sixthiterationlogs | sorry mario

Entry tags:

sorry mario

WHO: Tony Stark
WHERE: The Fountain, Blacksmithy.
WHEN: 25 Sept.
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Tony Stark.
STATUS: Open, ongoing. Like I'll ever remember to edit this once it's not.

ᴛʜᴇ ғᴏᴜɴᴛᴀɪɴ

He squints.

Both at the sunlight and the fact that the world seems to have rearranged itself somehow in the last little while since he most recently took survey of his surroundings, and he's not entirely sure to which direction things have swung but he knows he doesn't like it.

Level one, assessment. He's sitting up on the bottom of a probably-concrete pit outside, and he can hear wildlife. No, wait, not a pit, a fountain, unless one makes the argument that a fountain without any water is technically a pit anyway. "Somebody changed my clothes, sure, why not, that's not weird at all. That hasn't happened since like. Ninety four." Investigating the backpack tells him very little aside from the fact that someone around here apparently lacks forethought and that he's retroactively pretty happy this fountain is empty aside from one increasingly irritated engineer.

"Alright, I don't know what kind of game this is, but it's pretty crappy! Like, terrible. Duke Nukem wouldn't even touch this with a wavebird, and now I'm just talking to myself in a hole. Fantastic. I have red pants, a peacoat, and nothing to get out of here with."

Shouting into the void seems like potentially a Bad Idea, so instead he's gonna poke around and see if he can finagle something out of the pipework maybe. Probably with running commentary to himself.

ʙʟᴀᴄᴋsᴍɪᴛʜʏ

Well this is familiar. His hand releases the strap of his backpack over his shoulder and trails over the edge of a shelf. Tony hasn't seen much of wherever the hell this little place is - nothing even really indicates whatever country he's supposed to be in now - but he can't really say it looks that appealing. If there's a blacksmith, then this might be a little bit more rustic than he's comfortable with. Either that or he's found the last bastion of hipsters. That might at least explain the overalls.

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After sitting in the trees all day, watching the people come and go beneath her in the town, Tauriel had decided to brave coming down from her perch to explore a little, doing her best to avoid running into any of the people who seemed to live here.

The few she'd met seemed nice enough, but nobody was able to tell her what was going on, and that made her worry enough to want to keep separate for the time being, until she was able to figure out what she was going to do next. Would she settle in here with the rest of these humans and attempt to carve out a life for herself while she waited for something to happen? Or would she try and escape, try and get back to Osgiliath?

Whatever she was going to do, she knew she needed more information, at the very least. So she set out to explore. Skirting around the edges of town, she found her way eventually towards what appeared to be communal buildings, peeking into a storeroom and a mill, and, eventually, a smithy.

She's poking around the smithy, hoping to find arrowheads at the very least, when the scuff of boots behind her alerts her to the fact that she's not alone. Spinning around, she automatically drops slightly into more of a crouch, settling her balance in case an attack is launched and she must defend herself. The intruder is a Man, with dark hair and a strangely styled beard, and while he looks harmless enough, Tauriel knows better than to believe that. There are many Men whose looks belie their strength, and she will not let herself be overpowered so easily.

She's beginning to think that they ought to just throw a rope down the fountain and let it be. It might not be the most welcoming of ways to invite people into the community, but at least then people aren't stuck there in the dark thinking that they've been abandoned. Hauling the rope she'd found at the mill over her shoulder, she shoulders it forward in order to let it drop over the edge, tumbling down into the darkness towards the voice.

"Grab hold," she encourages, "and don't denigrate red trousers, they're a perfectly fashionable thing when worn the right way!"

He wasn't really expecting to find anybody else in here, but then again right now he has literally no constants for this place and is still well within the 'information gathering' phase, so he's not surprised when he's apparently not alone. Tony does the conventional thing first this time - he puts his hands up in the universal not looking for a fight bro gesture - but he lets them fall to his sides again almost immediately. Although he does keep his perusings a safe distance away from her - just as much to keep the situation from escalating as it is because hey he doesn't know where she's been, and he doesn't need any broken bones right now.

"Cool down there, Fists of Fury, I'm just scoping the joint out."

Speaking of information gathering. "I don't suppose you'd happen to actually be from here, because that would just make things too easy and you appear to be on Team Black Nurses so I'm guessing probably not."

They should absolutely throw a rope down the fountain - if Tony learns they've had to do this more than once then he's going to start questioning why they ever bothered pulling the rope up at all.

Anyway, this catches his attention pretty quickly, because while trying to build something out of pipework might be fun and eventually fruitful, rope is a much better alternative. So grab hold he does, although he doesn't agree with your red pants opinions, stranger.

"Anything's fashionable at some point or another - you sound like a big fan of the 80s. I don't have a problem with the red pants, it's the overalls that are really, just, I know you haven't seen me yet but do I look like a six year old? I'm not wearing those."

Peggy doesn't quite roll her eyes, but it's a close thing at all the constant chatter. "Don't worry, you can always cut off the top and hem them into proper denim, though I have no idea why on earth you would wear something so garish and workmanlike." Her words are punctuated with her strain of pulling, stumbling backwards as the rope starts to get to the top. "Red pants are perfectly normal," she huffs, but as she hauls one more time, she finds she can see the crown of hair.

And then the face, which is a face she doesn't know, but is still familiar enough to her that she has to squint and wonder if she's not seeing things. It certainly hadn't been Howard's voice, so she knows it's not him, but it's eerie how similar this man looks. She supposes there have been odder coincidences and that she shouldn't read anything into this.

"Really? You think jeans are workmanlike but overalls are okay? Are you a painter?" There's a bit more of an edge to his voice, just the result of trying to haul himself up the rope. Luckily for him, he stays a bit more task-oriented and doesn't pay attention to the woman helping him out of the pit (it's a pit, let's be real, if there's no water then it's not a fountain) until he's got feet on solid earth.

Standing up, he brushes his hands off on his totally-normal-red-pants and turns to face the lady, another comment immediately dying on his lips as the genial look on his face shoots abruptly into blank surprise. Tony glances her over once while his mouth rearranges what it was getting ready to say. "What the hell - why aren't, you're..." He's squinting again. "You're young. You're really young. This is weird. I must have hit my head on that concrete. Why are you here?"

Taken aback, Peggy isn't sure precisely where the insult or compliment is in those words, but she does feel like there must be some sort in there, given that she has no idea why, but most people don't suddenly ascend from the pits of a fountain in order to accuse their rescuer of youth. She starts to haul up the rope (she'll need it for her canyon expedition later this week) and narrows her eyes at the madman she's apparently rescued.

"I'm precisely the right age I'm meant to be," she counters. "And I've every right to be here as much as you do," she goes on, a touch defensive. "Did you lose your manners down the fountain? Shall I drop the rope in again for them?"

"Wait, what do I look like, what kind of fountain is this supposed to be?" he continues sort of mumbling, glancing back down at it as much as his eyes tracking her movements as she retrieves the rope.

With her somewhat focused more on the task and less on him, he examines her again, now that he's less shocked and grinding gears into figuring this place out. He wasn't joking when he said she looked young - she looks like herself in a way he's only ever seen in photographs, and he isn't certain exactly but he's pretty sure he's exactly as old as he thinks he is. He has all his memories, anyway, and her response to his line of questioning doesn't sound like someone about to explain to him that he happened to arrive when the magical fountain of youth was going through a dry spell.

"I'm not sure it counts as a 'right' when you didn't want to be here in the first place. What's the last thing you remember before coming here?" Because nevermind manners, there are more important things happening right now.

She blushes to the tips of her ears when he asks for the last thing she remembers, which is reason enough not to tell a stranger about the activities she and Chief Sousa had been getting up to behind closed doors, and besides that...

"I hardly think that's any of your business," she points out, draping the rope over her shoulder as she turns back to him. "You haven't even introduced yourself or offered me your name, but you want to know what I remember before I was here, after pointing out how very young I am?" It all speaks of such casual knowledge, but she can't imagine why.

"Who are you?" she demands, thinking it best to go the blunt route.

Well that's an interesting reaction he's going to follow up on later, but for now he's busy Not Reacting to her not even knowing who he is. He figured it, but, still. Hearing it is a little bit different.

Regardless, it's ever difficult to muster up some Stark bravado, and right now isn't any different. He offers her a handshake and a smile. "Tony Stark. Nice to meet you."

There's a tree, just outside the blacksmith. It's where Natasha goes to do her mending, although right now there isn't a whole lot of it. Snags and tears are surprisingly few and far between, but every now and then a sheet they want to keep using for it's intended purpose has its hem come loose in the laundry, and Natasha volunteers to fix it. She can do a straight stitch, nothing too fancy, and embroidery and cross stitch are both out of her wheelhouse, but she can fix clothes and people and that's what counts.

She's got a couple of sheets today, folded up under her arm, needle and thread tucked away inside of it, but there's movement inside the building this time, and it catches her attention. She sets her pile down under the tree, and slowly makes her way towards the building, pushing the door open with a loud creak—

And stops cold.

Well. She's not going to run from this argument, either.

"Tony."

If he turns around a skosh on what seems like the quick side it's probably because wow that voice sounds familiar and he's already met his pseudo-aunt who is now half his age and this is all starting to get a little more weird than he was even trying to prepare himself for. It probably makes him a bit of an asshole but he's actually pleased to see her - if she's here already then maybe she has some answers to the tempest of questions swirling around his mind.

"Speak of the devil." He turns to face her a little more head-on, but mostly he's still exploring the forge, occasionally glancing over some new found tool or element within it with an eye of appraisal. Blowtorches are more efficient, but there's nothing he's seeing visually that indicates this place either isn't functional or couldn't easily be made to be, depending on what's not immediately visible or just something he's missing because hey, he might be in shock. He's having a hard time telling, so he's just pretending not to even be aware of the possibility.

Anyway. "Not that I was talking, it's just been kind of a weird morning - is it morning? It might be afternoon - and there's no real end planned for this sentence so I guess it ought to stop here. Speaking of 'here', though, for real this time, how long have you been here?"

"Tony Stark," she replies, but when she does give a knowing sound, it's not because of the association with Howard. "Sam Wilson knows you," she says, but that still doesn't explain why he's so adamant about her youth and seems to be rather aggressively pressing in this conversation with her.

"Peggy Carter," she introduces herself in turn, shaking his hand firmly, and though she hadn't ever thought before that Stark and Howard had been related, but looking at Tony now, she has to wonder. "Do you know Howard? A great-nephew or cousin, perhaps?"

Sam Wilson is here? Is this place some kind of repository for people he's heard of, because that would just be weird. Literally nothing so far explains why they would have been targeted though, and his experiences with kidnapping tend to lead towards reasons-we-want-you-here being revealed rather early on in the proceedings. Really, they're pretty impatient about it, in general.

"Father," he states bluntly, still smiling, because maybe that will help him forget that there are serious timeline issues apparently at play here and lord the math he's going to sprawl across some flat surface here soon is going to be immense, before he realizes there might actually be a little bit of clarity needed there. "As in, mine. Tell Wilson I said hi."

Peggy blinks, taken aback by the notion that Howard Stark procreated. Well, of course he has, she's actually a touch more surprised there aren't more children out there, but asking how many siblings Tony has seems a touch crude and out of step. "He's your father. Howard Stark is your father. Howard Stark?" She tries to see it, tries to imagine Howard in a paternal light, and tries to imagine the type of woman that would be willing to put up with him like that for so very long.

"I'm sorry, this is all a bit much," she admits. "What year were you born?"

Yes that's more or less the reaction he was anticipating.

"1970. Agreed on the 'much' element, by the way."

Took Howard a while to settle down, apparently, but Tony doubts things would have been too much different if his birth year had been 1960 or 1950. After the whole expo thing he had briefly entertained the idea that, like most other things regarding his relationship with his father, Howard had intentionally waited in an attempt to angle Tony further forward in the technological advancement game. Or something. He'll never know now anyway, so he doesn't really bother thinking about it too much.

Then again, by all accounts his father was more or less a different person than whatever individual inhabited his body when Tony was in the room, so who knows. Maybe things would have been different.

"What year are you from?"

The Man's body language does settle her hackles somewhat, but the words that come out of his mouth just serve to leave her confused. She straightens, watching him warily as he moves around the room opposite her, her head slowly cocking to one side like a confused owl.

"I...don't know what that means," she confesses, automatically moving to keep him opposite her, since she doesn't know who he might be or what he's capable of. At least he doesn't look like he's going to attack her, but who knows.

"I am from Eryn Lasgalen," she says, her posture straightening unconsciously as she speaks of her home. "It is known to Men as the Greenwood, realm of King Thranduil, son of Oropher of Doriath." To be honest, it is known as Mirkwood to most Men, but Tauriel finds the name distasteful and refuses to use it if she can avoid it. "And I am not a nurse." She cannot fight the urge to cover her chest defensively; what on earth made him insinuate that she is a wetnurse? Just the thought of it makes her struggle against a blush.

He doesn't mind if she treats him like he's dangerous, because it keeps her over there and then he doesn't have to keep treating her like she might be. Her general reaction aside from that is wildly confusing though, and interesting enough to divert the majority of his attention to her in lieu of his continued perusal of the building.

"Neither am I, but all I need are white sneakers to complete the ensemble. Sounds like quite the place. What's so bad about being a nurse though, what's all - " he makes the same gesture she did. "Nurses are great."

She doesn't know what white sneakers are, so if he's hoping for that to elicit any reaction, he's going to be disappointed.

"There is nothing wrong with being a nurse," she replies, still feeling defensive about the whole thing, though she does manage to lower her arms and leave them loose at her sides. "But I am not one; there are no babes in this place to suckle, and I am certainly not pregnant myself."

Why are they even talking about this?

Her eyes widen in sharp surprise when he says the year, doing the math in her head to figure out exactly how old she'd be when he was born, which is quite a bit older than Peggy ever expected to think of infants being around her. "1947," she answers, now a touch more cowed seeing as there's true purpose to asking this question. The trouble is that Peggy is still obsessing over what he's been saying.

He's Howard Stark's son. The Tony Stark people keep mentioning is Howard's son, a son born in 1970, well past the age most people settle down into families. She's afraid some of this shock (and potentially a smidgen of horror) is showing on her face, and she shakes her head. "Siblings?" she ekes out.

Good lord, she's what, half his age? He officially hates time travel. Probably this place too, while he's at it, just chuck it right on in with the former, although maybe it wins some points back if he gets to talk to her again. It's been a long time.

That familiar feeling of guilt creeps in a little at the edges, and he rationalizes it away because he can't feel guilty for not talking to her when he's actively talking to her, right? It cancels itself out.

Kind of.

"Just me." Thank god. The world can only handle so many Starks in it at once. He'd put the max at approximately two, but then that just makes them sound like Sith lords, and his mother always seemed to do okay, so, who knows.

"So. This is fun," he says, hooking his thumbs on the straps of his backpack. "You make a habit of walking around with rope, looking to help handsome strangers out of boring situations?" There's a joke there to be potentially made about the rope, but. He's not sure how he feels about making it in present company. Maybe.

She raises her brow and lets her posture go slightly slack when he refers to himself as 'handsome'. Between the ego and the patter and his general ego, she's beginning to see the parts of Howard in him, though she doesn't exactly say as much. After all, she's only known the man in front of her for a few minutes, she hardly thinks she can make full personality assessments based on that.

"I was walking around with rope so I could head out to the canyons in order to explore them a little more in depth," she counters. "And instead, I apparently rescued my friend's son from the future from a pit," she says, trying to figure out whether this is more or less strange than her life these days. "You know me, then," she interprets, given his reactions. "In the future?"

Tony pauses for a moment. "I think we're working with two different definitions." Deciding that this then means they're done with that part of the conversation, he gives her a sort of once-over one more time - because, wow - before going more or less back to his perusal of the workshop.

"Thanks for information though, that's nice to hear - I always like to know when there aren't any suckling babes nearby. Speeds things right on up. So how long have you been here? And where is here, precisely?"

What, he's seen a mirror, he knows what he looks like. If she wants to disagree she's going to need to make a very compelling argument. Like she doesn't know she's beautiful, please. He raises an eyebrow right back at her for a few moments in response, before she starts to actually reply.

"Canyon thing on temporary backburner," he starts, because privately it's both nice and weird to hear 'my friend's son' for reasons Tony can't really explain and it's worth mentioning that this is the case, there's mostly a slight pause between discerning tenses. Does he still know her? He hasn't seen her in... A while.

Whatever. When in doubt, fudge. "Yeah, I - you were around a decent amount, when I was younger. Not only then, but. Mostly." Or just omit because it's not always that easy to lie, even sideways. Topic change!

"What's in the canyons?"

She would have been forty-nine when Tony had been born, so any relationship they must have had would have been a very matronly one, she assumes. He's certainly older than her, now. This is all quite an odd thing to process, though she can certainly see how she would want to be there to support any child of Howard's. Especially since she can even imagine what life in that household might have been like.

"The canyons move, as best as I can tell. I'm trying to map out the borders, but they're eluding me," she says, but she doesn't want to talk about canyons. "Who's your mother?" she asks, grateful that at least Tony hadn't greeted her with a cheerful 'Mum' because the prospect of her having children with Howard is a touch of a recurring nightmare she's had once or twice.

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sorry mario

smithy

fountain

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blacksmithy

like 75% of the icons i've used on this post are all in his 'what' category

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