14196/Libraries have the power!

Libraries have the power!
Date of Scene:	15 March 2022
Location:	New York Public Library, Manhattan
Synopsis:	Clark gets his scoop with Tony.
Cast of Characters:	Iron Man, Superman

---

Iron Man has posed:
The weather is warming up nicely in New York City; the sun is shining and tourists are coming out in droves. Life is returning, albeit in different ways, and traffic, both vehicle and foot is increasing. St Patrick's Day is rapidly approaching, which accounts for some of the increase, and universities are finding that staggering their spring break gives everyone a chance to go to desired locales. Believe it or not, NYC is one of them.

The New York Public Library. What can be said about it that hasn't already been? An imposing ediface of marble and wrought iron, born of the great dreams of Carnegie and his philanthropic gestures to the world of libraries.

Philanthropic gestures.

One doesn't usually come up with the word 'philanthropy' when used with the name 'Stark' unless one actually //thinks// about it. Tony has put his name on several philanthropic programs in the city, in the state, giving hundreds of thousands if not millions of dollars worth of support to causes. Some of the monies are guided through the Maria Stark Foundation which Ms Pepper Potts so expertly guides within the purview of art and antiques (which has her sitting on the Board of Directors of the Museum of Modern Art), as well as Stark Industries itself headed by Tony, who has a budget line item for such things as well. His is a little more flexible, He can allocate his wherever he darn well pleases.

With dark sedan parked out front of the library, the license plate announcing 'STARK1', Tony is outside, on the great granite steps, one foot higher as if he's ascending. Dark sunglasses sit upon the man's face, and he wears a dark, tailored suit with leather shoes, and over top, a dark wool coat designed to just keep the chill. Slightly behind him, keeping a professional distance away is another man in dark suit and sunglasses that stands like a bodyguard.

He's animatedly talking with a small group of people, hands moving, and as he references the building, it's obvious because the hands come up, only to slide down to his point. To get closer, his words begin to appear, "...over the next five years, you could be looking at a savings of .. what, a few million dollars?" He says that as if it's amounts that he's more than familiar with, but to those city councilmen? It's a lot. "Which means your tax revenue shoots up," but he seems to already have them at the quote of cost savings.

For the passers by? It's Iron Man! Cell phones rise to take pictures, some wave, and others yell variations on, 'I love you Tony!' to 'Iron Man is the best!'. To each, Tony gives a quick wave; a multitasker at heart, all without skipping a beat with the meeting.

Superman has posed:
Where once was a golden calf stands now an iron man, all aglow in the sunlight that spreads dappled shadows over building facades; amidst the crowd of idolaters is one man hardly distinguishable from the crowd save by the significance of his very unremarkability -- there is little ol' Clark Kent, with his light beige jacket and hat, a satchel slung over one burly shoulder to house his laptop, important documents, and the various knick-knacks a put-together professional needs on a warm day. His size is a bit noteworthy, but the way he shrinks into himself, shoulders slumped in perpetual exhaustion, diminishes him in perception if not reality; crowds aren't his favorite thing in the world, and the sheer adulation Tony Stark receives from passer-byes seems to have him a mite uncomfortable.

How does a simple reporter even begin to approach such a rock star? Clark's not Paparazzi, and their shameless stalking of the famous requires a level of intestinal fortitude this Kansas good boy doesn't have. He's so disheveled in comparison, too -- his suit doesn't fit right, his jacket's got a mustard stain on it no one's pointed out, his shirt needs to be ironed, and his tie is loose. He's not a slob, per se, but this is the very picture of an anxious, overworked thirty-something in dweebish glasses and hat.

"Ah, uh, Mr. Stark," he begins, slowly pushing toward the front of the crowd. Once the sales' pitch ends, and Clark's found his way into notice, he offers a lopsided, self-conscious smile. "Clark Kent, journalist for the Daily Planet. I recently interviewed Miss Pepper Potts about Stark Industries' plans to open STEM magnet schools in and around Metropolis; with this new initiative, is it safe to say that you've set your sights firmly on the Tri-State area?"

Iron Man has posed:
Tony lives in this world, the one where he is the rock star of the masses; a household name and most definitely someone that is discussed at the dinner table in thousands of homes. He's most definitely not self-conscious, and he gives waves and the occasional 'peace sign' that he'd so laughingly called a 'gang sign' years ago.

As people pass, and the pitches are made, those around him form something of a semi-circle, a silent jockeying going on to stand at Tony's 'right hand'. It's all for optics.

Tony's chin lifts, his attention gained even if dark eyes can't be directly seen behind blackened sunglasses. "Mr Clark," he calls out, "Yes. Ms Potts hand mentioned you." As he speaks, his hand comes up to keep any of the others from complaint. He murmurs, "It's fine," before he raises his voice again, tones friendly but formal. Professional. This is a man who is used to the 'game'.

"In the pilot program, yes," Tony answers. "Firm foundation, find out what works for the kids and the program as a whole before rolling it out further." Tony's smile rises, and it's a mix of practice and genuine. "Unfortunately, school districts move slower than I do." They have to answer to their taxpayers, after all.

Superman has posed:
That world of iconic celebrity is one that Clark Kent himself strives to avoid. He's well-paid without being wealthy; he's well-known without being famous; he's liked by most he meets but loved by none (maybe one or two, though he's not at all confident about that); he has no admirers, no enemies, and no presence on the world stage. It's a life of comfortable anonymity, and one perfect for a small-town boy who never fully acclimated to the big city.

At some point, a high-end phone has appeared in Clark's hand, an application recording and transcribing comments live. It'll doubtless pick up some ambient chatter, but that can always be dealt with after. Clark smiles once again, and the mustard on the left breast of his jacket dries further. He tucks the phone into a pocket near the mustard, receiver still out, and then also takes a pad and pencil out.

"Old habit," he admits, when a few look at such an archaic practice. "Helps me, um, think." Color rushes to his cheeks as a cool breeze stirs across the crowd and climbs the ascending stairs of the library. His hand is a practiced, but non-super-speed blur as he writes down what Tony says. It's almost meditative, the act, and helps him focus. There's a lot of distractions around him.

"It's understandable that the school districts would behave conservatively," he mentions. "Most of us have to answer to someone else for a living, Mr. Stark -- that makes us cautious." It's a bit of lighthearted and good-natured ribbing. There's no impression Clark Kent has a single mean bone in his body. "When you speak of rolling it out further, am I correct that this is meant to be a nation-wide effort, eventually, being piloted in Metropolis and surrounding locations? Assuming all goes well -- it seems Stark Industries is truly committed to grooming the next generation of brilliant inventors and engineers!"

Iron Man has posed:
Tony watches the deliberation as Clark gets all his things out and set 'just so' for the impromptu interview. It is a matter of 'right person at the right time', and with the sun out and the temperatures coming to kiss the 60s fahrenheit, it puts everyone in a good mood.

He's not the sort to ignore reporters, however. Ever.

"It's fine," and the CEO of one of the world's largest corporations waves the time 'delay' with a sweeping gesture of his hand. If anything, the man comes down the couple of steps so he's nearer to the reporter, a physical gesture to close the gap between himself and the news. He grins at the ribbing and shrugs lightly, "Problem is, sometimes it hurts the kids if you move too slowly. Or too many requirements and constraints are put into place. That's not me, and it's not a requirement for the grant and aid." Oddly enough, Tony is quietly passionate about getting things out the //right// way.

Dropping his hands into coat pockets in a casual gesture, Tony ducks his head slightly, his brows rising. "Yes, absolutely nation wide. It's going to take some time to create the communication pathways, though. The whole point is to teach these kids and then have them able to apply it. We're talking robotics from ground up. Energy source to making it roll faster than the next one, or to turn a corner better than the others." Races. "I want these kids to think from start to finish and have a product they can bring with them to their MIT interview." It's no secret that it's Tony's Alma Mater. "And be able to compete. It'll give them the chance to share their ideas. So," and he looks right at Clark, this time a hand comes out to remove his sunglasses, and his voice lowers, the tone sounding as if it's a secret shared, "If other districts outside the Tri-state approach me with a plan? Absolutely, I'll have the program readied for them, with a bow."

Superman has posed:
Clark Kent's eyes alight on Tony Stark. There's a casual sweep of his body, particularly around the chest -- it lasts only the breathless moment between heartbeats. "Gosh, Mr. Stark, I appreciate that," he declares, in a folksy sort of Midwest-trying-to-appear-Metropolitan accent, as Tony descends the stairs and calms any voice that might try to hurry him. "I'll only take a little of your time, sir, I promise. This is an important project, is all, and I think it's important that I properly convey your feelings to the people; it's important to remember the hero in superhero, and you're quite, well..."

Clark gestures to Tony Stark: well-dressed, surrounded by a sea of adulation and a crowd of admirers, men who would give him their firstborns and women who would carry his, if he only demanded it. He's Iron Man! He's an Avenger! He's rich! He's handsome! He's smart! It's all too easy for the glamor of his character to overshadow the actual goodness of his deeds.

"... you put the super in super-man, if you don't mind my saying." Clark's lopsided smile grows, before he's quickly nose-deep in his notepad again, scribbling in his big, clear letters what Tony says.

"Nation wide... pathways... thank you, sir, this has all been very helpful. I admit, I thought this was more Miss Potts' idea, but... "

He pauses, mouth somewhat open, as he realizes his faux-pas. What an awkward reporter. Did he just admit that funding schools seemed beneath Tony Stark's grand reputation?

"Erm, I didn't mean... it's just a humble thing, sir. I think too often people forget that children are the future; more than anything, as adults, it's our responsibility to guide them into the future." He's talking too much now to cover up his anxiety, though you gotta admit, that's a good line.

Iron Man has posed:
Tony sets his glasses back on his face and twists his body towards the street, peering down one side of the road, then the other. "Hey, Kent.. want to grab a pretzel? I'm starving. Haven't had anything to eat yet." Beat. "C'mon." As he makes ready to go, he's waving the rest of the retinue 'goodbye', other than his bodyguard, of course. "Meeting's over, thank you gentleman!" is called out before he turns, walks a couple of steps backwards, "Are you coming?"

As he walks now, he's pausing for Clark to perhaps catch up. "Ms Potts spearheads a lot of projects," Tony agrees. "Her knowledge, understanding and ability makes her an asset to both me and Stark Industries." Turning his head, he's doing a quick search for the reporter to continue. A smile creases his face and he nods, his voice lowering, "I like that. Use that. Definitely."

That view, should Clark have done the quick 'look' into Tony's chest, there is the arc reactor, humming away, the pale blue light a constant. Rumors are true, even if no news reports EVER reported it; jagged bits of shrapnel are there within his chest, his heart, and from the look of it, from the positioning, that arc reactor is exactly what is keeping him alive. The man relies on his technology to live. He'd only have, tops, ten minutes to live if his reactor was ever pulled. And the technology in his chest is exactly that which 1. powers his suit, and 2. currently powers Stark Tower and possibly the city's library.

"We do work together, after all. She's my PA," with all that entails plus, apparently, a slightly freeer hand on finances than most Personal Assistants have.

Superman has posed:
"A pretzel? S-sure, I'd love to!" Clark's smile widens and he brightens up a tad after his awkward missteps, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. He might have nice eyes if those lenses weren't fading them out and making them appear ever-so-slightly too big. He's frozen to the spot as the retinue is dismissed, caught up in the moment such that he doesn't even stumble forward until he's goaded on -- though as he does, he drifts too near the bottommost step of the library and smacks his toe right into it, eliciting a faint hiss of pain and a stumble he recovers from.

It'd be far too awkward to trip around Tony Stark. Clark's face scowls in what can only be read as an internal chastisement, and then he forgets his worry in his rush to catch up.

"H-Hold on a second, please," the big lug pleads, placing his things back in his satchel, gripping it by the strap around his arm so it doesn't flail around, and then hurrying forward. Pedestrians part for him like they might a charging bull or a colossal tidal wave -- it's not that he gives any sense of aggression off, but just looking at him one gets the sense he underestimates his own size and overestimates his sure-footedness.

The bodyguard is noticed. So is the bodyguard's attention. Every aspect of Tony is analyzed in these conversations, Clark seeking out some hint of tension, or worry. "I'm a little surprised you of all people would have a bodyguard, sir," Clark admits, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully once he catches up. "I can't imagine anyone bold enough to mess with Iron Man. But given how fierce Miss Potts' body -- erm, assistant, is, yours must be quite something. And I will, sir. Use it. That line. I thought it was good, too."

For all his apparent focus on Stark, the world cries out for help in a thousand ways. The itch to make his escape, to apologize and abandon this snack-talk, swells. But the chief was very insistent he get a nice, sexy hook for the story, and there's no hook sexier than Tony.

Iron Man has posed:
Going for a pretzel with Superman. If Tony had any inkling that those cries were going out, he'd probably not only insist that Supes take care of it, but would offer to come along for the ride for the action, for the chance to work with the man, for the chance to help.

But, no. It's pretzel time!

Tony digs out his wallet, passes a twenty off for a couple of pretzels and city-water dogs, loaded. "Here, try this if you haven't. City's water is disgusting, but boil a hot dog in it, and it becomes heaven on a bun." He hands it over, fully aware that it does take multiple hands to manipulate said food.

Tony is one of those people that uses his charm and charisma to win over potential detractors, and if they're openly hostile, well.. he simply doesn't care. Give him friendly, and he'll absolutely sound as if he's totally square with them, as if they're the only one who will get such an important scoop. It's in his blood.

The mustard is picked up, squirted on both the hot dog and pretzel, and he hands the plastic squeeze bottle over next, "Best with mustard. Oh, looks like you already had some.." and Tony grabs a napkin, ready to go after that mustard stain already present. It's natural, it's snarky in that non-biting form.

Tony pauses, and there is the glance of the recorder, the fact the man is a //reporter//, and his jaw shifts. "Ms Potts' security detail is the best that money can buy. I have no concerns." His own, however? When Natasha isn't around, he's got a regular, plainclothesman. Iron Man, after all, can protect himself. Right? "I'm sure you understand that I'd rather not discuss how I keep my people safe. Even though I have faith that you wouldn't publish such a piece of information like that." His tones are even, suddenly serious. He doesn't play around when it comes to Pepper's safety. His own? Not a problem..

In the next second, it's like a switch is flipped, and he's his most affable self, shoving the end of the hotdog into his mouth, and chewing, making that 'delicious' noise. "Perfect."

Superman has posed:
"That sure sounds swell, thank you," Clark says, with such simple earnestness maybe even the sharp-tongued Tony Stark won't tease him for still saying 'swell'. God forbid he hears the terms gosh, golly, or darnit -- Clark is a firm believer in minding one's manners in public, and steadfastly refuses to curse in front of women or children. "You know, I once did a story on what was thought to be food poisoning, but it turns out it was the water they used in the -- oh no!"

The fumbling exchange of food goods is nearly a disaster. Clark shifts the bag higher on his shoulder and lets it sag against his torso, reaching out with his sun-bronzed hands -- rough hands, laborer's hands, not ones a delicate city-born reporter would have -- to take the offered pretzel and hotdog. Unfortunately, Clark misjudges his grip, and while he seizes the pretzel the hot dog collapses on the ground, spilling its contents all over Tony's no doubt very expensive shoes -- quite ironic, given he drops it as Tony starts getting close and attempting to clean his own stain!

"I, uh, guess we're stain siblings now, eh?" A beat. "I'm sorry, really. Here, I can clean them..." Unless stopped, Clark will literally drop to his knees with a handful of napkins and polish the hell out of Tony's shoes, fussing all the while and stammering out apologies. He recognizes their brand, these are well above his paygrade.

"Oh, um, of course. Really, it's no problem at all, cross my heart. Security is important, I understand -- and Miss Potts was a wonderfully kind woman. Yelena was..."

He awkwardly trails silent. In his head, his mother's voice echoes: if you can't say anything nice, Clark Kent, don't say anything at all.

"... she was very devoted to her job."

Iron Man has posed:
"You sound like a friend of mine." Captain Steve Rogers. He's //up there// with all the homey, 1940s style. Tony can't help a chuckle, of course until the hot dog gets all over his shoes. The absolute perceived panic from Clark has his hand coming out, the pretzel-laden one. "It's okay.. really. No, don't. I've got this."

There's that moment where Tony looks around for a place to put his food down. The cart is within close distance, so he's trying to get Clark to stop trying to clean his shoe, put his own stuff down and clean it himself.

"It's fine," and the Avenger lead honestly doesn't sound mad. True enough, he can always buy another pair. Three pairs. Fly halfway around the world and have it made for him if he wanted. "It's really okay."

It's the assurances, however, that has Tony looking up from his crouch, and cleaning, brows rising. "Yelena is extremely devoted to her job." For.. reasons. Many reasons.

Rising to his height again, Tony retakes his food and finishes the hot dog off quickly. Before it gets cold. "You should come by the Tower some time. Or, better yet, I'll make sure you're invited to the press conferences." There are always press conferences in his world. "But, I need to go. I have an afternoon meeting I need to sleep through." He smiles quickly, that 'there and gone' gesture, "Did you have any other questions? If you think of some later, feel free to contact the office. I'm sure Ms Potts will either be able to answer it, or she'll put you through to me." Levels of access. The fact that Clark may have access to Pepper is immense. There aren't many reporters that do.

Superman has posed:
By the time Tony's gotten Clark off his shoe, most of the mess has been cleaned -- the farm boy's got surprisingly quick, strong hands, and the places where he pushed the napkins hard have a shine that's almost professional. In another life, the mild-mannered reporter would have made a killing as a shoe shiner. There's no oil or polish that can trump sheer hardheaded determination.

"Really, I am sorry," he repeats as he stands, holding up his hand in a plaintive gesture. "The pretzel was a little hot and ma always said I had butter fingers." He smiles at his own slippery-fingered joke and scratches his cheek. "Yes, well. She clearly isn't the sort to slack off. She has a very, erm, powerful focus. A presence."

She is terrifying, is the unspoken message behind Clark's appraisal.

"Oh, no, I can't take up any more of your time. This was more than kind enough, Mr. Stark, sir." Clark holds out a hand and offers a shake. He doesn't have a very firm grip. Dweeb. "I'll make sure to do just that! You have a capital-g Good day now!"

Clark will wait for Tony to depart, and then fade into the crowd. Later that day, as Tony goes about his business, he'll even see the tell-tale blur of the red-caped hero of heroes, soaring over the city toward some deed of valor or another.