faderift | closed.

WHO: Tony Stark, Laura Kint
WHAT: Chance meetings about lyrium insides.
WHEN: Latter half of Kingsway.
WHERE: The Gallows docks.
NOTES: TBA!

He's allowed to leave, now. Clean bill of health, preliminary pocket money, and at least one legitimate recommendation for a wateringhole in Lowtown where they don't mind weirdos.

Tony has made it as far as the docks. The Gallows docks.

But he's thinking about it. There's a low wall of cobblestone that rises up between land and a sharp rocky drop into churning ocean, and it's here that he sits, boots dangling over the edge, watching the dinghies and skiffs pull in and out among the maze of piers. Occasionally, a ship bell rings out, or a sharp wind billows sailcloth loud enough for the sound to reach him here. It is maddeningly peaceful. How does anyone live like this.

He's a new quality, rarely seen, rarely stumbled upon, but right now he is luxuriating in being in a quasi-public area and no one coming up to him, needing things, friendly or not, knowing, whatever. He's decided to like it, for the minute, dressed in soft brown leathers, grey cotton, all articles native to this world from the finely stitched boots to the shirt with the lace up collar -- all except for the black shades he wears on his face, diffusing the sharp sunlight.

Not paying very much attention to everyone around him -- or so it would seem, with his loose posture, hands lax between his knees, feet dangling. The reality is he's more than a little aware. Each time someone roams behind him en route for the piers or away, he can feel tension spider-walk up his spine.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Huh."

It's a multifaceted 'huh'. Huh, that's interesting. Huh, that's messed up. Huh, that doesn't sound like it should work. This substance has a fascination, functioning in ten different ways and counting, and it would behoove him to know more about it, resting as it is right next to his heart.

After a protracted moment, Tony figures it's his turn to speak now. "You're from here," he says. He guesses, anyway. "I'm not. From here. This universe, I mean. The thing in my chest is a reactor, generates a sustained output of-- energy. Power. It changed coming through the rift, and instead of a machine, it's-- magical enchantment, to use the common parlance.

"It wasn't dangerous where it was before," for a given value of danger, "so I have to believe it's not now. I don't know these people well enough to get their take; you're only getting a preview because you're nosy and I don't need you sniffing around while I figure it out."

His explanation gets a nod of understanding from her. "I saw you come out of the rift."

He was of minimal interest at the time--not when she was busy fighting the demons who came with him. (She'd been too busy attempting to compensate for the wine she'd drunk.) But she is fairly certain he was the person who came through that afternoon, at Wysteria's party.

A preview seems a measure too strong for what he's telling her, however; there is not much beyond I did this someplace else, and the rift changed it. After mulling over his explanation, she asks, "What is the power for?"

"Suit of high-tech flying armor."

Tony stops their meander and pivots, then, a hand up as if to still any objection or question he can imagine might come out of her, though Laura herself is an unknown quality. Hard to gauge, which isn't great. "Here? It powers jackshit, which is American for 'nothing'. It makes a quasi-helpful reading lamp in a pinch but other than that?"

He lets the question dangle, and his hands drop. "It's mine. Still is, despite the, uh. Magical makeover."

Flying armor sounds like a fever dream. From the description, she isn't sure if it is armor he can fly in, like the griffons with their wings, or something that flies before him and takes hits he otherwise would. Neither option seems at all believable, so she puts the concept aside for the moment.

Instead, her brow furrows as she gives his chest another dubious look. "You should turn it off."

It apparently does nothing--and more than that, it is a liability. She can see it here, on a reasonably bright afternoon; at night, in the shadows, he will be useless. A painted sign labeled AIM HERE would be less noticeable.

"Yeah maybe," he lies.

A quick lie, easily said. Deception is not his strong suit but he's guarded the more vulnerable aspects of what his arc-reactor does for him for this long, so why not a little longer. "But what I'd like to establish just real quick is that you're going to keep it to yourself. That this," a gesture at his chest area, a circular motion, "is not your problem. Can you dig that, Wednesday Addams?"

"Laura Kint." There's an edge to her voice, one that does not come from being called by someone else's name. Many people here, invariably the ones she likes best, have spoken to her with the expectation that she will make up her own mind about things; at the very least, they make requests of her when she must do something. Having someone tell her what to do, this sharp and insistent, chafes.

(Has it only been three months since someone else decided everything for her? It already feels longer.)

Tony waits, unblinking.

And waits a little more, and then says, "Line? I think it's 'your secret's safe with me'. I know it's a cliche but I need to hear you say it." There is an honest obliviousness occurring in which equal ignorance that he just dispensed an order at all is married with the expectation that he will get the thing he wants with minimal effort.

"Listen-- I intend to figure this thing out and I want to be the one to do that. Let it stay that way and if I come across anything I think might be relevant to your French tips, I'll DM you. Deal?"

She waits, too, looking for something he says that means anything. French. DM. Tips. The thing he cares most about--do not tell anyone--is clear, but Laura dislikes the way the details remain opaque.

And she is not going to ask for clarification. Not now, and not from him.

"No," she tells him, her jaw tight. "I am not going to tell anyone. But we do not have a deal."

He lost her, he knows that, he can see it. Going overkill on the modern day vernacular seems like the coward's way out of talking to these people, just because they make him edgy by existing, and whiskery mouth twitches aside a little like he's thinking of doing the clarifying without her having to ask for it.

But--

"Well, that's a win for exclusively me," Tony says. "So."

"No." It is not a win for him purely for the fact that Laura does not want it to be. He is refusing to accept anything but his own correctness. He is smug.

And she does not like it. Talking to him is standing in a room without any doors: if there is an escape, she does not see it. Her mouth is flat, her eyes sharp. "Deals are for people you wish to work with. This is not winning."

"That's fair."

Tony takes off his glasses, then, and if eyes are the windows to the soul, Laura can simply reaffirm her observations -- but there is a bright kind of interest, like she is a puzzle, that is probably kind of ungreat as well. Harmless, more or less. He missed whatever made her snap closed like a steel trap.

A drawn line in the sand around what he wishes for his personal information seems too mild for that, but it's all he's got, so. "Appreciate the discretion. If we're done here, we should go in different directions so it's not awkward. You get dibs."

She does not like being somebody's puzzle--not if it means somebody will try to solve her. And for now, at least, she does not like Tony. But she's genuinely baffled by his offer, and it shows in her raised brow.

"Why does it matter?" This doesn't seem like something that will be awkward. She walks near other people all the time.

"Why does--"

She is fucking with him, like a baby Black Widow, except that's not it at all, because strangely disaffected obtuseness seems to actually be her one speed, except when mad, but even then. Maybe if Laura Kint did not want to be a puzzle, she should not be so puzzling.

"It doesn't." A beat, then, "Take care, kid," quick and precise, before he starts off for the Gallows himself.

I mean, if she follows, he will keep talking anyway, but he's not glancing back to check as he folds up his glasses, to hang them off the closure of his shirt collar.

She still has a cowl to acquire, so she turns without another word and heads back toward the ferry. If she keeps listening behind her, in case he returns, it's more for the sake of preparedness than anything.

The Gallows are not large--not like the forests she walked through to get to them. They will no doubt have to speak again someday. But today, Laura is ready to put the conversation behind her.

closed.

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