12 / 20 / 08 - Stark, Zenith
Ah, holiday benefits. At some point, you've seen one, you've seen them all, at least as far as the window-dressing. Silvery and blue balls on real trees, one huge enough to reach to the second level ceiling. Tasteful points of light. In the end, it comes down to two things: the food, and the company. Zenith has the slightly glazed look of someone who is assessing only those two things, elegant in an icy blue strapless gown, with a curl of similarly icy blue make-up beside her eye. She has a strawberry from the buffet in hand, and is scouting for one of the mingle groups to break into, since all of them of solidified.
Laughter reaches a crescendo at a well-positioned group formed of particularly exclusive and elegant sorts. The women are all pretty, and the men are all rich. You know. One of /those/ knots. The group breaks open and falls apart shortly after with an exchange of handshakes and a cordial, "Good luck with things," from an older man to the younger.
Stark holds his smile until the other man has turned away, and at that point, his expression goes blank. He edges off with date in tow, muttering something to her along the lines of, "--/luck/. Honestly. Go find something to drink for me, would you?" he asks the brunette at his elbow, who complies with an easy smile, leaving Stark all alooone. He skims the crowd as he waits, gaze landing on Zenith. His eyebrows twitch upward.
Sensing she's been alone too long, Zenith starts moving, getting in at least a couple greetings, if not any loosening of those circles of people to let her in. Her pleasant mask is carefully up, and she detours toward Stark first as someone who is alone, but then as someone the recognizes and can inflict her conversation on. "Mr. Stark."
"Ms. McMillan. Or is it Zenith?" Stark asks, head tipped just slightly in inquiry. He fidgets with his hands in small ways, fingers sweeping along the front of his jacket, then folding together. Ohhh, for a glass to hold.
"Zenith, please. 'McMillan' sounds like my lawyer." Zenith gives a bit of a nosewrinkle for that one. She has her own glass, of course, but she steps out of the straightest path to the drinks and the food. "I didn't mean to interrupt--" A trip to them, she clearly means.
"What?" Stark asks, somewhat blank, in the manner of one who rarely has to go move to find food or drink. Inevitably, it comes to /him/. "No, you aren't interrupting anything."
Zenith settles in, then, and sips her own drink. "I was reminded the other day, actually, just how long it's been since I left that name behind," she comments, and then moves on to more smooth topics. "You've been having a pleasant holiday season, I hope?"
"I can't imagine leaving mine behind. What would we call the company?" Stark says lightly. "That would be a lot of work repainting." Iron Man Industries? Naaah. He settles back on his heels, dividing attention between Zenith and the room at large. "Busy. You?"
"We've stopped filming for the moment, at least." Zenith sips again, brushing hair back with careful fingers so as not to affect her make-up. "Lisabeth said she'd talked to you--?"
"Ms. Stuart? Briefly. We have to throw our lawyers at each other and see who wrestles their way to the top of the pile," Stark says, somewhat wry. "It would be amazing if we could replicate what you do, though, even in limited fashion."
Zenith's interest, which had gone glazed at the mention of lawyers, sharpens, finally. "You really think you can? How would you even--go about that?"
"I don't know." Stark spreads his hands. "First we have to find out /what/ you do, and /how/ you do it -- and that, in itself, could be revolutionary."
Zenith stops in the act of lifting her glass to her lips. "But we already know what I do. Or at least I do." Her lips quirk. "Do you not believe me?"
"All right," Stark says, eyebrows lifting. "In that case, replicating it should be a cinch."
"You still have how," Zenith offers teasingly, toasting him with her glass. "Forgive me. I had a professor talking at me the other day about quantums and shadows, and bands of gravity when I could have told him perfectly well if he'd let me get a word in that my fields /aren't/ bands. I don't know why people would think I wouldn't know!"
"You know that you create areas in which gravity is oriented in a particular direction, or stronger, or whatever. And as far as a Scientific American explanation goes, that's fine, but I'm talking about a deeper what than that, and a deeper how," Stark says, giving a slight shake of his head. "What is happening to cause that? How are you making that happen? Et cetera. I imagine you gave the professor a headache. You nearly give me one."
"Oh." Zenith looks chagrined. "Well, that's your thing, not mine, I am happy to admit. At this rate, in the season break, I'll be able to do this full time." She gives Stark a grin. "You and the reactor guy--" She shrugs. "Or whatever. What kinda other stuff are you working on?"
"Well, not entirely my thing," Stark admits, all false modesty. "I'm more into applications than research." As his date returns at a long last, two drinks in hand, he releases just the faintest of happy sighs. Booze. He accepts a glass and makes introductions, but we won't go into them, because I don't care enough to give her a name. "We're integrating some new systems into the next generation of Sentinel body armor that should be promising. I wish there was a better way to identify mutants."
Zenith nods to the date, giving her only a once-over out of interest as to how much /Stark/ is interested in her. Then her manner chills noticably at the mention of identification, but she doesn't object. She stalls instead by taking a drink. "You and everyone else, seems like," she says blandly.
Stark gives Zenith a crooked sort of smirk, pull slight at his lips. "You know, there are /non/-sinister reasons to want to better identify mutants." His date is pretty and charming, well-mannered, with bright eyes and a bushy ta-- no, wait, no tail. She seems bright enough, though, following the conversation alertly.
"Like--?" Zenith says immediately, then she shakes her head. "I don't get into that. I just want to help those who want it, and leave the rest for everyone else."
Stark's eyebrows inch a little farther up. "Like making treatment more efficient in a hospital setting, or on scene of some accident or attack. Mutants often have different, specific medical needs, and identifying them as a mutant, especially if they can't talk, or are unconscious, might mean they get the treatment that they need that much quicker," he says, refusing to let the topic lie when she'd shake it off.
"Oh!" Zenith looks surprised. "That's actually--that's a good idea. If it didn't mean they'd get refused treatment or something." Her flash of optimism only lasts so long.
Stark's eyebrows fall and dark eyes hood with suspicious blandness. "Right."
"Anyway." Zenith holds out her hands. "That's not what I'm trying to deal with. The Fund doesn't get into that angle, just helping people that need it. In the best way possible. Jean Grey can worry about the other stuff."
Stark watches Zenith over the rim of his glass as he lifts it to take a sip, and snorts at the last. "Yes, I suppose Dr. Grey has the 'other stuff' angle covered. What kinds of things /do/ you use that fund of yours for?"
"Aid for the victims and families in the recent subway accident. Resources for victims of hate crimes--medical care, legal support; and now the outreach, funding that and other voluntary training programs." Zenith is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed herself as she stays On Message.
Stark waves a hand, dismissing it all. "Specifics. Do you get into that? No quaint little anecdotes of lives improved, little pictures you can whip out so you can say, 'For only pennies a day--'?"
Zenith tugged off her message, Zenith looks a little panicked. "Well, once the outreach center gets up and running, there will be plenty of photogenic kids from that, I'm sure." She gives him a blinding smile in lieu of actual content. "The rest--isn't very quaint. Hate crimes aren't, really. And the victims don't usually want any more attention."
Panic or not, the last point, Stark grants. "No," he agrees. "Not very quaint." A touch at his elbow turns his attention back to his date, who tips her chin just slightly in indication of an incoming pair. Stark says, "Ah," and then turns to Zenith. "Here, try your pitch out on this pair. I'll make introductions," he says in an undertone before they quite arrive.
"Thank you!" Zenith says in the same undertone, surprised by the help, but obviously grateful. Then she pulls up her smoothest mask, and smiles brightly at the new possible donors.
Zenith grabs on to that Message, refuses to let go!