words-writ-in-starlight:
robotmango:
i realize i’m maybe like, the Nichest of markets here, but i really really really desperately want to watch further adventures of Diana Prince, Curator of Antiquities™
…like, imagine the interdepartmental meetings
Diana: we have recently acquired several exquisite pieces of very early minoan kamares ware. i feel a refresh of the gallery might encourage our visitors to–
some marketing dipshit: look, we can’t get people in the door for pottery. we need another big show, like can you get a vermeer or–
Diana of Themiscrya, Amazon, God-Killer, Daughter of Hippolyta: pottery is important
some marketing dipshit, lightly pissing himself: i agree
Not only will I join you in the Nichest of Markets, but I am suddenly stricken by the dismay that can only come from a depressing awareness of how niche this market is. Does anyone…like…have fic?
“Here you are, Ms. Prince,” says the mail currier. He grabs the tablet from his back pocket, presenting it to her. “If you’ll just sign right there…”
“Of course,” says Diana. She scrawls her name, and the currier dutifully passes over the package. It is reasonably sized, stocky, with the words FRAGILE, HANDLE WITH CARE written along the edges of the Wayne Enterprises logo. “Same time next week?”
The currier laughs. “More than likely, I’d wager. Weird that Mr. Wayne has taken a sudden interest in supplementing the Louvre with his own private collection, but hey. Billionaires, right? Who knows what they’re thinking.”
Diana thinks of the museums in Gotham, filled to the brim with some of the world’s most beautiful antiquities and artifacts, and about Bruce Wayne who cares not a lick about any one them but takes ownership of them anyway for the sole purpose of having free exhibitions open to the general public five days a week. She smiles, agrees, and waves the currier off, until the next time.
She is examining the dish (Uruk period, likely kiln production, as it is a strange almost-blue tint that suggests a high-temperature controlled oven), when Isabell in charge of Eastern Eurasian arts knocks lightly on her half-open door and lets herself in.
“New delivery?” she asks, nodding to the dish.
“Yes.” Carefully, Diana puts the dish back in its box. She makes a note to have one of her assistants come by later to pick it up and send it down to the lab for testing. “The meeting?”
“Oh, uh.” Isabell in charge of Eastern Eurasian arts clears her throat and looks briefly at the floor, embarrassed. Diana lets her have a moment, used to the reaction. “Yeah. Want to walk together?”
Diana is already walking around her, throwing her disposable gloves in the garbage as she passes. “Sure,” she says anyway and waits for Isabell by the door. Isabell jolts when she realizes Diana is already ahead of her. Diana politely chooses to ignore that.
It’s only when she is seated besides Isabell in charge of Eastern Eurasian arts and Haruki in charge of philanthropic outreach that she remembers: Timothy in charge of corporate marketing is going to be at this meeting as well.
She nearly groans aloud, already anticipating his tirade on diminishing returns this financial quarter and his chart predicting a downward trend of attendance among younger visitors.
Timothy in charge of corporate marketing does not disappoint. After the heads of every department say their piece and give the customary updates, Timothy in charge of corporate marketing has an assistant hold out a poster board detailing their declining revenue and inability to attract attention. For nearly half the appointed time for the meeting, he speaks, pointing back to his poster board at regular intervals with frothing enthusiasm.
“Well,” says Diana, when Timothy in charge of corporate marketing finally allows the department heads to speak. “We have recently acquired several exquisite pieces of Early Minoan Kamares ware. I feel a refresh of the gallery might encourage our visitors to—”
“Ms. Prince,” Timothy in charge of corporate marketing interrupts. He is smiling, not unkindly, in the way a headmaster might at a particularly rambunctious child. Diana feels her fist curl, despite herself. “We can’t get people in the door for pottery.” He laughs. “No, no, we’d need something bigger. Grander, you understand. Something that will hold our visitors’ attention. Perhaps if you could get a Vermeer, yes? I hear you’ve been receiving packages from Bruce Wayne himself, and he has a lovely piece, if I do remember correctly. Maybe try asking—”
The way Timothy in charge of corporate marketing says asking, Diana knows that is far from what he actually means. She is about as likely to follow through with that as she is to ask Timothy for anything.
As calmly as she can, she places both hands atop the table and uncurls her fists. Below her fingers, a minuscule part of the grained wood chips. She extends her spine, sitting straight, and beside her, Isabell in charge of Eastern Eurasian arts swallows.
“Tim,” she cuts in. “For how many quarters have our returns, as you keep reminding us, diminished?”
Timothy in charge of corporate marketing blinks. He squints. “Well, I would say for nearly six quarters now.”
“Hm. And remind me, how long have you been with us here?”
The room has the same quality of quiet that Diana is intimately familiar with, bordering on dangerous.
“Nearly six quarters, if memory serves,” says Diana.
“Now, Ms. Prince,” Timothy in charge of corporate marketing blusters, “if you are implying that somehow I am responsible for the state of our returns—”
“I am not implying anything. Just perhaps that big shows and singular centerpieces are not the way for us to go. Isabell?”
Isabell in charge of Eastern Eurasian arts jolts and looks up at her, wide-eyed. “Yes?”
“Didn’t you recently acquire some newly discovered Jomon pieces?”
“Yes.”
“Of course, it’s a matter of opinion, but if we were to redesign the gallery to incorporate the different wares from different eras and locales, it might encourage our visitors to learn more about them and could even encourage repeat visits.”
“I suppose…” allows Timothy in charge of corporate marketing.
Diana stares at him, the same way she might have once stared down her own mother to let her leave Themyscira or even looked down on Ares as he tried to tempt her to his side. She stares at him, and remembers with a certainty that has been granted to her after years in man’s world that he is but a man and like any man, he is fragile and breakable, when she is not.
“Pottery is important, Tim,” she says.
Trembling, unable to meet her eye, Timothy in charge of corporate marketing agrees.
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