Brooklyn, New York. The Howlett Advanced Technology Research Center.
James watched Jay Gatsby, who had completed the technology acquisition, and offered him a cigar with a satisfied smile. He waved for Gatsby to sit down.
Mr. Gatsby accepted a Golden Apple cigar but didn't cut it for himself. Instead, he took out a lighter and leaned over to light James's.
In early-1930s New York, nobody in high society was unfamiliar with the weekend parties at Gatsby Mansion. They gradually became a fairy tale of the era.
Some said he'd gone bankrupt. Others spread the story that he'd run over a poor woman and been shot dead by her husband.
Whatever the truth, that "great" Mr. Gatsby—barely thirty, with a charming smile and a meteoric rise—had vanished from a world of glittering excess.
"Howard Stark didn't give you any trouble this time, did he?"
James smoked his cigar and watched Gatsby furrow his brow, then relax and exhale a long plume of smoke. He asked casually.
Jay Gatsby's smile gathered even more creases, but like a seasoned, brilliant actor, he seemed to have a performance in every wrinkle.
"Mr. Stark initially thought I was there to discuss a corporate merger. But when he heard I was interested in the Anti-Gravity Engine technology, he got even more nervous."
He smacked his lips. Mr. Howlett only smoked this particular cigar, whose aftertaste was especially rich.
"He was worried that his long-shelved technology, which had reached a dead end, might actually have extraordinary potential. After all, the Howlett Group has always looked down on the technological capabilities of the outside world."
"In the end, he agreed to sell the technology, but not the patents. He's probably digging the dusty Anti-Gravity Engine out of storage right now and racking his brain to study it again."