Well, not really. Tony's world had like at least 1% less televised brutality, legally endorsed torture, and flagrant violations of sentient beings' rights. Maybe a little more than 1%, if we're being very optimistic. It takes a lot to turn Tony's stomach in a visceral way, and he's never been the type to actually need any kind of flailing emotional reaction in order to make powerful, dangerous tactical decisions about anything— but within the first two hours of coming into the world, he sees a couple of servus explode on TV, like, literally explode, and that's...
a lot.
But he hides it well. And he has the perfect partner for this undertaking with him, even if she is stepping on his feet every couple of beats as they adapt a waltz to space music at a party intended to welcome in the latest run of servus. Luckily, somebody cashed in their cluepons about how watching people literally die on giant digital screens is maybe not actually the best mood bump, even for the privileged echelons, and what's on screen instead is a showy reel of clips about D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. attacks deflected, servus who were fortunate enough to become primus, the triumphs of children born in Panultima.
He may or may not be envisioning her with her hand out, biotics charging, all bright light and terrifying, rupturing psychokinetic force, her eyes shining with righteous fury, laying waste to these categorical motherfuckers and their bullshit system. But he just smiles at her, casual, his fingers light on the edge of her backless dress.]
I'm going to dip you, [he tells her, because he's romantic like that.] Promise not to give me a military elbow in the mouth.
Tony Stark | closed;
Well, not really. Tony's world had like at least 1% less televised brutality, legally endorsed torture, and flagrant violations of sentient beings' rights. Maybe a little more than 1%, if we're being very optimistic. It takes a lot to turn Tony's stomach in a visceral way, and he's never been the type to actually need any kind of flailing emotional reaction in order to make powerful, dangerous tactical decisions about anything— but within the first two hours of coming into the world, he sees a couple of servus explode on TV, like, literally explode, and that's...
a lot.
But he hides it well. And he has the perfect partner for this undertaking with him, even if she is stepping on his feet every couple of beats as they adapt a waltz to space music at a party intended to welcome in the latest run of servus. Luckily, somebody cashed in their cluepons about how watching people literally die on giant digital screens is maybe not actually the best mood bump, even for the privileged echelons, and what's on screen instead is a showy reel of clips about D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. attacks deflected, servus who were fortunate enough to become primus, the triumphs of children born in Panultima.
He may or may not be envisioning her with her hand out, biotics charging, all bright light and terrifying, rupturing psychokinetic force, her eyes shining with righteous fury, laying waste to these categorical motherfuckers and their bullshit system. But he just smiles at her, casual, his fingers light on the edge of her backless dress.]
I'm going to dip you, [he tells her, because he's romantic like that.] Promise not to give me a military elbow in the mouth.