"Death and the Maiden, by Marianne Stokes," says a voice from across the room.
A gaunt looking man stands several paces behind her, his hands politely clasped behind his back as if observing this painting in an art gallery. He gives Natasha a polite nod. The man wears a formal suit, with two yellow roses attached with black ribbon as a corsage. Even-numbered yellow flowers are, as she knows, a decidedly Russian funerary custom...
She looks at him over her shoulder, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Her gaze lingers on the roses for a hair too long, Natasha taking her time to look over the room again as she returns to the painting. It doesn't take a genius to add this up.
"I always thought Death would come for me after being shot," she says after a while, turning around to face him, though she doesn't break her stance.
"I am not the Grim Reaper, Miss Romanoff. I come for no one. I am, however, interested in a partnership with you while you remain in Liminal Space." By this point he has settled himself into the nearest comfortable armchair, his bony fingertips pressed against each other in thoughtful repose. "Would you care for a drink, or shall I drink alone?"
He motions to the drink cart he has set up, two glasses with ice at the ready.
She's turned around by the time he settles himself into his chair, arms crossed. She hasn't moved otherwise, and her stance is standoffish, untrusting. She glances from the drink cart and back to him.
"Fair enough." He pours himself a bourbon, neat, before settling back into his chair. He takes a small sip with blued lips, before adding, "A mutually beneficial one. Just what have the other Travelers told you? I'm here to fill in the gaps."
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A gaunt looking man stands several paces behind her, his hands politely clasped behind his back as if observing this painting in an art gallery. He gives Natasha a polite nod. The man wears a formal suit, with two yellow roses attached with black ribbon as a corsage. Even-numbered yellow flowers are, as she knows, a decidedly Russian funerary custom...
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"I always thought Death would come for me after being shot," she says after a while, turning around to face him, though she doesn't break her stance.
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He motions to the drink cart he has set up, two glasses with ice at the ready.
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"I'll pass. What kind of partnership?"
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