[Oh he's fucked up. Quentin has absolutely fucked up, and a part of him wants to shrink and skitter away entirely out of this conversation. But he said he'd try, so.

Fuck. He scrubs a hand down his face to try and center himself.]

No, I'm not- I'm not talking about that yet. At the start, that's how things felt. That's how we framed it, because it felt true. It was the story we kept repeating and telling ourselves, because we wanted to be right. I'm not saying we were. But we couldn't make another Iron Man, or even someone in his league. Not really. Logistically, that was a fluke. We were fucking idiots to think it'd ever work.

[How does he even begin to explain this-? He's not touching the main picture yet for a reason. There's just... so much to cover as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Yelling or getting angry would be the worst outcome right now, so- he can't. He's not allowed to. Fuck, part deux.]

Please, ask me something else about Mysterio. Something concrete. I'm just making this worse.