. Ten minutes, he can manage it.

Absolutely manage it. "It will be so much fun."

Tony waved the phone again for Tommy to take the number off of the display before tucking it back into his pocket expectantly, ready for it to start ringing. "Divide the room," he instructed, and gave a gesture to indicate that he had an eye on Tommy so they weren't about to try to get the same number out of the same girl.

Tommy nods and then he's gone in a blur. This part is the fun one. This is somewhere he's confident. In a manner of a minute he's already laughing with some girl, complimenting her clothes, and getting her to type in Tony's phone number and text him.

Call me sometime, tell me if the carpet matches the drapes.

Can't complain over his skills.

This wasn't a game designed for Tony to win, and while that wasn't enough to stop him in most cases, it definitely slowed him down. What he had needed all along here was the ringer because his age put him at a severe deficit trying to work this room, and even at the height of his talents he doubted he could work as fast as Tommy. The first buzz of the phone came quickly enough for Tony to jump in surprise, making his gaze dart to find Tommy and raise his eyebrows, really?, not sure if he was impressed or threatened. By the time he saw that message his laugh was loud enough to be heard over the music; that wasn't the kind of line Tony got.

A few texts in, circling the room, Tony stole closer to Tommy to accuse, "You're a nuclear grade slut, I've never seen anything like it. Have you been tested?" He did mean psychologically, but he might have a clinic to refer Tommy to as well.

And by the time Tony's back to Tommy, there are at least four numbers in total, and Tommy grins when Tony's there, taking a moment to wink and step away from the hot twins he had been talking to, and who he knew were going to get Tony at least one more number. Then he's talking to Tony in a quieter tone.

"Every month, always use a condom, and I can flirt in five languages. English, Spanish, French, German, and Japanese. That last one was the hardest to learn. I had to read three books and listen to several hours of tapes. A few times. Every other language I mostly just keep a phrase book or two on me when I'm in country."

All of it learned since the YA had busted him out of jail.

"Everyone has to have their hobbies."

Did it count as a humblebrag if Tommy barely tried to bury it in a brazen brag? There was no way that was his proven method for collecting phone numbers, but shameless hypercompetence worked on Tony and he slowly grinned with a narrow-eyed stare, wondering how far he would take this performance to make Tony call his bluff. It wasn't nearly as fun when Tommy was doing the pity party part, but Tony thought he could bear it long enough to hear Tommy lament about running out of paper just when he thought he had the invariant subspace problem solved. "My number's not going to get you anywhere, save it for the circuit," Tony said. "Time's almost up and we're a couple short. We can flirt after." He rocked up on his toes to try to see better through the taller crowd, making sure no one's mood had shifted yet or was bent over their phone as the news started coming in. That posture of alarm might have already taken hold on a couple of people near the back door. Tony gave Tommy's arm a tug to direct him to the front, further away from the news current to stretch their time as much as possible.

The blonde man was still near the front of the house by the time the alert had passed through the backroom, the dining room, and up to the kitchen, and someone had already turned the music down and others were streaming out the door. "Looks like the party's over," he pouted, then turned one of Tony's wicked grins back on him as Tony backed out of the way of the now crowding hall into the kitchen entrance. "Eight," he reported his final total, holding up his own cellphone containing the proof.

Tony slid his phone out of his pocket to find out himself what his and Tommy's combined results were. On his own, he hadn't even made it half way. In his defense, Tommy had interrupted his fine work.

Nope, not a humble brag. Just a brag.

"Dude, you're way too old for me," Tommy dismisses Tony's comment. "And... young? Fuck, mind spaces are fucked up weird."

Still, he broke off as Tony directed him forward in the party. There was time. There was always enough time for a speedster. Which was why Tommy picked up a a fifth number netted by Tommy. An eight-eight tie, right?

And then, one last text coming in. A number from New Jersey, fancy that.

You owe me one very good time. Hope you can keep up.

Signed 3836 at the bottom. Which was Mach Five in MPH, give or take a third of a mile. You owe him big.

The blonde looked unimpressed, rolling his eyes and grumbling, "Of course you won," but offered Tony a set of keys nonetheless that Tony snatched gleefully, still scrolling through the text messages. The man joined the others on their way out of the party to investigate the damage, leaving only a few people in the kitchen and Tommy easy to spot as Tony raised his prize, knowing a ride in a fast car wasn't going to be much temptation to the speedster and shrugging, he could at least appreciate what that would have meant to someone who couldn't outrun it, right? Besides, once they stepped out that front door, Tony was pretty sure this dream was over. He tipped his head toward it to invite Tommy to finally make his escape, not about to force him to stick around, but asked, "Was that not a good time? Come on."

Yep, Tommy's waiting in the kitchen, grinning like a fiend.

"Oh yeah, it was fun. Like, apparently my B game is enough to work with in the past. Who knew respecting women and all of that would work here too."

He offers and wink and heads toward the door.

"If we actually get to see the car, I call shotgun. I deserve to have the jog without tiring out my poor legs."

"What's the A game...?" Tony started to ask, a little afraid to know the answer if respecting women was the backup plan, but as the door swung open and they stepped into the damp night, Tony found he had just gulped a breath around the damp drool on his pillow. It was hard to tell if the ache of protest as he rolled over to squint in irritation at this featureless room was actually from a hangover from whatever it was in that bottle, plain dehydration from not being nearly used to sleeping this much, or the age he actually was and briefly got to forget the pains of while being a teenager again for not nearly long enough.

It was probably the age. That definitely made it too weird to try texting Tommy the A game question.

Well, the A game absolutely includes respecting them, because you don't hang out with Cassie Lang and Kate Bishop, or live in the Kaplan house, without drinking eight gallons of Respect Women juice each day. Hell, he drank that much Respect Minorities juice too. But that came from friends who were not above telling him when he was being disrespectful. It was good.

But give it a second for Tommy to wake up and laugh and get out his comm device, sending Tony a text. Because leaving Tony with the information would be brutal and beautiful.

The A-Game requires a world familiar with mutants. And a serious appreciation for the things that can be done with a tongue and fingers that can vibrate.

Damn but he has to hope that Tony remembers the shared dream.

Edited 2020-06-16 18:13 (UTC)

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