001

[asinisterkid]

Who: Jason Todd and YOU!
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: The Marsiva
When: A few hours before the shuffle.

[ The broadcast begins with a close-up of a man's face, brow furrowed, head tossing slightly in the throes of some flavor of bad dream. His mouth shapes words that could be no and Mom. When he starts to move more energetically, the camera zooms out and pans down, giving the audience a good view of the thrashing and -- yep, that's actual fighting, pure muscle memory and surprisingly good technique, given that he's unconscious. Probably a good thing this guy's sleeping alone, because anyone in bed with him would be being beaten pretty badly right about now. By the look on his face, though, the fight he's dreaming about is one he's losing, no matter how good he might be.

There's a sharp indrawn breath when he wakes up, but besides that, the biggest clue is that he goes perfectly still for a moment. Then he takes inventory, eyes still closed, flexing his ankle to test for the feel of the boot knife, stretching and moving in ways that would let him locate weapons by feel, rather than just reaching for what he should have on him and letting anyone watching know just where he hides the goodies.

...Nothing. He opens his eyes, reaches for the ones that would be less obvious -- nope, even the garrote wire's gone. Whoever searched him was thorough.

Though somehow his jacket's back, and in one piece. Huh.

He sits up, looks around for a minute, and then speaks to the empty air. ]

...Hey, Bats, if this was your idea, consider me incredibly unamused.

[ Or, wait, no, that's not right, there's something... he knows something... ]

Wait, I'm in space?

Comments

[asinisterkid]

That response is as good as confirmation. Sure, this could be some random person who enjoys playing mind games for no good reason, but he'd put money on the infuriatingly vague person here being the infuriatingly vague person sending him text messages.

"Well, I've been taken to task for making an ass out of both the rhetorical u and me before. Probably will be again," he says, and shrugs. "Seems like a safe bet this time, though. And as far as the view goes, what's not to like?" He quirks an eyebrow, because apparently yes, this is a thing they're doing, and so he'll play along and ride the double meaning until it runs out of steam.

"Though, if I'm bothering you..." Hey, some people take appraising looks totally the wrong way. And honestly, if Jason's going to be checking someone out in a way that's not a tactical assessment, he wants the person in question to enjoy being looked at.

[tothefly]

Her smirk widens just a little at his commentary, pausing just this side of an actual smile. Yeah, it's likely a safe bet that she's the one who messaged him. It's not like she was trying to hide it, in any case; straight answers are just occasionally a little difficult for her. And less fun. She's had little enough of that lately, especially the last few months.

As for the look and the innuendo, it's not exactly unusual. She knows how she looks, takes pride in it, even. So she doesn't bother hiding the slightly different sort of assessing look she gives him, green eyes amused. "It'll take more than a pair of eyes to bother me," she answers, shrugging and waving towards a seat near her, just out of arm's reach. "And I'm bored enough here that a little bothering isn't a bad thing." Besides, someone who moves that way, probably better to at least play nice before deciding what to do about them.

[asinisterkid]

And that look gets her a grin. He knows he's not bad looking, especially not now that he's gone from weedy kid to broad and muscled. He'll never be the looming behemoth of manliness that Bruce is, or have Dick's admittedly awe-inspiring ass, but he's good with where he is.

He takes the indicated seat, settling into a posture that's apparently relaxed, but that will allow him to be up and fighting in seconds. He doesn't think she'll be fooled, but that can be a message all its own: Look, I'm playing nice, and so long as you also play nice, we can have a civilized conversation without anyone punching anyone else.

...Not that he'd really object to punching, especially the way he's feeling right now. But he's behaving himself, for the time being.

"I can't say I blame you. Aside from the view," he tilts his head towards the window, "things here seem pretty bland. ...Of course, since kidnapping seems to be the M.O. here, I have the feeling I'll be missing the boredom soon enough."

A pause. "Okay, that's a lie. I won't. But someone might." Hey, not everyone deals with their feelings via punching, stabbing, and explosives. Some of those people might like the nice safe confines of the Marsiva.

"I'm Jason, by the way. Jason Todd. And you are...?"

He doesn't expect his name to carry any meaning. It's not that uncommon a name, and the kid who got adopted by a billionaire is long dead, his prints and DNA scrubbed from the record by the Batman himself. He loses nothing by being truthful. Meanwhile, how she answers that question will tell him something, as well... assuming he's good enough to spot a lie from her.

...That really is the question, isn't it?

[tothefly]

No, definitely not bad-looking. That isn't the sort of distraction she's looking for, especially not in a place like this--she's too private to allow any sort of distraction to be filmed for the masses--but she's never been averse to an eyeful of attractive. Especially attractive that knows how to move, and knows how to speak her language. Not that she trusts it, or him, for a second.

The sentiment is one she can agree with, and the meaning he leaves out is as important as what he leaves in. It's something she can sympathize with. She's been trained to sit and wait and watch, but she's always had a goal. Never realized how hard it could be without a target. Someone to hit would be nice, she thinks. But not this someone. "I suppose you could consider it a vacation. As a whole, I'd prefer Paris." Maybe a beach along the Mediterranean. Pretty Greek boys bringing her ouzo on the sandy shores. Not that she ever took vacations, but they were nice to think about.

His name means nothing to her, but that's not unexpected. It simply gets filed away with the rest of the info on this place, info she keeps separate from what the implant tells her, and offers him another of those teasing almost-smiles. "Natasha." The omission of any last name is obvious, maybe an invitation to ask, maybe a challenge to see if it matters enough to protest her nondisclosure. "It's nice to meet you, Jason Todd."

[asinisterkid]

"I'd go for Berlin, myself. Been to the Louvre, haven't been to Museumsinsel yet." And now you know his secret, Natasha: he's a ginormous nerd under that bad boy exterior. "Not much time to enjoy the sights when you're working."

The lack of a last name only gets her an acknowledging tilt of the head. Right now, they're in an environment where their old lives hold relatively little meaning, just strangers on a spaceship. If she wants to keep her last name hidden... well, that tells him more than her name would've, to be honest.

"Likewise, Natasha."

[tothefly]

"Really? I'm partial to the Neue Nationalgalerie, myself," she answers with a slightly more sincere smile, eyes brightening just a shade with interest. "They had a fantastic Modernist exhibit last time I was there." So he's not just a fighter or a pretty face. Interesting. She's reasonably pleased with this so far, all things considered, pleased her intuition has been spot on thus far. "Do you do much work in Berlin, then?"

She doesn't ask what sort of work he does, not yet, anyway. If she's right about him thus far, it isn't the sort one talks about, not in so many words. She's done her own share of work in Berlin, too; with Fury's approval and without, over the course of the last...well, more years than one might think. She's older than the twentysomething she looks, for sure. And the last time she was there, it wasn't exactly a pleasure trip. Eastern Europe just held too many memories.

[asinisterkid]

There are times when Jason's almost grateful for the combination of Bruce's attempts to introduce him to rich-people culture, and his own discovery that museums actually have cool stuff in them. This would be one of those times.

"I've heard good things. But as much as I love the smell of Cubism in the morning, if I have to pick, I always end up gravitating towards the ancients. Kind of reassuring, knowing we've been around this long, making art and fucking up, and we're still here." Kind of frustrating, too, knowing that, thousands of years later, humanity's still making the same stupid mistakes, but that's a rant for someone he's more comfortable with... and at the moment, that's not Natasha.

"And most of my work is Stateside, but I had the kind of on-the-job training opportunity that only comes around once in a lifetime, soooo..." He grins and shrugs, like he didn't make sure of that once-in-a-lifetime status by killing most of the people who trained him. In all fairness, they kind of deserved it.

[tothefly]

"That's a surprisingly optimistic way of looking at human history." She looks at him keenly, green eyes unblinking for a long moment. "There's a lot of blood in ancient art. Blood and bones and innocent lives." She shrugs just a little, looking towards the window, and when she glances back at him that slightly odd look is gone, replaced by something light, almost amused. "I've always been more interested in what's inside people's heads than what's buried in the past, but that's just my opinion."

She doesn't buy that grin and shrug for a second, but it's none of her business what he's trying to hide, yet. "Sounds like a busy life, all that globetrotting. Is that what you were doing when they grabbed you? Working?" A subtle reminder of how he'd made his debut. Although maybe he didn't know just how long that comm was broadcasting.

[asinisterkid]

"Scratch deep enough, and there's blood in everything. Only these days most of the blood that feeds Western culture and allows for the creation of art is imported from the exploitable Third World country du jour, and we use nicer words than 'slavery' to describe what happens... But hey, if you don't have to see the corpses, no harm, right?" He shrugs a little. "But now I just sound like an angry college socialist." He laughs a little. Angry, yes. Socialist... well, he can sympathize, at least. He's not capitalism's biggest fan. But the college part is where the funny comes in, considering he never lived to finish high school.

...It's possible he has a slightly warped definition of 'funny'.

"I'm not trying to change the world," he continues. "Just maybe help some people survive it. Sometimes a little bit of beauty helps." Or a reminder that the rich bastards who could commission the beautiful things can die and be forgotten, but the beauty remains.

And the way she asks that question, it's enough to make him wonder just how obvious the nightmare he woke up from was, and how much she might've seen.

...Shit.

"Yeah, working. I was back home by then, but I had a chance to learn the hard way not to mix personal connections in with work. Got kind of messy, in the interpersonal sense." Also in the blood and explosions sense, but he's riding this euphemism as far as it'll take him.

[tothefly]

He doesn't sound angry, really, at least not right now. Passionate, maybe. Determined, dedicated. They're qualities she could find admirable, pointed in the right direction. And she certainly can't argue with his sentiment. The world is much better off without a lot of those particular rich bastards. She's done enough work for them. Now, she's just hoping maybe she'll be able to deal with enough of them to balance the scales. Good at least, that the owner doesn't influence the art. They can contribute at least one good thing to the world when they die.

"Trust me, I know socialists," is her amused rebuttal, a glint in her eyes as she smiles. "You don't sound like a socialist. Sounds like you care how many bodies you step on, while you're off making the world a better place." It's also something she can sympathize with. Like his admission, regarding work and play. Or work and history.

"Sounds like a bad breakup," is her only comment to the latter, looking him over again with interest. Mostly professional. A little personal. "Does that mean you're back on the market? The viewers will love that." Irony, a hint of something wry and acerbic there. She's not a fan of being watched on any terms but her own.

[asinisterkid]

"See, now you're making me sound like some kind of hero." There's a hint of bitterness on the last word, a very faint shadow of pain, but he's masking that with everything he's got. "Sorry, my strength is as the strength of... one, because it's been a long damn time since my heart was pure."

Some might question just how long a time it could've been, given how young he is. But then, Natasha looks pretty young, herself, and there are depths there he's not even close to plumbing.

"And, so far as that goes, I wasn't off the market. The recent mess was... an old mentor, sometime partner. And not even in the fun sense... though if he'd been interested, I'd have hit that in a hot second." That much is nothing but the truth, though what it says about him, he's not sure he wants to know. But then, he thinks maybe it was the same way with Dick. Maybe you can't be Robin without falling in love with Batman a little.

Or maybe he's just really, really fucked up. Not that this little mental tangent is doing him any good right now.

"The folks at home are welcome to speculate about my tragic past and/or hidden heartbreak. Not like I can stop 'em." There's a twist to his mouth that says he would if he could, though. Possibly with a brick.

Of course, since he can't, he's just going to have to be really entertaining.

[tothefly]

She shakes her head just slightly at that, not missing the taste of bitterness in his words. Maybe she notices because she can sympathize. She's past the point in her life where she hated what she could have been, what she was, at least for the most part, but she remembers. "Heroics imply some sort of naïvete," she says, not so much shrugging as twitching one shoulder a fraction. "You don't strike me as the hero. Just someone who might do what needs doing. Whatever you want to call that. Either way," and here she smiles just a little, "Galahad was a hypocrite. In my experience, anyone who claims to live a perfect, pious, virtuous life is only trying to hide whatever horrible things they've done."

Experience ages people more than the sheer passage of time. She knows that better than most. She doesn't look at a face like his and think too young to know better, she thinks old enough to have an idea. Old enough to understand that it's always a bad idea, being involved with someone who plays that role in your life, young enough to want to do it anyway. He's probably close to twenty, maybe a couple years either direction. And looking about as enthusiastic about being watched as she's been feeling. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm sure they appreciate good old-fashioned violence as much as they do a sordid love triangle." It's as much comfort as it is acknowledgement for him of just how much she'd seen of his debut.