#342 - Reign
Interruption.
Only tourists look up at buildings in New York.
That one in particular, even one under Tony Stark's patronage, should go entirely without notice is hardly surprising. People rarely see more than they want to see, even in a city like this, where glittering people appearing in purple blinks would barely earn comment on the best of days.
There's no sound, no helpful ripple. The electromagnetic blasts passing is notable only by the way lights flare and burn out, plugs spark, cameras buzz and go black, computers crackle and die. An old man steps back, gestures sardonically at the door. A young thing with alien eyes smiles, sharp as a knife. Everything is red. Everything is gold. The doors fall away like water, splashing across the rushing nondescript security personnel.
(Somewhere inside, a support beam shifts almost imperceptibly. It won't be long now.)
The lights come back on in the hall, or, at least, light comes back on. It's like sunlight. It's like fire-glow. The band keep playing for a few more seconds, confused, breaking up into cacophony and silence. There's a space where there was no space, a silence rolling out through the crowd of onlookers and well-wishers, through the dearly gathered, space and silence and the glittering copper-lined people with their golden eyes, all spreading out.
In a slim, long-fingered, a crystal flute of champagne is struck once with a cake fork, and a note sounds in the silence, sharp and clear as a bell.
The Red King smiles at the newly-weds.
Smiles, and smiles, and smiles.
Only tourists look up at buildings in New York.
That one in particular, even one under Tony Stark's patronage, should go entirely without notice is hardly surprising. People rarely see more than they want to see, even in a city like this, where glittering people appearing in purple blinks would barely earn comment on the best of days.
There's no sound, no helpful ripple. The electromagnetic blasts passing is notable only by the way lights flare and burn out, plugs spark, cameras buzz and go black, computers crackle and die. An old man steps back, gestures sardonically at the door. A young thing with alien eyes smiles, sharp as a knife. Everything is red. Everything is gold. The doors fall away like water, splashing across the rushing nondescript security personnel.
(Somewhere inside, a support beam shifts almost imperceptibly. It won't be long now.)
The lights come back on in the hall, or, at least, light comes back on. It's like sunlight. It's like fire-glow. The band keep playing for a few more seconds, confused, breaking up into cacophony and silence. There's a space where there was no space, a silence rolling out through the crowd of onlookers and well-wishers, through the dearly gathered, space and silence and the glittering copper-lined people with their golden eyes, all spreading out.
In a slim, long-fingered, a crystal flute of champagne is struck once with a cake fork, and a note sounds in the silence, sharp and clear as a bell.
The Red King smiles at the newly-weds.
Smiles, and smiles, and smiles.