Another Stark Catastrophe
May. 29th, 2018 11:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madimpossibledreamerwell, work yesterday sucked
today was better
~dreamer~
Main Points:
Iron Man/Miraculous (Ladybug & Chat Noir) crossover (one of the AUs that's going to show up in Self-Made Hero)
Summary: Obie and Tony both make mistakes.
Word Count: 2292
Rating: Gen
today was better
~dreamer~
Main Points:
Iron Man/Miraculous (Ladybug & Chat Noir) crossover (one of the AUs that's going to show up in Self-Made Hero)
Summary: Obie and Tony both make mistakes.
Word Count: 2292
Rating: Gen
He coughs, finding it shaking his body uncontrollably. Painfully. Attempting to move his eyelids only results in a blinding headache. If he just tries not to move, lets himself drift, he’ll—
Die, if you let yourself, a voice accented in a way he doesn’t recognize responds.
“Wha—” is all he manages. Something thick and metallic gums up his mouth, plus his ribs hurt too much if he moves. It takes him a minute to realize that that’s blood.
If you take the easy path, you will perish, Tony Stark. It may be painful, but you must fight.
Uh-huh, and why should he do that? From the feel of things, he’s not likely to make it long even if he is stubborn, and what is there for him out there? Who would really miss him? Rhodey, maybe, although they’re not on talking terms what with the argument about the armed forces. He had the greatest respect for them, but from what he saw they’d taken individuals and turned them into carbon-copy soldiers, and he was self-aware enough to realize part of it was a weird kind of jealousy and possessiveness. Rhodey was his friend; the Air Force could find some other amazing pilot. Except Rhodey didn’t want them to find someone else. He really can’t tell how seriously annoyed or not the platypus was, because people are not his area of expertise. At all.
He misses that guy that would look out for him, not the whole country. But maybe that guy doesn’t miss him.
Think, Stark. The voice, whatever it is, is losing its patience. He can’t fault it for that. What were you going to ask Stane about, when you returned home?
That’s…
Folders, data, a discrepancy. Trawling databases just for fun, when he wasn’t inventing things.
That’s right. Supplies ending up in places they shouldn’t be. I hate to tell you this, Stark, but what you found was clearly no mistake in the ledger.
How would some weird voice-thing know?
Because mistakes do not lead to assassins picking over the wreckage looking to kill you. Roll out of the way, now!
The voice is authoritative enough that he automatically follows orders (which, honestly, he’s made a lifetime career of not doing that) and groans in pain. That sound, though—he recognizes it. A gun, probably one of his if that weird voice was right. There’s a ringing in his ears, and he feels very suddenly deaf.
Suddenly, though, he knows, and he’s furious. Bright blue eyes spring open and he rolls again, getting himself into a position to fight back. Yes, it’s totally Obie, and he’s counting on all the money and pampering to have made him soft. He does tend to do this thing where he gets annoyed when people don’t react the way he thinks they should (which is why Tony tries to be on his best behavior or even a gentleman when the man is around because seriously, the faces he makes are hilarious) and Tony catching on and not being totally oblivious probably completely freaked him out. But it’s working in his favor, too, because Obie had to have told these hired thugs the target is completely clueless when it comes to self defense, having somehow forgotten about all those kidnappings when he was a kid.
That hasn’t happened in years, between Happy and Rhodey, so he’s a little rusty, but some things you never forget. Things like ‘ignore the pain’, because it’s guaranteed, you hurt now, but if you stop moving, like a shark you’re dead, and ‘don’t fight fair.’ That last one is pretty much an instinct by this point, though at school it was more the type of verbal fights with bullies, but he’s good. He’s good at noticing people (at least, when he’s not being completely oblivious) and cataloguing them and finding out all their weak points. It’s more of a compulsion than anything else. He usually doesn’t let on unless someone comes after him, in which case he likes to hit back hard, enough that they’re not ready for a second round. And with the angle he’s at, and the general appearance of his attacker? A foot to the crotch with all his weight behind it is both easy and effective, and the man doubles over, groaning. It’s simple enough from there to sweep his legs and knock the man over. He feels only a twinge of guilt before he starts smacking the guy’s head into the ground, since the man had tried to kill him first.
He’s good at working through pain. Lack of sleep. Pretty much everything. He whines to get attention, but he’s actually good at forcing himself past his limits.
The legs and arms twitch. He’s definitely caught the man by surprise. When he pulls his hands away, when the man stops twitching, they have a little blood on them.
He feels sick.
Over here, kitten. Quickly. The voice sounds quieter, and it takes Tony a moment to realize— “Wait, are you actually talking to me?”
I’m using one of my few powers I have available right now. I’m meowing, but you actually hear my words. The others just hear a cat.
He pauses, stumbling a bit over one of the seats. It doesn’t seem like it’s in the right place. “You’re a cat?”
It sounds like complete nonsense. Like magic. He’s probably hit his head.
You did, in the crash. Which you caused. Apparently your attackers expected you to go meekly to the slaughter. That is, of course, unconnected to our current ability to converse.
He doesn’t remember that at all, but if he’s concussed and potentially speaking his thoughts aloud, it’s not that unexpected.
There’s a dull ache in his arm. He clutches it with aching fingers, trying his best to put pressure on it.
And then he sees it—a weird floating cat-creature, looking the worse for wear, guarding a piece of jewelry. A ring to be exact. The creature waves. You were lucky, Stark, but you can’t continue to rely on your luck. After all, it’s not exactly good, is it? You have yet to speak to your best friend after your last fight. You may have money, but you lack love of any sort. Those who actually cared about you are dead. You have everything, and nothing.
“You’ve got some sort of suggestion?” He tries not to be too sarcastic in response. After all, this thing did save his life, assuming he’s not in some sort of coma or something at the moment.
No, this is real. The cat-thing sounds patient, but a little worried. Probably because of the possible concussion. Let me ask you something, Stark. Do you lose anything from treating this as if it is reality?
He considers that. “Probably not. Okay, what do you want from me in this little trading post extravaganza?”
Your unique circumstances have given you a…unique outlook on the situation. You refuse to give up. You make it a point to turn a situation to your advantage, just because of your contrarian nature. The cat creature pauses. What do you know about quantum physics?
“A lot, actually, though we’re still ironing out pieces here and there. It’s fascinating, but a little more hand-wavy than I’m comfortable with.” He crouches suddenly, realizing that he should be lowering his voice and profile. In fact, it’s a good point to hide behind a seat, putting something between him and any potential gunmen. He forces himself in beside the creature, wincing. “I’m kind of more shocked by the fact that some talking plushie knows this stuff. What caught your attention, Schrödinger’s cat?”
The cat snorts. I attended your conference in Bern, though I would’ve said you were too drunk to stand, much less give a lecture on integrated circuits or notice a flying cat-god. Sneaking around the rules by using local laws as an excuse to get drunk is just the sort of cat-like behavior I was looking for, so I’ve kept an eye on you ever since. He gives Tony a moment, but only a moment, to digest that news before he continues. In any case, I’ve found it very relevant to my own interests. Specifically, that of luck and probability. The unlucky black cat is a phrase that could’ve been coined about me. Together with a chosen one, we weaponize this probability of the bad outcomes, of sheer entropy.
It sounds…
It sounds like hocus-pocus. It sounds plausible enough to be true. (Schrödinger’s cat. Maybe it’s both?)
“Chosen one?” he asks quietly, eyes alight with curiosity, and the cat—
The cat grins.
You, if you’ll have me. You have to take this ring.
He can’t help but snicker a little at the phrasing. “Are you proposing to me?”
Protestations that you’re not my type would be futile, considering that only a specific ‘type’ can become my kittens. However, the comparison is completely wrong.
He reaches out and takes it. It weighs heavy and cold in his hand, and he hesitates for only a few moments before placing it on his finger. “What now?”
Usually, I would explain the powers involved, but we don’t have time for that. Instead, call ‘claws out, Yinsin’ and try to survive.
This is insane. This is exactly the sort of thing that his father would turn down. Which is maybe exactly why he says the words, accepts his fate to forge himself into something better. Something that can survive. “Claws out, Yinsin.” The cat-god thing flies into the ring, and what follows…
It’s hard to describe, even when he’s experiencing it. The closest description he can muster is that it’s a lot like he’s suddenly a Sailor Scout, complete with choreography. I’d be awesome in a magical girl anime, he decides, liking the tight feel of the leather. He feels free. Something flicks behind him, and it feels like an extra limb. He’s almost overwhelmed by the smells and muffled sounds coming in accompanied by a ringing, and—
“Hide and seek, Stark!” a man chuckles. Probably a man with a gun.
He’s barely hearing the sounds, but it’s good that he can read lips and the leather cat ears flicking around at the top of his head catch the vibrations, still.
He falls into a crouch, hands balancing his stance, and—oh, hey, those are claws. Nice.
“Found you.” He glances up, blue, cat-slitted eyes twinkling along with a toothy smile. He tilts his head to the side out of the way of the bullet—seriously, could that guy have telegraphed his intention any harder?—and his grin grows.
“Changed the game when you weren’t looking,” he laughs, and then pounces, shoving all his weight behind it. He plows into—through—the man’s shoulder with a well-placed paw, body weight making the man fall with a yelp to the floor. The gun clatters away. “Tag, you’re it,” he finishes, sitting back on his haunches, eyeing his bloody clawed hand for a second before discarding the thought. Now isn’t the time to lick the blood off. That comes later.
“Wh-what the hell are you?” another asks shakily from what sounds like a few rows away. At least he’s maintaining his distance, but he’s announced his presence. Dumb.
“So used to being the predator, not prey,” he hisses, and yowls as one bites his leg—no, stabs, Tony, stabs his arm with a knife. It’s not the best of luck, but then, it does make him duck the shot that had been aiming for his head, so he’ll take it. Fortunately, that one just takes the opportunity to pull himself out from under Tony and wedge himself under the seats, out of the way. Opting for flight, not fight. Now there’s a smart decision.
Instead, he lopes in the thug’s direction, using momentum and his claws to run on what’s left of the ceiling. It creaks a little, but it takes the thug longer to react and aim at the ceiling than it does for the thug to change the direction he’s aiming.
He breaks up more of what’s left of the seat with the claws on top of the assassin, trapping him, and pulls out the magazine. It’d be so easy to reach out, just slash the man’s throat, but something in him can’t quite take that step. “Shooting people isn’t very nice,” he points out. Yep, that’s a Stark original. He’d recognize one anywhere. “Well, as welcome as you’ve made me feel with this little shindig you threw for me, I’m afraid I’m a pretty busy cat. I’ve got elsewhere to be.”
He jumps toward the window, crashes out of it actually, and this leather has to be made of something a little more like Kevlar given how, well, it doesn’t actually hurt like it should except for where it gets his cheek, but he doesn’t get far because something’s yanking on his tail, which hurts.
He looks and sees—that’s a new one. He’d missed one.
“You’re not going anywhere, kitty. You’re going to tell us where Stark went, and then maybe we’ll let you go,” the one snarls. His vision whites out in anger for a few seconds, and then he remembers something suddenly.
That question about quantum physics. Entropy. Weaponizing.
It has to be more specific…
“Catastrophe!” he calls, reaching out and scratching claws down the grasping hand behind him. The thug yelps, and there’s the muted sound of a shot, and the hand on his tail goes limp.
He sees rather than hears the blink on his ring, but given that he’s managed to wish someone into dying not two seconds before, he’s more than happy to run off and lick his own wounds in private.
Die, if you let yourself, a voice accented in a way he doesn’t recognize responds.
“Wha—” is all he manages. Something thick and metallic gums up his mouth, plus his ribs hurt too much if he moves. It takes him a minute to realize that that’s blood.
If you take the easy path, you will perish, Tony Stark. It may be painful, but you must fight.
Uh-huh, and why should he do that? From the feel of things, he’s not likely to make it long even if he is stubborn, and what is there for him out there? Who would really miss him? Rhodey, maybe, although they’re not on talking terms what with the argument about the armed forces. He had the greatest respect for them, but from what he saw they’d taken individuals and turned them into carbon-copy soldiers, and he was self-aware enough to realize part of it was a weird kind of jealousy and possessiveness. Rhodey was his friend; the Air Force could find some other amazing pilot. Except Rhodey didn’t want them to find someone else. He really can’t tell how seriously annoyed or not the platypus was, because people are not his area of expertise. At all.
He misses that guy that would look out for him, not the whole country. But maybe that guy doesn’t miss him.
Think, Stark. The voice, whatever it is, is losing its patience. He can’t fault it for that. What were you going to ask Stane about, when you returned home?
That’s…
Folders, data, a discrepancy. Trawling databases just for fun, when he wasn’t inventing things.
That’s right. Supplies ending up in places they shouldn’t be. I hate to tell you this, Stark, but what you found was clearly no mistake in the ledger.
How would some weird voice-thing know?
Because mistakes do not lead to assassins picking over the wreckage looking to kill you. Roll out of the way, now!
The voice is authoritative enough that he automatically follows orders (which, honestly, he’s made a lifetime career of not doing that) and groans in pain. That sound, though—he recognizes it. A gun, probably one of his if that weird voice was right. There’s a ringing in his ears, and he feels very suddenly deaf.
Suddenly, though, he knows, and he’s furious. Bright blue eyes spring open and he rolls again, getting himself into a position to fight back. Yes, it’s totally Obie, and he’s counting on all the money and pampering to have made him soft. He does tend to do this thing where he gets annoyed when people don’t react the way he thinks they should (which is why Tony tries to be on his best behavior or even a gentleman when the man is around because seriously, the faces he makes are hilarious) and Tony catching on and not being totally oblivious probably completely freaked him out. But it’s working in his favor, too, because Obie had to have told these hired thugs the target is completely clueless when it comes to self defense, having somehow forgotten about all those kidnappings when he was a kid.
That hasn’t happened in years, between Happy and Rhodey, so he’s a little rusty, but some things you never forget. Things like ‘ignore the pain’, because it’s guaranteed, you hurt now, but if you stop moving, like a shark you’re dead, and ‘don’t fight fair.’ That last one is pretty much an instinct by this point, though at school it was more the type of verbal fights with bullies, but he’s good. He’s good at noticing people (at least, when he’s not being completely oblivious) and cataloguing them and finding out all their weak points. It’s more of a compulsion than anything else. He usually doesn’t let on unless someone comes after him, in which case he likes to hit back hard, enough that they’re not ready for a second round. And with the angle he’s at, and the general appearance of his attacker? A foot to the crotch with all his weight behind it is both easy and effective, and the man doubles over, groaning. It’s simple enough from there to sweep his legs and knock the man over. He feels only a twinge of guilt before he starts smacking the guy’s head into the ground, since the man had tried to kill him first.
He’s good at working through pain. Lack of sleep. Pretty much everything. He whines to get attention, but he’s actually good at forcing himself past his limits.
The legs and arms twitch. He’s definitely caught the man by surprise. When he pulls his hands away, when the man stops twitching, they have a little blood on them.
He feels sick.
Over here, kitten. Quickly. The voice sounds quieter, and it takes Tony a moment to realize— “Wait, are you actually talking to me?”
I’m using one of my few powers I have available right now. I’m meowing, but you actually hear my words. The others just hear a cat.
He pauses, stumbling a bit over one of the seats. It doesn’t seem like it’s in the right place. “You’re a cat?”
It sounds like complete nonsense. Like magic. He’s probably hit his head.
You did, in the crash. Which you caused. Apparently your attackers expected you to go meekly to the slaughter. That is, of course, unconnected to our current ability to converse.
He doesn’t remember that at all, but if he’s concussed and potentially speaking his thoughts aloud, it’s not that unexpected.
There’s a dull ache in his arm. He clutches it with aching fingers, trying his best to put pressure on it.
And then he sees it—a weird floating cat-creature, looking the worse for wear, guarding a piece of jewelry. A ring to be exact. The creature waves. You were lucky, Stark, but you can’t continue to rely on your luck. After all, it’s not exactly good, is it? You have yet to speak to your best friend after your last fight. You may have money, but you lack love of any sort. Those who actually cared about you are dead. You have everything, and nothing.
“You’ve got some sort of suggestion?” He tries not to be too sarcastic in response. After all, this thing did save his life, assuming he’s not in some sort of coma or something at the moment.
No, this is real. The cat-thing sounds patient, but a little worried. Probably because of the possible concussion. Let me ask you something, Stark. Do you lose anything from treating this as if it is reality?
He considers that. “Probably not. Okay, what do you want from me in this little trading post extravaganza?”
Your unique circumstances have given you a…unique outlook on the situation. You refuse to give up. You make it a point to turn a situation to your advantage, just because of your contrarian nature. The cat creature pauses. What do you know about quantum physics?
“A lot, actually, though we’re still ironing out pieces here and there. It’s fascinating, but a little more hand-wavy than I’m comfortable with.” He crouches suddenly, realizing that he should be lowering his voice and profile. In fact, it’s a good point to hide behind a seat, putting something between him and any potential gunmen. He forces himself in beside the creature, wincing. “I’m kind of more shocked by the fact that some talking plushie knows this stuff. What caught your attention, Schrödinger’s cat?”
The cat snorts. I attended your conference in Bern, though I would’ve said you were too drunk to stand, much less give a lecture on integrated circuits or notice a flying cat-god. Sneaking around the rules by using local laws as an excuse to get drunk is just the sort of cat-like behavior I was looking for, so I’ve kept an eye on you ever since. He gives Tony a moment, but only a moment, to digest that news before he continues. In any case, I’ve found it very relevant to my own interests. Specifically, that of luck and probability. The unlucky black cat is a phrase that could’ve been coined about me. Together with a chosen one, we weaponize this probability of the bad outcomes, of sheer entropy.
It sounds…
It sounds like hocus-pocus. It sounds plausible enough to be true. (Schrödinger’s cat. Maybe it’s both?)
“Chosen one?” he asks quietly, eyes alight with curiosity, and the cat—
The cat grins.
You, if you’ll have me. You have to take this ring.
He can’t help but snicker a little at the phrasing. “Are you proposing to me?”
Protestations that you’re not my type would be futile, considering that only a specific ‘type’ can become my kittens. However, the comparison is completely wrong.
He reaches out and takes it. It weighs heavy and cold in his hand, and he hesitates for only a few moments before placing it on his finger. “What now?”
Usually, I would explain the powers involved, but we don’t have time for that. Instead, call ‘claws out, Yinsin’ and try to survive.
This is insane. This is exactly the sort of thing that his father would turn down. Which is maybe exactly why he says the words, accepts his fate to forge himself into something better. Something that can survive. “Claws out, Yinsin.” The cat-god thing flies into the ring, and what follows…
It’s hard to describe, even when he’s experiencing it. The closest description he can muster is that it’s a lot like he’s suddenly a Sailor Scout, complete with choreography. I’d be awesome in a magical girl anime, he decides, liking the tight feel of the leather. He feels free. Something flicks behind him, and it feels like an extra limb. He’s almost overwhelmed by the smells and muffled sounds coming in accompanied by a ringing, and—
“Hide and seek, Stark!” a man chuckles. Probably a man with a gun.
He’s barely hearing the sounds, but it’s good that he can read lips and the leather cat ears flicking around at the top of his head catch the vibrations, still.
He falls into a crouch, hands balancing his stance, and—oh, hey, those are claws. Nice.
“Found you.” He glances up, blue, cat-slitted eyes twinkling along with a toothy smile. He tilts his head to the side out of the way of the bullet—seriously, could that guy have telegraphed his intention any harder?—and his grin grows.
“Changed the game when you weren’t looking,” he laughs, and then pounces, shoving all his weight behind it. He plows into—through—the man’s shoulder with a well-placed paw, body weight making the man fall with a yelp to the floor. The gun clatters away. “Tag, you’re it,” he finishes, sitting back on his haunches, eyeing his bloody clawed hand for a second before discarding the thought. Now isn’t the time to lick the blood off. That comes later.
“Wh-what the hell are you?” another asks shakily from what sounds like a few rows away. At least he’s maintaining his distance, but he’s announced his presence. Dumb.
“So used to being the predator, not prey,” he hisses, and yowls as one bites his leg—no, stabs, Tony, stabs his arm with a knife. It’s not the best of luck, but then, it does make him duck the shot that had been aiming for his head, so he’ll take it. Fortunately, that one just takes the opportunity to pull himself out from under Tony and wedge himself under the seats, out of the way. Opting for flight, not fight. Now there’s a smart decision.
Instead, he lopes in the thug’s direction, using momentum and his claws to run on what’s left of the ceiling. It creaks a little, but it takes the thug longer to react and aim at the ceiling than it does for the thug to change the direction he’s aiming.
He breaks up more of what’s left of the seat with the claws on top of the assassin, trapping him, and pulls out the magazine. It’d be so easy to reach out, just slash the man’s throat, but something in him can’t quite take that step. “Shooting people isn’t very nice,” he points out. Yep, that’s a Stark original. He’d recognize one anywhere. “Well, as welcome as you’ve made me feel with this little shindig you threw for me, I’m afraid I’m a pretty busy cat. I’ve got elsewhere to be.”
He jumps toward the window, crashes out of it actually, and this leather has to be made of something a little more like Kevlar given how, well, it doesn’t actually hurt like it should except for where it gets his cheek, but he doesn’t get far because something’s yanking on his tail, which hurts.
He looks and sees—that’s a new one. He’d missed one.
“You’re not going anywhere, kitty. You’re going to tell us where Stark went, and then maybe we’ll let you go,” the one snarls. His vision whites out in anger for a few seconds, and then he remembers something suddenly.
That question about quantum physics. Entropy. Weaponizing.
It has to be more specific…
“Catastrophe!” he calls, reaching out and scratching claws down the grasping hand behind him. The thug yelps, and there’s the muted sound of a shot, and the hand on his tail goes limp.
He sees rather than hears the blink on his ring, but given that he’s managed to wish someone into dying not two seconds before, he’s more than happy to run off and lick his own wounds in private.
