Items on Their Person: The armor that he was wearing during the battle with the Chitauri, in battered and possibly irreparable condition.
Samples; First Person Sample: [He sets the device down on the table and sits back in his seat, drumming a pointless rhythm on his arc reactor. Whatever he was thinking about, he doesn’t allow himself to stay on it, too long. He’s still adjusting to the fact that he wasn’t floating in space, right now. He couldn’t begin to wrap his mind around this, not right now. So what does Tony do? Deflect.]
I just want to see if I have this straight: I’m me, but I’m not really me. I’m actually a character from a comic book played by some Hollywood actor. And someone saw this movie, and had the idea to pull me from it to save the world…well I guess stranger drug trips have happened.
To your credit, oh-disembodied-voice—can I call you Carol? You sound like a Carol. I’m not disagreeing with you, entirely. Or your Human Regenesis Program, though that name is really stupid. If something was never technically birthed, it can’t be rebirthed. See my point? But the idea of my life as a blockbuster hit is actually…appropriate. I mean, picture it: the heart-stopping fight scenes, the soundtrack, the most stunning beauty to ever be put on film…and Pepper can be there, too.
A feature-length movie, all about me…[The corner of his lip quirks into an appreciative half-smile.] Why didn’t I think of that?
…But don’t get me wrong, Carol, I still don’t buy it. And even if there really is some gigantic truth out there that we were never in on, this whole set-up? [Gesturing to the room at large.] It’s not working for me. If you want me to star in your Matrix knock-off, starring Tony Stark as the actor in his own life, I’m going to need a few things.
First off, ditch the Saltines and water. As far as I know I’m not a prisoner, and I don’t have morning sickness, either. I’m going to need a McMuffin, and about eight gallons of coffee, preferably in the form of an intravenous drip…coffee is real in this place, right? I’m also going to need a soldering gun, a workshop, and some other supplies. Are you writing this down, Carol?
You don’t want to hear from my agent, do you?
Third Person Sample: There could have been a hundred or at least ten things someone could be positive about during a zombie apocalypse: the state of technology was not one of those things. This much was obvious during a test run when the stabilizers in his gloves kept hissing like a bug zapper, and flight was about as smooth as a car with bad shocks on an unpaved country road. If it wasn’t obvious then, it was when they finally gave out, and he went crashing face-first into the roof of a building.
Blindly he grunted, hearing debris still falling through the hole as he rolled in the wreckage, and he moved to remove his helmet. But Tony’s fingers stopped in mid-motion, once he heard something, too organic to pass for pieces of the house, shift nearby. The smell of rot reached Tony’s nose, a smell he had almost gotten used to by now: it was like road kill, wet and gamy, that put him on edge even before the HUD came online again and he could see.
He was in a child’s dilapidated bedroom. He could see dirt, and clowns on the peeling wallpaper, and three zombies stuck on the opposite side of the room. It was hard to tell, what with them being undead monsters with white emotionless eyes, but Tony got the distinct impression that they were considering him like a chicken nugget in a high school cafeteria—more likely than not trying to figure out if he was edible beneath his questionable coating. But he moved: that meant life. That meant warm flesh. One of the zombies staggered into movement, and the other two followed.
Stuck in a room with three shamblers. Tony didn’t ask how it could get any worse, but an arm burst out of the insulation on his left side, all the same, and a female zombie pulled herself from the wreckage as though it were a grave. She threw that arm over his opposite shoulder, and used it to drag herself out until she was straddling him—all straggly blonde hair and growling and missing chunks. Not sexy, by the way, and he tried to get up, but gravity didn’t let him move fast enough to stop her from sinking her teeth—into his armor.
He blinked. The zombie persisted. Teeth and nails scraped against the metal ineffectually, like a toothless squirrel trying to crack open a nut. It was almost funny until he realized the risks of them (them, as the others were still shuffling towards them), finding out how to get the helmet off. His mind zipped through the options.
“Sorry, gorgeous, I’ve got this thing: no hickeys on the first date.” Tony curled his hand into a fist and slammed it into her half-decayed cheek. That knocked her weight off his torso; he left her there, for the moment, stood up and tried the repulsors again on the other three. Though the blasts were shorter, and sparked, it still knocked them back.
In his world, he would’ve kicked himself back into flight and gotten the hell out of dodge, looking cool while he did it, too. But technology was a bitter former one-night-stand in this place. He used the door.
Additional Information: As previously mentioned in the abilities section, it’s not a simple task to get out of the Iron Man suit. Every scene that we see of Tony being stripped of it, he uses a machine, and he is being taken from a point where he still has it on. I was wondering if the Caretakers would have the means to take him out of the suit before strapping him to the surgical table? Or would they just leave him as he is?
Tony Stark | MCU: The Avengers | Reserved
Samples;
First Person Sample: [He sets the device down on the table and sits back in his seat, drumming a pointless rhythm on his arc reactor. Whatever he was thinking about, he doesn’t allow himself to stay on it, too long. He’s still adjusting to the fact that he wasn’t floating in space, right now. He couldn’t begin to wrap his mind around this, not right now. So what does Tony do? Deflect.]
I just want to see if I have this straight: I’m me, but I’m not really me. I’m actually a character from a comic book played by some Hollywood actor. And someone saw this movie, and had the idea to pull me from it to save the world…well I guess stranger drug trips have happened.
To your credit, oh-disembodied-voice—can I call you Carol? You sound like a Carol. I’m not disagreeing with you, entirely. Or your Human Regenesis Program, though that name is really stupid. If something was never technically birthed, it can’t be rebirthed. See my point? But the idea of my life as a blockbuster hit is actually…appropriate. I mean, picture it: the heart-stopping fight scenes, the soundtrack, the most stunning beauty to ever be put on film…and Pepper can be there, too.
A feature-length movie, all about me…[The corner of his lip quirks into an appreciative half-smile.] Why didn’t I think of that?
…But don’t get me wrong, Carol, I still don’t buy it. And even if there really is some gigantic truth out there that we were never in on, this whole set-up? [Gesturing to the room at large.] It’s not working for me. If you want me to star in your Matrix knock-off, starring Tony Stark as the actor in his own life, I’m going to need a few things.
First off, ditch the Saltines and water. As far as I know I’m not a prisoner, and I don’t have morning sickness, either. I’m going to need a McMuffin, and about eight gallons of coffee, preferably in the form of an intravenous drip…coffee is real in this place, right? I’m also going to need a soldering gun, a workshop, and some other supplies. Are you writing this down, Carol?
You don’t want to hear from my agent, do you?
Third Person Sample: There could have been a hundred or at least ten things someone could be positive about during a zombie apocalypse: the state of technology was not one of those things. This much was obvious during a test run when the stabilizers in his gloves kept hissing like a bug zapper, and flight was about as smooth as a car with bad shocks on an unpaved country road. If it wasn’t obvious then, it was when they finally gave out, and he went crashing face-first into the roof of a building.
Blindly he grunted, hearing debris still falling through the hole as he rolled in the wreckage, and he moved to remove his helmet. But Tony’s fingers stopped in mid-motion, once he heard something, too organic to pass for pieces of the house, shift nearby. The smell of rot reached Tony’s nose, a smell he had almost gotten used to by now: it was like road kill, wet and gamy, that put him on edge even before the HUD came online again and he could see.
He was in a child’s dilapidated bedroom. He could see dirt, and clowns on the peeling wallpaper, and three zombies stuck on the opposite side of the room. It was hard to tell, what with them being undead monsters with white emotionless eyes, but Tony got the distinct impression that they were considering him like a chicken nugget in a high school cafeteria—more likely than not trying to figure out if he was edible beneath his questionable coating. But he moved: that meant life. That meant warm flesh. One of the zombies staggered into movement, and the other two followed.
Stuck in a room with three shamblers. Tony didn’t ask how it could get any worse, but an arm burst out of the insulation on his left side, all the same, and a female zombie pulled herself from the wreckage as though it were a grave. She threw that arm over his opposite shoulder, and used it to drag herself out until she was straddling him—all straggly blonde hair and growling and missing chunks. Not sexy, by the way, and he tried to get up, but gravity didn’t let him move fast enough to stop her from sinking her teeth—into his armor.
He blinked. The zombie persisted. Teeth and nails scraped against the metal ineffectually, like a toothless squirrel trying to crack open a nut. It was almost funny until he realized the risks of them (them, as the others were still shuffling towards them), finding out how to get the helmet off. His mind zipped through the options.
“Sorry, gorgeous, I’ve got this thing: no hickeys on the first date.” Tony curled his hand into a fist and slammed it into her half-decayed cheek. That knocked her weight off his torso; he left her there, for the moment, stood up and tried the repulsors again on the other three. Though the blasts were shorter, and sparked, it still knocked them back.
In his world, he would’ve kicked himself back into flight and gotten the hell out of dodge, looking cool while he did it, too. But technology was a bitter former one-night-stand in this place. He used the door.
Additional Information: As previously mentioned in the abilities section, it’s not a simple task to get out of the Iron Man suit. Every scene that we see of Tony being stripped of it, he uses a machine, and he is being taken from a point where he still has it on. I was wondering if the Caretakers would have the means to take him out of the suit before strapping him to the surgical table? Or would they just leave him as he is?