I am. I built my company up from the ground, so when I was just getting started, I had to front them all. It seemed silly to step back and become the man behind the curtain just because it grew. (And of course he has a PR department and people who help, but for the big stuff he likes to do it himself. Besides, he enjoys the attention. He won't quite admit that, but he truly does. There's a reason he has his...relationships so publicly. All publicity is good publicity. (Except for maybe this last little bit he's been experiencing.)) Besides, why would I want other people getting credit for my ideas anyway?
(That's why he doesn't want anyone stealing his bad babies. Not only that they're extremely volatile and could cause world ending doom, but they're his.
But yes, the little duckling shall currently waddle after in wide eyed wonderment. While he might consider himself one of the greatest minds of his generation, and ones that came before that too, but that doesn't mean he's unable to recognise the genius of others, and acknowledge it. Credit where credit is due, and currently Mamabird knows more about him, so he's eager and willing to learn.
He nods, slowly, eying it up carefully.)
You'll tell me before I pull out some wire that blows this place to smithereens?
(There's a flash of a grin before he pulls a chair up. From his inner breast pocket he pulls out a small leather case, opening it to reveal a small collection of tools, screwdrivers, picks, scissors. Little things that could be necessary in a pinch, sewing supplies included. A gift once upon a time from his butler that he always kept on his person.
The lid is carefully set onto the floor as he looks it over, running a finger across wires and the circuit board. Again he goes into his pocket to pull out a small leather journal that he flips open to an empty page, and soon there's a quick, very basic sketch of it, above it a blank space where, as he begins to unscrew screws, he marks where each comes from with a letter+number that correspond with where he places them above the box, all while murmuring softly to himself.)
So. (He glances quickly to Harold.) What's the difference between this, and the one you have. Besides size?
no subject
(That's why he doesn't want anyone stealing his bad babies. Not only that they're extremely volatile and could cause world ending doom, but they're his.
But yes, the little duckling shall currently waddle after in wide eyed wonderment. While he might consider himself one of the greatest minds of his generation, and ones that came before that too, but that doesn't mean he's unable to recognise the genius of others, and acknowledge it. Credit where credit is due, and currently Mamabird knows more about him, so he's eager and willing to learn.
He nods, slowly, eying it up carefully.)
You'll tell me before I pull out some wire that blows this place to smithereens?
(There's a flash of a grin before he pulls a chair up. From his inner breast pocket he pulls out a small leather case, opening it to reveal a small collection of tools, screwdrivers, picks, scissors. Little things that could be necessary in a pinch, sewing supplies included. A gift once upon a time from his butler that he always kept on his person.
The lid is carefully set onto the floor as he looks it over, running a finger across wires and the circuit board. Again he goes into his pocket to pull out a small leather journal that he flips open to an empty page, and soon there's a quick, very basic sketch of it, above it a blank space where, as he begins to unscrew screws, he marks where each comes from with a letter+number that correspond with where he places them above the box, all while murmuring softly to himself.)
So. (He glances quickly to Harold.) What's the difference between this, and the one you have. Besides size?