The Cat and the Canary [Loki Series]
"The cat that swallowed the canary" - idiom; to look extremely well-pleased, smug or self-satisfied often because one has secretly achieved something or has gotten away with a great act of mischief.
Part 5: I'm a Snark Stark
Summary: The dreaded Press Conference, your own personal Trial by Fire, begins. The Avengers sit at your side like sentinels of justice. . . but Loki is sitting right next to you, smirking like your shoulder devil. Your whole life hangs in the balance.
Warnings: Semi-naked Loki. Angst with a side of more angst.
Notes: I adore Loki in this picture. Enjoy!
The press conference was due to start at four o'clock sharp. According to Rosemarie Oliveira, this meant that you had to be at the hotel by eleven o'clock, fed something stale and measly from the vending machine every few hours to make sure that you didn't starve or pass out, and then be completely monitored by an eagle-eyed team of stylists, hairdressers and make-up artists. The official reason for this was to make sure that they had enough time to complete the make-over and run through the script once more before the conference began. The unofficial reason was that Rosemarie thought that wealthy, famous or privileged people had no sense of time.
Seeing as you arrived forty minutes late, Rosemarie wasn't exactly wrong.
The hotel room was small and cramped. There were two beds, a small kitchen counter which served as the top of the mini-fridge, and a flatscreen television positioned in the centre of the room. The Portuguese woman sat you down on the end of the bed, snapped at you to fix your 'gorilla' posture, and then switched on a rom-com and ordered you not to move a muscle. Then Rosemarie clapped her hands and let her professionals go to work. Most of the time spent by the numerous health and beauty professionals was bickering, arguing back and forth, and discussing which fabrics or colours would highlight the your good features or expose flaws ('What flaws?," you had snorted while laughing at Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey). You were just into the best part of the movie, your stylists arguing about what kind of shoes you should wear, when the door opened and Rosemarie returned. With a guest. Loki.
"Oh, look," You remarked flatly, "It's the Wicked Witch of the West."
"Leave the man alone, Stark," Rosemarie's nostrils flared, "You are to be on your best behaviour. Both of you."
Your brows raised and your lips reshaped into something pert and dubious. The god of mischief returned a look with similar intensity as he stepped out from behind the Portuguese woman, his eyes scanning the room with distaste. He was wearing an all-black suit and his hair was slicked back, left loose around his shoulders. In all honesty, he could've given Brad Pitt's portrayal of the Grim Reaper in Meet Joe Black a run for his money.
"You're right, Rose. I should be polite," You smiled prettily, "So how was your commute, Kermit the Frog?"
"Rosemarie," Loki said, "Must I be forced to endure - "
"You are both my most problematic clients," Rosemarie interrupted curtly, "On most days, each of your reputations vie for the worst ranked out of S.H.I.E.L.D. and all of the Avengers. I need you to both understand that, as your PR Manager, it is my job to make sure you look and act your best in the public eye. My record in this is absolutely perfect and I haven't had one bad experience yet. Should you make me fail at this," She smiled, bright and terrifying, "I will go insane and take you both with me. Understand?"
You both nodded, disturbed.
"Wonderful. Give me but a moment," Rosemarie cleared her throat,"I need to take a call."
While the PR Manager left the room, taking the stylists and make-up artists with her, Loki sighed and took a seat beside you on the end of the bed. You glanced at him icily and reached for the remote on the end of the bed, putting up the volume to dissuade him from talking. Surprisingly, it didn't work.
"Sleeping well of late, Stark?" Loki replied.
"Like a baby," You remarked coldly.
"It appears that snakes are a startling cure for insomnia," Loki mused, "What a discovery. I wonder if all manner of reptiles do the same? Perhaps there will be a need for further investigation. A crocodile, perhaps, or a small alligator?"
"Oh, no. The secret is not being a sleazy dirtbag who tried - and failed - to take over the planet," You cocked a brow, "And high thread-count sheets."
When there was a beat of about two minutes where he hadn't replied, you felt bothered by his lack of a dry response. If it was true what they said about keeping silent in order to plan a murder, you didn't want to give him any further incentive to disrupt (or end) your life. Especially not when he'd recently decided that you were going to be his biggest target. You were surprised when you noticed that he had been looking at you the entire time, specifically your dress.
Shifting uncomfortably, thinking about how he could possibly ruin it by virtue of reptile, you glared at him.
"You're wearing green?" Loki's voice seemed unusually soft.
"Bravo for having a basic understanding of the colour wheel," You rolled your eyes, "What about it?"
"Didn't sound like a nothing," You muttered with suspicion.
"It was merely a comment," Loki looked you dead in the eyes.
"My two problem children," Rosemarie announced when she re-entered. "Let me take a look at you."
Rosemarie had a critical eye for detail. First she turned to the young heir and barked at you to stand up straight, shoulders back and face dipped down; then she began to circle her client in the way that a shark begins its circuit in an aquarium tank. There were a thousand little details that she concerned herself with: the PR Manager pressed her hands down on the your waist to reshape the tulle; the lightweight, textured material fell prettily under her guided hands. She muttered something under her breath as she bent down to inspect your black wedge heels before standing upright again and stepping close to the your face. At her guidance, you lifted your cheeks and shut your eyes. You jolted when you heard Rosemarie snap her fingers.
"You. Was this your idea?" Rosemarie berated the makeup artist, snapping her fingers again, "This eyeshadow is far too dark. Do you want this entire press conference to go to the dogs just because you make my client look bruised and tired by putting on an eyeshadow that's too dark?"
The makeup artist stammered an apology and brought out her kit. After Rosemarie glared and carefully instructed her to use warm, earthy colours - 'a soft bronze or taupe' were her exact words - she turned to Loki. You could only watch through one eyelid at a time as Rosemarie repeated her strange ritual. It appeared that Loki seemed rather confident - and his ego boosted more still as Rosemarie complimented him on his excellent posture and regal bearing - until she started to dig into his clothes. She clicked her tongue in disapproval as she took in his all-black suit.
"This is no good," Rosemarie reprimanded, now addressing one of the stylists who snapped to attention, "If we put him in all black, he's going to look too severe and serious. We don't need a reminder of what happened at Stuttgart," She hummed impatiently, clicking her fingers and making her assistants jump nervously, "I like the suit. It's a good touch, but it's too formal. Do you have anything that can -Â suavizar. We need it -"
"More casual?" The stylist was hesitant.
"Why are you here talking to me when I need action?"
The stylists ran around like headless chickens as they were directed by their Portuguese boss. Rosemarie hummed in approval as she saw the lighter shade of the eyeshadow and thanked the sweating makeup artists that were huddled around you. The next thing that Rosemarie turned to was the jewellery. Though you weren't necessarily a big fan of wearing jewellery, Rosemarie had come prepared: her assistants pulled out boxes of Swarovski necklaces that they held up against your throat to see a comparison.
"I don't like that one," Rosemarie remarked, "Too bridal. Something thinner and prettier. Remember, people, we're going for dainty. For innocence."
You heard the Norse idiot's chuckle from the other side of the room. You felt yourself flush in annoyance and you turned your head to throw a quick witticism at him, but the words never left your mouth. You weren't expecting to see him shirtless. Even paler than his normal complexion, the skin of his chest was a white like rich, creamy milk. He was toned, far more than you had expected, and each ridge of his stomach muscles formed abs that could've paved the Great Wall of China. It was only after you connected with his eyes that you realised that you'd been staring.
"Shut up, Loki," Your voice cracked embarrassingly.
The Swarovski that Rosemarie had settled on was exactly according to her desires. Even the name - the Angelic Necklace - seemed to fit the look of what she was trying to achieve. The crystals were white and gold-plated, curling like tiny haloes around your throat and falling just over your clavicles so that beams of light painted your skin. You went to touch one but were berated by Rosemarie in rapid-fire Portuguese. Although not bilingual, you knew that they were death threats.
"Perfeito!" Rosemarie praised.
Rosemarie had certainly been right about the suit. Where the god of mischief had seemed faintly ominous and brooding in the dark suit, now his features seemed softer and less severe. Though he still wore the jacket and trousers in the same shade of charcoal black, the high-necked shirt had been exchanged for a buttonless white t-shirt. Changed, too, were his loafers. Now he was wearing cloud-grey sneakers, which he was staring at distrustfully. You crossed your arms over your chest and looked over him.
"Just add a Black Sabbath t-shirt and you're the splitting image of my dad," You smirked.
Loki raised his brow archly, "Just add a pair of wings and you could be a grasshopper."
"You both look wonderful," Rosemarie chided. "Now, I trust that you've both memorised the scripts that I sent you from our last meetings. Obviously, Mr Laufeyson has had more time to learn what he's to say - and that he's most certainly not allowed to ad lib, no matter how many times he assures me that he possesses a silver tongue," She looked at you , "And the same can be said for you, Stark. I wouldn't -"
You interrupted, "Dr Stark."
"I've known you since you were fourteen years old," Rosemarie glared, "So your title means absolutely nothing to me. As I was saying, I don't want you to say anything that you haven't prepared. If the press asks you a question that you don't recognise, ask them to rephrase until it resembles something that you do. Even if you have to repeat yourself several times. Do not say 'no comment' unless you want them to think you've got something to hide. If you're really unsure of what to say, defect to your father or one of the other Avengers."
The time passed more quickly than you could say. Like a wineglass in the hand of a drunkard, there was soon nothing left.
Out the suite door. Across a hallway. Down a service elevator. Backstage blinked into existence without giving you time to process. You felt your stomach muscles tighten as you realised what you were about to do. Standing in the backstage room, you could hear the faint drone of voices rising together from the press that were already gathering in the conference hall. You pressed your hands together and squeezed them tightly as you half-listened to Rosemarie's last-second tips. Make sure that you're always smiling, even if it's a closed-mouth smile. If someone dresses a concern, make sure to look sympathetic. After shooing away your team of makeup artists and personal stylists, Rosemarie led the way to the outer courtyard where they would meet up with the other superheroes before they all walked on stage together. Your heart was pounding as the sounds of the press hounds grew louder. They came to the hallway where the other Avengers were lined up in pairs: first, Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff; Clint Barton and Thor Odinson; Nick Fury and Maria Hill; then it was you and Loki. You saw your father standing a little way away from the others, just behind Steve, but it appeared that he was alone.
You swallowed. The regrets of the past few days trickled through your mind as you realised that you were completely unprepared for this. You felt scared to have to go in front of the entire world and explain that you were a screw-up, but not an entirely dangerous screwâup. Just like you used to do when you were a little child, you longed to run up to your dad and hide behind his legs until the scary thing was over. As if he could feel the force of your thoughts, Tony Stark looked up. Then he smiled.
Your heart almost stopped. Could he have forgiven you so easily? After everything that you'd said to each other? It was only after the sound of stiletto heels strode across the tiles that you received your answer. You turned her head to see that Pepper Potts was starting to rejoin the formation. Before she passed, Pepper paused and pressed a kiss on her soon-to-be stepchild's cheek. She also reached out and squeezed your hand. That's when you really started to panic.
"I can't do this," You blurted. "I - I need to - there must be something - I can't - "
"You're going to be okay," Pepper promised.
"I set a building on fire," You breathed shakily, "They're going to make me out to be some kind of psycho. An arsonist. A pyromaniac - "
"It'll be okay, sweetheart," Pepper comforted. "It's only twenty minutes. There are nine other people here that they'll question. It's not just you. We'll be here to help you."
"You're the only person who isn't violently aggravated with me right now," You stammered, "Who's to say that they're not just going to let me go up in smoke?"
Pepper didn't say anything else but smiled at the person that she'd been protecting since you was young. She wiped away the slight trace of her lipstick from your cheek and then let go of your hand. When she rejoined Tony at the front of the line, the billionaire pressed a kiss to her lips and smiled to his fiancee as she fixed his hair or straightened his jacket. Your stomach plummeted when the line started to walk onto the stage. Just before you stepped out into the spotlight, you heard Loki's voice brush across the shell of her ear.
"Do you smell something burning?"
There were so many cameras in the conference room. They were not all fixed in place by tripods or mounted on stands but were manned by trained professionals, undoubtedly news teams who were eager to find the best coverage of the event while the press conference was being streamed. You counted at least twelve cameras fixed around the room, each one swivelling around in a split second to face the person to which the question had been addressed. The first journalist approached the podium and prepared his questions.
A man presented himself to address a question to Natasha. He introduced himself as one of the head journalists from the New York Daily News and he carried an iPad on which he took notes with his apple pen. The moment that he began to speak, several actions happened. Cameras clicked shots of the man. Tripods and stands were swivelled to face the stage, zooming in on the Black Widow's features. Lights were dimmed around the room.
"Natasha - may I call you Natasha?" The man asked, "It seems that you were taken by surprise when it was announced last week that you currently hold the title of the most beloved superhero. Clearly, you're a feminist icon to many young girls who are seeking non-traditional careers. What might you say to those girls, if given the opportunity?"
Natasha's smile was bright, made even brighter by the shade of her black cherry lipstick, as she pursed her lips to answer the question. Cameras clicked. Lights brightened. People held their breath in anticipation.
You felt as green as your dress. As more and more questions were asked and answered, you kept swallowing hard lumps in the back of your throat. You had already downed half of the bottle of water and you hadn't even answered any questions yet. It was difficult for you to remember a time when you'd ever felt so nerve-wracked, though you tried to assure yourself that there had been plenty of examples. The public eye was a place in which you'd been observed before, such as when you had been presented with an NSTF award for your contributions to the scientific community. There had been an awards assembly. There had been pictures and handshakes.
"Dr Banner," Questioned a woman from the Daily Bugle," Many of our audience cannot help but have their hearts go out to you to hear of your struggles as being both the Hulk and genius scientist. It's an inspiring journey. Could you tell us more about how you've managed to acclimate yourself into the Avengers team?"
Bruce Banner smiled nervously, "Sure. I suppose I could begin by saying. . . "
This wasn't even the first time you had to speak on television, you reminded herself as you tried to stop your hands from shaking. You had given a speech at CERN about the influence of artificial intelligence on modern engineering practices and it had over three billion hits on YouTube, which had been streamed nationwide when you had given it. People had given her a lot of critical acclaim for the way that you'd conducted yourself. There were over ten thousand comments, which were mostly positive.
"I am such a fan, Mr Rogers, for all that you do for this country," Declared a man from the Weekly World Enquiry, "It's such an honour to be able to stand here and interview you, sir."
Steve smiled, "It's such an honour to be able to fight for my country."
You tried not to roll your eyes at the way the journalist's breath caught. Fanboy, you muttered under your breath.
The biggest thing that you couldn't understand was what had changed so much in the last five years. What had changed you from that smooth, calm and collected young scientist into someone who was sweating under the artificial lights? That was flinching every time someone mentioned a name that sounded even vaguely familiar to your own ? But that was then, wasn't it? When the world made sense.
Then: when you had been an engineer with a spotless reputation, a renowned name in the scientific community and a strong relationship with your father. That was when the world was your oyster. That was when you thought that you were capable of anything, even beyond the normal realm of possibility. That was when -
Maria Hill nudged you with her boot. You jolted, ripped from your train of thought, and your eyes swivelled to the woman's face. Maria looked tense. Without being conspicuous, she indicated the audience with her eyes. Your brows raised and you mouthed What?. More forcefully this time, Maria did it again.
Your heart spluttered when you heard your name being called. When you looked at the crowd of journalists and news personnel, you noticed that it was a different man who was standing now and he appeared to be addressing a question to you. This man was bald, wearing a clipped expression and a moustache that curled over his thin lip. He seemed impatient. Your throat closed as you tried to speak. You cleared your throat before you spoke into the microphone. The echo of your own voice ricocheted in the conference room.
"Can you repeat the question?" You said in a small voice.
The man narrowed his eyes, "I said, what do you have to say for yourself?"
You wiped your hand on the back of your neck. It came away damp with cold sweat. Cameras clicked and swivelled again, distracting you as the flash burned in your eyes, and you swallowed again. Lights dimmed down the contrast on your face and still more pictures were snapped.
"I understand that the fire was quite a shock to hear about," You felt yourselffalling back on the script, "But it was completely overblown and, I can assure you, it was only a short, controlled -"
"I was asking about what this means for Stark Enterprises," The journalist interrupted curtly, "With all due respect, Stark. The focus was on how your actions have affected your father's business."
Cameras snapped. Lights brightened. You felt like putting a hand up to cover your face against the glare. You felt your heart speeding in your chest, turning from a pump to a thin rattle. You exhaled sharply.
"Stark Enterprises?" You repeated, your words at a stammer, "I don't see how that would affect - "
"The Wall Street Journal has already identified a twelve percent drop in Stark Enterprise Sales," The journalist meted out sharply, "Just within a week, that is an astronomical drop in sales and interest. I'm sure you can agree, Stark, that the investors are worried."
Cameras snapped. Lights dimmed. Your breath was at a gasp now.
"You could even agree with why some of the investors want you to resign from your post," The journalist continued.
"After all, if just one of your actions could cause such a decline, surely it would be preferable to have you removed altogether?" The journalist continued as if you hadn't spoken at all, " So will you be resigning, Stark? Will you take a step back to help your father's company improve their stocks?"
Something inside of you burned. Something snapped.
"No!" You raised your voice, "I'm not going anywhere! It was an accident! It's not like I planned for this to happen!"
"And an absence of planning is exactly what worries them, Stark. Exactly how much of a danger are you to the state of your father's conglomerate?" The journalist retorted, "And how much of a danger are you to society?"
People started to shift and stir at the sound of the argument escalating. Cameras were flickering quickly now, all of them trained on your face, and the snaps and flashes were hurting your eyes. You put a hand up to cover your face while the security team tried their best to calm down the situation.
Maria Hill stood up, putting her hands up, "As S.H.I.E.L.D. has already released to the media, the fire was not one of consequence and has caused little damage to the -"
"Danger to society?" You got to your feet, hitting your hands on the table with a thump, "It was one mistake! I don't know who you think you are or what bogus newspaper you represent, but I can tell you now that I am not some terrorist - "
"Don't say terrorist!" Fury snarled.
You raised your voice, "It was a stable experiment and there was an unforeseen problem - "
"It's refuted that you didn't have permission to be working on that experiment!" Another journalist jumped up, an apple pen in his hand already furiously scribbling notes.
"Who told you that, sir?" You shouted, "Exactly where did you get your information?"
You felt heat. Felt it pounding through your head and coming out through every pore like the dramatic build-up to the reveal of the creature in a monster movie. The lights were too bright. In your ears, a confusing ruckus of sound was making it difficult for you to think. You could hear Fury's low, furious shouts cutting through and ordering you to stop speaking. You could hear fragments of Natasha's voice or Steve's words trying to reason with the crowds. Even the low, contented chuckle of Loki could be heard faintly over the blood pounding through her ears. Your own voice was loud and shrill as it left you , but you weren't sure what you were saying. Weren't sure if you were saying anything at all or just making noise.
And the cameras were there to capture every moment of it. The distress in the superheroes's faces. The heat blistering your cheeks and throat and wrecking all of the makeup artist's hard work. There were news stations recording it, minute-by-minute, as you went up in flame.
You felt your throat close up. Finally, there were no other words to answer the questions or to respond and save yourself - even though the journalists kept barking and the news anchors continued to address their complaints and concerns about public safety. Though there was movement and sound and chaos - the world felt strangely silent to you. You felt like you were standing right at the centre of a bonfire - you could see the kindling burning, could taste the smoke in the air, could feel the ash gathering over you , and feel the burn as the flames ate you up alive. You were burning. Everything that Tony Stark's child was. . . was burning.
"Please," You whispered. But you weren't sure anyone could hear you .
You looked around desperately for something that wouldn't burn. Something that you could hold on to while everything was reduced to cinders. You glanced down the table: Fury had cornered Maria Hill and Pepper Potts as they discussed the situation tensely, making many gestures; Natasha was standing next to Steve and trying to feed him words to calm down a portion of the press; Bruce Banner's face was white as he strove to keep composure in such a stressful situation and Thor was sitting and looking at it all, not sure if this was a regular part of Midgardian politics. But it was the face right down at the end of the line that was the feather that broke the camel's back: Tony Stark had his head in his hands, face shielded by his palms from the cameras that targeted him, and his back stiffened as he sighed in disappointment.
You felt tears welling in your eyes.
No. . . Not here, please. . . please. . .
You tried not to blink and set them free. If there was one strand of dignity that you could preserve, it would be to not cry in front of billions of people. You knew that you had to say something but when you tried to speak, your throat clenched on a sob. There were no words. In the biggest conflagration of your life, not even your tears would dispel the flames.
And then there was a hand on your back. It found the opening in the back of your dress so that each finger brushed across your skin and curled on the small of your back. The hand was cold and rigid. It did something to you . All of a sudden, those turbulent thoughts and emotions that were about to be released in a torrent of tears were suddenly kept at bay. Your eyes didn't sting. They blinked back nothing else except for the excess flashes of the cameras. When you wanted to slide back down into your chair, you found that you were unable to move. Rooted completely in place as if by. . .
"Everyone, please. There is no need to be perturbed."
Magic. That was the only way to describe the effect that Loki's words had on the people gathered there. It settled over them like mist over a mountain, drenching everything in a haze of calm and quietness that spread to everyone. The journalists were so dazzled that they forgot the questions they had been, just seconds ago, so poised and prepared to ask; their hands went limp and slack on the pens they were using for notes.
Loki was standing beside you . Far taller than you were and a good deal more expressive, he took the attention off of you and redirected it onto himself. With just a charming smile, he distracted everyone that had been so predacious and ready to hungrily rip into you with their questions. While his one hand remained on the small of your back, probably looking to all the world to be a gesture of comfort - not one of exerting dominance, his other hand reached out to the audience as if seeking sympathy. Then he flexed his fingers to ask everyone to resume their seats. The corner of his mouth creased in a smirk as they all did as he asked.
"It might be difficult for members of the general public and the media to understand what Stark here has gone through in the last few weeks," Loki's voice was a temptation to the ear, a musical suggestion to invite his words into their hearts and minds as truth, "Yes, it was an unfortunate accident that took place last week. While it may seem to be on too large a scale for one to think that this accident can be easily forgiven, the public should know that S.H.I.E.L.D. has both forgiven and forgotten this incident completely."
Loki turned his head to look at you . There was satisfaction to the curl of his brows, something that probably only you could see, yet his other features could have been described as sympathetic. Were you able to move in that moment, you might've found your jaw hanging open incredulously. Why was he. . .? Then you remembered. The god of liars, you reminded yourself. That's all he is.
"Stark has lived in the limelight in each moment of life. The child of a very successful inventor and, now, also a mighty superhero," Loki's eyes narrowed imperceptibly at the mention of your father, but it did not last long, "This accident is on a much grander scale than the regular person may ever experience. So is it truly so difficult to comprehend that, just like the triumph is enlarged, so too is the consequence? So too is the level of the accident? Yet it can be easily forgiven. . . "
You watched, dazzled, as the god of lies began to weave his web. Each word was a thread that wound its way around a journalist's mind, making them think that perhaps they had been wrong about their treatment of you. The cameras were redirected from the Starks onto Loki, who spoke so eloquently and convincingly that they felt his face should be the one that was covered in the news. Each sticky tendril of a well-phrased argument pulled them deeper and deeper in until they even started to look ashamed of themselves, closing their iPads or recording devices and refusing to make any more notes about the matter. Just like that poised and hungry spider, Loki had trapped them all into a cobweb of his own desire and there was no way that they could escape. Now they thought what he thought. Now they sympathised with what he thought was sympathetic. Now they were his.
"So you really mustn't be too harsh on Stark here," Loki concluded with a smile at you, "After all, you're only human."
When Loki removed his hand from the small of your back, you sank into your chair with a quiet gasp. Your stomach churned. Just one touch and all of your energy had been drained: all of that anger and confusion had dwindled and smouldered, leaving nothing but a clench in your gut as you thought about what had to happen next.
Soon there came a nervous titter throughout the conference room as the journalists started to awaken from Loki's trance, wondering what should happen next. Fury stood before they could begin their questions again.
"That calls the end of the press conference," Fury declared, "Any further statements will be provided at a later time - in a month or until a new crisis rises to take its place," He cleared his throat sharply, "We thank you for your time."
You were immune to the director's glare. As the press conference came to an end, all of the cameras were shut off and various technicians went around to pack up the equipment. That was when you made your move. You stood up shakily from the chair and turned, not bothering to wait for an order or rank as you pushed past everyone in the line and fled backstage. The second that you got out of the spotlight, your eyes ached as you accustomed to the dark of the hall. Deep inside, your emotions started to awaken again. Your breath was pushed from your lungs as a pair of arms seized you , pinning you against the wall.
"Are you out of your mind! Caraças!" Rosemarie roared, "Do you know what you've just done? I tell you to do one simple thing and you can't even do that? You needed to read a script! This was not the time to be a smart-mouth, Stark! You had one chance to get this right! One chance! And you've wrecked everything!"
You wanted to swear. You wanted to curse. You wanted to scream every filthy word that you knew until it shattered the windows and broke the sound barrier. You wanted to say that you hadn't meant for things to go this horribly wrong, that you'd been doing the stupid experiment for your father - to make him proud of you - not to make him feel like his child was a failure. You wanted to scream and declare that it wasn't your fault - that things could've been handled so much better so that your life wasn't falling apart.
But all that you did was cry.
Rosemarie's face turned pale and her grip slackened enough to let you go. You felt bile rise in your throat as the tears ran down your face, slick over your cheeks and hot down your chin. You scrubbed at the tears with the back of your hands but still more came. And they could all see. Now coming from the stage, all of the superheroes were watching as you humiliated yourself in front of them. Worse still, you could hear your father's voice rising above them and asking them to move aside. Pepper's voice was among them, too. But you knew that they would only make you feel worse.
You pushed past Rosemarie and barrelled down the hallway. Your knuckles clenched into your side and you bit your lip to stop crying. You flung yourself into your coat and snapped on a pair of sunglasses when you reached the hotel room, knowing that the paparazzi would be no more kind than the news teams had been. There was only one person that you could turn to now. While you retreated down the hallway, led by the security teams that pointed the way to the car park, you took out your phone and dialled the one number you had memorised by heart. It connected to voicemail.
"Mom, it's me," Your voice stammered. "Please call back."Â
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