Ripping the Band Aid Off
| Ripping the Band Aid Off | |
|---|---|
| Date of Cutscene: | 23 February 2019 |
| Location: | Avenger's Mansion |
| Synopsis: | Summary needed |
| Cast of Characters: | Black Panther, Spider-Woman (Drew) |
As she moved silently along the hardwood floors of the mansion, Okoye considered that this was probably as safe a place as any. Yet she would never feel his protection was adequate outside of the royal palace itself.
No. Not even there, actually.
But this would have to do. And so she protected him here, both with and against his orders. Tonight was one of the rare times with though she knew not why, only responded to the summons.
The private den's decor was luxurious, as so much of the mansion. He sat at the single oak desk, head slumped upon his hand, and just visible past the back of the plush leather chair. Three of the crystal decanters normally found in the liquor cabinet sat instead on the desk, out of place, and each empty but for the meagerest portion of brown liquid in one.
Okoye stepped into the room and nearer to the desk, spotting the thrice-folded letter lying upon it. The paper seeming to try to curl itself back closed along those creases, leaving only part of the contents visible.
I know you even tried to be just a friend. But it isn't that I cannot handle you caring about me. It is that I cannot handle me caring about you.
Okoye turned, intent on going as quietly as she had come but his raspy-smooth voice stopped her, speaking their native tongue. "I will return to the embassy to sleep tonight." No sound of the alcohol on his voice, then. That would be a comfort denied him.
Okoye's back straightened. "Yes my king. Do you need things from your room, or shall we go to your ship now?"
"Go on ahead to the ship. I will join you there. I have something to do first."
The book she slept on made for a poor pillow, though at least she had somehow closed it this time rather than add to the creases already straining its spine. Her eyes took in the LED display of the clock showing 2:47. Her fingers moved without conscious thought to straighten the book to a precise 45-degree angle upon the desk.
Everything about the room looked correct. Organized. Every item aligned with those beside it. Of course all were properly labeled. And yet, something felt different.
Stifling a yawn, her mismatched slippers made scuffling noises on the hardwood floors as they traversed the path to the kitchen as if installed with an autopilot. But then her sensitive ears caught the sound of metal skittering across ceramic tile, pushed by a multitude of broom bristles.
"Really did a number on it, eh?" a man's voice said within the kitchen at the end of the hallway.
"You can say that again. At least it's easier to move all of these smaller pieces than the whole thing at once," another replied amidst more sounds of sweeping, and the distinctive dull reverbrations of heavy items being tossed into thick plastic trash cans.
"Any idea what set Hulk off this time?"
"No clue. I find it best not to ask. I'm just surprised the carnage was this limited. Normally half the room is trashed, and a hole in the ceiling and roof to boot," the second voice replied.
"Well, on the bright side, it was near time to replace this fridge anyway. It could make a quite a racket sometimes."