Grounded
The lab was quiet.
There was a persistent hum that rang through the walls, a vibration of advance technology wired through the very sheetrock built up around him. A silent sound, lingering in the background.
Peter found himself basking in the uncommon quiet, focused intently on the project he had at hand. Of course, if Mr. Stark had been here, it would have been a different story. There would have been music blasting loud enough to hear on the level above them, possibly even above that.
It wasn’t an exaggeration, either. Many times did Ms. Potts come down to yell at them both, going off on a tangent that she had to relocate one of her meetings from the conference room that sat directly above the workshop to somewhere else in the building. The AC/DC they typically had blaring through the speakers would do that.
And Tony? Peter found it amazing that the man would just smile, as if proud of his achievement.
But Mr. Stark was out for the day, something about tasting wedding cakes with Pepper. It left Peter by himself in the compound. A place that had quickly lost its star-struck appeal once he realized ninety-percent of the building was either off-limits or crowded with SHIELD employees. Or both. As it was, his guest badge only worked on eight of the nineteen floors on the elevator.
What was the point in being Spider-Man if he couldn’t even get full security clearance?
As much as he loved tinkering in the labs here — and he did, seeing as they contained way more equipment and technology than his bedroom or even school had to offer — Peter sort of wished his grounding had been at home. At least he was comfortable there, a.k.a could stay in his boxers all day long and watch The Twilight Zone reruns.
Despite having the most amazing, mind-blowing, incredible sleeping quarters here, Peter still wasn’t able to walk the hallways in his Star Wars pajamas. Not without the risk of running into Nick Fury himself. Which, granted, was an insanely unlikely chance of happening — but he knew better than to test his Parker Luck.
Peter secured the sealed ends onto the small, metal rectangle device between his fingers and tossed it over his shoulder. It landed into a bucket not far away, an echo of a clinkresounding in the otherwise empty lab.
“How many does that make, FRIDAY?”
There was a slew of trays lined up in front of him, each dish containing individuals parts he needed to make his web cartridges. Gathering what he needed from the multiple different containers was like second nature, his hands moving without much thinking.
Peter frowned, still focusing on the task in front of him. “And what time is it?”
Screws and metal casings dropped from his hands as if they had caught fire.
“Oh my god!” Peter exclaimed, running his hands down the length of his face as he collapsed back into his chair. “This sucks!”
Two-years-ago-Peter would have killed to be in present-Peter’s spot, creating a mass production of web cartridges that would last him a lifetime if he kept up at this pace. But two-years-ago-Peter also wouldn’t have been grounded with nothing else to do but create web cartridges like a foreign factory worker trapped in a sweatshop.
He scrubbed at his face, two enclosed fists rubbing at his eyes until they felt sore and raw and saw many, many different colors. What could he say, two-years-ago-Peter was naive. If he had to look at one more web cartridge, he might just lose his sh —
“Yes!” Peter shouted, hands thrown out in wild gesture. “I’m so bored! There’s nothing to do here — and please don’t say there’s a pool. I know there’s a pool, Mr. Stark keeps telling me there’s a pool. I just — I don’t want to go swimming, okay?” He resisted the urge to shudder at the very idea. There was something about him and water that hadn’t gotten along lately. He couldn’t quite pin why.
“I don’t want to see a movie either, FRIDAY. I really...” Peter sighed, his shoulders lifting and falling with a great deal of teenage angst. “I guess that I really wanted to train with the Avengers, ya know?”
He pushed his feet against the floor, the wheels to the chair rolling him across the room, spinning around in a few circles along the way.
“This was going to be my first weekend officially training with the team. I’ve been looking forward to this since spring break! But then Mr. Stark took me on our road trip — which was totally awesome, don’t get me wrong, I had a blast — but I already had to wait until I was feeling better from...well, you know. That. And now we’re back from the trip and I know I’ll have next weekend, and the weekend after that, but...” There was that sigh again, so deep his chest puffed out with exertion. Peter stopped at a nearby computer console. “I just really wanted to train this weekend. I was really looking forward to it.”
There was a pause, as if FRIDAY was soaking up his ramble and processing her response.
Peter couldn’t help it — his eyes rolled so hard he could feel the twitch in his muscles. “Yeah, I...thanks, FRIDAY, for the reminder.”
Though he appreciated the attempt, FRIDAY was no Karen. Not by a long shot.
Still, as much as he missed talking to his own personal AI, he couldn’t blame Mr. Stark for taking his suit away this weekend. Though he’d likely only put on his mask for Karen’s company, he was sure he’d end up doing something that he’d regret in the long run.
He always did.
Sometimes he couldn't even blame Parker Luck.
Peter stared aimlessly in front of him, eyeing the multiple gadgets laid out on the tables ahead. Mr. Stark rarely ever cleaned up his work, always leaving it behind for when he returned — which would only create piles upon piles of unfinished projects until eventually one was completed and stored away.
It was, for lack of a better way of putting it, a total cluster fudge of a mess.
Of course, Peter wasn’t really in a position to judge. He was known to be a tad bit messy himself — “Incredibly messy, Peter,” May’s voice cut through his hypocrisy, ringing through his ears as if he heard her just yesterday. "For the love of God, please clean up your room.”
Wait. He was pretty sure that was yesterday.
That’s when Peter's eyes caught hold of an oval-shaped, bulky device amidst the clutter.
“Hey, what’s this?” Peter was already picking it up before receiving an answer, turning it around in his hands with curiosity. It held a good deal of weight for its size, clunky, somewhat similar to a small pocket flashlight.
“Ultrasonic pulse...cool.” Peter eyed the device with keen interest, examining every nook and cranny like he was studying it. “What does it do?”
“Two-hundred decibels?" Peter’s eyes went wide, the look of shock coloring over his brown pupils. “That’s insane! Why does he need something like that?”
Suddenly the device in his hands felt much less like a flashlight and much more like a grenade.
A powerful, tiny, loud grenade.
Peter was familiar with sound weapons — that was, the type he and Ned would create at school after band practice using Sarah Hagelin’s trumpet. While this was on a whole other level of extreme, the concept remained the same.
Which meant there likely had to be a volume notch.
“FRIDAY...” Peter trailed off, fiddling with the device in his hands. “Exactly how low can the decibel range on this thing go?”
Peter stood from his chair, so quickly that it rolled straight out from under him. Gadget held tightly in his hands, he nodded once — sharp and curt.
“...I’m going to borrow this.”
He was already at the lab’s exit, hand waving in the air as if the AI could detect the body movements that came with his words.
“I’m just borrowing it, FRIDAY! I’ll return it, I promise!”
It was amazing how quickly ‘odd’ became ‘normal’ around this place. Just at a few months ago, Peter running full sprint down the hallways of the compound would have gotten him tackled by a dozen or so security guards, at best.
He couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad thing that most barely looked in his direction, and honestly, Peter was too preoccupied to care.
There was one nice thing about the compound on the weekends — okay, a few things, when taking in mind the Mac and Cheese bar the cafeteria served on Saturdays.
The best thing had to be the gym, hands down. It was a complete, utter ghost town. All but deserted. A few stragglers here and there, most passing by to grab towels for the pool across the way.
Sam absolutely loved it.
It was a break in his hectic week, where SHIELD trainees were typically taken off-site for more...intense exercises. Like being dropped off in the wilderness for three days to fend for survival. The sort of stuff that Sam came to realize was actually tame for the highly secretive government organization.
He grimaced at the thought while mid-pull up. Many days he found himself thankful to be on the Avengers side of SHIELD and not working directly for the agency itself. He had gratitude for things like that, and the silence that came with his afternoon. There wasn’t enough of it these days — not around the compound, not with the constant slew of different people in and out. Not even his days at the Barracks had been so busy.
Sam pulled his body weight up over the handlebars with a loud grunt, managing to rest his chin on the metal before repeating the process over again.
Loud grunt. Pull up.
Big exhale. Drop down.
Up.
Down.
The sweat rolled down Sam’s forehead in large beads, catching in his eyebrows and dripping off his eyelashes with each strain of his face. With a grunt that echoed the empty gym, he struggled with his next pull-up, arms shaking so hard it affected his entire core. All while his hips and legs trembled with exertion.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down —
BLAST!
The impact of air hit directly against his back, like a gust of wind straight out of a tornado.
“What the —!”
It threw him forward and onto his knees, the gym mats saving him from what otherwise would have been a painful break of his bones. And thank God for it, too, because his knees were already shot to hell from his time served in the force.
Sam gathered his bearings, rolling onto his backside with a loud, frustrated, “What the hell was that!?”
That’s when he saw it — the little spider-twerp standing over him, hand outstretched with a mouth opened wide enough Sam had to assume he was laughing. That’s what the kid looked to be doing, anyway.
He couldn’t hear a damn thing, not as his ears rang church bells directly into his skull.
Sam glared. He glared as he latched onto Peter’s hand, glared as he took the assistance back onto his feet. The hard glare never lessened, especially as Peter continued to laugh.
Slowly but surely, word by word, his voice faded in, and the ringing faded out.
“...totally makes up for when you put super glue all over my bedroom doorknob,” Peter was saying, trying — and failing, to stifle his laughter.
Sam gaped, immediately letting go of Peter’s hand once finding balance on his feet. “What are you talking about? That was harmless!”
Sam was yelling. He could tell he was yelling, yet he wasn’t sure if it was partially out of hearing loss or partially out of anger.
Or both.
Peter cocked his head to the side, unamused. “You tried to make everyone believe my hands were ‘just that sticky’, Sam.”
Sam laughed. He couldn’t help it; the damn memory was too good not to laugh at. Not to mention, he had managed to get Natasha to play along and Bruce, bless the man, took it seriously and began examining Peter and — yeah, okay, it went a little far but that, that was harmless.
“Yeah? At least you walked away with your hearing!” He wiggled a finger around in his ear, trying desperately to get the ringing to come to a complete stop. “I can barely hear my own thoughts, man!”
Walking backward out of the gym, Peter waved around the device he had in his hand, cylinder and small yet could clearly pack a punch.
“We’re even!” He called out, picking up speed until he was through the double doors and out of sight.
Sam clapped his hands against his shorts, dusting himself off, huffing out a sigh at Peter’s retreating form all while shaking his head.
“We’re so not even.”
For a day that started off rather cruddy, Peter was feeling pretty good about things now. An extra eighty-six web cartridges were in his dufflebag to take home tomorrow, and he got back at Sam for a prank that no one wanted to let him live down.
Peter absentmindedly tossed the sonic pulse calibrator between both hands. To say the least, getting so close with some of his idols on a personal level was a bit...strange. Peter used to admire Bruce Banner from afar, studying his work like he studied Einstein’s and Darwin’s. Now he saw the man on a weekly basis, and got to know about the more uncommon quirks that school didn’t teach him about.
Like how fixated Doctor Banner could get on some things, Peter’s power’s included.
“Would you imagine my reaction when,” the voice startled Peter right out of his thoughts, “in the middle of tasting Amedei’s Prendimé delectable wedding cake with my ever-loving and incredibly patient fiancée, I receive an alert from FRIDAY. One informing me that a remotely secured mechanism of mine had been removed from its contained location.”
Peter knew that voice. He didn’t need to turn around to know who that voice belonged to.
Device still in hand, albeit no longer moving, Peter managed an intelligent, thoughtful, engaging response of,
“Uh...”
Tony turned the corner, standing in front of the couch with his wired-rimmed glasses dropping down to the bridge of his nose. He didn’t even bother to push them up — arms crossed over his chest, looking as stern as ever.
The three-piece, crisp, wrinkle-free suit only added to the threatening vibe he gave off.
Peter gulped.
Tony eyed him from over his purple-tinted frames. “You do remember the last time something similar happened, no?”
Peter bit his tongue, hard, because,
And instead replied, “I was just borrowing it, I swear.”
Tony’s glare was intense enough to see straight through his glasses. Suddenly, Peter had a feeling his day wasn’t going to be ending as great as he thought it would. In fact, based on the cramp forming in his gut, he wouldn’t be afraid to go out on a limb and guess it was about to get much, much worse.
“You didn’t leave your thing with Ms. Potts because of me, did you?” he decided on asking, desperate to change the topic.
Tony almost chuckled.
“No. She’d have my head if I did that.” The way he uncrossed his arms and shifted weight to his other foot told Peter he was relaxing, though the heat of frustrations remained. “I did, however, have FRIDAY track your whereabouts for the remainder of the day. Seeing as you were the one who took the core calibrator to the sonic pulse annex — which if I haven’t mentioned is a dangerous weapon you shouldn’t be playing around with, then let me note now that it’s a dangerous weapon you shouldn’t be playing around with.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Pranks? Really?” Tony had his head tilted to the side in a way that told Peter no excuse he managed to conjure up would save him.
Best to admit defeat now while he was ahead.
Peter adjusted himself on the sofa, suddenly realizing he was still holding the device and feeling insanely guilty for it.
“Okay, yes, but Sam totally deserved it after the doorknob thing he pulled on me and you know it and I even think you agree with me on this and in all technicality I didn’t start this war, I only ended it and —”
“Is he hurt?” Tony was quick to interrupt, not out of concern but sheer desperation to have Peter take a damn breath of air.
There was a beat.
“No,” Peter answered, his face scrunched up in a way that said ‘as if’ and ‘no way’ at the same time.
“Then yes, he deserved it.” Tony outstretched his hand and wiggled his fingers. “Now hand it back over.”
Peter sighed, reluctant at first to return the device. He had been going back and forth with the idea of grabbing the blueprint copies of Mr. Stark’s design and putting them into a web grenade of sorts, but alas, he never expected the man to return home so soon. He supposed he had a part in that.
“Fine.” Peter plopped the cylinder-shaped core into Mr. Stark’s open palm. “A heads up...I lowered the decibels back down to a sane level. Are you really trying to make that thing go over two hundred?”
“You bet your ass I am.” Tony tossed the device up in the air and caught it seamlessly, so smooth it looked like he put no effort into it at all.
Peter curled his legs underneath him on the sofa. “That’s insane, Mr. Stark! That’s louder than like, race cars or gunshots. That’s the equivalent of a space shuttle taking off! Why do you need something that loud?”
Tony slipped off his glasses with one hand and stuffed the device into his pant pockets with the other.
“Kid, as simplistic as it sounds, you never know when you’ll need something really loud,” he casually explained. “After all, the good ‘ol God of Thunder isn’t around these days to drum on Cap’s shield. Gotta make do with what we have.”
His off-handed comment seemed to trigger a response in Peter. So palpable that it could be felt across the room.
“That...makes total sense,” he murmured, distantly untangling his legs from beneath him as if he weren’t even in control of his own body. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Stark. Make do with what I have.”
Before Tony could even take a guess at what was happening, Peter was stumbling off the couch and heading towards the doorway.
Still, he had gotten to know Peter well over the past year — especially in just the last handful of months. He could smell trouble long before it began brewing.
“Hey!” Tony called out, stopping Peter right in his tracks. “I don’t know what light just turned on in that big noggin of yours, but if it’s more pranks, you need to pull the kill switch on it now.”
It was frighteningly impressive how Tony was able to hold back his groan of frustration. Was this his life now? Telling teenage superheroes not to pull pranks on other superheroes?
“Oh, c’mon, Mr. Stark!” Peter whined, so loud and obnoxiously that Tony ended up letting out that groan. “I was just going to take my web fluid and —”
“Seriously, Peter,” Tony stressed, rubbing at his forehead to ward off an oncoming migraine. “Our new...guest is moving in today.”
It was the magic word that had Peter’s demeanor completely change.
His shoulders dropped, his eyes went wide, and even his breathing stopped for a short moment. They had talked about this; Tony had given him plenty of heads up. After all, with Peter staying at the compound on the weekends, he deserved to know.
The thing was, the move-in date had never been set in stone. It must have happened recently, and by the way Mr. Stark looked, Peter wasn’t sure if much time had been given to prepare.
“Really?” Peter asked, his voice hushed under his breath. “He is?”
“Yes.” Tony slipped his glasses back on, bringing with it the demeanor of assurance and poise. “And if you want to keep all ten of your fingers, you’re best not pulling adolescent pranks on him. Capiche?”
Peter nodded, his look so serious that Tony was sure he could hand the kid the Declaration of Independence, tell him to return it to D.C right away, and his expression would be the absolute same. Not even a flicker of a difference.
All and all, it was for the best. Tony needed him to understand just how significant this was, that this person, this guest moving in — he wasn’t one to joke around with.
His suitcase, made of goatskin and twine, barely took up a corner of his bed. It contained little; a few articles of clothing, a hand-crafted book some local children wrote for him — and about him, nonetheless — and...well, it.
He stared at it. It stared right back, bright and shiny, silver, bulky. Nothing in this world made him feel as much despair as when he’d look at this thing, this part of him. Hate wasn’t a strong enough word. He damn well nearly begged to leave it behind in his travels, but they wouldn’t let him.
He wanted it destroyed after they removed it, but they refused.
He scoffed, throwing his scarf over the offending sight as he continued to unpack. They’d be bringing him new belongings soon. New clothes to go with his new living arrangements. But why they hadn’t finished providing him a replacement for that yet...it was beyond him.
“Patience, my friend,” he had been told by a King who wore no crown, a man whose humility rivaled only Steve Rogers himself. “However long the night, the dawn will break.”
“Hey,” the voice came from behind him, protruding from the doorway. He didn’t look. He heard the footsteps approaching a full minute ago. “I need your help.”
He pulled a worn pair of pants from his bag, tossing it aside on the bed that looked too soft for his liking. “That’s a first.”
There was sigh, audible from across the room. He couldn’t lie, it made his lips twitch in what could have been a smile.
“Yeah, well...” Sam ran a hand down his face, words murmured beneath his palm before he said, “desperate times, desperate measures.”
He turned around, slightly concerned, mostly apathetic. The idea of an another fight he needed to be involved in wasn’t new to him. It was becoming his new ordinary.
“What do you need?”
Sam leaned against the frame of the doorway, the hallway light the only thing illuminating his figure. “That bratty kid we dealt with in Berlin? Could use an extra hand in showing him who's who."
Bucky shrugged, the twitch on his lips a little stronger this time around. “Yeah, why not.”
“Beginning clinical trial 10.F—G in three...two...one...”
The liquid dropped from its contained, secured case the moment the buzzer went off, the sound piercing and sharp. The feel of it always got to him; dense, thick, slimy, and somehow worse than all the times that came before. Like a raindrop, it hit the back of his hand with a pluck.
It was hot.
It was always hot, burning against his skin, sizzling at the touch. Norman had lost count of the chemical burns that scattered along his body, scars that told stories of the many attempts he endured in the pursuit of health. Life. A chance.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. No, never in the battery of tests he subjected himself to was it ever lost on him. He was destroying his body in the attempt to heal it.
It wasn’t ideal, and certainly not his first choice in the grand scheme of things. But they didn’t have time — he didn’t have time. There was no animal testing or research studies that could be done before reaching him.
Not if he wanted a chance.
So Norman closed his eyes, tight. Tight enough to feel the muscles in his face twitch and scream and beg for the release that he wouldn’t give until he heard the word ‘success’. He held his breath and bit his tongue through the searing pain that spread across his skin, rendering his fingers numb and his wrist rigid with immobility, all as he waited.
It always felt like an eternity. He would often think of Emily in these times. Deep, mahogany hair that countered her smile of pure sunshine, one he’d still picture every night before going to sleep, accompanied with the purest, brightest blue eyes he’d ever witnessed before. Even now, years after becoming nothing more than a memory to him, she kept him calm. As long as he had her memory —
“Host organism Symbiote cytoplasm results produce...another failure for organisms protoplasmic material in binding with subject.” The voice, albeit calm, professional and tame, was nails on a chalkboard to his ears. “The changes formulated to the cell structure from clinical trials 9.E—G appear to be unsuccessful.”
Norman's eyes stayed closed, though the pressure on his eyelids lessened greatly. He could feel the burning begin to fade on his hand, the tell-tale sign that the liquid had dropped away, running down and off his skin like water in the shower. It would fall into a drain placed beneath his feet, where the earth-shattering disappointment made it feel like his legs had wavered despite the ground staying still.
His heart beat heavily, and he fought to control the emotion, taking in three deep breaths to remain composed. Each lifted his chest high, pulled his shoulders back taunt. He kept those blue eyes in his mind, fighting to remember exactly what shade they were.
Always close to sky blue, but never quite so pale. Vivid, like ice.
“How would you like to proceed, Mr. Osborn?”
And with that, he opened his eyes to the world around him, no longer able to stay in the memory of a better time and place, a memory of warmth and content. Norman's environment was sterile and cold, a lot like the expression he wore on his face. Because if twenty-eight years of owning and running his own business had taught him anything, it was never to show weakness.
“You are...highly credentialed, Doctor Frye.” Norman grabbed the towel offered to him by one of the many scientists standing nearby, slowly but confidently wiping his hands with it. “I have the upmost faith that you will figure it out.”
The towel was damp, saturated with a cooling gel to ease the burns that blistered on his skin. He smeared it generously across the back of his hand, stepping down cautiously from the platform where he stood. The other techs began to scatter, leaving all but one white-coated doctor standing amidst the departing crowd.
“Sir, with all due respect,” Doctor Frye started, “I have been surveying the progress on this project since day one. And since we’ve discovered that this Symbiote bio-structure won’t bond without the DNA markers of its original conception, you continue to try and change the cell nucleus of the genetic make-up with no success.”
Norman approached him with long strides, confident steps that spoke more than his words ever could. He cocked an eyebrow high in the air and discarded the towel to the side.
Doctor Frye held his tablet firmly in his grip as he continued, “This is the tenth failure, and the tenth time my team has played God to the membrane of an organism that cannot thrive without the mutation markers of its birth host.”
“And as we are both aware,” Norman was quick to respond, his tone smooth yet firm, “the birth host perished two years ago with an autopsy report that showed no remaining embryo fluid in the sack. Is that a fact you fail to recall or do you simply prefer that I remind you of the cause behind our perennial struggles?”
There was something unique about Doctor Frye that Norman respected. The man was never afraid to stand up to him, talk science with him, throw equations back and forth. He had intense grit, a dedication to his craft, dare he say an unhealthy need to be present at the job at all times.
It played greatly in his favor; the unfortunate passing of Frye’s wife, leading him to divulge all his time into his work. It kept the good doctor focusing on the cure Norman so desperately needed.
“That spider was our last chance at finding success with this project, Mr. Osborn,” he reminded, his voice going so far as to pitch with unnerve. “Without injecting the mutated cells directly into your bloodstream, there’s no way this symbiote bio-suit will bind to your genetic DNA. It requires the mutated markers of that radioactive spider.”
As the doctor spoke, Norman began to roll down the sleeves to his white button-down, taking care in buttoning the cuffs back together on each arm. He never once looked down during the task, keeping his eyes focused intently on Frye, frowning a bit as he digested what was said.
“Your vacillation is disconcerting to hear, doctor. It seems you’ve forgotten that sitting beneath my entrepreneur credentials lays a scientific genius with doctoral degrees in chemistry and electrical engineering. So when I say this can be done, I say it with more than just words,” Norman’s words were even, clinical, nearly emotionless. “I say it with the knowledge and ingenuity to substantiate the matter.”
Aggravated, Doctor Frye shook his head with animated exaggeration, spinning around as Norman began to walk past him.
“You aren’t listening. You don’t — !”
Norman calmly turned to face him, so close that it physically startled the doctor.
“This symbiote is a living organism. And like all living organisms, you can work with its biology,” Norman insisted, his tensely knitted eyebrows the closest thing he had shown to frustration so far. “I would advise that you not allow any defeats to keep you from pushing forward onward to success.”
Deliberate to linger on a hard stare that created a sheen of sweat across Doctor Frye’s forehead, Norman gave a curt nod when the time felt right. Only then did he walk passed the man, careful to avoid bumping shoulders.
He made it to the door before a voice was heard again.
“You have to give me clarification here, Mr. Osborn."
It wasn’t unexpected. Norman would have paused there in anticipation regardless of what sound came his way; the doctor had grit, after all.
"Why can’t you lend my team the formula for the Oz Experiment Arachnid No. 00? We’ll create it from scratch; we’ll give the symbiote the DNA markers it requires to bind and latch onto its subject matter,” Doctor Fyre paused for a beat, his throat constricting as he stressed, "You, sir.”
There was enough hesitation from Norman to make it seem like he had been pondering up a response. In reality, he had one ready to go long before the man had ever asked the question.
It was a sore subject. It had become the bane of his existence. The loss of all his files, the Oz formula, the records of the arachnid experiment from years ago that could easily save his life — gone. And why?
“Because, Doctor Frye,” Norman said, swiping his badge to gain access out of the laboratory, “those records were recently lost in a very unfortunate...water-logging incident. Now carry on. I expect progress by the morning.”
The heavy weight of the door closed loudly behind him, an echo that shot through the air.
Norman was walking down the halls before it had even slammed shut.