Oh, someone has brass ones.

Natasha blinks as splattered blueberry goo drips down her face. She'd sort of been under the impression that this would have been solved simply by her getting up and making it known she was here.

Guess not.

Whether or not the bird is hit is promptly ignored as Natasha picks up the sausage form her plate and whips it across the tables with a sideways flick of her wrist toward the rogue.