Mr. Q. Beck & Guest. Ha. He snags the card absently, flipping it face-down on the table. It all feels like useless fluff to butter him up. A little bit of salt in a reopened old wound, even if Norman seems too soft at the moment to do something like that. Quentin doesn't get things like this.

He's one of those little worker drones who gets called in to report on something, and then sent away when the next course is ready. Only noticed if somebody (Stark) can see a way to swipe something out from underneath his nose, and claim it as their own.

(Just a cog in the machine, but what use is a stripped gear, how are you useful if you're unstable-)

Quentin's jaw tenses up, and he doesn't sit just yet. "Equals-? I doubt that. You've made it very clear in the past how much of a laugh that is, Mr. Super-Soldier. I'm just- what was the word Alton used?" He cocks his head to the side in mock-thought, letting the silence hang for a moment. "A hustler. I don't think that's changed. I know how people like you tend to look at people like me."

How rich men look at their underlings like replaceable tools. Something to be tossed out when it breaks, or isn't the newest model anymore. And even with all these trappings, this little dressed set, he is nothing in the scheme of things. Norman has friends in all kinds of places. Quentin has one.