phase i Natasha is a passable field medic. She can perform triage style medicine, remove foreign objects, stop bleeds, stitch open wounds. She’s not the neatest, but she’s quick. It’s draining, though, and there are actual doctors doing much better work than she could ever hope to.
So she leans into her strengths. She takes shifts guarding the camps, sometimes by herself and sometimes with a partner, protecting both refugees and volunteers from outside threats, but mostly from one another. On most of her patrols,there isn’t much to do. She breaks up petty squabbles, which are inevitable with tensions rising so high and so many people in such a small space. The days are surprisingly quiet, though, most of the time. So she finds herself just offering help, full stop. She moves cots and small tables in the tents, and she’s started just carrying around rolls of tape, a few cans of spray paint, finding that people feel better about having nothing much of their own when they’re able to showcase and personalize what little is left. Children, in particular.
She approaches it with the patience and understanding of someone who has been there, who has lost everything and had to start again. More than once. She knows this despair, and the thin thread of hope.
phase iii The jungle is almost a relief. At least the problems here all have the same solutions. Run away, or kill it, with very few exceptions. The trek is exhausting. It clears her mind. It gives her a focus. A simple goal. Point A to point B, and stay alive to make it back.
It isn’t until the second day that things start getting dicey, that her body begins changing, senses heightened, reflexes sharper, and no real cause she can find. It doesn’t bother her much, though, because this place is tucked up and magic and shit happens, the environment is unpredictable and can mess with your mind.
It’s not until the third day that she realizes it’s not the environment. It’s her. She’s changing. It’s painful. Her skin dries and cracks, bleeds, reforms as scales. She can feel her body growing extra components, nictitating membranes coming in like sandpaper against her eye before it calms, settled, feels like it’s always been a part of her. Her eyes change. She sees more colours, greater contrast. Her sense of small sharpens, accompanied by a blinging headache as the structure of her nasal passages changes. But she can handle it. She can keep the body horrid away from her mind.
Then day four dawns, and she realizes it’s happened again. She’s been unmade, and she doesn’t recognize what’s left of her. Her limbs are wrong, her whole body is wrong, the way she sees the world is wrong. Only her mind is still hers, trapped in something she’s been made to become. Again.
[[OOC: Anyone else who doesn't already have a team and feels like taking part in one hell of an acid trip come to life can just jump in and we'll make it up as we go along, or you can message me first to set up something more concrete.
Also, I don't mind getting tags in action-spam if you don't mind replies that will come back in prose.]]
Natasha Romanoff | MCU | OTA
Natasha is a passable field medic. She can perform triage style medicine, remove foreign objects, stop bleeds, stitch open wounds. She’s not the neatest, but she’s quick. It’s draining, though, and there are actual doctors doing much better work than she could ever hope to.
So she leans into her strengths. She takes shifts guarding the camps, sometimes by herself and sometimes with a partner, protecting both refugees and volunteers from outside threats, but mostly from one another. On most of her patrols,there isn’t much to do. She breaks up petty squabbles, which are inevitable with tensions rising so high and so many people in such a small space. The days are surprisingly quiet, though, most of the time. So she finds herself just offering help, full stop. She moves cots and small tables in the tents, and she’s started just carrying around rolls of tape, a few cans of spray paint, finding that people feel better about having nothing much of their own when they’re able to showcase and personalize what little is left. Children, in particular.
She approaches it with the patience and understanding of someone who has been there, who has lost everything and had to start again. More than once. She knows this despair, and the thin thread of hope.
phase iii
The jungle is almost a relief. At least the problems here all have the same solutions. Run away, or kill it, with very few exceptions. The trek is exhausting. It clears her mind. It gives her a focus. A simple goal. Point A to point B, and stay alive to make it back.
It isn’t until the second day that things start getting dicey, that her body begins changing, senses heightened, reflexes sharper, and no real cause she can find. It doesn’t bother her much, though, because this place is tucked up and magic and shit happens, the environment is unpredictable and can mess with your mind.
It’s not until the third day that she realizes it’s not the environment. It’s her. She’s changing. It’s painful. Her skin dries and cracks, bleeds, reforms as scales. She can feel her body growing extra components, nictitating membranes coming in like sandpaper against her eye before it calms, settled, feels like it’s always been a part of her. Her eyes change. She sees more colours, greater contrast. Her sense of small sharpens, accompanied by a blinging headache as the structure of her nasal passages changes. But she can handle it. She can keep the body horrid away from her mind.
Then day four dawns, and she realizes it’s happened again. She’s been unmade, and she doesn’t recognize what’s left of her. Her limbs are wrong, her whole body is wrong, the way she sees the world is wrong. Only her mind is still hers, trapped in something she’s been made to become. Again.
[[OOC: Anyone else who doesn't already have a team and feels like taking part in one hell of an acid trip come to life can just jump in and we'll make it up as we go along, or you can message me first to set up something more concrete.
Also, I don't mind getting tags in action-spam if you don't mind replies that will come back in prose.]]