Rooms

Who: Gwen
What: Verifying that Carnage isn't where he's supposed to be
Where: Stark Tower
When: Recentish
Warnings/Rating: None

( She kind of knew, even without verification. )

[She should've worn pants. That's what she thought. She was trying to impress Flash, but she really should've worn pants. The sheer black of her tights let in the wet night air. It was like 44° and windy, and her mustard yellow skirt kept fluttering up, some stupid looking bird's wing, as she tromped from the subway station to the hospital. It was probably the waving that caught the attention of the two men in the alley in the first place. She had a thin coat on over her sweater and skirt, with the hood drawn up, obscuring well-known red, but the purse she had in her hand was branded, and it, as much as the skirt, acted like a flag—come and get me, boys!

Easy prey, it read.

She really should've worn pants.

The side street she took was almost entirely clear, and it was only the jostling of a grimy, dirty-nailed hand on her arm that jarred MJ from her reverie of how great things were going to go in Flash's hospital room. The grip was strong, and as she traced it, wide eyed, to the man it belonged too, some snatch of fear muted her.

She didn't know if they recognized her, but even if they did, it was whatever now. They had her and either they tossed the fishy back into the churn of Midtown waters or they used the chance they'd seized.—The two men went for the carpe diem, rather than 'release the carp.' (Not that she was a carp. That was just me being clever. MJ Watson would be something better than a carp. She was, like, a sea goldie blitzed in red. Def.)

A pocket knife to the white apple of her throat, one man with his hand on her arm, the other snickering about the shortness of her skirt, and she stood there, so useless. She knew Gwendy would know what to do. Flash too. Harry. Even Peter. But her? She tried to wrest her purse away, she kicked at the men with icy blood in her veins, but with just a knick and a small thread of red and the unbearable, dirty, disgusting pressure of something hard against her ass as one of the men circled behind her, they reminded her quickly that she was not the one in control. It was all she could do to stutter out a:] Please—take whatever you want. Just—just let me go.

[It was like a cliché. She was begging, and she should've been ashamed, but she didn't have it in her.]

[Call: Bobbi/Clint]

[Ring!]

I am seeking a metalsmith, if one of good reputation be known to you.