Do you know what Natasha hates? She hates her room.
Not her roommates, of course, although she doesn't know them very well other than Cisco. Natasha hates the room in general, and how very purposeful it is in removing any sense of individuality to brand them as numbers instead of people. She knows not to rock the boat, because this isn't Natasha's first rodeo when it comes to tyrannical hierarchies, but today, she doesn't care. Today, Natasha is going to do something about it.
The only person that she knows who drinks more coffee than she does is Clint, and after two cups she is more than aware that something was happening. Her own intel gives her an idea of exactly what's going on and who is responsible, and Natasha knows that the withdrawal is going to be a bitch. She also knows who's head she has to make roll to make sure sure this doesn't happen again, but for now, who cares? She feels great, and she knows it's the drug, but she hasn't felt great in a very long time and this sensation, this freeing concept of not having to worry, is too good for her to let slip by. Maybe that's the drug talking as well. Once again, though; who cares?
She doesn't have much to work with in the way of decoration but what she does have is paper, and Natasha leans against the wall next to her door in the hallway making small flowers in the same style that she did when she was a little girl. A practice that was done for hours on end to exercise their fine motor skills when she was around nine, because it's useful to have an army of children who can reach into small spaces and complete work on a micro scale. Natasha likes to think that they let her do it so she could feel normal sometimes. Today, she can even convince herself that maybe it was a little of both.
She's singing to herself as she does it, head swaying a little with a faint smile on her lips - oh she's going to murder whatever Free Enterprise agent was behind this. Once she finishes a flower she moves to stick it on the door of her room, uncaring of who or what may pass by to see her. Let them try to stop her. Natasha wants a pretty door, and she dares some robo-guard to try and tell her she can't have it; they have necks, which means that they can be snapped. She laughs a little to herself mid-chorus at the thought.
Afternoon
Not her roommates, of course, although she doesn't know them very well other than Cisco. Natasha hates the room in general, and how very purposeful it is in removing any sense of individuality to brand them as numbers instead of people. She knows not to rock the boat, because this isn't Natasha's first rodeo when it comes to tyrannical hierarchies, but today, she doesn't care. Today, Natasha is going to do something about it.
The only person that she knows who drinks more coffee than she does is Clint, and after two cups she is more than aware that something was happening. Her own intel gives her an idea of exactly what's going on and who is responsible, and Natasha knows that the withdrawal is going to be a bitch. She also knows who's head she has to make roll to make sure sure this doesn't happen again, but for now, who cares? She feels great, and she knows it's the drug, but she hasn't felt great in a very long time and this sensation, this freeing concept of not having to worry, is too good for her to let slip by. Maybe that's the drug talking as well. Once again, though; who cares?
She doesn't have much to work with in the way of decoration but what she does have is paper, and Natasha leans against the wall next to her door in the hallway making small flowers in the same style that she did when she was a little girl. A practice that was done for hours on end to exercise their fine motor skills when she was around nine, because it's useful to have an army of children who can reach into small spaces and complete work on a micro scale. Natasha likes to think that they let her do it so she could feel normal sometimes. Today, she can even convince herself that maybe it was a little of both.
She's singing to herself as she does it, head swaying a little with a faint smile on her lips - oh she's going to murder whatever Free Enterprise agent was behind this. Once she finishes a flower she moves to stick it on the door of her room, uncaring of who or what may pass by to see her. Let them try to stop her. Natasha wants a pretty door, and she dares some robo-guard to try and tell her she can't have it; they have necks, which means that they can be snapped. She laughs a little to herself mid-chorus at the thought.