"So. Tony Stark. How does a billionaire become a superhero, exactly?" She wandered in and plopped herself down on a chair before looking at him expectantly. That had been the part that always bothered her the most. People like her, they got in because of governments and shitty circumstances. But how could a rich guy from the States ever have that kind of pressure on him?
She'd caught him at the bar. Well, not quite caught. He'd known she was coming from the minute she set foot in the tower. Tony turned to face the visitor, the showman's smile plastered on his face. "Wow, and I thought I butchered tact. Not exactly subtle, Ms. Belova, but lucky for you I don't mind directness. I kind of appreciate it. Anyhow. In order to become a billionaire, you have to do something to make that kind of cash, right?" His attention fell back to the martinis he'd finished, taking the glasses in hand before setting one in front of her.
"I manufactured arms. The kind that explode, not the kind that you get if you lose a limb...Though I probably could...But I digress. Point is, when you make weapons, there's two sides to the people who know you. Ones who like what you're doing, for whatever reason, and ones who'd rather see you out of business. And sometimes? Those two groups overlap, and you end up in the middle of a goddamn sandbox staring down explosive ordnance that literally has your name on it." The glass met his lips, the slight burn of the vodka warming him on its way down and promising softened edges when he'd be stuck on the memories inevitably due to resurface.
Before he'd realized it, the last sip was gone. "Oops. Anyhow, you know this part of the story. Kidnapped, 'make us weapons', a new piece of hardware, yadda yadda. Bottom line? I didn't ask for it. I had a target because of what I did. I brought it on myself. When you do stupid things, they'll come back to bite you in the ass. Enough of an explanation for you?"
