. (spacecowboys) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-05-27 22:54:00 |
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Entry tags: | *narrative, selina kyle |
Narrative: Selina
Who: Selina
What: Narrative
Where: Pirates
When: The first 24 after leaving
Warnings/Rating: Nopes
The Faithful Bride was dark and squat and it smelled like piss and sweat. It was filled with bodies, and the woman in the black catsuit barely stood out among drunkards that couldn't see straight and prostitutes with their nipples on display. The clothing was motley, and the people were motley, and Selina's last thought before she passed out at a dingy table was, hah, figures.
She had no idea how long she slept. Hours, probably. She woke up with an angry barkeep standing over her. No, she didn't have any money. But she didn't remember ordering anything, and possibly that didn't matter. There was a fight brewing in the corner, and a woman hiking up a filthy underskirt to show thigh, and Selina thought it was probably time to look for the door.
Ten hours, and she couldn't find it. She'd heard about doors without exits, but she thought they were exclusively populated with dead people. That might have been a relief, because there was nothing like a deathwish that clung to the fur and refused to let itself be exorcised. The undead would have taken that right out of her hands, and it might have made for a welcome change. But no, the kitty cat survived, all nine-lives and instinct and the need to land on her feet. Ten hours, and no door. Fine. Time to find somewhere to rest.
She stole onto a ship, stealth and black, and she'd gotten enough sleep in her to make the tightrope walk up the rigging without much trouble. She found a pile of filled-canvas bags below-deck, soft enough for a cat to curl up on and rest. She slept.
Port Royal, and she'd slept the whole way. Our cat wasn't the kind to get seasick, it seemed. But the sun shone below, and goods were hauled out, and the sleeping cat was chased off the ship. Bad luck, a woman aboard. Everyone knew that. And while offers were extended for a tumble, now that they weren't actually on open water, Selina's whip declined. Enough of that, and she wasn't a thing to be used at will. Her pride itched against her spine. Ah, there it was. She'd missed you, old friend.
The town was nothing. She wasn't even sure it could be called a town, but she didn't have a better word. She sat on craggy rocks, the sun coming up at her back, and she watched the docks. In and out, boats heavy with spices and goods. She could steal them. She could get better, get hale, get whole. It was a challenge. No Gotham art gallery, no Marvel museum. No alarms and, she suspected, no law. She could get in and out. Steal whatever was in cargo. The crews were drunk, even the ones in their sharp little imperial uniforms. The men were cocky. They'd never suspect a woman.
She smiled. It was lush, that smile. It wasn't entirely domesticated. It wasn't a sad reminiscence of a Bat, of a Doctor. It didn't even acknowledge the al Ghuls.
Okay, she could steal the cargo.
Or, she could steal a ship.
Or - and she liked this one very, very much - she could call the shots. Someone had to own these men. Someone had to control where they went, what they stole, who they paid tribute to. Someone.
And whoever it was? Probably wasn't anywhere near as good at that kind of thing as she was.
But first she needed clothes, sleep, food, and to learn the land, the rules. It was something to fixate on, something to concentrate on. It seemed daunting, exhausting, and her mind was turmoil and focusing made her want to give up. It was impossible.
It was perfect.