Are you there, Stark? It's me, Wing-man.

August 9, 2014: Falcon stops in at Stark Industries to discuss his wings' provenance with Tony Stark

Stark Industries




Mood Music:

After a day or two to consider the uncomfortable implications of Tony Stark's invitation to discuss the proprietary tech in his wings, Sam Wilson steeled himself for the confrontation, strapped on the suit, and jetted down to Midtown. As he figures, landing on the roof with a pair of robot wings is about a million times more likely to get him in to see Stark than just showing up at the front desk and asking. Plus, it's just got more style, right?

So a mere few minutes after taking off, he comes rocketing in toward Stark's personal rooftop landing pad. He kicks forward, cancels his considerable speed with a few powerful movements of his wings, and touches down so lightly that he simply adopts a relaxed walking gait toward the entrance to the executive penthouse. The wings fold back into the suit as he walks, but he keeps his goggles on. Might as well try to look like he knows what he's doing.


People really don't give Tony enough credit. Stark Industries has a satelite and another one in production ready for launch, so the fact that he's never unaware of persons coming to interrupt his personal yoga lessons with some hot swedish woman who isn't very good at yoga, shouldn't be that big a surprise. Somehow it always is…

As soon as Falcon starts towards the big bay glass double doors they slide open for him. A proper english voice greets him without much in the way of good cheer, "Good evening, sir. Mister Stark will be with you momentarily. He says that if you wish a drink there is a fully stocked fridge in the kitchen and bar in the lounge." The voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere in particular. Like the tower itself is speaking.

Tony is finishing up whatever he's doing in his room. No details and no peeking.


Being addressed by a disembodied, accented voice pulls Sam up short and, frankly, throws the flier completely off his game. He has considered all sorts of possibilities: a locked, empty penthouse; an interrogation by Pepper Potts; even an aerial grudge match with the Iron Man. Majel Barrett's upper-crust London cousin wasn't one of them.

"Is that you, God?" he asks after a moment to collect his wits. "It's me. Margaret." He considers the bar for a handful of seconds, but decides that the social lubricating effects of a drink don't really counterbalance the hit to his reaction time, in case this delay is so that Stark can get his metal shorts on for that grudge match after all. He again looks around for the source of the voice. "Well. This is awkward."


"No sir, I am not god." JARVIS says in that same disembodied voice that comes from every corner of the grand penthouse atop Stark Tower. "I do, however, get the reference. Mister Stark has programmed me to recognize most lyrical talents and attempts at levity." Talk about making things weird right?

Ray Stevens starts playing, just for Falcon. Quietly of course.

It's another few minutes.. maybe fifteen or so.. before the door to the bedroom finally swings open and Tony strolls out. He is not wearing the Iron Shorts, but it is a several thousand thread Pursian silk robe which LOOKS like his Iron Shorts. Still tying it off he walks with a smile towards the bar.

Because it's five o'clock somewhere right? "Hey there wingman." Pouring scotch into a glass over two icecubes from a crystal decanter. "Did you give me your name? I'm sorry if you gave me your name, I don't remember names."

The Swedish Yoga instructor comes out as well, rushing past the pair with a sheepish grin and a wave at Falcon.

She's clothed.


"Next you should get him to program you not to say 'I recognize your attempt at levity,'" Falcon mutters dryly. The song starts, and he wrinkles his nose in confusion until the relevant passage starts. "I see what you did there," he says with a smirk. "Next time try that instead of the 'levity' thing."

He crosses his arms and looks around with a sort of balanced curiosity and reluctance to touch anything that's common to people left unattended in other people's homes. Eventually, Tony and his … friend … appear. Sam gives the woman an amused look and waits for her to leave before answering Tony's question.

"Sam works. I prefer 'Falcon' to 'Wing-man,' though," he says. "Dudes with wings aren't all that unusual, I've learned. You wanted to talk to me about the suit, though?"


"Don't tease the Artificial Intelligence." Tony warns, smiling around the rim of his glass that's rised to his lips for a drink. One hand rests flat against the kitchen counter, an island that seperates him from the lounge area. As the Yoga instructor leaves, Tony follows her with a turn of his head, and only looks back to Sam once the door's closed. Still pointing with the other fingers wrapped partway around his scotch.

"That woman does not know the first thing about yoga. Not the first thing… Suppose to calm you down and… my heart rate was way up.." Pointing upwards, "So high." Shrugging, he walks around the outter wall and leans against it so he can face the Falcon.

"Yeah, I did. Exo-7 right? I designed the prepulsion system about seven…"

JARVIS interrupts, "Eight."

"Eight years ago. How did you come to wear it? Are they giving those things away in cracker jack boxes now?"


"Not hardly. The whole program was decommissioned, I heard," Sam answers. This question, he prepared for. "I was part of the testing team. Sam Wilson, Air Force, late of pararescue. Only decent pilot they ever found for the Exo-7. And no, they didn't give me a pair of wings instead of a watch when I left the program."

Tony's serious question dealt with, he smirks and adds, "You're serious? You gave a computer an English accent because you didn't want it to get teased?"


"No, I said ''you'' couldn't tease him." Tony points out, whether he too is teasing or not, he's also grinning. Clearly feeling this was the more important of the two topics, he's defended JARVIS' honor and can thus move on.

"Man, those guys… I gave them that tech as a brush off and they actually put it into prototype…" Shaking his head, he walks over to Falcon with his drink leveled up for another long swallow of amber liqour. "So you're retired? Good for you. There's no future in government work. It's all about the private sector." One brow raised, he motions to the suit.

"Mind if I take a look?"


Sam is smiling and feeling that the conversation is going better than expected, until Stark asks to inspect his hardware. His arms cross and his brows lower as he gives the technologist a challenging look. "Depends. Are you gonna try to take it off me? Activate a lockout or something? I can do good with this tech. And at this point, your claim's not any stronger than mine."

"You had a lot of input into the Exo-7, sure, but this is barely that suit anymore," he explains, a little defensively. "First of all, I picked it up off an outfit called Polyglobal. Seems they stole a bunch of docs from the design team and made a knockoff. We busted up the lab and took their imitation. Which, frankly, flew like crap until I had my own guy take a look at it and make some serious modifications."

Clearly, the thing Sam is most worried about is that Tony is going to make some claim on the wings and take them back.


Tony holds his hand out like he's frozen when Sam goes all defensive hampster about his flight suit. One brow starts crawling skyward, but the grin the playboy is wearing never even flinches. "..Have you seen my suit?" The hand jerks towards the stairs leading down into his workshop. "Seriously, I'm like seven generations ahead of this tech… and I gave it to them fair and square."

Fair and square really doesn't apply here. They paid him quite handsomely for it.

"I just want to take a look at it? You know, one owner to another… See what those barbarians did to my idea." Now he takes a drink and shrugs, "But if you're defensively protecting your trade secrets, I can understand that… I'll just have JARVIS do a diagnostic scan when you leave." Mouth quirking sardonically.



Sam's hackles go back down, threatened scan or not. "I don't care if you know how the suit flies, so long as I get to keep flying it," he answers. A smile tugs at his lips as he adds, "And you may have the best ordnance, but I guarantee I can fly circles around that sky tank of yours."

Now it's just a pair of pilots having a hardware measuring contest, and that's Sam's comfort zone. After another second of consideration, he starts undoing the catches on his gauntlets and harness. After less than a minute, he deposits it gently on the surface of the kitchen island. "Scan away," he says.


"I highly doubt that." Tony says with a smirk, shaking his head. Measuring contests aside, he's got this whole self assured thing going for him that overshadows any relative argument he might present to contradict Sam's rather profound statement of superior flight speed between their two suits.

Once the suit is laid out on the kitchen island, Tony drains the rest of his scotch and pulls a phone out from one of the pockets on his robes. The device is flipped open and with a punch of a button, digital blue lines of light start highlighting the armor, locking onto certain points with circular target reticals.

Once the scan is finished, Tony drops his phone back into his pocket and grabs the new digital wireframed image of the suit and expands it out in the air infront of him. "They're still using a jet propulsion system." His fingers grip the pair of engines and pull them away, then resize them so that the two of them can get a better look at them. "I think I could shave about six pounds off the primary weight just in fuel and lower your energy profile by another point seven percent… and that's just on my MK I repulsor technology." Tony is caught up in his observations of the schematics. "Titanium?"

JARVIS says, "Scans indicate it ''is'' a flat titanium alloy, sir."

To that, Stark whistles. "Have you ever considered double magnetically sealed titanium?" Looking to Falcon now, turning with his arms crossing over his chest where the barest hint of the arc reactors blue glow is visible through his robes.


Sam tugs his goggles down so that they dangle around his neck and his view won't be blocked by the built-in HUD flashing 'HARNESS NOT SECURED' at him. (You'd think he left his seat belt unbuckled or something.) He's going to want an unobstructed view of Tony Stark at work on a design. That doesn't mean he's all awe and no attitude: "You want to race? I'll take you on any time, Stark."

He raises one eyebrow as the man starts flicking through alternative design specs from his holographic library. "I thought repulsors were your precioussssss," he comments. "Like, that was the thing you were giving to no one, ever, under any circumstances. And wouldn't a different alloy mean replacing the entire wing structure from the pinions down? That's a lot of moving parts to replicate."


"You got it, champ." Tony says of the race, "Get your big boy panties on for the finish line. I'll still provide the girls, though…" Said in a distracted and yet decidedly still cocky tone. He's highlighted in digital stuff, the blue light making him look mildly like a mad scientist, so he can hopefully be forgiven being just a little preoccupied for appropriate smarm.

"No, I'm not giving to anyone who tells me I ''have'' to." Tony redresses the coment, "I don't harbor bullies, Sam. I'm a bully, bully." A pause as he rubs at his chin, "Besides, I'm giving you an out dated model." Distractedly… The entire design is spun so he can look at the back portion of the harnass. "I could have a prototype working in about a week. If I'm going to replace the engines for repulsors you're going to have twice the thrust power so you can accomodate more weight.."

The real question is how he'll power it without straping an arc reactor to Sam's chest. THAT is his real baby… people can make a robot until the cows come home, but good luck getting it to do more than walking down the hallway with a box of crackers at today's level of power schematics.


A grin slowly spreads across Sam's features. "Yeah, come to think of it, I guess the Joint Chiefs aren't in the habit of asking for things politely. Never thought of it that way." He examines the holographic display closely. Most of the technical details of the flight rig are far, far beyond his expertise, but it's still fascinating to see its inner workings.

"Twice the thrust? Jesus, she'd be fast. But…" He trails off and looks over at Tony inquisitively, his own face lit by the same ethereal blue light. "You'd just do this pro bono? I'm guessing that a Stark-designed prototype is going to run a little outside my price range. What am I going to owe you if you do this?"


"Private sector, Sam." Tony states flatly, looking up at this new design spec… and it's just in the fledgling stages at this point. He hasn't gotten down into the lab to really start crunching numbers and applying the gold paint.

The model is moved easily around the room, like his entire penthouse is on some grid that allows him to view his work at any place, no matter where he currently is. At the moment, it's dropping down onto the overstuffed comfortable couch. "I wasn't joking the other night.. I really am going to turn one of the floors of the tower into a medical wing." He opens the arm of the couch and pulls out another decanter of liqour, a glass, and a few cubes of ice. Since he forgot to refill the original before sitting down and he's way too lazy to walk back over there.

"I'm going to need a flashy new paramedic to work there… along with other things. You know, secret industry crap that I wont bore you with. Anyways…" He points up at the suit, then sucks some alcohol from his fingers, "That, plus a paycheck."

After a long drink, "Would you like to hear more?"


Sam follows Tony, looking around for the projectors that are seamlessly passing the model around. That's almost as useful a trick as the armrest liquor cabinet. He takes an easy chair across the room, sitting forward intently rather than lounging. "So, you're offering me a more advanced set of wings, and in exchange, all I have to do is also accept a job offer?" He smirks and shakes his head. "I mean, obviously I want to hear more. Or accept on the spot. But how do you stay rich making deals like that? Is Pepper Potts going to show up and talk you out of this at some point?"


"Pepper will understand." She wont, "She always thinks my ideas are a really great idea." She doesn't. Tony holds his glass up, "Obviously, the new harnass will still tenatively belong to Stark Industries. I can't have you making a multi-million dollar deal with Justin Hammer that will somehow still set him back twenty years…" Still grinning, now with one hundred percent more taking a sip of scotch.

"The original Exo-7 suit will still be your's… but while you're working for me, and I'm pretty liberal when it comes to when you are and are not on the clock, you fly the new Exo MK 8." Waving his hand, "Legal shit, legal shit… but yes, basically, all you have to do is work for me."


"I did mention that I blew up the lab where they made this one, right?" Sam says with a laugh. "I clearly haven't got any issues protecting your patents. So yeah, that sounds fair. I'm in, on two conditions." He holds up two fingers, counting them down as he ticks off points. "One: you don't get to sneak into the contract that I'm called 'Wingman' or 'Flyboy' or something equally embarrassing." Hedging against Stark's notorious sense of humor seems like a good plan. "And two: you called your computer Jarvis, right? Condition two is that I've changed my mind, Jarvis. I will be wanting to drink to this."


"Alright, Sammie Davis, you got it." Tony says with a nod to at least one of the conditions. "Hey, you can't blame me for covering myself, right? I mean, if I had a dollar for everytime I gave someone a million dollar flight harnass and they ran off to Calcuta.." And the worst part is it's not even that long a stretch of the imagination.

JARVIS intones, as he always does, from every corner of the penthouse, "Of course, Mister Wilson." The wall opens on the side of the kitchen island and drops a few cubes of ice into a little glass. Scotch pours into it, a two fingered shot.

Tony stands up and waits for Sam to grab his drink before raising his own, "To new beginnings. May we make our destiny and pave the road behind us in good intentions."

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