aviary | OPEN | prompt ten

[ The number's untraceable, but the area code means Arthur's in town and not bothering to hide it. ]

SENT: 9:12PM
Ten pm.
Game?

[ Oh, Arthur, you know she likes it when you try and be all coy. ]

SENT: 9.22PM
and it's not even my birthday.
u come round just for me, peach?

[ Short, sweet, to the point. (A buisness meeting gone sour, if Arthur's honest with no-one but himself.) ]

SENT: 9:26PM
No.
You have the time?

[ For some reason, Arthur being in a bad mood makes the prospect of seeing him even more entertaining. ]

SENT: 9.34PM
for u? always
just try not 2 get sulk all over the tuck
that sort of whinge is contagious
and ive got a business 2 run

M1NT tower
penthouse
dont be fuckin early

[ Right.

As if on purpose (it's not; Arthur's not the type to think to cater for any kind of audience unless it's to actively salvage something) he arrives a couple minutes past the mark. 10:06PM and the elevator doors ping open. He shows up without a hair out of place, notably less than he usually manages — neat slacks, clean boots, the underside of his coat collar wet from where he'd turned it up against the rain earlier on in the day. He's not quite used to it but he expects it enough, that eager kind of frenzy that steps in wherever Moneypenny goes. It's contagious, to some. ]

Sorry I'm late, [ he says, in that plain way that means he's not particularly sorry about anything. ]

You could at least put some effort behind your booty calls.

email ?

honestly ?

[ Be more spiky, Eames, really. You know she just eats is up with a spoon. ]

sent a picture and everything, sweets.
thought you'd be tickled cuntin pink.
have a change of heart about which end you'd rather be takin it from then?

I dont care how many pics you send sounding just looks incredibley painful. Im a man with limits and im fairly certain one of your fanboys would sooner be up to the task

Beyond that where in the next month or so are our paths supposed to cross ?

if i wanted me a candy twink fuck,
i wouldn't be sending my best pix 2 you
would i, papa bear?

a man with limits grumble grumble
don't knock it til you try it, ey?
u were always one for a good ram in a hole,
how's this any diff?
u still get stuffed

party in athens in 2 weeks
fancy a bit of free tuck and a couple rounds, luv?

[ It's raining, though that doesn't seem to matter. As Christmas parties go, it could certainly be worse — there could be carols, for one. It's no surprise that Benji wanders until he can find someone to indulge him, champagne in one hand and sprig of mistletoe tucked into his breast pocket. (Go big or go home; isn't that the phrase?)

A hand on the small of her back, Benji smiles at her like someone might finally say yes. ]

Merry Christmas, hm?

[ As Christmas parties go, it could certainly be worse. There'd been that one year with the bomb scare, that other year with the bad shellfish when half the New York branch came down with Hep A. In the grand scheme of global disasters a little rain never hurt anybody.

Natalia's watching it come down outside onto the balcony while she nurses a bright red cocktail through its stir straw. She seems distracted (thoughtful) but that air dissolves quickly the moment she hears Benji's approach, feels the light touch of his hand against the small of her back. Her lips twist to one side, maraschino cherry red. ]

You're a twat, Benji, [ she smirks. (Which, for the record, isn't a no. ] Y'really think a bit'f veg is gonna help you pull tonight?

[ He isn't the smartest boy there is, but MP hasn't gotten as far as he has without a few rules here and there. (Don't shit where you eat. Don't double-cross women. Reward success, punish failure. Say sorry if you lose your temper.) They're nothing elaborate, mostly common sense, but they're the sort of thing he has to remind himself of daily, otherwise get buried in an avalanche of his own shit. Another rule: know every face at your gigs and this girl — short, sharp, bright red hair — she's new and that sets his lizard brain to stalking.

His smile's easy enough when he makes it way over, past a bank of hardcore dreamers, going the distance in a week-long spar of the Most Dangerous Game. One of the opponents is the French ambassador to Egypt, who is responsible for the current digs overlooking most of Paris and the Eiffel Tower. ]

Fancy a go? [ Not a come-on, but a pretty standard hello for this kind of a set-up. MP assumes she must be somebody's +1, but nobody in the general vicinity seems to have dibs. ]

[ The air smells like copper and something sharp, like anesthetic, but you only have to look to see hunger here. (For better, for brighter, for blood; they amount to the same thing for enough people.) There's a roll of cash stuck in the pocket of her jacket but Natasha smiles anyway, the curl to her smile slippery, as if on purpose. Look long and hard enough and you'll find where your mark went; dreamcades are new enough on her radar that they make something in the set of her shoulders itch.

She tips her chin to look him in the eye, the heel to her stiletto skittering as she shifts her weight. ]

Is that a request or an offer?

[ She gets married and Moneypenny changes. Her business slims down, her operation grows cold and slick rather than the way it used to be, bombastic and loud. The stakes get higher, the thrills get dangerous and the girl once known for explosive entrances and neon pink lips shaves her life down to the barest knife's edge. Everything in its right place.

The rumors say that Irishman did more than just marry her. (Maybe he did. And maybe she let him. Anything less wouldn't be MP, even if she doesn't call herself that anymore.)

She gets married and the next time their paths cross, they're both in pursuit of the same Libyan nationalist but a third party beats them both to the coup de grace. Her name is Marling now, but she still looks the same. Her wardrobe's different but the heels haven't changed and even with them on she still stands a good foot shorter, a hand raised to wave the worst of the smoke from her eyes.

At a distance, a siren wails. They should get going soon. ]

Not one'f yours, is it, Natan?

[ She gets married and Moneypenny changes. Nathan never says anything one way or the other. No congratulations, no gifts, no hellos. If he's surprised at the way her life gets pared down to just bone, no gristle or flesh, he still keeps mum. (He knows what the rumors say. He fills in the blanks with love. You fell in love. A small part of him thinks: I thought you'd be smarter.)

By the time their paths cross, her name is Marling; his is still Nathan. He's tired but cleanshaven, frowning down at the fire. No reaction one way or the other, not to his name (the real one) or the question or the siren that blares. There's blood dried crimson in the dips between his knuckles.

Quietly: ] You should have retired.

[ The way his mouth forms the words like a secret, the way the set of his eyes reveals only what he wants them to — it's not concern. ]

heard you're planning something big

everything i do's fuckin flash, bb boy.
u don't know that yet, u don't know fuckall.

didn't say it wasn't
but this one's bigger, isn't it?

play big or go the fuck home
blah blah fuckity blah
u want an invite bb, stop beating round the fuckin bush.
mp's got execs 2 wine n dine

of course i want in
paris is tripping all over itself over it
there's graffiti about it down in the tunnels

some of my projections have started speaking russian. this is all your fault.

fuckin bangin.

[ That's it. That's the text. ]

[ God dammit MP. ]

I think some of them were doing that, too.

[ You have his attention. ]

what
and u didnt invite me?

harsh babe harsh
im fuckin cryin.

[ She figured. ]

i was asleep
how was i supposed to invite you?

some of yours better start speaking french that's all i'm saying

[ The bridges fall and Bane's men spread out across the city, seeping into every single one of Gotham's cracks along with his elevated rhetoric. The rich fall, the poor rise up and the neighborhoods splinter into this territory and that; new overlords are installed here and there, some better and some worse than their genteel predecessors. Selina Kyle's territory remains, for the most part, untouched; whether that's the power of rumor and hearsay, or simply the way things work on her watch, nobody can really say. But it works, way better than anywhere else in Gotham — which is why MP shows up on her doorstep in the first place.

What he's doing here, he doesn't really know. Some neighborhoods have enforcers, some kingpins have muscle. Whether Selina needs either of these things is anyone's guess, but he's strong, a little stupid, and takes orders well. Shoving his hands into his pockets he looks at her, shoulders hunched awkwardly. ]

They say this here's y'block.

[ selina hasn't had to do too much work to secure her own section of the city; not many people were eager to stay in old town when they now had the entire city to roam. she'd debated finding somewhere new herself, but stepping into every new place felt too impersonal, like she was trying to fit into the remains of a life someone else had built for themselves and had to leave hastily behind, and while stealing is what she does it had just left a bad taste in her mouth. so she'd stayed in her apartment, letting younger versions of holly and herself stay when they needed somewhere safe to sleep and making sure things in her part of town didn't get to the level of chaos that she considered out of hand. part of it feels good; it's not escape but it's something she's made on her own.

a knock comes to the door and she takes her time answering it. she can't see everything from the window above her front door, but while looks as if he could be threatening and not as if he'd be out of place among bane's men, his stance as he waits seems expectant and eager. she comes to the door with a knife tucked carefully away anyway, just in case. ]

They're correct. What do you want?

[ She changes her name, he changes her address, but some things stay the same. She still leaves angry marks round his throat when they fuck and he still uses a straight razor to shave. She still collects ink and he still collects scars, tiny ones, crescent shaped across his shoulders and down his back, patterned out in constellations of love and lust.

Also: he still drives. (He hates it, but he still does it, and she still doesn't know why.)

They're cutting across Europe, west to east, when Marling twists about in her seat to fish something out of one of her purses. The midnight blue glow of the night around them cuts away to bright white as the highway dips underground and the sound of the car's engine fills the cab, bounced back and forth in the enclosed space of the tunnel. In order to hear the radio when she finally pops the tape in, Marling turns it all the way up so loud the speakers rattle in their settings. Tipping her head back, she settles into her seat once more, Etta James crooning on the stereo. ]

Dream when you're feeling blue.
Dream that's the thing to do.
Just watch the smoke rings rise in the air,
And I know you'll find your share of memories there—

[ He leaves a ring at the front desk of a hotel in western Europe. Later that day, he calls her on the phone to see if she likes it okay (not, one should note, to ask her to marry him). And maybe this is the wrong way to go about these sorts of things, but Nataniel's never been one for elaborate planning and thinking ahead. (Why should getting married be any different?) For him, there's the jump, there's the plunge and there's the landing. (Or, as is sometimes the case, the breaking of both legs when he forgets his follow through.)

They're in Hanoi (she's working, he's not) when he picks her hand up from where it'd been lying on her bare stomach and studies the ring on her finger, turning it back and forth to catch the dimmest light. ]

Should go somewhere fookin' proper, babe. Like stand on a cuntin' mountain or summat an' shout vows an' shit at the world, y'know?

Think pipsqueak's bout to bust a blood vessel.

tell me something i don't already know.
what's it this time, boyo?

Had some loud & rowdy down in 3. He might be playin with lego blocks for a while. Serious tho his eyes are goin fullon what are those things slender loris.

OPEN | prompt ten | MONEYPENNY

( MONEYPENNY )

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

text;

text;

text;

text;

( NATALIA )

no subject

( MP )

no subject

no subject

( MARLING )

no subject

no subject

MONEYPENNY ;;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

MP ;;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

whoever you deem appropriate;

ditto;

no subject

no subject

( LADY'S CHOICE )

no subject

( MP )

no subject

MVP

no subject

no subject