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Topher stomped out of the hotel angry, took about two seconds to process, and then came to a conclusion on the only way to fix his mood right now.
That was, naturally, to fly. And to fly to a particular destination, in fact, where he would be able to stop thinking about what a complete bitch Karla was and start thinking about things that were productive. So he shut his eyes, got himself a running start... and flew.
And... flying was about everything he'd expected of it. Freeing, and defocused enough to take his mind off of things, while also about as intensive as he needed in order to focus on something else. Not five minutes after flapping into the air, he realized that he could feel each individual feather, and manipulate them individually, just like fingers -- except that it was pretty rare that the wiggle of a finger could mean the difference between gently coasting at his cruising altitude and speeding up to perform a somersault in mid-air.
And it was fucking cool, was what it was -- cool enough that by the time he was done lapping the island, he wasn't furious with Karla anymore so much as flushed and only mildly irritated, and in need of something intelligent to do to distract himself. About five blocks away from the lab (he wouldn't want to be seen hovering overhead and draw attention to Tony's secret place, after all), he lowered himself back down to the ground, muttering things like "Hundred ten, hundred twenty kilometers an hour... dive could've been faster, have to check... light bones, maybe he's got some kind of X-ray machine in there..."
So then he proceeded into the lab. To run tests. And anyone who walked in might find him carefully measuring his new wingspan, or any number of completely innocuous things that Warren would totally be doing on a Saturday afternoon, oh yes.
[[nfb, but open if you know the place!]]
That was, naturally, to fly. And to fly to a particular destination, in fact, where he would be able to stop thinking about what a complete bitch Karla was and start thinking about things that were productive. So he shut his eyes, got himself a running start... and flew.
And... flying was about everything he'd expected of it. Freeing, and defocused enough to take his mind off of things, while also about as intensive as he needed in order to focus on something else. Not five minutes after flapping into the air, he realized that he could feel each individual feather, and manipulate them individually, just like fingers -- except that it was pretty rare that the wiggle of a finger could mean the difference between gently coasting at his cruising altitude and speeding up to perform a somersault in mid-air.
And it was fucking cool, was what it was -- cool enough that by the time he was done lapping the island, he wasn't furious with Karla anymore so much as flushed and only mildly irritated, and in need of something intelligent to do to distract himself. About five blocks away from the lab (he wouldn't want to be seen hovering overhead and draw attention to Tony's secret place, after all), he lowered himself back down to the ground, muttering things like "Hundred ten, hundred twenty kilometers an hour... dive could've been faster, have to check... light bones, maybe he's got some kind of X-ray machine in there..."
So then he proceeded into the lab. To run tests. And anyone who walked in might find him carefully measuring his new wingspan, or any number of completely innocuous things that Warren would totally be doing on a Saturday afternoon, oh yes.
[[nfb, but open if you know the place!]]
