Chapter Text
The control room was alight with activity despite the fact that the staff had been stripped down to only the most trusted scientists. Tony had been watching the considerably more settled room minutes earlier, having sent off his most recent focus group, splitting his attention between the admittedly impressive sight of astronauts, real astronauts, on the large screens at the front of the room and the notes app on his phone, scrolling between his list of ideas and great ideas. It was difficult to choose which to pitch to Naird the next time the general was actually available for a conversation; he didn’t want to be responsible for the Space Force missing out on some rare, positive attention from POTUS.
In fact, it was General Naird’s appearance, shadowed by Doctor Mallory, that signalled the shift from calm to frantic. The room emptied out within seconds, the man in charge missing Tony in his scan of the room as he directed most people towards the door before turning to face everyone who was left.
“All of you in this room are here because Mallory trusts you,” Naird began. It was impossible for Fuck Tony not to critique his boss’s pep talks, not when he seemed to check every box on the list of ‘what not to do whilst speaking in public’ from every PR course he’d ever taken. “To be honest, I’m still on the fence about some of you but-” Naird’s words had shifted to be directed mainly at Dr. Chan, prompting an interjection from Mallory.
“Mark, perhaps you could continue to berate my second-in-command in your own time, maybe once we solve this international crisis the government appears to have gotten us into,” he suggested, sinking into a vacant chair a couple of rows back and folding his arms.
“Fine, yes, you’re probably right,” Naird conceded, clapping his hands back together and shifting his posture back to ‘general giving a speech’ levels of straightness. “What you are about to witness is a decision that I have not taken lightly. It may threaten your future careers and, as a result, I will understand anyone’s choice to step out and remain uninvolved. However, I believe my only option is to ignore direct orders to attack the Chinese moon-base and, in order to prevent further conflict, to destroy any means of aggression in the possession of our spacemen.” Tony’s head perked up at a mention of ignoring direct orders, choosing to skip the mention of a threat to his career in favour of being present for what was bound to be an interesting few hours as General Naird walked his trademark tightrope of barely handling a situation.
“You mean the guns?” Chan asked, catching on quickly and raising his eyebrows. From the monitors, even the members of the crew who seemed to spend most of their time forgetting they were even on the moon were paying attention.
“I mean the guns, Dr. Chan,” Naird said with a nod, “I imagine you could come up with some creative uses for some of the most important parts? Something that will make them impossible to recover?”
“Springs and bolts are always useful, sir,” the scientist replied, glancing back at Dr. Mallory, “Did we begin constructing the plumbing system?”
“No, I thought the same,” Mallory said, leaning forward on his chair with some insistence, “Might I suggest that we hurry though. I fear we may have ignored external calls for long enough that they can justify sending brute force here to make sure their orders are carried out.” Tony frowned a little at that – Naird was more stoic than normal, his mouth set in an unwavering line of determination, with no room to twitch into amusement or conversely to fear. He wasn’t entirely following the conversation in the room (he never got CC-ed into the important discussions) but there was something in the general’s expression that uncharacteristically concerned him.
“Captain Ali, begin to dismantle the guns,” Naird instructed without a pause, “Collect the springs and bolts together and await further instructions.” There was a short pause as the message was transmitted.
“Yes sir,” she replied confidently before lingering in front of the camera, a question clearly on her mind. “You do know this conversation is being recorded, sir?” If it was possible, Naird’s expression flattened into something even more serious.
“I am aware,” he replied simply. It was the sort of scene that would be recreated in a film one day, one part of Tony’s brain postulated. In one of those movies where the real footage was spliced into the dramatic recreation. Hey, he might even make it onto the silver screen, at least in the background.
“And just to clarify,” Ali’s voice interrupted Tony’s half-musings, “This is every gun we own?”
“Every US gun currently on the moon,” Naird clarified with no uncertainty, “I want all weapons to be stripped down so that they are no longer functional. And you might want to do it quick.” With that he turned to face Dr. Mallory, the two most qualified men in the room sharing another grim look. Tony didn’t expect the attention of Naird to be on him when it suddenly was.
“You better not be live-tweeting this or whatever you spend your time getting paid to do, Scarapiducci,” came the clipped warning despite the fact that Tony’s hand hadn’t even reached for his pocketed phone throughout the entire exchange.
“I’d be streaming the whole thing if I was doing anything,” he replied indignantly, holding his hands up when Naird’s face didn’t break at all, “I’m not, though. I’m just saying-”
“Sir! Unauthorised helicopter landing on the helipad!” Duncan burst through the control room doors, shouting between breaths unnecessarily given the sudden shift of attention towards him but at least saving Tony from the general’s unusually stern scrutiny. He wasn’t prepared to be sent back to a cell until all of this blew over. “Air force, sir!”
“Shit,” Naird cursed, a faltering glance towards Mallory preceding his next instruction, “Delay them, soldier. Keep them out of here as long as possible.” Duncan saluted sharply and turned on his heel, setting off the way he had come urgently. In the time it had taken for the order to be given Mallory had approached Naird, lowering his voice to create some semblance of privacy despite the weighty silence in the room.
“We have to have used the materials in some permanent manner before you are no longer authorised to give orders, Mark,” he murmured, “Or else Kick Grabaston will come in here and immediately make them fix the guns.”
“I know,” Naird replied wearily, sparing a glance towards the glass doors all too frequently, “I just don’t know if we’ll have time. We’re already running low on manpower since we almost emptied the base and Duncan will only be able to keep them stalled for so long.” Even as he spoke, the faint but recognisable shouts of irritation began to reach them. Tony’s eyes darted towards the door, the beginnings of some sense of duty stirring in him. After all, if he was to get a starring role in the film recreation, he’d need an impressive moment of his own. And beyond that, the rest of the room seemed to be actively contributing; from Naird and Mallory running the operation to Chan and the rest of the scientists who had begun directing the astronauts as to how they could make use of the gun remnants. It wasn’t often that Tony felt his contributions were lacking but in the moment, when the room was never truly silent due to the persistent, busy typing on keyboards, he began to feel like a rattling spare part in a fully functional machine.
“Sir,” Tony spoke up, trying not to overthink it and then forcing himself not to lose morale when Naird fixed him with what could only be described as a patiently weary expression. “I’m sure I could get in their way for a little while. It would at least buy you some time.”
“Jesus, this is what it comes to,” Naird spoke more to himself, “A guy called Fuck Tony is Space Force’s last line of defence.”
“Give him some credit,” Mallory offered up drily, “He’s managed to distract you from more important matters countless times since he began working here.” The older man’s tone was hardly flattering but Tony was used to discounting that when searching for compliments in people’s assessments of his character. He’d practically built his career off of learning to filter out the general frustration everyone seemed to harbour around him. Unfortunately, you tended to develop an abrasive personality when expected to constantly compete for attention.
From beyond the doors, it was Duncan’s voice that was suddenly audible, pitched up an octave and far from the usual, not all there tone of voice Tony was more accustomed to hearing from the soldier. It seemed to be this that made Naird’s mind up and he turned to Tony once more, clasping his hands together to drive his point home as insistently as possible.
“I cannot stress this enough,” he emphasised quickly, aware of their rapidly closing window to keep Grabaston away from the control room. “We need all the time we can get. By whatever means necessary. If the general gets here before we can destroy the guns, we could have a world war on our hands.”
“Don’t kill anyone,” Mallory chimed in, his tone making it impossible to tell if he was trying to joke or not. Tony bit his bottom lip thoughtfully and then, for the first and maybe only time in his life, lifted one hand into a genuine salute. There was something indescribably rewarding about Naird’s mirrored action, that stoic line across his face lifting at the edges ever so slightly.
“Don’t look so worried, Adrian. He wouldn’t have it in him,” Tony heard the General say as the glass door closed behind him. Outside, Duncan’s complaints were louder, as were Kick’s. Fuck Tony tightened the knot in his tie to keep his hands occupied and then set off towards the noise, taking the steps in front of him two at a time.