Chapter Text
He had read the file. Fuck, he had read it ten – maybe twenty times.
It wasn’t good.
It’s never good, that comes with the territory, but he was kind of hoping – maybe (probably) selfishly – that it wouldn’t be this bad.
He’s led through the facility by three armed guards; the sterile corridors are bustling with doctors, surgeons, and scientists – all wearing the same long, bleach-white cloak with their names and position in the STEM hierarchy embroidered on the left breast pocket. The only people dressed any differently are the guards, who stomp around the facility in neat formations, lined across their chests by guns the length of an arm and twice the size, pointed down, with fingers curled around the trigger – just in case. The white-cloaked personnel give them looks, clearly not on the same page about the use of force in these situations, but the guards still stand at every metal door, at every entrance, and at every exit.
Dressed starkly (haha) different, Tony moves through with purpose. It’s a bit ambiguous, which side he falls on – with the gun-slinging protectors, or the stethoscope-clad helpers. Maybe he’s neither, as shown by his AC/DC tee and black jeans.
He purses his lips at the sounds echoing through the walls – the metal doors into the cells are thick, grey-painted, and tough; he knows they’re about 7 inches deep, because he helped design them. There’s a secondary room behind the door, a room before the prisoner's cell; helpful for feeding prisoners, and, in the worst cases, a detriment to any formidable enemy who breaks through, thinking they’re suddenly free. Some cells make no noise, but he knows that doesn’t mean they’re empty. Some scream bloody murder – and through two sets of doors, it’s kind of impressive – some whisper, some cry out. Each door has a number painted on it in thick black letters, and is situated just feet from a STAFF ONLY door – the observation rooms.
491, 493, 495.
497.
The guard at the front of the formation knocks on the STAFF ONLY door, and the other two turn to face out, in protection of anything entering. It doesn’t put Tony at any ease.
He takes a final look at the cell door – about ten feet away from the STAFF ONLY entrance (he knows that, too – each cell is encased in nine feet of thick, beamed metal in every direction. Gotta keep ‘em in somehow).
The door swings open, and a woman in big, purple glasses and a white overcoat (of course) nods at the guard hesitantly, before her eyes land on Tony.
“Tony!” Engulfing him, he hugs her back with a smile. “So good that you could come!”
Breaking away, he takes a good look at the observation room. It’s bigger than he thought – hidden behind the pale walls of the confusing hallways outside – housing maybe thirty or forty personnel, all watching screens and monitors that reflect in their glances and light up their faces in the otherwise-dark room. It’s like mission control, the way they all face the front and glance up every once in a while before bowing back down to take notes. The only light comes from the window into the cell, at the very front of the room – the barrier is thick and bulletproof, taking up the span of the entire wall with one-way glass.
“Doctor Browne,” He greets, screwing his mouth up as he examines the room, trying to make heads-or-tails of the situation. “Glad I could be here.”
“Come on in,” She ushers him past, and shuts the door loudly behind him – the room is a showcase of terrible lighting practice, only illuminated by computer screens and the observation window.
“Tony Stark,” A rough, old voice greets him, as his eyes adjust to the dark. There’s a hand out for him to shake. “Sergeant Mollusk. Nice to see you again.”
He’s not sure where they’ve met before, but he’s sure he doesn’t care. The man wears a well-pressed uniform, an army-green cap, with a leathery, wrinkled face and several tags, buttons, and badges on his jacket's left breast. Tony purses his lips again.
“Mollusk.” He smiles tightly, clapping the Sergeant’s hand in a handshake. “Good to… See you again.”
The man nods and sits back down in an odd-placed chair next to a wooden cane.
“No lights in here, huh?” Tony asks, clapping as if trying to turn them on.
Doctor Browne smiles – she looks tired. Fair, he thinks, as he got the call to come here a few days ago; who knows how long she’s been on shift.
“We keep it dim for best results. The less the subject can see us, the better.” As she puts notes in the computer, she nods her head to the viewing window.
It’s bright, but maybe there’s something to the darkness, because Tony’s eyes adjust faster – it’s a small cell, cramped; the window sees all three padded-concrete walls of it, and breaks the fourth. There’s a sink and a toilet behind a half-wall in the right corner, a bright, blindingly-white light is embedded in the concrete ceiling to illuminate every inch of the room, and a bed is in the corner, a thin mattress with one green blanket on a bolted-down metal frame.
With a body on it. Connected to a couple of plastic IV tubes.
“That’s him then, huh?” Tony asks, getting as close as he can to the thick-paned window to see the boy's form. He crosses his arms.
“Yes, sir.” Doctor Browne joins his side, clipboard nestled on her arm. “That’s the Spider-Man.”