Stranded

He realized he was on one of the twentieth floors - for two main reasons: One, he was cutting between a maze of office desks and chairs and towards the R&D labs on the other side of the building. And Two, the large, block numbers from the staircase that labeled it as the 23rd floor. 

His head had long since started to throb, the back of his skull aching with a heavy concoction of nerves, his ever present spidey senses, and what was probably a minor concussion. 

Together, it made it more than a little difficult for him to concentrate, and he had to put in a real effort to make out where the sounds around him were coming from. 

Steve - the loudest and most obviously discernible of the bunch - was about five stories above him now, rampaging through the level and clearly looking for a special someone. Sweet.

The others - Nat and Sam, most likely - were shuffling around somewhere a few floors above the man at a more sedate pace.

He couldn’t really hear where Clint was, though he assumed the man was still in the vents somewhere, and the other three people were on the far side of the building - one below him and two somewhere above, but it was hard to tell.

Peter sped up a bit. 

Sure, he wasn’t going to be much safer by going to the far side since, as he’d realized, there were people near the West corridors as well, but he really didn’t have any faith left for the whole ‘better the enemies you know’ idea right now. Cause that whole group sure as hell made for some terrifying enemies.

Not that enemies was the descriptor he wanted to use, but - he shrugged, then hissed through his teeth, turning the corner - if the shoe fits.

He glanced up, taking in the lab entrance. The glass had been tinted to the point that he couldn’t even see the faintest shadows of anything on the other side, and the door - heavy, barred steel like the roof’s - didn’t look as promising as he’d hoped it would.

He didn’t let himself hope, lips already turning downwards as he gripped the handle. 

It turned slightly, then gave a heavy click, not going any further.

Locked. All the labs were, probably. 

Made sense, if Peter thought about it. If there was an intruder, the labs held valuable information about SI and its inventions - possibly even stuff about the Avengers or other classified documents - so of course they were the first things to be sealed shut.

He tsked, whirling around, and staggered when his left arm swung loosely with the motion. 

Fuck, he had to set it, and soon.

He glanced around and spotted a break room further down the hall. He jogged to it, holding his left arm still against his body with his right.

The door was ajar, and he pushed inside, closing it softly behind him with a faint snick. 

The air around him felt still, and the lack of tranquility in such a place normally meant for relaxation was jarring. The entire building felt like that now, really. An unnatural quietness permeating the air, only interrupted by the nerve wracking sounds of the others encroaching.

He grabbed a thick wad of napkins from the kitchenette and shoved them between his teeth, grimacing at the sensation of all the moisture being sucked out of his mouth. He wrapped his fingers around his left forearm in an unrelenting grip, squeezed his eyes shut, screwed up his features, and then yanked, shoulder relocating with a sickening pop and jaw aching from how hard he ground his teeth down to muffle his scream. A quiet sob escaped his lips as he sank to the ground, scattering the napkins to the side. 

He covered his eyes with both hands and took a few deep, exaggerated breaths, forcing himself to calm down as he roughly scrubbed at his face. 

Belatedly, he thought to check the back of his shoulder, and was somewhat relieved to find it hadn’t bled through much, only a faint wetness at the center. Relieved, he scoffed to himself, standing and loosening the cloth around his shoulder to stuff some fresh napkins under it before tightening it again. Not the best bedside etiquette, but he didn’t feel like he was up for much else - both because of time restraints and because it was a difficultly placed injury to work on himself.

He opened the mini fridge in the corner, twisting open a water bottle and chugging it in a few, large swallows. There were granolas too - not the high caloric ones he, Bucky, and Steve usually ate, but still - and he tore into them as quickly as he could without making himself sick, once again training his ear out to his surroundings.

It didn’t sound like anyone was on his floor yet, but there was at least one person only a couple of stories above. Steve again, probably. 

He wasn’t going to just wait around for the man, so, after a moment’s hesitation, he stuffed his sweats pockets full with several more granolas and another water bottle, and set off.

-

By the time Steve got to his floor, Peter was on the other side of the building, and he felt pretty secure in his analysis that the man likely wouldn’t end up following after him. Not because he didn’t want to,  but because he seemed to be focusing on crashing through everything on the East corridors, as if he didn’t really process that Peter might’ve moved further away. 

Well, Peter wasn’t complaining. Not about that, at least.

The door to his left opened with a hiss, and he sprang onto the ceiling like a startled cat, heart palpitating wildly, shoulder and abdomen searing in pain.

He watched with bated breath, ears open and listening, focused on the steel door that’d opened just a crack.

Seconds ticked by like hours, and he began to tremble with the amount of effort he was exerting to hold himself as stiff and motionless as he did, but there was nothing.

No sound, no movement. No sudden attackers or further response.

Just a door that should be locked that was instead now open.

“FRIDAY?” Peter whispered. 

He received no reply.

Tentatively, one hand reaching forward after the other to press his fingertips against the ceiling as he moved towards the door, Peter crept along to it.

“Anybody there?” Peter called softly, edging down to hover upside down above the door. 

His senses remained eerily silent - well, as much as they ever had since the alarms first rang - only a steady prickle along the base of his neck.

He slipped his fingers between the top of the door frame and the wall, widening the gap, wincing at the quiet creak that seemed to ring out in the empty corridor.

Once it was large enough, Peter moved slightly further down, hesitating for another brief moment before dipping his head so he could peer over the lip of the entrance and into the room. It was dark inside - either having no windows or them having been blacked out, and his pupils took a moment to adjust to the new lighting, details slowly flitting across his view.

It was almost… creepy - no, it… definitely was - in how civilian-like the set up seemed. As if it came straight out from a sitcom. 

The space wasn’t overly large, but it wasn’t small, either. It was set up like a single room apartment. On the far left, there was a kitchenette, a rack of metal pots and pans hanging over the counter and a bowl of fruit - plastic, most likely - placed stylishly on the center of the small island, which seated a row of bar stools. Next to that was a small dining table meant for four, placings set in front of each chair as if in preparation for an upcoming meal. Further to the right was a soft-looking green couch, topped with a couple of cream throw pillows and facing a small, stereo TV. And on the far side was a queen sized bed, a thick navy duvet covering the mattress and by its side another door - wood - likely leading to the bathroom.

Why, exactly, the door had opened, Peter didn’t have a clue. 

There clearly wasn’t anybody inside, unless they could muffle their breathing and cover up their heart beat, since, at this close and with his senses ratcheted up to the extent of their abilities, Peter would likely be able to hear even their pulse unless the adjoining room went far deeper than he suspected.

Maybe it’d been FRIDAY, he inwardly considered. Maybe, even if she was unable to communicate verbally with him, she was able to do this one thing.

It’d make sense, he mused, as he slipped through the opening, now clinging to the walls, and closed the door so that it was open just a crack.

Then, he stilled himself again, trying his best to calm his pulse that continued to roar in his ears.

There was nothing nearby - only a faint thrum of electricity and the sloshing of water in pipes. 

Slowly, tentatively, he let his shoulders drop, and he crept towards the back room - the probably bathroom. 

He was halfway there when there was a familiar creak and then a loud clang, and he whirled around to see that the door had slammed shut, the lock clicking loudly into place. His heart jackhammered in his chest and he suddenly had the intrusive thought that he was a rabbit, out in the middle of a field with no escape in sight. 

Vulnerable. Trapped. Alone.

A slow hum started up from his other side, and he spun around again, crouching. His chest heaved as if he’d just run a mile despite the fact he’d barely moved, and his eyes were wide enough to see the whites all around them, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks.

The thrum picked up, coming from the damning door he’d yet to check.

Peter took a step back, then another, the hairs along the back of his neck and along his arms rising, gooseflesh coming up everywhere on his skin.

He knew that sound.

He knew it without a doubt.

He hears that sound so often that it’d be impossible to misinterpret it as something else.

He took another stuttered step back.

The wooden door blasted off its hinges with a resounding bang and shot out towards Peter, the teen leaping to the side, tucking and rolling and hissing sharply as he felt his shoulder begin to bleed anew, and he flinched at the sound of cracking splintering wood behind him.

He balanced on the balls of his feet, facing the now open doorway and what stood within it. With the rest of the lights off, the sudden illumination made his gaze center lower, at the chest level of it, where a deep glowing blue emanated outwards, casting a dim gleam on the red and gold around it, shifting the colors oddly so they looked deeper - darker - than they truly were. The mask, underlit by the reactor, was cast in shadows, and the left arm had just lowered, the faint yellow light within it dimming as it receded from the previous blast. 

Peter felt as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He couldn't tear his eyes away, even as the other took a step forward.

The realization of the situation seemed to come to him both slowly and quickly. Heavy like molasses, the pieces flit together, everything he’s seen and heard clicking into place. And yet, he’d known from the first hum of sound what was coming.

He was locked in an impenetrable room with a rogue Iron-Man suit, and he had a creeping dread as to who had lured him in there with it.