A Familiar Studio Apartment on the Upper East Side.
Later That Evening.
Greg sat on the couch with his sketchbook, completely unable to work due to the presence of a rather adorable ball of black and white fur on his lap that went by the name Empress Spot. He gave a resigned sigh as the ball of fur stretched, digging its retractable claws into his legs, and placed her behind right on the runic circle that he was sketching.
Steam billowed out of the nearby bathroom, followed by a frantically moving Jean in a skimpy green and yellow bathrobe that barely covered her rather impressive assets. Apart from the robe, the only other clothing she was wearing was a tied up white bath towel that was straining to contain the rich mane of red hair on her head. The woman rushed out, rifled in the purse hanging near the studio apartment entrance, and rushed back into the bathroom.
“I think your evil pieces are boosting our libidos dear,” Jean yelled from the bathroom, “Bobbi dragged me off to the Hellfire Club after our raid for a ‘drunken makeout session’ for like, four hours. Emma did not look too impressed when she caught us feeling each other up outside of the ladies room.”
“That’s not surprising, they were designed to help us repopulate after the war,” Greg answered, raising his voice slightly, “What is surprising is that Bobbi was even able to get drunk enough to make out with you. Our metabolism processes alcohol way too efficiently.”
“Oh, Greg,” Jean said as she stepped out of the bathroom and took a seat near her boyfriend, “Bobbi didn’t need to get drunk to make out with me, she just needed an excuse. A girl like that will never admit that she’s bi. She’s too married to the ‘party girl’ image.”
Greg inched closer to his girlfriend, attempting to close in to kiss her without disturbing the Empress’s rest, but Jean stopped him with a hand to his chest.
“You don’t have to kiss me Greg,” Jean cautioned, “I probably still taste like tequila shots and cosmos.”
“What if I don’t care,” Greg asked, raising his eyebrow.
“Well then,” Jean said, and unceremoniously shoved the cat off of her boyfriend's lap before grabbing his shirt and pulling him in close.
The next three-thousand words have been omitted, because honestly, no one needs to describe the sounds of giggling and kissing for an hour. And there is no one, except a very select subset of webcomic fans, who wishes to read something like that.
Greg sat on the couch still, petting his girlfriend’s now dry hair as she lay her head on his lap.
“And do you know what Emma said to me after I told her about the whole raid?” Jean said, to which Greg gave an appropriately interested ‘boyfriend grunt’, “She said, and I quote, ‘Oh, so Scott is single again?’ and then tried to play it off like she didn’t even care. I swear, Greg, if that woman wasn’t the person I was vetting to make your queen, I would… whatever. She just really pisses me off sometimes.”
“It’s not like Emma is ever going to play second fiddle in our relationship,” Greg answered, “Maybe Scott would be good for her. The Old Man knows that Emma wouldn’t put up with any of his patriarchal ‘trad wife’ garbage.”
“True, but I don’t think it's going to happen,” Jean said as her fingers traced the lines of Greg’s arm, “I think Maddy is going to go back to him. She’s confused right now, but she has all of my personality before I awoke the Phoenix and broke free of Chuck’s mental block. Honestly, she’s everything Scott ever wanted in a woman.”
Jean suddenly jumped up, looked at the clock, and turned back to Greg.
“Greeeeg,” Jean whined, “It’s so late! Why did you let me stay awake this long? I have to be up in the morning to make snacks for your Aunt Fi and Sera’s ‘girls night’ tomorrow.”
“How did keeping track of time suddenly become my responsibility?” Greg asked, “And why are you suddenly catering for the Aunties’ tea parties… You’re the herald, not the housemaid of the Phoenix.”
“Oh hush Greg,” Jean smiled and playfully slapped Greg’s shoulder, “I actually like being domestic sometimes. Just because I’m a badass cosmic powerhouse of a woman, doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy baking. I mean, what was the point of feminism if it means we can’t do what we love?”
Greg laughed as he pulled Jean in close. The next 500 words are omitted because… well, they’re actually kind of gross… in a cute, TMI kind of way.
Jean pushed her boyfriend back a few inches, allowing her to catch her breath, before taking on a scolding tone and wagging her finger in his face.
“Enough mister, we need to go to bed,” Jean grumbled, “And no sex tonight, you’ve kept me awake too long.”
Jean stopped and thought about that statement for a moment.
“Ok, maybe sex,” Jean said, “But seriously, just a couple of times and then we’ll go to sleep. No more than like, four… six… or seven times. And I mean it.”
An underground bunker in an undisclosed location.
A few minutes ago.
A nondescript businessman in a dark brown suit walked down a dusty and dark concrete hallway, lit only by flickering fluorescent bulbs placed just far enough from each other that the corridor remained suitably atmospherically illuminated. Moving briskly down the long stretch of tunnel, the figure's gait suddenly shifted, changing from long, confident strides to a much more feminine sway. The corporate figure bled into featurelessness as it moved, the brown suit merging with the skin beneath to reveal flesh with a blueish hue.
When the figure finally exited the corridor into a large amphitheater, all of the masculine features had faded, replaced with those of a rather full figured blue skinned woman with red hair. The woman was nude, but her form was suitably PG. All of the naughty bits were covered by a thick coating of blue scales.
The woman’s yellow slitted eyes locked onto the form of a grey haired old man sitting on a simple throne in the center of the empty room, peering at a set of three ball bearings hovering above his hand. The man’s clothing revealed his flair for the dramatic, consisting of a blood red robe and trousers covered by a light purple shoulderplate, and with an attached cape that was tucked into the seat of the throne. A red centurion’s helmet with yellow trim sat on the armrest beside him.
“Couldn’t we have made the elevator closer to your office,” the woman complained, “That walk is ridiculous.”
“Enough, Raven,” the man’s commanding tone barked out, “Give me your report.”
“Fine,” the woman sighed, “Scott just returned with Charles. The old man is in a coma. There is talk of bringing Emma back to oversee the school, but right now Scott is the man in charge. Even if Emma comes, she'll never penetrate my mental defenses.”
The ball bearings halted in their tracks, and the old man snatched them out of the air. He brought his other hand to his chin, and shook his head as he released a sigh.
“Charles, my old friend. I always knew your need for control would be your undoing.”
The man’s melancholy lasted only a moment, and his head snapped to meet his subordinate’s yellow eyes.
“Infiltrate the mansion. When the time is right, you need to bring me my catalyst.”
“It will be done,” the blue mutant bowed and left the room, walking with a much more deliberate stride. When she was out of earshot of the old man, she muttered to herself. “Irene, I hope you’re right about this. I hope this is the best thing for our baby girl.”
The Getty Center, Los Angeles, California
Evening of June 29, 2007 (four months later)
Tony was already sick of the place forty-six minutes into the reception, but that was nothing new. It wasn’t like he was excited to hobnob and jerk Jobs off over the release of a glorified MP3 player. Tony was here for three simple things. He came for free booze… which is always better than booze you pay for yourself. He came for ‘high class’ girls… who remain ‘high class’ until they are invited to the Hamptons for an ‘after party’ and suddenly their ‘class’ gets a little more flexible. Finally, he came to laugh at the ‘genius’ CEOs who couldn’t differentiate a circuit board from the hole in their asses.
These tech ‘giants’ like Jobs and Ellison, glorified trust fund babies that got lucky in being put in charge of a ‘tech’ empire built by someone else. Tony had no respect for these pretenders.
Tony was entirely unimpressed by everything in this place. The travertine stone was a massive over-engineered jigsaw puzzle. The tram that brought them here from the parking garage was painfully slow. The brushed aluminum and steel railings were cheap alloy, more pretty than functional.
But what Tony really despised were the people. He despised the droves of simpering sycophants with their immaculately tailored tuxes and their saccharine flattery. He despised their eye-candy silicone filled hanger-ons decked in the latest monstrosities cobbled together in Paris and Milan.
“Tony,” an urbane voice called out from near the bar that Tony had been lurking at for the past 43 minutes, “So great to see you. It’s been ages. We haven’t seen each other since the bid presentation last year.”
Well, at least someone was having fun.
“Who the hell are you?” Tony said dismissively, “Sorry, I only associate with people that matter. I’m sure Jobs would love to hear you tell him how great he is.”
Tony gestured to the man of the hour, giving a ‘thank you’ speech on a raised platform with two women at his side, Elizabeth Allan and Emma Frost… two more trust fund babies for the collection.
Whomever had printed the dictionary used by Tony Stark in his day to day life had obviously left out the word ‘Irony’. He had also, coincidentally, left out the words ‘self aware’.
“Tony, real funny, what a great running gag,” the tuxedo clad man said as he walked up with a teenage girl dressed in an over-tuned crimson red gown that likely cost her over a million, “Have you met my daughter Justine?”
“Hammer,” Tony sighed, his absolute boredom with the man completely apparent in the way he said the name. Tony turned his head just enough to acknowledge them, his thumb tapping against his scotch glass. “The guy who came in second for the automated targeting contract because your prototype tried to acquire a flock of pigeons. Good times.”
Hammer’s smile tightened, but he kept his hand firmly on Justine’s shoulder. The teenage girl looked supremely uncomfortable at her father’s side and in the red dress her dad picked out for her, in a place her idiot pops probably forced her to attend for ‘marketing’ purposes.
“Growing pains, Tony. Innovation takes time. But forget the office. Look at my girl. Top of her class, already doing a summer stint in my telemetry division. Tell him what you thought of Jobs's little glass brick, sweetheart.”
“I told my father it’s a toy for people who find tactile feedback too challenging,” Justine said, her voice smooth, calculated, and entirely too mature for a seventeen-year-old. “But the multi-touch capacitance grid and simple user interface have tactical applications. Soldiers are notoriously dim, giving them a version of this in their vehicles would cut battlefield confusion down by 30% at least.”
Tony’s eye landed on the girl for a moment. It was brief, assessing, but he quickly turned his gaze back to the redhead he’d been eying since he’d arrived.
‘Nah, she’s Jailbait,’ Tony thought. ‘Who am I? Jeff?’
“Oh?” another voice interrupted the conversation, “I’m glad to hear you evaluate our product so highly, even though it’s a silly little consumer model with no military applications. The iPhone partnership was mostly a money making deal for me, something to do while Emma and I work on our aviation projects, but it made wonderful use of a few of the cellular patents my mother owned.”
Great, another inconsequential trust fund baby. This one was the Seere kid. Tony had been hearing about him ad nauseum for an entire year. The circles Tony ran in couldn’t stop gushing about the ‘handsome young aristocrat’ that took over his parents' company by having the entire board arrested, and then immediately changed his company’s business model from vulture capitalism to consumer electronics. The kid wasted no time either, appointing the fresh Liz Allan as his new CEO and partnering with Frost International as the first decisions made as the company owner.
It didn’t hurt that the kid stubbornly refused to show his face at places like these. Typical old money snobbery… too good to hobnob with the nouveau riche, but not too good to accept their investment money.
At least the kid’s academic chops were respectable. Three engineering PhD’s by 20 is nothing to scoff at, even if the kid’s alma mater was an obscure boarding school in Scotland.
“Well well! Gregory Seere, NYCs newest fascination,” Hammer said, as obsequious as always, “People are calling you the ‘next Tony Stark’. Doesn’t hurt that the ‘genius heir’ is so wonderfully mysterious. Have you met my Justine? She’s an engineer as well, the two of you should have lunch sometime. I’m sure you’d have a lot to talk about.”
The girl shifted uncomfortably at her father’s ‘matchmaking’, but an assessing glint appeared as she glared at the young man over the bar.
“Seere, right,” Tony nodded as the kid placed his order at the bar, some floofy chick drink, and turned his back on Hammer doofus and Jailbait, “I read your dissertation on integrated circuits. It was cute. Had some good ideas though. Shame you’re focusing all your energy on toys for millennials.”
“Oh?” Greg said with a raised eyebrow, “High praise from you, Mr. Stark. And you should know that the products my company chooses to pursue don’t say much about my own side projects. Those probably won’t see the boardroom for decades.”
The young man turned back to Doofus and Princess, probably to offer some worthless platitudes to the clowns, which reaffirmed him as an ‘old money snob’ in Tony’s mind. Eh… he was younger, maybe he was looking for an in with Jailbait. It wouldn’t be as horrible as if Tony went for it.
“Thank you Mr. Hammer,” the kid continued, and his next statement confirmed Tony’s suspicions, “I’ve been terribly busy lately, but I always welcome the opportunity to chat with a fellow tech enthusiast. Talk to my CEO Liz, she’ll have someone schedule a lunch meeting.”
“Whatever, I’m bored, time to kick this party up a notch,” Stark interrupted. He turned to the kid and gestured toward the redhead who was arguably the hottest woman in the room. “See that hot little redhead in the green dress? Ten grand says she walks out of here with me in the next three minutes.”
Tony had noticed that woman almost immediately, and had watched her shoot down billionaire after billionaire. She was entirely the reason he was still at this garbage party.
“Well, Mr. Stark,” the kid answered with a smug little smirk on his face, “That’s an interesting wager, but the stakes are a bit too low for men of our stature, aren’t they? We might as well bet a dollar.”
Tony looked at the kid again, evaluating. Maybe this brat would be interesting after all.
“Fine kid, what are you thinking?”
“How about this,” the kid answered, “The winner of the wager has to fund a tech sharing partnership with the other. I have a new research department I am putting together. If you win, I’ll bring Stark Industries in as a full partner, at no expense to your company. If I win, Stark Industries will fund the entire project. Whomever wins, both companies have 50% ownership of whatever comes out of the collaboration.”
Tony’s mind instantly saw the kid’s angle, and he respected it. No matter what, the kid won. Best case, Stark Industries funded the entire project. Worst case, the kid funded it, but he still got to put the Stark name on it.
“Fine, I’ll bite.” Tony decided, sticking out his hand to shake on it. It wouldn’t hurt to keep this kid as a side project. Besides, the integrated circuits paper was already included in some of Tony’s newest designs, not that he’d ever admit that.
The two shook hands and Tony smoothed back his hair. “Better get ready to pull out your checkbook.”
Tony grabbed a second glass of champagne before heading toward his new target, letting the kid trail behind. He tapped the lip of his champagne glass to get the girl’s attention, and gave her his best disaffected look when she noticed him.
“Hey gorgeous,” Tony said, his voice completely unchanged from when he was dressing down Hammer earlier, “You look like the only thing remotely interesting in this place. How do you feel about breakfast in bed in Paris tomorrow morning?”
“That’s very flattering,” the woman answered in a voice that did things to Tony that he wasn’t prepared to admit in mixed company, “But I’m afraid I have other plans.”
The smile she gave Tony was kind, warm, and had no indication that he’d just given her an indecent proposition. Tony figured she was probably playing hard to get… something he was more than prepared to address… until that absolute smokeshow turned to the kid of all people.
“Oh, is that for me?” The girl stepped right past Tony to kiss the kid’s cheek, taking the pink abomination of a drink out of his hand. “Thank you dear, you’re so thoughtful.”
“Of course love,” the kid answered, all of the smug superiority gone from his face, “Sorry about leaving you alone all night, Emma and Liz were insistent that I accompany Steve to shake hands earlier.”
Tony stood there, speechless, for a few moments as the couple finished greeting each other.
“Mr. Stark,” the kid said, completely straight, with no sign on his face that he’d just pulled one over on the most brilliant man on the west coast (if not the world). There was no smug expression of victory, no gloating smile. The kid seemed completely sincere when he continued, “I would like to introduce my girlfriend Jean. Jean, this is Tony Stark. We’ve just confirmed a massive research collaboration between our two companies.”
“Well played, kid,” Tony said after a few moments of silence. The kid’s beaming smile, completely free from the cynicism that Tony had grown accustomed to in this garbage high society world, made it difficult for Tony to keep his own smile from breaking out in response. “Call me Tony. And tell your CEO she's paying for the Paris trip since you just hijacked my weekend plans.”
“Of course Tony,” the kid answered, and pulled out a gold plated business card holder with a strange crest engraved on the side, “Here is my calling card. I’ll be in touch.”
Tony took the card with an amused smirk. It was a simple thing, but the paper it used was high quality, almost parchment in texture. The following words were printed in extra-bold Allegreya SC typeface on the left:
‘A. Gregory Seere’
“Mq., Clan Seere’
The right side of the card was dominated by an elaborate red circle with runes printed along its edges and an intricately detailed pentagram filling the center.
The back of the card had a simple single statement… ‘Make a wish.’
“Hey Kid, there’s no number…” Tony looked up from the card, but the couple had vanished. Tony slipped the card into his wallet and muttered to himself, “Typical old money types. Eccentric to the end.”