a knock out who’ll knock you out (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
vdova) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2016-11-14 05:34 pm
vdova) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-11-14 05:34 pm
ota; three more shall take its place
WHO: Natasha Romanoff
WHERE: The Town Hall
WHEN: November 14th into November 15th
OPEN TO: Everyone! This is a mingle log.
WARNINGS: Description of injuries/probably descriptions of violence.
STATUS: Open to All
Natasha is up at sunrise, scrounging down in the inn for spare scraps of cloth and some charcoal, enough of it to write three, brief, notes. One for Clint, one for Tony, and one for Sam and Steve, because the last two live together and it would be a waste of time for her to leave them separate notes, even if she probably should. Nicer, that way. But she has somewhere to be and she wants to be there and back here before sunset, and she also doesn’t want any of them following her. Clint won’t; he knows she’s capable and if she’s gone off on her own then it’s something she needs to do on her own. Tony also probably won’t -- in fact, she’s only telling him as a courtesy, because despite everything, he still believes they’re friends and she’s in no position to dissuade him from that notion just yet. She assumes Sam will feel the same as Clint, but Steve-- Steve is stubborn to a fault, and if she told him face to face where she was going, he’d insist on coming with her. And she can’t. Whatever it is between them, this re-kindling of their friendship, is still on tenterhooks, fragile and possibly easily broken. It doesn’t really occur to her that this might have a negative effect on that; she’s too concerned with getting her note written and handed out and then leaving.
The deed itself takes her fifteen minutes. All four men live in different areas, and she slides the cloth under their doors and heads right for the woods. She doesn’t have a map -- map making isn’t her skill, but she memorized the general location and direction of the ruins, and she picks her way through the timber, using trails when she finds them and strutting through the underbrush when she can’t. She doesn’t worry about tracks. No one is going to follow her. It takes her less than the day to get there.
It takes her another two days to return, limping and injured and sick as she is, but sheer determination has kept her going before. She’s been hungrier than this. She’s been worse than this. A bloody stump is a flesh wound, she thinks. She limps into the village at sundown, leaning on the spear like it’s the only thing keeping her upright (because it is). Her left eye is the central piece to a violently purple bruise blossoming around it and her cheekbone, and she’s favoring her left leg. Her first stop is the inn to find Miss Kate; she can tell everyone at lunch that Natasha wants to talk to everyone as soon as possible, so if they could please meet up at the town hall tomorrow afternoon after lunch, that’d be great, thanks.
Her next stop is her room, where she sheds the backpack, her clothes, and after she’s curled up into her bed, her consciousness, too.
The doesn't wake up until the sun is high in the sky, her head pounding less hard, and while she still can't put weight on her left knee, she can at least stand up without wanting to vomit because the world is spinning like a top around her. She makes it to the town hall with her backpack on one shoulder, the spear resuming it's post as her crutch, and when she arrives, she hoists herself up on the table. The backpack she unzips and pulls out a large gold disc, setting it on the table beside her. The spear is laid across her lap, and she gazes out at the crowd before her.
She's a spy; public speaking has never been something she's been fond of unless she has the upper hand, but here, she's as out of her depth as the people before her. She's certain she's not going to have the answers these people are going to want. But she has to try.
"I ran into a hydra in the ruins. The floor is open to questions."
(( OOC: I'll have a comment for mingling/questions for Natasha below, but feel free to leave your own toplevels/etc. I'll have a separate header for closed threads if anyone wants to do one on one discussing with Natasha about what she found! ))
WHERE: The Town Hall
WHEN: November 14th into November 15th
OPEN TO: Everyone! This is a mingle log.
WARNINGS: Description of injuries/probably descriptions of violence.
STATUS: Open to All
Natasha is up at sunrise, scrounging down in the inn for spare scraps of cloth and some charcoal, enough of it to write three, brief, notes. One for Clint, one for Tony, and one for Sam and Steve, because the last two live together and it would be a waste of time for her to leave them separate notes, even if she probably should. Nicer, that way. But she has somewhere to be and she wants to be there and back here before sunset, and she also doesn’t want any of them following her. Clint won’t; he knows she’s capable and if she’s gone off on her own then it’s something she needs to do on her own. Tony also probably won’t -- in fact, she’s only telling him as a courtesy, because despite everything, he still believes they’re friends and she’s in no position to dissuade him from that notion just yet. She assumes Sam will feel the same as Clint, but Steve-- Steve is stubborn to a fault, and if she told him face to face where she was going, he’d insist on coming with her. And she can’t. Whatever it is between them, this re-kindling of their friendship, is still on tenterhooks, fragile and possibly easily broken. It doesn’t really occur to her that this might have a negative effect on that; she’s too concerned with getting her note written and handed out and then leaving.
The deed itself takes her fifteen minutes. All four men live in different areas, and she slides the cloth under their doors and heads right for the woods. She doesn’t have a map -- map making isn’t her skill, but she memorized the general location and direction of the ruins, and she picks her way through the timber, using trails when she finds them and strutting through the underbrush when she can’t. She doesn’t worry about tracks. No one is going to follow her. It takes her less than the day to get there.
It takes her another two days to return, limping and injured and sick as she is, but sheer determination has kept her going before. She’s been hungrier than this. She’s been worse than this. A bloody stump is a flesh wound, she thinks. She limps into the village at sundown, leaning on the spear like it’s the only thing keeping her upright (because it is). Her left eye is the central piece to a violently purple bruise blossoming around it and her cheekbone, and she’s favoring her left leg. Her first stop is the inn to find Miss Kate; she can tell everyone at lunch that Natasha wants to talk to everyone as soon as possible, so if they could please meet up at the town hall tomorrow afternoon after lunch, that’d be great, thanks.
Her next stop is her room, where she sheds the backpack, her clothes, and after she’s curled up into her bed, her consciousness, too.
The doesn't wake up until the sun is high in the sky, her head pounding less hard, and while she still can't put weight on her left knee, she can at least stand up without wanting to vomit because the world is spinning like a top around her. She makes it to the town hall with her backpack on one shoulder, the spear resuming it's post as her crutch, and when she arrives, she hoists herself up on the table. The backpack she unzips and pulls out a large gold disc, setting it on the table beside her. The spear is laid across her lap, and she gazes out at the crowd before her.
She's a spy; public speaking has never been something she's been fond of unless she has the upper hand, but here, she's as out of her depth as the people before her. She's certain she's not going to have the answers these people are going to want. But she has to try.
"I ran into a hydra in the ruins. The floor is open to questions."
(( OOC: I'll have a comment for mingling/questions for Natasha below, but feel free to leave your own toplevels/etc. I'll have a separate header for closed threads if anyone wants to do one on one discussing with Natasha about what she found! ))
no subject
She hadn't been trying to be cruel. Cruelty was an unfortunate side effect of her pointing out what seemed to be base fact, that he clearly couldn't fathom why she did this, without weighing the risks, because if he did understand her, he'd know she had, had deemed them nothing she couldn't handle, and went. There's always the chance something you don't or can't plan for will happen. Natasha has never let that stop her from undertaking dangerous missions before. She's not going to let it stop her here, not if she can find the answers everyone is desperately seeking. She gives herself a second to readjust and then opens her eyes to look at him. Her cold tone is gone, replaced with the defeated embers of the fire of anger extinguished. She isn't conceding either-- but she is still exhausted.
“I'm well aware of the extent of my luck,” she says. “You can prepare for anything but that doesn't mean you prepare for everything. I wasn't being smart — I genuinely had no indication that anything other than being gone for the amount of time I told you and coming back with nothing more than the exact same information we've had before would happen.”
She pauses for a moment.
“Am I not?” Alone, she means. In the end, she'd sided with neither of them — in the beginning she'd sided with neither of them, despite their assumptions. The Black Widow was probably always meant to be alone, in the end.
He does understand her, though. It's small comfort.
no subject
There's a strip of light still running the length of the room from the window, crossing the panels of the wood floor. He's standing mostly to the side of it but steps into it to move closer to her, sitting down on the truck across from her. He doesn't give any thought to whether it can bear his weight; things like this were built to last a lifetime. His own fire's pretty well banked by her answer, as well as it ever is, just leaving behind something ashen in tribute to the last few days. He hasn't exactly been sleeping well, and apparently that's something that shows now if it's been long enough. The light stripes her knees, and he leans his forearms on his own.
"You could have asked me. Or Sam, or Clint. Hell, Thor." He knows it's not exactly what she's asking, but true to his word, even if it was only in his own mind, he holds her gaze for as long as she'll hold his. "I'll always be there if you need me, Nat."
It sounds too final, too accepting of the position they're in, and it's not what he means. He wants so much more from her than this, what she thinks of his own regard for her, that he almost laughs. Some of it's still there, a wryness to his next frustrated breath, and he links his fingers, presses his palms together so he's able to feel the callouses that have started to form on his right hand. "I'm grateful that you sent the decryption for the Raft. I would've liked it better if you'd been with me. If that's not where you wanna be back home because you think I'm going about it wrong, fine, I understand. But you're still my friend."
no subject
She reaches forward and puts her hand over his clasped ones.
“You're a good man,” she says quietly, like the entire world is listening in on them but for this, only he gets to hear.
no subject
He only answers her in kind, so he hopes she takes it that way rather than the revelation it would be otherwise. He wants to unclasp his hands under hers, open them and let her palm settle against his. He knows it would feel as natural as breathing (if she let him), which is why he doesn't.
"But you're one of the only ones I've got who knows that."
no subject
She won't, of course — it'd be senseless and foolish and it'd probably hurt, not to even mention the fact that Steve has someone now, a piece of his life he thought he'd never get back. He's got stability and the potential for family and whatever feelings she's got growing inside of her can't compare to that. The moment she feels it is brief, a blip so fast it almost doesn't register, but not quite fast enough for her to ignore. She at least manages to trap it and tuck it away before it shows on her face and in the way she sits.
Natasha is grateful for his friendship and wouldn't ask for anything more. She squeezes his hands and gives him a small smile, reluctant to pull away even as she does so.
“Still,” she says wryly, straightening up and tucking her hands together on her lap.
“You are. And I'm not going to promise I won't want to go off on my own again,” Natasha continues, holding up a hand to stave off the protest that she's knows is coming. “But. I will give you time to talk me out of it and into taking someone with me.”
There's a small pause, and she lowers her hand, glancing away from him for a second.
“I've been broken worse than this. I will get broken worse than this. I have and will always survive.”
no subject
At least his consternation segues easily into the protest that had indeed begun to form, his mouth opening and shoulders straightening before she continues, and he deflates a little comically, if he still doesn't seem too happy about it.
"Yeah," he replies, looking at her again after that. "But you don't have to do it on your own." He doesn't want to argue with her anymore, not really. But he's gonna at least try to get in the last word if that's her conclusion. The truth of it isn't the important thing; it's how they come by it, and whether they're sacrificing the right things along the way. He won't let himself be one of those things, whatever he is to her. He'll always fight her on it, if that's the how, though he can't help but wonder if she'd think that he's got no right to say it after everything, which is why he doesn't.
"You should go to the spring," he says instead. "You'll heal faster if you do." He pauses, for just a brief moment. "I've gotta head back that way, actually. I can take you to the spring first, then swing back around to you after I finish up. Shouldn't take me too long."