chrysalism. n.
the amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm, listening to waves of rain pattering against the roof like an argument upstairs, whose muffled words are unintelligible but whose crackling release of built-up tension...
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New York, New York. May 22nd, 2017. 9:23 am. Stark Recording Studio.
"Tony said to meet him and the engineer in here at 9," Ryan complained, "where is he?"
"I wouldn't question a billionaire, dude," Malone rubbed her temples with her fingers, a dull headache forming from the stress of the new location.
"Good morning, Hands One Thousand," Friday's voice echoed through the studio. "Mr. Stark is on his way."
"Finally," Cole sighed. Two minutes passed and the door flew open, startling all four band members.
"Morning, kids, how do you feel?"
They all stared at him in silence. Seeing Tony Stark in person was something indescribable. His aura was magnetic, but you could smell the douchebag 10 feet away. He looked uncharacteristically casual, not something you'd expect the leader in clean energy to wear to a meeting. Although the more Malone thought about it, he probably wasn't as invested in the record deal as the band was; their entire livelihoods relied on this one album, and Tony Stark had a million other things going on. They were lucky he came to meet them. He looked at them expectantly.
"What? Cat got the kids tongue?" He smirked. "Hello? Earth to kids." He snapped his fingers and waved.
"Shit, sorry Mr. Stark," Kenny stood up and held out a shaky hand. Tony shook it and smiled at him. "We're, uh - we're good. How are you?"
"Dude, you don't have to be professional. I picked this band because of the attitude. Be yourself," Tony said to the whole band. The boys relaxed, but Malone still sat completely still. "Okay, well, seems like you guys aren't talkers so why not just play?"
"Oh, um, what do you want us to play for you?" Cole got up and dug in his pocket for his guitar picks.
"Give me your best," Stark grinned. The band all looked at each other and stood, slowly walking towards their instruments in the recording booth. Malone turned her back to the window and stood in front of the microphone, facing her bandmates. Cole gave her an encouraging nod before launching into a fast-paced Queen tune.
"Sleeping very soundly on a Saturday morning, I was dreaming I was Al Capone," Malone closed her eyes and belted the lyrics.
Tony's eyebrows went up as the short brunette girl sang with a voice that could shake the whole building. She stood only about 5'4", and had curves, unlike the scrawny boys that she stared at. She bounced around on her tiptoes, brown hair hanging in her face. She moved with the music, never once opening her eyes, she was the most nervous of the 4; Tony could tell that as soon as he walked into the studio, she sat rigidly, visibly intimidated by his presence. Two months ago, when he was sifting through the thousands of videos sent into his competition, he must have watched Hands One Thousand's submission four or five times before deciding. He was impressed by the young talent, and a band this aggressive, raw, and loud, being fronted by a girl only 22 years old. They played intense classic rock that required a level of dedication that no other applicant showed. About halfway through the song, the studio door opened, and in walked Steve Rogers, followed by Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanoff, and Clint Barton. They all stared into the window of the recording booth, intrigued by the band playing.
