Mask or Menace ☂ IC Phone Post

[numberthree]

INBOX Voice | Text | Call | Video | Surprise Me A flat computer automated voice comes on and states in monotone: "This is the voicemail box for Allison Hargreeves. Leave a message at the beep."

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[numberthree]

[ She doesn't answer.























But she's still there. On the runaway.
Sunglasses, and a designer duffle, at 8 am. ]

[irondad]

( Tony is alive, which counts, he feels, and upright, most important of all. The week long migraine born out of the endlessly convoluted technological cacophony currently bouncing around inside his head is still there, smothered for the moment under a heavy narcotic haze he just smiles through, cucumber-cool on the tarmac.

Paparazzi lurk at the fences, snapping away with telephoto lenses. Appearances matter. He's dressed comfortably, at least- this isn't fucking Air Force One -in jeans and a plain grey henley, the faint image of the rt a pale, glowing circle in the center of his chest.

A porter jogs ahead of him to take Allison's duffle for her, while Tony pushes his dark sunglasses up his nose and waits a beat to catch up. )

Ms. Hargreeves, Tony Stark. Glad you could make it.

[numberthree]

[ She considers him for a long second, without moving her sunglasses. Looking exactly like the imPort biops she'd pulled from the network instead of getting much sleep. New, but already well connected. Not really her actual thought. That's a checklist. (Looks like someone she doesn't know. Looks like himself. Looks like half a million other people she used to pass in Hollywood.)

The only actual codified thought she really has is he looks like anyone else she could kill with a few words if she had to. It's reckless (the whole of it, of no one knowing yet) but she's already here, and she's uniquely qualified where it comes to that. Her mouth tips, artfully polite, and she does reach up and pulls her sunglasses off. Not once looking at the clamoring roar of the crowds of cameras. Only him. ]

Allison is fine.

[ There's a gesture with those same glasses to the rather impossible to miss glowing circle showing through his shirt.
Far more canny question to the slightest narrow of her eyes, than anything like the flippancy of her next words: ]

Personal-carry rave?

[irondad]

Allison. ( His assessment of her in turn is brief- cool, collected, and confident, reminding him of Nat, actually -an outline to be filled in at his leisure later. First impressions count, but no one puts their whole selves forward for scrutiny in the beginning, not even him.

His mouth quirks with wry approval for her remark, unruffled, not offended but pleased, punctuating his quick reply with a casual shrug: )

Party never stops. Shall we? Oh- ( So light, easy, ) Forgot to ask, any food allergies, preferences, vegan; yay or nay?

[numberthree]

[ He lets it ricochet off of him, without an answer. Or at least not a real one. But she doubts it's anything like a bomb, strapped to his chest, beaming out through the cloth of his shirt, showing itself off to the whole rest of the world. She'd really rather not be at three-thousand feet with a bomber.

Her life is overly complicated enough as it is right now.

Allison turns gamely enough, walking toward the plane at his side. Trying not to focus too hard on the stairs, the thought that she could turn around, unmake this decision before it's made. Before barriers are crossed, and doors closed, and borders crossed. Except it's not any other month, or week, or even year. Nothing about her feels like the girl who could just have stepped out to get them coffee anymore. ]

None of the above.