Toomes didn’t need to pay much attention to Tony’s fumbling, knowing from the sounds that he was trying the blinds first, as well. He also said nothing to the quip the unarmed Iron Man threw his way as he stumbled through the door, Adrian counting to ten slowly in his head. He got 6, Stark stumbling straight back in, surprisingly not ushered in by the doctor.
“Nobody?” The flying criminal stood up, now walking past millionaire to look down the hallway. The doctor and the nurse, gone without a trace, the light of the lamp at the nurses station still lighting the work chair that was now empty. Toomes narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t scared the man that badly that he’d taken his co-worker and just ran away, had he? Surely a man working as a doctor had worked with harder patients.
They were simply gone. As if they had never even existed. A slight bit of dread settled into his stomach, Adrian deciding to keep this to himself. Stark didn’t need to know that he had possibly threatened an illusionary man over his body.
He turned to the dark haired hero in the doorway. “It’s not my phone and I care less what you do with it. It’s useless.” At least he knew that Stark was figuring things out.
He returned his eyes to the nurses station, like it would yield him some new answer. He decided against his better judgement, leaving his appointed room and walking to the desk, thin fingers picking up a piece of paper on top of a stack. It was merely an empty form, one you most likely filled when you entered the hospital. The text was still scrampled, nonsensical.
But there were more syllables. And they actually seemed to spell out something, unless Toomes was finally losing his mind in their strange predicament.
Ti-me-and-pla-ce. Time and place. It seemed to be repeated over and over in the form, in between the mess of letters. He took another paper from the stack, it repeating the same words, except in different places within the mess.
A frustrated huff left him. Whatever this was, it seemed more like something you’d see a villain do in fiction.
Stark came trailing after him. He leaned on the counter, the phone pressed to his ear, fidgeting while he waited for someone to pick up. When he wasn't busy cracking wise, he had a round-eyed look, half perplexed, half attentive. Like a worried dog, unwilling to let Toomes out of his sight. No one picked up, and he tried another number. Then another one.
Beyond the light of the nurse station, past the elevators, a pair of doors led out onto a mezzanine overlooking the atrium. A deep, dark space, tiered like an opera house, opposite which the brick facade of the old administrative building stood trapped under a glass roof blurred with rain, a building out of time. The lights were off in the atrium. A strange wind moved the air. No sign of the staff except a few wet prints on the ground.
Still trying get through to someone on the phone, Stark went over and punched the button to call the elevator, mumbling under his breath, "C'mon, Rhodey--" He looked over at Toomes, whistled rudely to get his attention, and pointed to the elevator. "Hey, Nosferatu. Going down."
There was a distant howl outside. A deep rhythmic thumping sound, like huge wings beating in the storm. It cut through the downpour, turned into a whistling shriek that grew in pitch, falling closer, until the sound cut off in a rumbling crash directly over the building--thunder. The power went out, plunging them in darkness.
