Post by Ray on Sept 14, 2015 18:39:55 GMT -7
"And over here..." Their tour guide prattles on, directing attention to another display case. She's dressed like the runway version of a businesswoman; black heels with white soles, a neat a-line skirt that's a little shorter than most a-line skirts, and a loose billowy blouse with just the right amount of cleavage. Essentially, the kind of tour guide you hire when you don't really want anyone looking at any merchandise but hers.
Stiles looks on, feeling a little overwhelmed and a little disappointed at the same time.
He'd been awake since five that morning, or maybe he hadn't really slept at all. Since receiving the assignment, he'd been mildly panicking about this day, thinking that by some grace of God he'd finally been handed a gift on an iron platter. For most, climbing Mount Everest is the ultimate test of glory. For Stiles Stilinski, hardly-paid intern at the Daily Bugle, just stepping inside the lobby of STARK TOWER was enough to make Everest look like an ant-hill. Does Everest have 115-floors, built out of Vibranium reinforced concrete and garnished with indestructible windows? Is it filled with the most advanced technology known to man? Does it have technical labs, medical labs, an armory, state-of-the-art gyms, and a Hangar bay with not just one, but two quinjets? Is Everest home to the Iron Man?
Maybe. But not likely.
But the initial euphoria he'd felt upon stepping through the 10-feet tall glass doors of this colossus gradually wore away when he realized that the most he was going to see were miniature models of the things he'd been dreaming about for weeks.
Eddie, on the other hand, doesn't seem to care a bit. He's too busy trying to sneak a peek down the guide's blouse.
Stiles snaps another picture with his camera, a row of Tony Stark's Humanitarian Awards this time, and trudges after the other two.
So much for test-piloting the Iron Man suit.
"Is there anything else you'd like to see?" The guide asks with a red-lipped smile, clasping her hands in front of her. Stiles pushes the bridge of his black-rimmed glasses up his nose, and turns his gaze towards Eddie.
Eddie Brock is a reporter and a jackass, but he doesn't have a nametag for the latter portion of his title. Mostly he writes sports columns and opinion pieces, things that only really require half a brain which Stiles isn't even sure is a requirement Eddie fulfills, but he also, unfortunately, hit the jackpot today. More accurately, he got on their boss' case until J. Jonah Jameson finally relented, and Stiles got schmucked into taking pictures for him.
Stiles is pretty sure Eddie doesn't even know who Tony Stark is, since she's not a Victoria Secrets model or a linebacker for the Cowboys.
"How about that free lunch?" Eddie smirks, and Stiles fights the urge to roll his eyes straight into the sun. The tour guide - April, her badge says - laughs a little, politely, and nods her head.
"We can do that."
"Or-" Stiles pipes up, standing a little straighter. He can already feeling Eddie glaring at him. "I read that Stark created a flora and fauna research facility in the tower." He says, and April looks at him with eyebrows raised a little. "Might be cool to...y'know..." He lifts his camera and pretends to take a picture with a click of his tongue, leaning his whole body into the act. "It is an article on Tony's achievements after all..." Stiles bobs his head a little, and lowers the camera again.
April lifts her chin slowly. "Miss Stark isn't ready to open that area of her research to the public yet."
"Oh." Stiles replies, dumbly, mouth hanging open a little. "Right. Course." He shakes off the idea, and looks around the hall that's only about a hundred feet from the main entrance. "I'll just...take a picture of the free lunch then." He mutters underneath his breath.
"Right this way. We'll take the elevator up to the executive lounge." April says, smile back on her face as if she hadn't heard him in the slightest. Eddie gives Stiles a sharp elbow into the ribs as they start walking again, temporarily knocking the air out of Stiles' lungs.
"Stick to pictures, rookie." Eddie snickers at him condescendingly.
Stiles frowns, and follows after them.
They wait for a moment for the elevator to arrive in silence. Eddie sneaks less than subtle looks at April's ass, and Stiles glances over the floor listings on a touch-screen hanging on the wall. Most of them above the fifteenth floor aren't labeled, except for the few that are public access. Stiles takes a picture anyway, just to eat up time, until the some trill of the elevator arriving brings his attention back to the group. The doors slide open soundlessly, a miracle all in itself, but residing within are a group of five rather stern looking business men.
"Oh. Good afternoon." April says, just as surprised as Stiles is. "I don't know if we'll all fit." She laughs a little, suddenly off cue, and looks back at them.
"Sure we can," Eddie begins, automatically. "Kyle-"
"Stiles."
"-can take the next one." Eddie smiles.
April looks at Stiles with a little concern. "Is that all right with you?"
With a sigh, Stiles musters a smile. "Yep. Fine."
"Okay," April says, but Eddie is already ushering her into the impatiently waiting elevator. "We'll be on level thirteen. I'll have someone wait for you!" The doors close, just as silently, and leave Stiles standing there alone on the ground floor.
Tired, frustrated, and hungry; Stiles jabs the up button half a dozen times. A full minute passes before an elevator door opens next to the one his partner disappeared in. He peers inside, expecting to have to share with a janitor based on his luck, but the elevator sits open and empty. Timidly, Stiles steps inside, hazel eyes looking all around him. The elevator is stainless steel, and not all that decorative. He half expected the Caesar's Palace treatment; red carpet, gold walls, and a mirror overhead to make everyone feel a little more self-conscious. But it's neat and plain, and a touch screen sits to the left of the doors.
"Ho-kay." Stiles mutters, leaning down to get a better look. His eyesight was never all that good, but the layout of the screen only fucks with his vision worse. He taps what looks like a thirteen and is satisfied when the doors close swiftly. Stiles stands back against the far wall, letting the seconds tick on as the elevator lifts into the air without the usual creak and groan of wear. It's eerily quiet, and suddenly he's dying for some cheesy elevator music to fill in the gaps.
But before he can start singing to himself, something that would have surely entertained security, the elevator comes to a halt and the doors open. Rather than a lounge, complete with chocolate fountains and a bar, Stiles finds himself standing in front of a large, hexagonal room. A single pane of glass separates him from a greenhouse bathed in simulated light, and from where he's standing in the empty elevator, he can see a mist of water descend upon upward-reaching plants.
"Level Eighteen." An AI says cordially over Stiles' head.
"Yeah." Stiles replies, dumbfounded. "I figured."
He steps out slowly, far more curious than he had any right to be, and cautiously looks left and right for anyone lurking around to yell at him. But the room, like the elevator, is empty. "Hello?" He calls out, but other than the hum of air conditioning, he hears no response. Exited completely, camera clutched to his chest, and walks towards the glass wall. He reaches for the metal handle to a small, see-through door that allows access into the greenhouse. Muttering a few pleases and closing his eyes tightly in prayer, he pushes the handle down and forward, and it swings open unimpeded.
Stiles let out a guffaw of surprised success, and steps quickly beyond the glass. The door clicks shut behind him, and he checks it quickly to make sure it's still unlocked before turning away.
The air is humid and muggy, more so than downtown Manhattan in August, and the thick scent of damp leaves hangs heavily over him. What he thought was a simple greenhouse suddenly opens out into a terrarium, the same kind he used to make in science class back in the fourth grade. The ground has been completely covered in thick, dark dirt, with plants of varying size growing straight from the earth around his feet. Bugs fly lazily through around his head, sucking nectar from vibrant flowers that Stiles can't put a name to. It's nothing like the forests he's used to, and nothing like the labs that he had expected to find at Stark Tower. Nothing in here looks controlled, at least not that he can see, and the plants aren't labeled or categorized. It's all haphazard, like the scientists are just letting nature unfold naturally.
"Cool." Stiles breathes out, walking carefully though the homemade environment in his converse sneakers.
He snaps a few pictures, no doubt illegally but no one has to know that, but avoids touching anything. He can barely identify poison ivy, let alone something that might try to eat his hand.
Stooping low, he raises his camera to his eye to take a quick picture of a stunningly blue butterfly. It holds still for him, long enough for the flash to go off, before it suddenly flies into the air and disappears among the plant-life. Stiles lowers his camera, and smiles to himself. "Well that's my Nobel Prize Winner." He comments, rising to his feet and looking down at his camera. He pauses for a second, and blinks. "Or is it Pulitzer?"
Sting; a white hot prick at the back of his neck catches him by surprise. Like electricity, he can feel it running down his back, down his arms, down to the soles of his feet; knotting his stomach and making every muscle feel tense. He lets out a startled cry of pain, his palm slapping at his skin, the picture forgotten. "The hell?" He exhales shakily, his heart suddenly racing. He scans the ground, the plants, the sky, but sees nothing out of the ordinary.
The beauty of the greenhouse suddenly seems less than inviting, and Stiles decides it's about time he left. Still rubbing at his neck, he turns for the door and quickly heads for it, his legs feeling heavier than he remembers them being.
He presses the elevator button violently, keeping in time to the pounding of his on-edge heart, until the doors allow him in. This time he knows he hits thirteen, but he has to lean his weight against the steel wall of the elevator in order to catch his breath. He feels cold, and hot, tired, and over-energetic, all at the same time. A sweat breaks out across his forehead, and he wipes it away with chilled, trembling hands. The doors ding open, and a flood of noise washes over him like acid. He stumbles out into the foyer of a nice lounge, several well-dressed people glancing disinterestedly in his direction before returning to their drinks and appetizers. The smell of food turns Stiles' stomach, but he swallows down the bile that threatens to spill forward.
"Kyle?" Someone asks, their voice too loud but too far away. Stiles furrows his brows and looks in it's direction, squinting in order to see right.
"What?" He slurs, shaking his head a little.
"Are you Kyle?" A woman stands there, not April because this one is blonde, and she looks at him in concern and confusion.
"What?" He asks again, his brain turning to mush. He suddenly remembers Eddie, in vivid technicolor, and has to blink several times to get the memories to slow down. "Oh. Right. Yeah. Uh. Yeah." He mumbles, his own voice sounding like it's dripping from a gutter.
"Right this way, sir." The woman says, but she looks unsure. "Your partner already has a table."
"Yeah. Thanks." Stiles murmurs, and tries to take a step forward with leaden legs. But as soon as he lifts his foot, he's falling
falling
falling
into blackness
in his dreams he's dangling by a thread
over the city
BANG BANG BANG.
Stiles wakes sharply, sucking a breath so deep into his lungs that stars explode across his vision. He's tangled in his own sheets, stripped down to a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt he's sweated right through. Hot, autumn air seeps in through his open window along with the noises of the city, but it's the knocking that rips at his eardrums.
BANG BANG BANG.
He rolls out of bed, the world tilting a little on its axis as he sits up. But gradually, carefully, the apartment corrects itself into his view. It's messy, but the kind of messy that is an organized clutter. His laptop sits open and powered on on his desk; three empty bottles of water he doesn't remember drinking stacked in a pyramid next to it. He looks to his bedside table, searching for his phone, but instead finds a half eaten plate of lasagna perched on top of his ugly, square lamp. The light is still on.
Stiles stares at it, his mind unable to fill in any sort of answer.
BANG BANG BANG.
Painfully rubbing at his temples, he forces himself to his feet, and drags himself out of his bedroom. The apartment is small, and it only takes him two agonizing steps to reach the front door. He doesn't even look out of the peephole, but yanks the door open with far more force than he intended at all, almost knocking himself backwards in the process. "Jeeeesus-" He hisses under his breath, grabbing onto the frame to steady himself.
Stiles looks on, feeling a little overwhelmed and a little disappointed at the same time.
He'd been awake since five that morning, or maybe he hadn't really slept at all. Since receiving the assignment, he'd been mildly panicking about this day, thinking that by some grace of God he'd finally been handed a gift on an iron platter. For most, climbing Mount Everest is the ultimate test of glory. For Stiles Stilinski, hardly-paid intern at the Daily Bugle, just stepping inside the lobby of STARK TOWER was enough to make Everest look like an ant-hill. Does Everest have 115-floors, built out of Vibranium reinforced concrete and garnished with indestructible windows? Is it filled with the most advanced technology known to man? Does it have technical labs, medical labs, an armory, state-of-the-art gyms, and a Hangar bay with not just one, but two quinjets? Is Everest home to the Iron Man?
Maybe. But not likely.
But the initial euphoria he'd felt upon stepping through the 10-feet tall glass doors of this colossus gradually wore away when he realized that the most he was going to see were miniature models of the things he'd been dreaming about for weeks.
Eddie, on the other hand, doesn't seem to care a bit. He's too busy trying to sneak a peek down the guide's blouse.
Stiles snaps another picture with his camera, a row of Tony Stark's Humanitarian Awards this time, and trudges after the other two.
So much for test-piloting the Iron Man suit.
"Is there anything else you'd like to see?" The guide asks with a red-lipped smile, clasping her hands in front of her. Stiles pushes the bridge of his black-rimmed glasses up his nose, and turns his gaze towards Eddie.
Eddie Brock is a reporter and a jackass, but he doesn't have a nametag for the latter portion of his title. Mostly he writes sports columns and opinion pieces, things that only really require half a brain which Stiles isn't even sure is a requirement Eddie fulfills, but he also, unfortunately, hit the jackpot today. More accurately, he got on their boss' case until J. Jonah Jameson finally relented, and Stiles got schmucked into taking pictures for him.
Stiles is pretty sure Eddie doesn't even know who Tony Stark is, since she's not a Victoria Secrets model or a linebacker for the Cowboys.
"How about that free lunch?" Eddie smirks, and Stiles fights the urge to roll his eyes straight into the sun. The tour guide - April, her badge says - laughs a little, politely, and nods her head.
"We can do that."
"Or-" Stiles pipes up, standing a little straighter. He can already feeling Eddie glaring at him. "I read that Stark created a flora and fauna research facility in the tower." He says, and April looks at him with eyebrows raised a little. "Might be cool to...y'know..." He lifts his camera and pretends to take a picture with a click of his tongue, leaning his whole body into the act. "It is an article on Tony's achievements after all..." Stiles bobs his head a little, and lowers the camera again.
April lifts her chin slowly. "Miss Stark isn't ready to open that area of her research to the public yet."
"Oh." Stiles replies, dumbly, mouth hanging open a little. "Right. Course." He shakes off the idea, and looks around the hall that's only about a hundred feet from the main entrance. "I'll just...take a picture of the free lunch then." He mutters underneath his breath.
"Right this way. We'll take the elevator up to the executive lounge." April says, smile back on her face as if she hadn't heard him in the slightest. Eddie gives Stiles a sharp elbow into the ribs as they start walking again, temporarily knocking the air out of Stiles' lungs.
"Stick to pictures, rookie." Eddie snickers at him condescendingly.
Stiles frowns, and follows after them.
They wait for a moment for the elevator to arrive in silence. Eddie sneaks less than subtle looks at April's ass, and Stiles glances over the floor listings on a touch-screen hanging on the wall. Most of them above the fifteenth floor aren't labeled, except for the few that are public access. Stiles takes a picture anyway, just to eat up time, until the some trill of the elevator arriving brings his attention back to the group. The doors slide open soundlessly, a miracle all in itself, but residing within are a group of five rather stern looking business men.
"Oh. Good afternoon." April says, just as surprised as Stiles is. "I don't know if we'll all fit." She laughs a little, suddenly off cue, and looks back at them.
"Sure we can," Eddie begins, automatically. "Kyle-"
"Stiles."
"-can take the next one." Eddie smiles.
April looks at Stiles with a little concern. "Is that all right with you?"
With a sigh, Stiles musters a smile. "Yep. Fine."
"Okay," April says, but Eddie is already ushering her into the impatiently waiting elevator. "We'll be on level thirteen. I'll have someone wait for you!" The doors close, just as silently, and leave Stiles standing there alone on the ground floor.
Tired, frustrated, and hungry; Stiles jabs the up button half a dozen times. A full minute passes before an elevator door opens next to the one his partner disappeared in. He peers inside, expecting to have to share with a janitor based on his luck, but the elevator sits open and empty. Timidly, Stiles steps inside, hazel eyes looking all around him. The elevator is stainless steel, and not all that decorative. He half expected the Caesar's Palace treatment; red carpet, gold walls, and a mirror overhead to make everyone feel a little more self-conscious. But it's neat and plain, and a touch screen sits to the left of the doors.
"Ho-kay." Stiles mutters, leaning down to get a better look. His eyesight was never all that good, but the layout of the screen only fucks with his vision worse. He taps what looks like a thirteen and is satisfied when the doors close swiftly. Stiles stands back against the far wall, letting the seconds tick on as the elevator lifts into the air without the usual creak and groan of wear. It's eerily quiet, and suddenly he's dying for some cheesy elevator music to fill in the gaps.
But before he can start singing to himself, something that would have surely entertained security, the elevator comes to a halt and the doors open. Rather than a lounge, complete with chocolate fountains and a bar, Stiles finds himself standing in front of a large, hexagonal room. A single pane of glass separates him from a greenhouse bathed in simulated light, and from where he's standing in the empty elevator, he can see a mist of water descend upon upward-reaching plants.
"Level Eighteen." An AI says cordially over Stiles' head.
"Yeah." Stiles replies, dumbfounded. "I figured."
He steps out slowly, far more curious than he had any right to be, and cautiously looks left and right for anyone lurking around to yell at him. But the room, like the elevator, is empty. "Hello?" He calls out, but other than the hum of air conditioning, he hears no response. Exited completely, camera clutched to his chest, and walks towards the glass wall. He reaches for the metal handle to a small, see-through door that allows access into the greenhouse. Muttering a few pleases and closing his eyes tightly in prayer, he pushes the handle down and forward, and it swings open unimpeded.
Stiles let out a guffaw of surprised success, and steps quickly beyond the glass. The door clicks shut behind him, and he checks it quickly to make sure it's still unlocked before turning away.
The air is humid and muggy, more so than downtown Manhattan in August, and the thick scent of damp leaves hangs heavily over him. What he thought was a simple greenhouse suddenly opens out into a terrarium, the same kind he used to make in science class back in the fourth grade. The ground has been completely covered in thick, dark dirt, with plants of varying size growing straight from the earth around his feet. Bugs fly lazily through around his head, sucking nectar from vibrant flowers that Stiles can't put a name to. It's nothing like the forests he's used to, and nothing like the labs that he had expected to find at Stark Tower. Nothing in here looks controlled, at least not that he can see, and the plants aren't labeled or categorized. It's all haphazard, like the scientists are just letting nature unfold naturally.
"Cool." Stiles breathes out, walking carefully though the homemade environment in his converse sneakers.
He snaps a few pictures, no doubt illegally but no one has to know that, but avoids touching anything. He can barely identify poison ivy, let alone something that might try to eat his hand.
Stooping low, he raises his camera to his eye to take a quick picture of a stunningly blue butterfly. It holds still for him, long enough for the flash to go off, before it suddenly flies into the air and disappears among the plant-life. Stiles lowers his camera, and smiles to himself. "Well that's my Nobel Prize Winner." He comments, rising to his feet and looking down at his camera. He pauses for a second, and blinks. "Or is it Pulitzer?"
Sting; a white hot prick at the back of his neck catches him by surprise. Like electricity, he can feel it running down his back, down his arms, down to the soles of his feet; knotting his stomach and making every muscle feel tense. He lets out a startled cry of pain, his palm slapping at his skin, the picture forgotten. "The hell?" He exhales shakily, his heart suddenly racing. He scans the ground, the plants, the sky, but sees nothing out of the ordinary.
The beauty of the greenhouse suddenly seems less than inviting, and Stiles decides it's about time he left. Still rubbing at his neck, he turns for the door and quickly heads for it, his legs feeling heavier than he remembers them being.
He presses the elevator button violently, keeping in time to the pounding of his on-edge heart, until the doors allow him in. This time he knows he hits thirteen, but he has to lean his weight against the steel wall of the elevator in order to catch his breath. He feels cold, and hot, tired, and over-energetic, all at the same time. A sweat breaks out across his forehead, and he wipes it away with chilled, trembling hands. The doors ding open, and a flood of noise washes over him like acid. He stumbles out into the foyer of a nice lounge, several well-dressed people glancing disinterestedly in his direction before returning to their drinks and appetizers. The smell of food turns Stiles' stomach, but he swallows down the bile that threatens to spill forward.
"Kyle?" Someone asks, their voice too loud but too far away. Stiles furrows his brows and looks in it's direction, squinting in order to see right.
"What?" He slurs, shaking his head a little.
"Are you Kyle?" A woman stands there, not April because this one is blonde, and she looks at him in concern and confusion.
"What?" He asks again, his brain turning to mush. He suddenly remembers Eddie, in vivid technicolor, and has to blink several times to get the memories to slow down. "Oh. Right. Yeah. Uh. Yeah." He mumbles, his own voice sounding like it's dripping from a gutter.
"Right this way, sir." The woman says, but she looks unsure. "Your partner already has a table."
"Yeah. Thanks." Stiles murmurs, and tries to take a step forward with leaden legs. But as soon as he lifts his foot, he's falling
falling
falling
into blackness
in his dreams he's dangling by a thread
over the city
BANG BANG BANG.
Stiles wakes sharply, sucking a breath so deep into his lungs that stars explode across his vision. He's tangled in his own sheets, stripped down to a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt he's sweated right through. Hot, autumn air seeps in through his open window along with the noises of the city, but it's the knocking that rips at his eardrums.
BANG BANG BANG.
He rolls out of bed, the world tilting a little on its axis as he sits up. But gradually, carefully, the apartment corrects itself into his view. It's messy, but the kind of messy that is an organized clutter. His laptop sits open and powered on on his desk; three empty bottles of water he doesn't remember drinking stacked in a pyramid next to it. He looks to his bedside table, searching for his phone, but instead finds a half eaten plate of lasagna perched on top of his ugly, square lamp. The light is still on.
Stiles stares at it, his mind unable to fill in any sort of answer.
BANG BANG BANG.
Painfully rubbing at his temples, he forces himself to his feet, and drags himself out of his bedroom. The apartment is small, and it only takes him two agonizing steps to reach the front door. He doesn't even look out of the peephole, but yanks the door open with far more force than he intended at all, almost knocking himself backwards in the process. "Jeeeesus-" He hisses under his breath, grabbing onto the frame to steady himself.