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meadowlarklogs2020-11-21 12:11 pm
- !event log,
- dceu: diana prince,
- dogs b&c: nill,
- doom patrol: larry trainor,
- dragon age: cassandra pentaghast,
- dragon age: marian hawke,
- marvel comics: wade wilson,
- mcu: stephen strange,
- mcu: tony stark,
- original: ian fowler,
- overwatch: soldier 76 (jack morrison),
- red vs. blue: terrence ephemera,
- she-ra: glimmer,
- star trek: elim garak,
- star wars: jyn erso,
- supernatural: dean winchester,
- supernatural: sam winchester,
- the 100: clarke griffin,
- the 100: john murphy,
- the 100: lexa,
- the boys: homelander,
- the last of us: ellie,
- the old guard: andy,
- the old guard: booker,
- the old guard: joe,
- the vampire diaries: kai parker,
- uncharted: nathan drake,
- xena: callisto
EVENT #011
WHERE: The Aerie, a different world.
WHEN: Late July 2512.
WHAT: The first log of our AU event, taking place in an AU world that puts on battle royale events to cull the massive overpopulation.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Overwritten minds, horrible dystopian conditions, and more!
On the morning of July 26th, every living person on Earth will be spirited away from where they were mere moments before. Just like that. Hover cars will descend slowly in transit, trains will come to a stop without a screech of their breaks, and the streets throughout every single of the 104 megacities will be left barren, empty, and lifeless. Even those lost and hidden, not seen for months, are swept gently away with the rest of their brethren. No stone will go unturned.
The world upon their return may pick up where it's left off, or it will be changed in some way. Will it be July 26th when everyone finds themselves back where they were standing before? Or will something else happen during this time? Now that the supposed lifeblood of this planet is gone, what will happen in their absence? The world may not be able to go on how it had been.
Perhaps the more terrifying question is this: if something is powerful enough to steal away every person, every single one capable of thought, ideas, conflict, war, and more, what else could happen?
Perhaps it's for the best that it may be awhile before anyone has to worry about that.
For now, they've entered a world that's one week away from its next Quarry event: a place where The Aerie's criminals fight to prove they deserve to keep their life.
The Aerie is a structure that should not exist.
Made of steel and concrete, it gives off the impression that its guts were arranged haphazardly, as if an amateur surgeon had pulled them out and tried to put them back in again. Steel beams stretch out between buildings, connecting them together. There may have been a wall of concrete around this beam once upon a time, but it splintered and fell away, exposing its insides and opening up a pathway that people have taken for granted in the past fifty to a hundred years. Power lines hang in loose tangles throughout this little world, ready to fall away at the slightest breeze, then splinter and spark.
Most of the insides of The Aerie are barely preserved. Trying to do that would be an impossible task: there are too many people, too many who live in concrete layered on one another like stacks of broken shelves, too many who pass through open maws of ruptured pathways, crawling up onto the roof of a business for what they think is a shortcut to a higher level. Brittle walls that splinter off into clouds of chalky white dust are everywhere and anywhere.
How The Aerie came together was once a majestic feat: a place for people to live, thrown together as extinction surged forward like a towering beast on the horizon. There was a mix of minds behind the action, as well as a hollow sense of desperation. Even those who brought The Aerie into being knew that their lives were on the line. It was a matter of "make this work" or die. So, they made it work.
What's truly impossible about The Aerie isn't the hulking structures merged together at all manner of impossible angles, but the outer layer of this little world, looming overhead in shimmering, constant glory. The people of The Aerie are protected, safe; the world outside is a nebulous, uncertain mess of greys and greens and reds and blues. Storms surge just outside of the wall of The Aerie with sharp, constant bolts of lightning that batter the surface overhead. Once upon a time, the people of this little world feared those bolts cutting through and destroying their home. But it's been long enough now. No one lives in fear of what's outside, and no one wonders, not anymore. After all, the people who made it outside were never seen again. For a time, some people could watch through the clear walls as these escapees' bodies turned to irradiated mush with only bones left behind. In time, those bones withered away to dust. And with them, their memories were forgotten.
Within The Aerie, life goes on, just as it must: riddled with fear, with survival often depending on the ability to escape notice.
Only two parts of The Aerie remain unscathed, untouched by the passage of time and haphazard construction of this refuge:
The Volary, which stands tall and pristine at the heart of The Aerie. Lights burn within The Volary all day and all night, showing signs of life that most of the people outside of its walls will never see for themselves.
And then the Quarry, a structure built in haste and out of necessity. The same people who brought The Aerie together also made the Quarry. At its base are a series of office buildings, setting up monthly arena events where the guilty fight to show that they deserve to survive.
These two things are the source of all the fear in The Aerie. It's what keeps everyone's mind off the crumbling walls, the storms outside, and the miserable, unending passage of time.
When The Aerie came into being, so did The Volary. Far from fragmented like the rest of this tiny, tiny world, it stands pristine, with brown bricks lining its exterior, and strong steel beams holding it strong within. Either through its making or its care, The Volary hasn't suffered from the hands of time like the rest of the world. Anyone outside of The Volary doesn't know the truth, though they could likely guess.
Inside of The Volary lives the members of Parliament: the newly-joined Magpies, the comfortable Rooks, and the looming and most powerful, the Cardinals.
The Cardinals live at the very top. Even after over two hundred years, the Cardinals remain impenetrable. New members are accepted into their ranks from time to time, granted secrets of a bygone era, but the rest of the world remains ignorant to their knowledge. At the heart of this structure is a cult, a belief system; they are the ones who decide if The Aerie lives or dies. For now, it continues to live. Of course, any other path would lead to their devastation as well. They may be nearly immortal, but they aren't truly untouchable and eternal.
Beneath them are the rest of Parliament, cocky in their comfort. Many were born into it, but some were raised into the ranks, finding their own footholds. Sometimes these elevations seem random; sometimes these promotions happen with purpose, with someone driving to catch the eye of a Rook who's looking for someone like-minded to have around them.
Outside of the Magpies, the Rooks that were once Magpies, and the once-members of The Congregation outside, everyone seems blissfully ignorant of the dilapidated world outside. There are some workers from the outside world who know, and some Carrion lucky to have their place among the elite—but there is a sense that some things shouldn't be spoken about, or else they may need to be responsible for it all. While the outside begins to age without any sign of renewal, this compound lives on—untouched, unbothered.
The Volary is set up in levels. The very bottom is where all the businesses that serve the people up above are located. It's where animals are raised and butchered, and where food is prepared before it's brought up to the upper levels. There are numerous common areas, but these can be rented out for any whim of any members of Parliament. Even the businesses themselves can be shuttered for the day, with preferred chefs invited to the upper levels to prepare meals to deal with these circumstances. (Someone from the Congregation can train as a chef in the Cotillion, even if they've never handled food of this nature their entire lives. It's a good job to have, as a number of favored chefs have been elevated to Magpies.)
Beyond the shops is the first level of living quarters for the various members of Parliament. Many Magpie and Rook suites are side by side, though some Rooks prefer not to be housed next to a newcomer and have made their preference known throughout the years. These suites are designed and adapted to its inhabitant's every need, and if someone is born into the family, they inherit their family's suite once someone dies. How is it that there could be space for all the members of Parliament, and so little room outside of the walls of this compound? Consider that yet another question that members of Parliament don't need to concern themselves with.
At the uppermost levels are the suites belonging to the Cardinals. Unless explicitly invited, no one is allowed onto these floors. Numerous Carrion have died throughout the years because they wandered up the wrong set of stairs, knowing that risk was looming over them.
And at the very top is where The Conclave meets. Newly elected members of Parliament visit this room once to receive their powers, only they recall nothing. No one knows what happens within the inner walls of The Conclave. Some have attempted to spy throughout the years. Needless to say, that didn't go well.
The Volary is the home of the pampered, the rich: the people who can ignore the dying world beyond them. Even those inheriting a sense of importance feel as if they've done enough—when they clearly don't do enough. At least those stuck outside may find themselves walking through the heavy front doors of this compound one day. Too bad it's based upon the powers of Parliament, and whether they deign to let someone inside. The only good news is that someone can be buzzed in via their power. That gives a real personal touch, right?
Outside of The Volary, The Aerie is set up in sectors, these sectors acting like rings that move further and further from The Volary up and down throughout The Aerie. Almost by necessity, the rings closer to The Volary are populated by Parliament's favorites. The upkeep around here is better: not pristine, but far from as bad as it gets as someone travels to the outer sectors. Many who have made a name for themselves in the Quarry live in these inner sectors, close to the people of Parliament. Many believe that the inner sectors are still tended to because members of Parliament would hate to face up to the fact of their world dying, and it may not be far from the truth.
In addition to better upkeep, the inner sectors experience less Shrike patrols, with the people allowed to live a life that allows them to remain ignorant to the world around them. They may not be Parliament, but their life in these sectors affords them the feeling of comfort. They don't have to fear their ceiling caving in; they don't have to fear a pipe bursting at an unfortunate moment; they don't have to fear wrongful arrest because they looked at someone the wrong way. It takes a lot for those from the inner sectors to have their lives ruined—but it's not exactly impossible. Of course, this is also where The Cotillion is kept, with numerous buildings and dormitories maintained for its students.
The further and further someone goes away from The Volary, the more life within The Aerie becomes difficult. The worst part is this: no one knows any better. They know the crumbling walls, the faded and peeling wallpaper, the revealed steel beams. They know the frequent Shrike patrols. They know that if they commit a crime, it's on them: they deserve whatever comes their way.
How does someone work in order to get by in these outer sectors? They can help man the bars, because drinking is as much a way of life here as it is back in the regular world. They can help upkeep of The Aerie. Someone can easily enter a trade alongside their compulsory schooling, especially if they aren't special enough for Cotillion training. Electricians are needed throughout. Maintenance of trains is needed throughout. Plumbers are needed throughout. And rations? They come by way of processing plants connected to hydroponic farms. More than a few times throughout the years, these plants have suffered breakdowns, and there have been ration shortages. But don't worry: Parliament continued on eating as if nothing changed outside.
Rations are given out three times a day through numerous rations checkpoints in each sector. These rations are like tasteless protein bars: enough to provide someone the meal they need, a bland mixture of carbohydrates, protein and fat sprinkled with essential nutrients, and little more. Attempts to make them more flavorful throughout the years have failed. Badly. It's probably better that they're bland little morsels. The good news is that they're filling. That may be the only good news.
Life isn't all misery and pain, even if job prospects are largely unfortunate if you're nothing special and the food is literally nothing to talk about. There is a thriving popular culture within The Congregation. There are numerous television shows and movies depicting the distant past, or even a brighter present: one in which the people of The Congregation managed to come together and make their lives better. Oddly enough, these don't tend to act as propaganda. They're just badly written, but done with an eye on hope and perhaps a better life. There are sports and games, though no official leagues have started up, almost certainly because they would compete with the Quarry for airtime.
Members of the Congregation are able to travel anywhere they like within The Aerie thanks to trains, with the only sector the train lines don't access being The Volary. They can peer down over the city, seeing a blurry line of grey all merging together, with people living their lives as best as they can. These trains go near the surface of The Aerie, too, granting someone a close up of the world outside, and reminding them that life could be much, much worse. It could be gone altogether.
With one week remaining until the next Quarry event, preparations continue within The Company's headquarters. Located at the base of the arena out of necessity, The Company's offices are pristine and lifeless in nature. White walls, white ceiling tiles, and white chairs: nothing varies from anything else. How does it remain so surgical at all times? One can only wonder.
Numerous Quarries are being prepared at any given moment, with the televised sensations planned months in advance. Some plans are scrapped depending on competitors. Given the recurrence of Snipes, there are moments where plans need to be changed, where tension needs to be brought in. An arena designer may have to scrap his entire vision for a backup plan.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—The Company is a well-oiled machine. Need some crunch time to make sure a Quarry event is ready on time? The underlings at The Company are used to working long, long days to make it work.
The Quarry this time around is unknown, though there are suspicions of what it might be.
As for those waiting to enter the ring: they're free to live their lives, but many of them are undergoing talent training and preparation for the big event. They're going through interviews, getting sized for any costumes, and being asked to tell their stories. Some of the Snipes may be more than ready for this, while the Guineas will need to figure this out for themselves.
Littered throughout the Congregation is a group that's been budding for a while. As much as this world is all they've known, there are some who believe that they deserve something better. The Quarry is unfair, and all throughout the many sectors, there are signs that The Aerie is breaking down and dying, barely keeping it together. These are people who may be afraid, but want to fight despite that fear.
Some of them have made themselves known: bearing a tattoo of a kestrel where others can see. Others hide who they are, but they're waiting. Planning. They strike when they can, but they know that time is running out. There are tiny safehouses throughout, typically through hatches underneath small local businesses that are sympathetic to the kestrels themselves. These people aren't members, but they put themselves at risk every day to protect this movement.
So, they have their sights set on this upcoming Quarry. It's time to bring change to The Aerie—or die trying.
Either through talking ICly or OOCly, we'd like to have the following goals outlined and submitted to our comments below:
What is the Kestrels' plan in all of this? What do they intend to do?
This can include trying to find and meet with Prometheus, just as a note! Overall, we'd like an idea of what they'll be attempting with the upcoming Quarry so that we can work it into the next log.
What is the theme for the next Quarry arena?
We'd like to have some idea of a theme, as well as some submitted puzzles! We know that we're the kings of Vague Ass Puzzles, so feel free to be vague. We just want to give our Quarry participants something to look forward to.
Are there any other factors we need to consider?
Parliament upheaval? Plans to find out what Parliament is doing? Anything else that might come to mind? This is more loose!
We're giving a loose deadline of DECEMBER 7 with the next log going up on DECEMBER 12.
Welcome to part one of our year-end AU event! We meant for this to be primarily be a description log to start play, especially since we feel that most of our critical information is in our Planning Post. We suggest that you do any necessary planning there for your select crews there, as well as use the "DM" system on Warbler for private stuff.
Of course, our questions thread is still open.
Since it's come up in the past: since all characters are in the AU, please feel free to do a catch-all post of anything you might want! Flashbacks! Anything open prompt-wise! Go wild with this stuff. This is always available during events, but we wanted to be explicitly clear here given the nature of this event.
As for mod-run social media, we have a post here on the network where we'll be steadily adding things throughout the event!
Our November Activity Check goes live on DECEMBER 1. AC for the month of December will be check-in only. It's a weird holiday season, but it will undoubtedly still be stressful for all of us.
Our next reserves will open on NOVEMBER 23 and our next application period will open on DECEMBER 1. We intend for all new or returning applicants to be kept outside of the AU. We have a special plotting opportunity and NPC ready for this scenario to help people integrate. However, if you have a friend who's apping to tap into the AU, let us know—we're not 100% married to our plans, but we worried about any new players apping into such a convoluted scenario after so much plotting has already taken place.
That's all for now. Have fun and for those of you who celebrate, have a Happy Thanksgiving! 🦃
no subject
They're close. They're both so close and neither of them can afford to trip up now. Gambling on one another and there's too much to lose-
Security and safety on her part which, honestly, is far more valuable and why he's content to be used. For Tony?
Potential futures. Potential change. Something more effective, more efficient than his life's work as long as he gets into the right place and brings up the right people along with him. Natasha-
5.6% chance she'll decide to clip her life to someone else when she's stable aside, is very well one of the right people.
Maybe.
A little bit of sentiment might be curling around his throat like so much fragrant smoke where he's trying (and mostly managing) to stomp out the ember of genuine affection he feels sparking to life now and then. Best case scenario? They end up friends. Maybe.
As close as people like them ever get.
"Blake wants more eyes on him, it's why he stands next to me. Everyone loves the Stark Show. Having it be a duet?" He slowly rolls himself upright, back to her, eyes on the window. The city beyond, the shields past that, and the ragged, wounded world surrounding it. "He'll love it. He's got a romantic heart, putting him in a place to host will make him look good, he's a bleeding heart but he's liked well enough and entirely harmless. It's not likely to offend anyone else in Parliament. We get Midge on the styling for the wedding and Diana to help with the staging- You'd like her, she's driven and enigmatic like you, but understands discretion-"
He's got a team, a damn good one, why not make use of it? Why not give Natasha a few more ins, a few more tools to help her look better as they both climb up?
"There's a new trend brewing- PR took a look at it. Rings are classic, signs of wealth, kind of expected but not really any kind of reliable as a sign of devotion-" And this, well. He didn't have issues with it but focus groups having a say in what they could do is-
Nowhere near the strangest thing that could be done. "Especially with the infidelity and divorce scandal with Brad and Angela last month, people are still talking about it, so. Commitment Tattoos. We do it, that'll make it the next big thing, prove our affection, etc."
no subject
His fingers release her wrist, and she gathers her hands in her lap again. Tony Stark is the highest ranked person to pay her this much attention, to offer her a leg up. She'll be loyal to him until the day she dies. Perhaps her sights are set low, but all Natasha needs is to make it to Rook. After that, she'll support him in whatever endeavor he wants.
It makes it better -- more bearable -- that he's in on the lie.
Natasha has spent the last decade slowly learning how to manipulate the system, to lean into social media, and construct a lasting, compelling brand for herself. But Tony was born into it. He has been playing the careful and high-stakes games of the Volary for longer than Natasha has been alive. It's obvious now, when he speaks of Blake and the party and the members of his team they can use to help with the wedding.
He understands the system better than Natasha could ever hope to herself. She's learned its language, but it's his native tongue. She rubs a hand absently over his back, tracing each of his shoulderblades in turn with the heel of her palm, her gaze following his to the breathtaking view. She'll never get used to the wide expanse of space, so different from the cramped quarters she grew up in.
Sometimes, she gets this strange urge to tell him about it. The way she grew up. About making a bed under a staircase in a warehouse. About scrambling for food. Or not tasting meat until she was in her twenties.
But she never does. It's not who they are. As far as he is concerned, her story starts two years after she walked out of the Quarry, and she attended her first Volary-party on the arm of a Magpie whose name she can't even remember now. Not that they met then. No. They moved on different levels for years before their paths finally crossed.
The conversation shifts, Tony's quick brain shifting tracks mid-sentence as it's wont to do. Natasha's hand stills against his back and she blinks against the lights of the city. The idea of a couple's tattoo should be chilling, but--
"Yes." The word comes out too quick. "That's a lovely idea."
There are many ways to get rid of a Magpie. Natasha doesn't think he'd ever go so far as getting her thrown in the Quarry. But he could. If their devotion is written on their skin, it'll be harder for him to cut ties with her.
"Did they have any suggestion of appropriate symbolism that would read well?"
Natasha's phone vibrates on the nightstand. That'll be the food. Without so much as a glance, she pushes the duvet down.
"Hold that thought." She slips out of the bed and slips on her feather-trimmed pink robe over her PJs. Barefoot, she pads towards the door.
Halfway there, she pauses, the metaphorical weight of the ring on her finger reminding her of the mistake she's about to make. Until they've announced, no one can see her wearing that ring. All the servants at the Volary sign iron clad NDAs. But when the gossip mags pay a year's salary for any real intel, it's better to be safe than sorry. One careless Chirp and the damage will be done before the Volary lawyers can clamp down on the leak.
Natasha works the ring off her finger and returns to the bed.
"Hold this too?" she asks with a smile that's as close to genuine as she gets, leaning over the bed, pressing the ring into his palm and curling his fingers around it.
no subject
It's a lifeline. They make this announcement, they take an artfully framed photo of their hands with the tattoo and the engagement ring? Public opinion will save them. Oh, the designer and the Champion, oh the Rook reaching down to bring up someone lovely and brilliant. He's got a habit of doing that already, that's not new, he's been hauling up Cotillion graduates for years, but making it personal. Painting it in a romantic light- they've been seen together off and on for the past while. this next step?
Kicks everything into another gear entirely. He knows what she tells him and knows, also, there's so much she doesn't. But he has no right to her ghosts and her demons any more than he has a right to lay his at her feet and demand loyalty. So they don't talk about who she was before the PR machine painted her scarlet and alabaster and shoved her into the light. They don't talk about the nights when he can't sleep for dreaming of the deaths he's caused, the moments when he goes over their 'crimes', questioning quietly the validity of a few.
But dead is dead, done is done, and the only way is through.
The only way up is to keep moving forward.
And it's easier to climb when you've got someone else on the line with you to double-check hand and footholds. Having something to offer makes it straightforward. Giving his team, his tools, his expertise in the game so, even if something goes awry and they're both in a place to walk away clean, she can continue? That's-
Messy. Potentially. there's too many shards he's handed over to be entirely comfortable but he can't be on all the time. He tried at the beginning, it only made him feel more like Howard rather than less and- she deserves better.
Especially when she's so- aware. Of him. the situation. The stakes. Something so small as a ring and- the devil's in the details. And with Natasha? She never forgets a detail. He accepts the ring with a half-smile, pausing long enough to cradle her hand between his, dropping a chaste kiss to the back of it. "You think of everything."
Because she has to. Because if she forgets the tiniest variable for even a moment, it's all over.
He lounges in her absence, slinging his legs along the mattress, arm tucked behind his head, rolling the ring around in his fingertips. Something he'd set himself, gold titanium working like liquid to make just the right band, just the right size. Easier to keep things under wraps if he did the work b hand rather than buy a ring outright. Thumbing the edge still warm from her skin, he watches her walk, watches her return, waits until he's certain the hovering attendant is well and gone with bells in hand before-
"We split the difference between one of my pet projects and part of your own narrative coming up out of the Quarry. There was a labyrinthine portion that month, wasn't there?" He offers up the ring like a gem of wisdom, like a sincere promise that's worth far more than being his. "A compass rose. Because we're navigating this world together. There are a few placements possible but something overt and obvious so we're often reminded of one another tested well. How comfortable are you with getting a tattoo on your left hand?"
no subject
Tony's hands close around hers, and his lips brush lightly against her skin, and Natasha should feel something. A flush of warmth. A twinge of affection. But she's worked too hard to hollow herself out of emotions. It's worked too well.
"I try." Fake modesty. Natasha damn well succeeds. It's been ten years of walking a fraying tight rope, any wrong movement sure to send her tumbling to her death. (Or worse.) For the first time ever, she can see solid ground just up ahead. He's standing there, hand outreached, ready to help pull her to safety. She should love him for that alone.
Maybe she would, if love was something she was at all capable of these days.
With a smile that's all surface and no substance, Natasha straightens disappears out through the door to deal with the servant.
A few moments later, Natasha returns with a heavily laden charcuterie board and settles it on Tony's nightstand.
There was a labyrinthine portion that month, wasn't there? Natasha's body stiffens almost imperceptibly as she straightens. The casual mention of the Quarry (her Quarry) catches her by surprise. She wasn't ready. Didn't think to brace for it. And it tugs on the stiff and invisible scar tissue spidering out across her chest.
It's not a question. Not really. If he's based the tattoo design on it, he knows for sure. But she hums in soft agreement all the same. Like she doesn't remember the freezing cold of the Labyrinth. Like its twists and the turns aren't etched onto her deadened heart like a map. Tony designs so many Quarries and traps. It can't be expected that any of them will stick with him, like they do with the victors. Carved onto the fabric of their souls for all they try to put it behind them.
There's a flicker on her face. The smile she's made just for him -- romantic, devoted, with just a little bit of a hint that they're both in on a joke the rest of the Aerie just wouldn't understand -- freezes and slips into neutral. It's not emotion that crosses her face, but the careful lack of it. She hides the blip by reaching for the ring, her ducked head explained away by carefully fitting the ring back onto her finger. It's familiar-unfamiliar heavy weight settles there. Once she stops taking it off, she'll get used to it, she's sure. For now, she only wears it to sleep. (Only, but religiously.) A steady reminder in their pre-marital bed. A safety blanket of titanium and precious stones.
The proposal wasn't what one might call romantic. But she still remembers the flush of warmth rushing through her. She never thought she'd be lucky enough to find a Rook as ambitious as her, with kindness still intact. (The Volary steals compassion and empathy from its members, leeches it out of them with each step up the ladder.) It's not what she expected when she was introduced to the "genius Quarry-designer" at one in a long row of parties, all blending into each other.
When she looks back up, the smile is back in place, albeit a little faded around the edges. Her thumb brushes absently over the back of her left hand. Discomfort sitting close beneath her skin all of a sudden. Given her complicated relationship to her ring (cage and safety line, shackle and salvation both), it's hard to imagine how it will feel to have a constant and permanent reminder that she belongs to him.
There will be no going back then.
Good. (Maybe if she tells herself enough times, it'll feel true.)
That's what they need. What she needs.
It's not a brand. It's commitment.
She sits down on the edge of the mattress, right by his hip, tucking one foot up beneath herself, the other maintaining contact with the floor, like a safety line.
What she should say is that it sounds lovely, that she's excited, or any other lie that smooths the path for them and will ring true with the media later. But what comes out is:
"Whatever it takes." A little more truth than she normally allows herself, even with him. (Especially with him.) She looks up at him, solidifies her smile to take the edge off. It is a good idea. The symbolism is perfect for them and the placement will show more devotion than anywhere more discreet. "It'll let the world know you're my True North now."
Her left hand settles on his hip, the jut of his hipbone pressing against the heel of her palm, her right hand curling tight in her lap. The touch is as grounding as she hoped it would be.
"The timing of it will be tricky." Her power can hide a tattoo on her own skin for as long as needed before the announcement, but they can't put make-up on a fresh tattoo and Tony can't wear gloves for days on end without drawing suspicion. "Unless we get them right before or right after Blake's party."
no subject
He doesn't.
"Hey-" And they don't-
They don't do this. They don't talk about it, he doesn't ask about her time, he never does. Those that survive have their ghosts and demons and he, nine times out of ten, had a hand in putting them there. Those wounds aren't his to see like the public demands so often of those that walk away. This chasm deep and wide, wall so high, a line in the sand. He's never alluded to it for precisely this reason.
Knowing this is put on for the public is one thing, and that's something they've both accepted. Knowing she's performing for him every hour of every day- he's accepted it. She's doing what she has to and he admires her for it. But seeing it?
Twists something under his sternum, next to the shrapnel scarring. He knows better, knew better, and this might be a line too far- but he reaches all the same. Slides a hand up, cupping her cheek, thumb smoothing against perfectly soft skin, blushed just so. "Could've eased into that better. Actually had to toss out the original suggested design, Bambi wanted to go more literal, a heart-shaped maze and that-"
That would be beyond the pale. That'd be a constant reminder of what she'd been through, o what he'd created to make her who and what she is-
Or at least a part of it-
And he doesn't argue with Bambi, generally. It's not done. He ignores her sometimes but he doesn't fight back when she lays out a path for a social narrative, to bring them all up another step on the ladder. But this? This he argued. Put his foot down and demanded an alternate. "That wasn't going to happen. Whatever it takes but- within reason."
Bad enough that they're making this move at all, but it's the best way to make the public comes round in their favor. Bad enough that every last secret and private moments they might've had or cultivated will be dragged out into the limelight after they make the announcement. The very least he owes her is trying to make this as painless as possible.
"I've got a guy for the design, another former contender. Got another guy that can do the ink a few hours before the party, we'll be preparing with the publicist for the Warbler announcement right after the public announcement anyway, keeping our heads down before the big debut won't be suspicious." The plans, steps taken to make sure things run smooth, he can handle that for her, take care of the heavy lifting in that respect since he's the one with connections, he's the one that's been doing this for so long.
His hand settles on her shoulder, gentle, never holding her close or holding her down, never restraining but as close to supportive as she'll let him be when things are as close to fraught as they are for them. "My guiding star. I'd say red dwarf but I've been told it's impolite to make jokes about women's height-"
A little levity, a tease, because this got heavy in a hurry and it's easier to pretend, to perform, when they ignore the walls closing in.
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They don't do this.
When Tony wakes up in a cold sweat from a nightmare in the middle of the night, Natasha does him the kindness of pretending to still be deep asleep until he can get his breathing back under control. Like she isn't a stupidly light sleeper. Normally, when her mask slips, he does her the same kindness of ignoring it.
Natasha's eyes shift up to meet his, wincing briefly at his acknowledgement of the issue. She means to tell him she's fine, and it's nothing he has to worry about when he drops Bambi's initial suggestion on her and it's like the Earth stops moving beneath them.
A heart-shaped maze. Branded on her hand where she can't escape the constant reminder. The idea slices straight through her defenses and there's no disguising the grief that flickers in the depth of her eyes, or how quickly it's replaced by bone-deep gratitude.
It's not just this. It's everything. Natasha's so damn grateful for him. Years of hard work, and he's about to just hand her everything she's fought so hard for all this time.
Too aware of the naked emotion in her eyes, Natasha looks away. She's not used to her defenses slipping for someone to look inside.
She's not entirely sure, if she lets her walls drop there will be anything there but a collection of half-forgotten memories of the girl she used to be, and can never be again. Like shattering a vase to get to the treasure inside just to find it empty. She doesn't want to leave him with empty hands and a floor full of broken shards.
"Thank you." The words are mumbled and low, barely audible, and followed by a quick squeeze of her fingers against his hip. She looks down at her hand -- bare but for the ring -- and tries to imagine a compass rose on it to drown out the lingering image of a maze shaped like a heart. (Like there was anything fucking romantic about the Quarry.)
Of course Tony has someone in mind for the design and for carving it onto their skin. (There's that flush of gratitude again.) He has connections she could never dream of: a "guy" or a "hook-up" for everything. It's the drawback of coming up the way she did. Her ex-lovers aren't exactly lining up to do her any favors.
The joke surprises a laugh out of Natasha, and when she looks up at him, the smile that tugs on one of the corners of her mouth has none of its usual polish.
"Someone told you right. Guiding red dwarf." She snorts, a measure of real mirth in her voice. Her hand presses down on his hip as she leans in and brushes a soft kiss against his lips. A reminder - to both of them -- that they're on the same team. Funnily enough, the physical component is the only part of this that is easy. Tony's an extraordinary lover. There's no need for lies when his hands and his mouth coax undeniable pleasure from her.
"It's getting late." It's a gentle prompt, Natasha's hand shifting from his hip to his abdomen. "You should eat and try to sleep."
Tony'll need all of his wits tomorrow. She doesn't want to be a distraction to him. In the best of worlds, this arrangement strengthens them both.
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And that's a hair too honest, a hair too earnest, and he has to cover somehow. "I mean, I am a handful."
For a moment, a beautiful, gilded moment-
He thinks he sees her. Part of who she is under all the calculation, under the masks, the poise, the perfection. Sees the woman at the core of it all that she fights so fucking hard to protect to say alive, to stay sane-
And that little ember flares hot in his chest again.
All it'll ever do is burn him. The warmth it promises an intoxicating lie but sentiment sparks all the same. Asymmetrical honesty and he can't help but mirror the motion, corner of his lips crooking up, brows lifting with innocent insouciance. She cuts him off before he can get a quip in, the kiss soft, gentle- and one he leans into.
Not to turn it into something, not with intent but- stepping out on a limb.
They might never be in love, life doesn't work that way. But- affection is safe enough, right? He keeps it chaste. Keeps it kind. Lets the barest sliver of that sputtering ember in his chest through- not for the perfect woman ever so often on his arm, but the one with the low laugh and crooked smile. The one as broken as he is in somewhat complimentary ways.
The survivor.
He breaks away, resting forehead to forehead for a moment, breathing. Being. Sex has been easy, sex is always easy, and she's amazing, she's perfect, but this? This is more intimate than fucking and, again, not something they do.
Not something that's safe to do. To want.
"Eat, sleep, right. All those pesky human necessities-" He crackles a soft laugh, reaching over to the charcuterie board for a slice of spiced, dried sausage, offering her one as well. She'll decline, he knows she'll decline but- it's a thing. A way of promising what's his is hers, that he means it.
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The words that follow are lost to the static that buzzes through Natasha's ears, a steel band wrapping around her lungs and tightening until she can barely draw a clean breath.
In some of the lower levels of the Congregation, Tony Stark is known as the engineer of death. His traps have ended more than one life. Torn apart families. It's that odd dichotomy, knowing that tomorrow he'll go to work and try to build a more entertaining death machine, and yet, here and now he cares.
They're all, Natasha thinks, cogs in a relentless machine. Stuck in a dizzying pattern with no escape.
The deflecting joke is a relief -- as always -- and she offers him a fortified smile. The steel band relents around her chest, and she draws a deep and shaky breath.
"Don't sell yourself short. You're two handfuls for sure."
They keep skating too close to each other. It's dangerous territory. This arrangement works best if it stays purely business, if they both remember the agreed upon boundaries. Because if he ever wants more-- she won't be able to give it to him. All she can offer is surface, if he wants depth, they're both out of luck.
Perhaps the brief kiss was a mistake. The way Tony leans into it has her lungs constricting again. Sometimes, Tony kisses her like he might care about more than what she looks like on his arm, or how good she makes him feel in bed. It's terrifying. Natasha has kissed so many men (and women) that she's lost count, but she can count on the fingers of one hand, the number who gave a shit about her. She doesn't know what to do with it.
Her eyes drift shut under the press of his forehead and carefully, she matches his breath to his. This, is why she feels guilty. Another woman could be what part of him craves, but if she was ever built that way, she lost one of the crucial pieces for it in the Quarry.
"Be far easier if we weren't born with human bodies with needs," Natasha agrees, slowly pulling her defenses back up. She can't afford to keep slipping like this.
He offers her a slice of something and Natasha crinkles her nose before shaking her head.
"I've already brushed my teeth." It's a good segue to put some distance between them. She pushes to her feet and walks around the bed to her side. She sits down with her back against him and watches the lights of the city, her hands curved around the edge of the bed.
"A compass rose is going to be good." Back to business. "Enough symbolism to get people talking."
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He knew what this was when he pitched the idea, knew what she had to give and promised himself he wouldn't want more. Greedy bastard that he is, he should've expected this. That it's taken so long is something of a surprise but-
Tony's emotions are his problem. They've always been his problem. He won't lay his weaknesses at her feet, not when she's the one that has her head on straight. They part, she settles comfortably and he- focuses on picking through the platter. Something light, something filling. Luxurious. He's never known anything different for all that he spends time on the trains, in the bars.
Playing tourist.
Back to back she can't see his grimace, can't notice how the routine of pick, lift, bite, chew, and swallow has gone thoroughly mechanical. Too many bodies on the line, too many people connected-
Too many people in The Company getting caught up in, what? Trying to force change from the outside.
That doesn't actually work, people tried, ended up in the quarry, and died. It has to happen from the top down. Reasons they're sitting in bed back to back, planning a permanent addition to their skin, trying to find the right spin. Work the narrative angles like it's a Quarry and he hates-
so much he hates-
But that's the system. That's the great meatgrinder that is the Volary and if he can't get up that last fucking rung? It's all for naught.
So.
No more distractions. No more indulging in the fluttering, sputtering ember in his chest. This is work. A business arrangement. Trust bought and sold with the promise of security.
Running that through his mind keeps him quiet and contemplative, has him rolling over onto his back once he's done, staring at the ceiling. "I got a guy, former contender, did some of the pieces we've got on the walls here, the one in my office at the Company-"
Visceral, violent, vague shapes and movement that depict loss and struggle and it's graphic. Sharp designs against pale canvas like ash or blood on snow. "I'll talk to him tomorrow, he'll be at a thing."
Someone asked him once if he was a masochist- or collecting trophies, the way he associates with Champions, contenders of Quarries he's designed. More the former than the latter-
It's far, far too late to actually help any of them, help should've come before they were entered in the first damn place but- it's selfish. Trying to ease his conscious. Trying to atone in subtle, social ways. "Blackwork good for you? I know another guy that does something a little more delicate, but-"
Up to her.
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But if it's one thing Natasha's learned in this life -- through experience -- it's that you can't have everything. Even the Cardinals, at the pinnacle of power, don't have it all. There's an emptiness in their hearts, where empathy should sit. In her own slow path upwards, Natasha has had to carve away pieces of herself. Perhaps that's what happened to all of them. As they made their way up, they sliced themselves thinner and thinner, until they were a shadow of humanity.
The last time Natasha was truly happy (not the pale simulacrum that passes for happiness in the Volary), was on the streets of one of the outer sectors. Before she knew anything of the luxury of the Volary. If she went back there, could she ever be happy again? Eating tasteless protein bars and scrambling to get by every second of every day?
Could she even do it? Or has she given up any practical knowledge of how the world works in exchange for the intricacies of the Volary?
Doesn't matter. Natasha will never go back there. If she knew about Tony's little jaunts down to the outer sectors, she'd feel equal parts enraged -- what right does he have, to wander down and pretend that he is one of them? -- and envy.
Happiness in abject poverty, and unhappiness in the lap of luxury. But nothing could ever convince her to return to the misery of her youth. Not even the warmth of true joy she remembers from back then. It didn't take much. Bucky's arms wrapped tight around her and the sound of a smile in his voice--
She squeezes her eyes shut and forces away the image as quickly as it slipped in. (Like a blade aimed straight at her heart.) She will have everything a woman in her position could possibly dream of, and not an ounce of happiness to go with it. But who needs happiness? It never kept a single aching belly full.
Natasha reaches for the hand cream she keeps in the nightstand. There are creams for everything. Her hands, her feet, her elbows, her face, the skin beneath her eyes, the skin on the rest of her body... She squeezes out a dollop of sage-scented cream into her palm and begins methodically working it into her skin.
Long before he came home, she finished her night time routine with all the creams and ointments and things she needs to keep the luster and vitality of her skin, clinging to her beauty for as long as she can. But, the hand cream gives her an excuse to work her fingers over the back of her left hand.
"I don't need delicate." Natasha's voice is clipped. With her back turned against him, there's no need to keep all her shields up. She's dragged herself through the Quarry and the special kind of hell that is a Cardinal's Banquet. She's not made out of the porcelain the mags like to reference when describing her skin.
The painting in Tony's office is striking. Each time Natasha sees it, she forgets how to breathe for a moment. It feels just like shoving a shard of sharpened glass between the ribs of the man who helped her to the middle of the maze. It looks like the light flickering out in his widened eyes. Some days, she can't look at the pictures on the walls of the apartment, other days, she stares at them for far too long. Chasing a feeling she wants to forget, but can't. Like pressing fingers against a fading bruise.
"Blackwork will be fine." She screws the top back on the bottle of hand cream and tucks it back into the nightstand.
"If you're done, I'll put the tray away." Housekeeping can pick it up in the morning.
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There aren't many people he wants to earnestly provide for-and even fewer on that list that will let him.
Bucky lets him fix up his arms, trusts him with the occasional meal, the solid, aching understanding that comes from their relationship with the Quarry. Rhodey, Rhodey used to let him do silly, outrageous projects, make anything his mind could dream up for a laugh, a smile.
Natasha wants what every woman wants but only because the women of the station she's working for wants them. It's all- veneers of paint and cream and masks that spiral all the way down to bone.
It's never bothered him, why does this bother him? Because they're on the edge of it, a few weeks out from a whirlwind announcement, engagement, ceremony, and if the Quarry goes well?
That last rung. It's all so very close.
"You're allowed a say. Your skin's still yours." Which is- enigmatic and a little embittered more on her behalf than anything else.
Without a word he takes the tray rather than letting her handle it- she needs whatever space he can offer after the reminder of the maze and he- needs to get his head on straight. Stop imagining camaraderie where there is none.
Stop wanting the impossible.
Far from the bed he's got half a mind to duck out, head back to the office. Nap there and get a few more hours in but that might upset the delicate balance they've achieved or- worse yet- make her assume he's upset with her- and he isn't. Can't be, won't be. So.
He detours to his walk-in and strips down, changing out of his work clothes, tugging up comfortable silk before padding barefoot back to the bed, sitting on his side to start up his nightly routine of rubbing in similar formulas of lotions for his face, his hands, buffing his nails. there are teams for this but- he'd always rather self-maintain. It's easier that way. "I've got an early day tomorrow. I'll try not to wake you up when I head out."
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Want is a tricky thing.
Once upon a time, Natasha wanted so many things. She wanted a steady job that would pay enough for her and Bucky to get a place of their own. She wanted a bed with real pillows and more than a single blanket to share between them. She wanted to know what Bucky's mouth would feel like under hers, what he would taste like. She wanted double rations, or to take a moment out of an otherwise shitty day to watch the soap she liked. She wanted to taste champagne. She wanted something to ease the hunger gnawing in her gut. She wanted to own a pretty dress or two, and a winter coat that would actually block out the cold. She wanted Bucky to have never been caught. She wanted so very badly for him to win in the Quarry. Then she wanted to survive. Then when she did, she wished for death, but her damn survival instinct carried her through.
Now, all she wants is to be safe.
It's too encompassing a want -- too big -- to allow for anything else. Besides, what is there for her to wish for now? Designers send her pretty dresses by the dozen just as long as she uploads a picture of her in them to her Warbler. Champagne and food flows freely at each party she attends. There's nothing left.
How does she explain to him -- a man who has never gone hungry a day in his life -- that her skin hasn't been hers since she got picked up for stealing and immediately sentenced to trial in the Quarry? That wanting is a dangerous thing, and something someone like her can't afford?
Words grow big in her mouth and press down on her tongue. They taste like accusations, so she locks her jaw against them, swallows them back. Hums something that might be agreement but definitely isn't an argument.
Before she shores up a response, the bed dips with his sudden departure and Natasha's stomach sinks with it. He leaves the room and her eyes slip shut. She tucks both knees up against her chest and wraps her arms tight around them. Like if she just holds on tight enough, she can push down the sudden ache in the emptiness beneath her ribs.
Not until she hears his steps -- thank goodness he's not a quiet man -- coming back down the hallway does she straighten and let her feet slip back down to the floor. His words close a door between them.
Maybe they're meant as a kindness. They hit like a failure.
This time, Natasha doesn't take the time to walk around the bed, she just clambers across it and settles on her knees half behind him. One hand curves against his shoulder, seemingly for balance, before she slides it to the nape of his neck, fingertips brushing through the soft hairs there. Intimate. Affectionate. Perfectly calculated.
See? It says. We're on the same team still.
There are things she can never give him -- love, a biological heir -- but anything that's hers is his. It's just that most of what she has to offer is surface. A clay vase baked into tempered steel. Nothing inside.
"Let me," she says softly, holding a hand out for his moisturizer. "If I do your face while you do your hands we'll get you into bed faster."
They've grown accustomed to each other's routines. Half of hers happen in the bathroom, away from prying or curious eyes, but there's enough she takes care of right at the bedside to allow him a glimpse behind the curtain. He's less circumspect about his. Enough so that she knows they mirrors hers pretty perfectly other than the scents and the beard oil.
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Letting himself fall back into the performance scrapes raw and ragged against the gnarled tangle of emotion in his chest. He doesn't flinch so much as go carefully still, jaw working against everything unsaid.
He knows, has known, continues to know that she will not trust him past a certain point- no one does. No one but Bucky, it seems, and that's a grace he doesn't know how to hold or treat kindly. It comes with the rank, the territory, and it's- he's tipped his hand too much. Been too honest, too forthright, and overstepped grossly in the process. For a moment he's still and silent in all the ways he normally isn't, hanging in the carefully curated calculation of her projected care.
It's perormative.
It's a satisfactory performance.
It'd be rude to not respond in kind.
One long, soft exhale, the last sighs of whatever fragile understanding they had beyond the usual before he closes the door on that notion entirely. Understood. Here he shall not reach or tread, boundary established, made, respected. When he urns his head to meet her gaze- the press smile is on. The small, secretive one, like he's conspiring with whoever's on the other end. "You do know how I appreciate efficiency."
Like it's a joke, and it is. Like the earlier heart to heart didn't happen and- it's easier that way, isn't it? They both play their parts and maybe they pull this thing off.
Maybe.
He passes along the moisturizer and palms the kit he uses for his cuticles and nails, keeping them neatly buffed and trimmed, the nailbeds oiled.
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This is where the guilt sits in Natasha's chest like a rock.
Sometimes there are little hints -- glimpses, really -- that Tony might want this to be more than it ever can be for her.
If she was a better person, she'd slip the ring off her finger, leave it on his pillow after he's gone to work, and disappear out of his life forever. There are plenty of women who'd look beautiful enough on his arm to help him climb to the top, who are capable of loving him. Without her in the way, he'd have a chance to find them.
(It's funny. When they first met, Natasha was set on despising him. The most famous of the Quarry designers, she still remembers the interview where he spoke about designing the Maze at the center of her Quarry. The careless arrogance ground into her nerves like broken glass. He didn't care there were people who fell into his traps, just that they worked. That they were clever.
Turns out, Tony Stark is a force of nature in person. His charm practically its own entity.
Natasha can't be sure when she first looked at him and saw, rather than the Architect of Death, a Good Man deserving of love. But here they are. And as each day passes, the guilt grows a little bigger, its edges sharpening.)
But, Natasha is not a better person. She's the worst version of herself, and he is everything she's worked for all these years. Every sacrifice and scheme, everyone she's stepped on, and every heart she's ever broken -- including her own -- has brought her here. Giving up now, would make it all for nothing. Out of all the Rook's -- Blake excluded, perhaps -- he's the kindest one she's ever met.
When she first laid down her plan, she never dared to dream that the faceless Rook in her scenario could be kind as well as handsome. It's usually one or the other and Rooks and Cardinals hardly favor kindness.
She got lucky.
His smile draws hers in return. It's the one she wears for parties; bright and shallow.
"It's one of your better traits."
Gently, she dabs little dots of moisturizer onto his face in curving arcs before she twists the lid back onto the jar. In silence, she works it into his skin with soft circular motions. Using the task at her excuse, she lets herself trace the lines of his face. Her thumb runs down the memory of a crease between his eyebrows, then it fans across the crinkled lines around his eyes.
They work in tandem through his bedtime rituals, Natasha's touch light and gentle, her eyes never quite meeting his. Once they're done, she sinks back on her knees in the bed and runs her hands over her thighs.
"You should wake me. Tomorrow." An olive branch of sorts. "I need to get my day started. Plenty to do."
If beauty appointments, maintaining her social media presence, and meeting with a stylist counts as plenty.
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Older, wiser, scarred and embittered- he hides it under a cheap trick and a cheesy one liner. Rhodey had been the last person he allowed that close to him- and he died for it.
Barnes keeps butting up against that brick wall and Tony can't shove them back in place fast enough to shore up against it.
Projecting that need on someone that he's done harm by doing is job?
He knows better. He does. Convincing the rest of him to get with the program, that's the bitch.
He keeps his eyes on his hands, preferring to focus on the ritual of buffing and smoothing and clipping, working lotion into his palms and wrists, rubbing a specialty ointment over the thin scars over his heart from the explosion that killed Rhodey. Easier to not look her in the eye and see a shallow pool. Easier to hide.
"Sure." His lip quirks in a half-hearted half-grin, eyes flicking up to meet hers before darting away. "I'll be out late tomorrow so- don't wait up for me."
Work.
Organizing Publicity outings for their announcement.
Sending stylists to his employees to make sure they get one last shot at saying something to someone they care about before they're tossed in the Woodchipper that is the Quarry.
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His sure is met by an easy smile that is all surface as Natasha nods. Like they're both winning here. Carefully, she unfolds her legs from underneath herself and steps onto the cold floor.
Rather than returning immediately to her side of the bed -- he gave her the one closest to the window after he caught her staring at the view one time too many -- Natasha passes by the soft arm chair in the corner. Her robe slips down her shoulders with a rasp of silk against silk, and she drapes it across one of the arm rests in a pool of silk and feathers.
"I have the charity gala," she reminds him. The dinner alone is an excruciating four hours. Then add on the mingling and dancing after and suddenly it's way past midnight. "You might actually beat me home for once."
Home. The word slips across her lips like it means nothing. She pads back to the bed like the remnants of her heart don't ache in her chest. She tucks her legs in underneath the covers and lays down on the soft and clean sheets. A servant changes them daily. Another luxury Natasha thought she'd never get used to, that she now takes for granted.
"You should sleep." Natasha settles on her side, back turned against Tony. This was easier when they just fell into bed occasionally after parties that ran too long. When he sketched out calculations on her skin of how long it'd be before he made her fall apart, and she did her best to beat his math, before they both fell asleep in each other's arms exhausted and covered in a light sheen of sweat.
"You'll need your wits about you tomorrow."