Stark sort of mentally freezes at that first question; no smart-ass remarks come to mind, even though it shouldn't be hard. "Thirty." He answers as if this is something of a surprise to him, and truth be told, it is a little disorienting. He hadn't been too concerned with emotional maturation while stuck Downtown; sometimes he still feels nineteen.
Shaking his head to dismiss the uncomfortable feeling, he looks over the bar again and then around the rest of the room, clearly looking for distraction. "Apparently I don't." Eyeing a somewhat out of place and completely distasteful Bosch print on the opposite wall. How fitting. Stark waves a hand at the bar in invitation as he heads for a small conference table. "If they don't have it here, my minion at the front desk will probably beam it up post-haste."
Reaching the table, he roots around a pocket of the frock coat to unearth a folded map of the continental U.S., the sort that never folds back together the same way once you open it. Tossing it on the table, he shucks the coat and drops it over a chair, then snags one of his duffel bags before sitting down.
Then, first things first, he cracks the bottle of Black Busch, not bothering with a glass. After a satisfyingly long pull from the bottle, he starts to unfold the map. "You have anything of your brother's on you? A photo, a memento, even a gift might work..." The map spread out, he unzips the duffel and starts to search through it, first piling unfolded clothes onto another of the chairs.
no subject
Shaking his head to dismiss the uncomfortable feeling, he looks over the bar again and then around the rest of the room, clearly looking for distraction. "Apparently I don't." Eyeing a somewhat out of place and completely distasteful Bosch print on the opposite wall. How fitting. Stark waves a hand at the bar in invitation as he heads for a small conference table. "If they don't have it here, my minion at the front desk will probably beam it up post-haste."
Reaching the table, he roots around a pocket of the frock coat to unearth a folded map of the continental U.S., the sort that never folds back together the same way once you open it. Tossing it on the table, he shucks the coat and drops it over a chair, then snags one of his duffel bags before sitting down.
Then, first things first, he cracks the bottle of Black Busch, not bothering with a glass. After a satisfyingly long pull from the bottle, he starts to unfold the map. "You have anything of your brother's on you? A photo, a memento, even a gift might work..." The map spread out, he unzips the duffel and starts to search through it, first piling unfolded clothes onto another of the chairs.