undergrounds | [open] some nights, i call it a draw

I. Redbright Institute: night

Even knowing about their open door policy, Natasha hadn't entirely believed they'd take her. She isn't a student, for one thing, or even student passing. For another, she's a vampire. Vampires are't known for getting open invitations from other factions; at least not knowingly. Not without good reason. Mostly, though, she's never been exposed to anything quite like the institute before. She'd applied to join the outreach group as a wild grab, an attempt to have anyone at her back to keep her from being seen as a loner or a feral. Being either of those is a good way to end up with a target on her back.

And maybe, if she allows herself to think about it, the open door policy had sounds nice. It sounds like the direction she wanted to take. Everyone welcome as long as they play by the rules, keep the peace and keep their secrets. Natasha isn't the kind to let herself think that way too much, though, or get too optimistic.

Either way, it's a surprise when she's accepted.

She still fosters that surprise as she gives herself a tour of the grounds. It's in her carriage as she walks between buildings or down the halls; not overt confusion or surprise, but a little bit of skepticism, a little bit of caution, holding herself somehow a little reserved from her surroundings. Despite her years of training, there's still an air about her of someone who's not sure they belong, or maybe who knows they don't.

II. A Bar: also night

It could be any number of bars. Natasha hits a lot of them. She always picks the quieter ones, places where you can hear people talk to you and talking to each other. She's not in a good place for loud music or excited kids, or to get caught up in fights. She doesn't want to go places that feel like hunting grounds.

The thing is, she's here in the first place because she's thirsty. She's always, constantly thirsty, and she's trying hard not to go after the one thing she really wants. So like a cigarette addict reaching for a stick of gum, Natasha wanders into a bar. Alcohol is not what she wants, but it's one of the few things she can tell herself helps, at least a little.

She's usually sitting at the counter. Most nights, she orders vodka tonics. Bad nights, it's scotch neat. She doesn't try to strike up conversations, but she listens. Almost as much as the alcohol, it helps to listen to the low murmur of conversation around her. It's a reminder that the other patrons are real people, with lives and goals, things they want and look forward to, even if it's just a new job or getting in to pants of the girl at the coffee shop. It makes them more real, somehow.

So no, it's not a perfect coping mechanism, but it helps.

III. On A Night Bus: missed your train, didn't you?

There's a good mix of people on the bus tonight. A few kids toward the back on their way home from a party, looking tired and far from sober, but happy. A few older passengers coming back from bars, all seated alone and ranging from a professional looking woman sitting primly toward to front, brief case across her knees and gin martins on he breath, to a rough looking man slumped against one window, a nascent black eye just starting the darken his face.

Natasha's not sure what started the fight. It couldn't have been something anyone said, because she'd have heard it. One moment it's quiet. The next, a football fan and a derelict are climbing up into the aisle, in each others' faces and cursing. The bus driver calls back for them to settle down, but they don't.

It's not really that big of a deal—at least not in Natasha's mind. They're both just human. But the fight escalates, and the homeless man pushes the football fan hard just as the bus starts to slow to a jarring stop, and sends the fan stumbling toward her and the person seated next to her. It's reflex and instinct, that pull Natasha to her feet, bearing up to keep the fan on his feet and off their laps.

Which means that just for an instant, the person next to Natasha might get the view of a small woman catching a man a full head and more taller than her, from falling, keeping her balance in heels even as the night bus lurches to a stop. It's just a second, but if someone's watching, the'll see when she releases the lapse in her masquerade and remembers to stagger just a little under the man's weight, wobbling a little.

Then she shrugs free of the football fan, disengaging with a glare before she sits back down.

To whoever's sitting next to her, she gives an apologetic smile and plays it off smoothly, "Always something like that, isn't there?"

There's a faint Russian accent on her words, nothing that would interfere with clarity. The look that accompanies her words is innocent, as though nothing strange happened at all.

IV. Wildcard
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She can hear his heart hammering in his chest, and it's a distraction. It reminds her just how hungry she is, which is not what either of them needs to be thinking of at the moment.

Her fangs stay hidden.

"Giving myself a tour. Seemed like a good idea seeing as I just got a job."

Simon blinks.

"A job," he repeats, as if he can't really believe it. He doesn't think vampires can be faculty, what with the daylight issue, unless--

"Outreach." He has the good sense to look thoroughly apologetic. "Shit. Didn't realize."

"It's all right. I didn't figure that was the normal welcome." She wasn't about to take it personally. It did remind her why she was skeptical this was going to work out for her, but that subtle, sinking feeling that this wasn't the last time she'd find herself on the receiving end of this kind of suspicion could be ignored.

"I take it there aren't a lot of us around."

Simon's stance softens slightly, heart rate slowing, but he's still alert. Wary.

"Not many," he admits. "Mostly witches and metahumans. A few like me--" (He figures she's probably been around long enough to know the difference between a shapeshifter and a metahuman, if she's here) "--and a werewolf. But not many who are..."

Vampires.

"...like you."

"No, people like me don't usually play well with others." Hard to be too offended by his reaction when she can't say he's wrong. It stings, but mostly because whatever she might be trying to do now... she's earned his disdain.

"But here I am."

"I guess so," Simon replies, and his previous feelings of fear have been replaced by a sense of intense awkwardness.

"I'm Simon." It's as good a place to start as any. "Simon O'Neill. I suppose we'll be working together from now on."

"Natasha Romanoff," she responds in kind. At least he doesn't seem overtly hostile any more, or even suspicious. She can handle awkward; she's more than willing to pretend this is normal. "Nice to meet you. I suppose we were going to meet sooner or later, but sorry it had to come as a surprise."

Simon puts out a hand for a shake. Might as well make it official.

"Sorry I was a bit of an ass to you."

"It's all right," Natasha says, not exactly surrendering but resigned to the situation.

"I understand where it's coming from. I don't expect people to be happy to see me."

That earns a hint of a smile. There is nothing normal about this situation, nothing remotely okay and his rational brain is screaming at him that he's talking to a vampire, but he's gotten really good at ignoring his rational brain lately.

"What people think's all a bit relative, really. Shapeshifters aren't all that popular in some circles either."

His attempt to be more open minded is pretty transparent, especially in light of his initial greeting, but Natasha values the attempt.

"Maybe they aren't, still..." She shrugs. She doesn't want to convince him not to trust her either. It's just she doesn't see that it works out much better for her either way. In the end, she'll have to earn whatever trust she gets.

"I'm just saying I don't have a lot of room to be bothered if people go into things expecting the worst."

"You're not from London," he says, and regrets it instantly. What the hell kind of question is that to ask a vampire he's just met and accused of trying to mass-murder children?

Jesus Christ.

"No," she answers the question, though a little more slowly. "I am definitely not from London."

She's not trying to hide her accent, either, though she figures it will soften the longer she stays. It's in her nature to blend in.

"I'm from Volgograd originally." Which will hopefully avoid questions about where she's been more recently.

[open] some nights, i call it a draw

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