Splayed across wide screens covering each and every one of the walls is live footage from the Quarry. Anyone can follow their favorite contestant just by turning their head a little.
In the little clusters of party goers, loud betting is going on. Will it be a Guinea or a Snipe that makes it through this time? Will the blonde girl -- Sally, maybe? -- figure out how to make use of her new power to brandish fire before she is killed? Will the man old enough to be Natasha's grandfather find the naturally occurring anti-dote to the poisoned darts that were triggered when he walked straight into one of the many traps? Or will he die in agony?
How many bells can someone earn on the agonizing death of a stranger?
None of her clothes are comfortable. They're striking. Eye-catching. Sexy. Memorable. Her comfort doesn't figure into it. As long as she's beautiful, who cares how she feels?
The almost empty glass of champagne in Natasha's hand is her fourth or fifth or the evening. She's lost count. She's rapidly passing through tipsy to drunk.
Natasha can't afford to get drunk. Not in public.
A waiter walks past and with all the deftness of a professional chess player, Natasha disposes her near empty champagne flute on his tray, plucking a full one off it without disturbing his stride.
Laughter cuts through the room, and it digs into Natasha's ears like shards of glass.
My money's on Barnes. The masculine voice floats up over the crowd. He's the only one ruthless enough to make it to the end.
His luck has to run out sometime. How many times has he gone through the Quarry now? asks a softer, more feminine voice.
Natasha's fingers tighten around the delicate stem of her champagne flute and she quickens her steps until she's out of earshot. Her eyes light on a familiar and lanky shape and something like relief floods through her.
He stands in the middle of the crowd, like a steady rock in a rapidly flowing river. If a rock would ever be dressed in an impeccably tailored suit. Natasha makes her way up to him, she directs her gaze at the screen he seems to be looking at, her eyes refusing to focus on it.
"Blake," she says by way of greeting, voice warmed and almost imperceptibly slurred around her consonants. "You pick out a poor unfortunate soul to throw your wealth at yet?"
Shallow - back dated prior to Nat meeting Tony
There's always a party.
Splayed across wide screens covering each and every one of the walls is live footage from the Quarry. Anyone can follow their favorite contestant just by turning their head a little.
In the little clusters of party goers, loud betting is going on. Will it be a Guinea or a Snipe that makes it through this time? Will the blonde girl -- Sally, maybe? -- figure out how to make use of her new power to brandish fire before she is killed? Will the man old enough to be Natasha's grandfather find the naturally occurring anti-dote to the poisoned darts that were triggered when he walked straight into one of the many traps? Or will he die in agony?
How many bells can someone earn on the agonizing death of a stranger?
Natasha is moving through the ball room in a stiffly constructed gown rising up into spikes across her shoulders. It's not comfortable.
None of her clothes are comfortable. They're striking. Eye-catching. Sexy. Memorable. Her comfort doesn't figure into it. As long as she's beautiful, who cares how she feels?
The almost empty glass of champagne in Natasha's hand is her fourth or fifth or the evening. She's lost count. She's rapidly passing through tipsy to drunk.
Natasha can't afford to get drunk. Not in public.
A waiter walks past and with all the deftness of a professional chess player, Natasha disposes her near empty champagne flute on his tray, plucking a full one off it without disturbing his stride.
Laughter cuts through the room, and it digs into Natasha's ears like shards of glass.
My money's on Barnes. The masculine voice floats up over the crowd. He's the only one ruthless enough to make it to the end.
His luck has to run out sometime. How many times has he gone through the Quarry now? asks a softer, more feminine voice.
Natasha's fingers tighten around the delicate stem of her champagne flute and she quickens her steps until she's out of earshot. Her eyes light on a familiar and lanky shape and something like relief floods through her.
He stands in the middle of the crowd, like a steady rock in a rapidly flowing river. If a rock would ever be dressed in an impeccably tailored suit. Natasha makes her way up to him, she directs her gaze at the screen he seems to be looking at, her eyes refusing to focus on it.
"Blake," she says by way of greeting, voice warmed and almost imperceptibly slurred around her consonants. "You pick out a poor unfortunate soul to throw your wealth at yet?"