"Breaking News," The reporter raised their eyebrows in surprise as they glanced over what to say before they told the public, surprise evident in their tone, "Billionaire and owner of Stark Industries, Tony Stark himself, has reportedly fired his security team after one of his safes were robbed last night," They took a breath, "It's reported that over a million dollars in cash and jewels were stolen from one of his safes in the lower east side and he has since left that bank to form his own..."
You snorted a laugh at that, ever the dramatics, around your spoonful of cereal. You held the bowl up as you stood hunched over a bit, watching the screen in your crappy studio apartment in Brooklyn. It was odd to witness your little escapades be reported on television, and you honestly didn't know what station to go by for the best information, but you never bothered watching more than a small snippet of it. You wouldn't let the paranoia get to your head about powerful people trying to stop you from doing your job. You were taught better than that.
You slowly sat down on your crusty, dusty sofa, the television now displaying advertisements for things you wouldn't be buying, as you kept your mind on other things.
Then you shut it off, cleaned up, and got dressed. You always wore dark clothing, hood up with shades over your eyes if it was deemed socially appropriate that day – sun's gotta be shining, and black laced up boots that were good for both combat and running. You always wore the same pair, your clothes impossible to differentiate from each other, and you kept a low profile because like you said, you only watch some television at your conditioned free time, so you weren't sure how much the public knew of your doings or whereabouts. It's why you always paid in cash too.
"I've told you this a thousand times," He took a deep breath, trying not to get angry with you, but you weren't even looking at him as you stared beyond the glass, "No amount of money in the world will find us a cure."
You clenched your jaw, keeping your voice down and trying to stay calm, "It's not that hard. I'm not asking you to cure cancer or AIDs here, doc."
He sighed and you know it's been months of this, so you were getting on his nerves by now, but then someone else was approaching you, practically tapping the doctor out right in the middle of the hallway as if to say, 'I've got this.'
Spoiler alert; no, no they do not.
Your eyes went from the doctor to this smaller man with glasses who stood between you and the wall, trying to keep the conversation private for whatever reason.
"Hi, do you remember me?" He asked, his voice high like he was talking to a child, and you appraised him for a moment.
"No."
"Well, my name is Henry Brush, and I know this is a stressful time, but I'd-"
"Look," You cut him off, crossing your arms, "No offense, but you can skip the sugar coating – I don't have insurance to lapse, so is it something with the payment? Suddenly cash is no good to you people?"
"No, no, it's not that," He assured quickly, and you raised your eyebrows with a tight lip, poking your chin out a bit so he'd get on with it, "We're sorry to ask but did your uncle ever make his wishes known in regard to organ donation?"
You pulled back at that, clearly affronted, and he tried to rephrase, misunderstanding the look you were giving him.
"It's just they're only – only viable for a very limited window-"
"Viable." You repeated in disbelief, narrowing your eyes and thinking you must've misheard him because he had to be kidding.
"We're just hoping some good can come of this tragic event and his donation could help so ma-"
