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Wanda Maximoff technically has an address people can find. The only address she is known to have reroutes to a SHIELD sorting facility where, no doubt, they look with great trepidation on her purchases. From there, someone gets the unhappy assignment trotting off to deliver that letter, package, seed, pipe bomb or crystal to the appropriate venue. Some have an upsetting habit of disappearing on their own. Others wait at the desk she never really goes to, though for formality's sake it's all handed. Sometimes the couriers vanish into the Greenwich Village area and presumably find her at an apartment as forgettable as any. Others go lost in the bowels of the Library of Congress. Most? Most go to the Avengers Mansion where Jarvis, Friday or whatever iteration of not-Vision watches over things. Blame Tony Stark for that.
Today's delivery? Dull. A few internet applications, twenty pieces of fanmail, a postcard from Upper Volta (post-dated by about 57 years), a small box with four stamps, and a much larger box stamped with the smiley face of Lex Lutho— Amazon. Amazon indeed. That happy packaging sprayed with blue and black satisfaction reminds all and sundry that the USPS will not be daunted by rain, storm, nuclear fallout or Avengers Mansion security.
Now only if that explained why it jingles suspiciously. Or has 'This side up' crumpled from a cruel conveyer belt.
Or Wanda abruptly steps out from the trees in Central Park. The city's lungs are also the easiest way for her to bypass the subway system — enclosed spaces, bad tactically — or walk down the sidewalk — cold, blowy windy day, bad from a hair perspective.
*
The man standing at the small antique desk tucked to one side of the main foyer of the mansion peruses the stack of envelopes as one might a hand of cards. Fanned in one grip of fingers, he frowns thoughtfully down at them. Internet…internet…oh, something for Banner. Fanmail, no doubt. More fanmail, addressed to Thor…to Tony…three to Tony, geez, and aw. Steve pauses at the last one, a smaller greeting card-sized envelope in white with address written in crayon. The scribbles all over it in cheery patriotic colors let on who it's meant for even before he reads the neat adult handwriting beneath. A little smile brings forth the ghost of a dimple to one side.
The Captain glances up towards the door at the distant sound of a taxi horn. Kneejerk wariness leaves his true-blue eyes after a second and he goes back to making certain nothing imperative's in-hand. All clear. The postcard is given a leery glance and placed on the side-table…and sloooowly slid off to one side.
"Hmph. Post office is a liar if this's how they treat mail," he mutters as he picks up the package delivered earlier. It does, in fact, make a soft musical chiming from within and he does not continue on in his intent to shake it. A second look at the name and Steve blows a slow sigh. Yes, a good thing he hadn't rattled it like a curious kid at Christmas. Miss Maximoff does order the oddest things. He pulls out his phone from his jean pocket and sets the package aside to type with both thumbs: Received a package here, stop by and get it any time. - Steve. Blip, off the text goes towards Wanda.
*
Watery, aged handwriting in a dim scrawl reveals itself to a look. The front is a picture in black and white of a beach, handcolored in spots to give the foliage some detail, but that has gone deeply askew with time. The little figures prancing around on the beach of what probably serves as a huge river are uniformly white. Which unfortunately fits colonial Upper Volta.
'Mimsy,
Having a fine time down here. Rod and Blowsy had time of their lives on a riverboat. Something isn't sitting right with Alice's stomach so we will stay another night at the resort. Of course hot, sticky, and better than jolly old Eng in Feb! Wish you were here.
- Thomas'
The address is certainly meant for somewhere in the vicinity, but the simple transposition of a digit in very fancy handwriting — again, aged — means that the neighbouring villa probably was intended as the primary destination. The spidery signoff of "Thomas" ends up with another note scrawled on the bottom. "* Queens Forever!!!!! *"
It's a very good thing his phone isn't close or else it might start making panicky noises, glurking and blorping. Instead it has only to deal with the subtle tension of bobbing transmissions to something a half-block away. Quarter. She moves up the walk easily enough, scowling at the ugly little van parked on the sidewalk. So much for privacy but this is Central Park and Fifth Avenue. What yards?
*
*
The phone seems to hiccup before the text fully makes it off. Given his subtle, if well-known, dislike of modern technology wherein a quick fix isn't as easy as taking a monkey wrench to a loose bolt, Steve glowers briefly down at the lit screen before blacking it out and slipping it away into his pocket again. While he waits for the Witch to arrive, his attention wanders back to the aged postcard once more.
With a soft grunt of renewed interest, he carefully picks it up. Fingerpads gloss along the aged writing having bled out into the thin paper-board of the postcard itself. A little snort. "'Mimsy. And they were from England…" As if able to see through the walls of the fine mansion, Steve glances in both directions before frowning back down at the address again. "I'll check with the neighbors, see if they recognize anybody. Bet somebody's been wondering about this," he hazards quietly to himself.
His eyes rise towards the door once more. The Captain doesn't have a sixth sense so well known to those of the Mystic Arts, but gut instinct serves well enough. Something Witchy this way comes.
*
The phone mostly has to chime to tell the one right there, a longer travel time to the tower than its actual destination noted. Therein lies the result: a young woman in black, cloaked in a sheath of rubicund leather. Her hair falls in wild abandon around her, curling under, any attempt to straighten it unfortunately obliterated by the wind and the weather. The moaning breezes blast through the tunnels forged by tall buildings, siphoned upon the bare-limbed trees in the park. They clatter and moan while windows hum in a harmonic cadence threatening her arrival. As hardly terrifying as it is. Respectfully, the risk run to Steve Rogers is nigh minimal, barring the sudden collapse of peace again.
Mimsy's postcard is ancient. The approval of Queens is in a blunt blue biro, totally different handwriting, fresh. But it sits there innocently enough, probably someone all kinds of excited and not much else. Steve will have little else to go by as a problem, since the thing is a pretty vintage memory of a time still living in a few people. He has the other pieces of mail to worry about. Does he want to save 2.3 per annum on his credit card bills? Does he /have/ credit card bills?
The witch takes very little time to reach the doorstep, alighting on it. A snag of her laces tightens a boot fitted less than perfectly to her shin. Then she holds up a hand with, you guessed it, that pass card she has no interest in dragging around. "Wanda Maximoff." Accentation gives her away; the English accent she could possess is missing entirely. Then through, one can hope. She makes it all of six steps before seeing mail. /The/ mail. Her mail? Oh dear.
*
*
The mansion's interior security system scans the pass card and confirms, via voice recognition, that the wielder of aforementioned card is indeed none other than Wanda Maximoff. The locks to the Avenger's mansion revolve open with a soft 'click' and the door opens of its own accord. Invisible Jeeves, ahoy. Already on the approach towards the portal that allows in both chill sunshine and air alike, Steve has the mysteriously musical Amazon package in one hand.
"Hey Wanda." Despite the professed habits of near-impeccable manners and known reservations with anybody but a few chosen and all of his Avengerly companions, he wears a friendly smile for the Witch. "Dunno how it ended up here, but there you go." Final courier to hand off the package, he then looks beyond her to the street outside of the long stretch of entry pathway. "Wish I could say it wasn't a bit beat-up on its way, but hopefully you don't have to go complain about it." He does give the crumpled top a sympathetic wince.
*
Wanda Maximoff, in the house. A house. She looks about in a distrustful survey of her surroundings, in case the house plants might be somehow dangerous or the prospective staircase has extra legs and a boy living beneath it. The usual epitaph for trust on display isn't thrown away with carelessly. Her eyes blink and the invisible presence around her shifts out of existence, motes of red floating in her eyes and coalescing in a droplet that bleeds off. Nothing quite so exciting as seeing science in action, is there? She moves gracefully enough, no signs of injury, only that fading air of distraction that is the nature of a mystic in a new place. Reacquaintance counts for something.
"Hello." The word breaks into three syllables on her tongue, rugged country to vocally traverse. Manners that blithely connect up with that strange sense of hospitality won't deny themselves expression now, especially when he earns that small nod. Beginnings of a look, maybe even a crooked lift of the mouth. "I never ask. They will always find us, these things. Sometimes I do feel much like it is a Christmas story." Who the hell tells Christmas stories involving blown up buildings? Who knows. She takes the box from Steve, carefully, gingerly. As though it contains a glass vial of volatile liquids that shouldn't be in the mail. So, of course? Shaken.
*
*
The AI-managed door swings quietly shut and closes without loud rattle, boom, or anything foreboding. Steve is silently happy for this. No reason to let in the cold — he dealt with it for long enough those years back. He tucks away his hands inside the pockets of his comfortable red sweatshirt, emblazoned on the front with the heavily-publicized Avenger's 'A' logo.
The way she handles the box has him wincing a little more heavily. It brings a furrow to the refined slope of his brow and above his nose. "Y'know, I didn't rattle it around myself, but it sounded delicate." He glances up from the box to the Witch's face and notes her eyes are their normal if shuttered color. "D'you have some…" A hand appears and draws a circular motion once as if to dredge up his thought. "Trick that makes them all show up to you? If it's not…nosy, what d'you normally order? Or what arrives to you?" The man's honestly curious given the open expression and lifted wheat-gold brows.
*
A little bit of rattling satisfies her interest. "It would have bitten me if it were bad." This is apparently the truth and fact of matters. Who wants to deal with that? Her flat approach to the world could be construed as less than friendly but it isn't her normal bearing. Cool, normal, not this level of being out of sorts. She is content as she looks at the box and tucks it under her arm. "It is a little. But the real thing will not break. This way I know about the contents. Better than giving to my brother the box and let him shake it." Because that bodes well for any sort of liquid compound whatsoever, or something made of anything less resilient than titanium alloy.
Her breath sloughs away in a tired murmur, and she looks back to Steve. Whatever sleep evades her under the moment isn't brilliantly sharp or heavy. A burden weighted elsewhere. "I have an address. I live… places." A wave of her free hand. "Here. Sancta. Apartment. I do not name them. Bad to do, too easy to hunt me. I do not bring my troubles to bed. Do you?"
*
*
Biting boxes. Eeeep. Pragmatic as the Captain is, he mentally notes to handle the next package accidentally delivered here in her name with more care than even as he just had shown. He nods slowly and thoughtfully, taking the information shared at face value. The mention of her speedster brother, however, entices forth another one of those half-smiles, genuine if not full upon his face. It's a one-sided dimpling this time around.
"Not if I can help it. Funny how the troubles sometimes seem to follow us home anyways, huh." Steve blithely shrugs. "Figure it's part and parcel to the gig." He means the Avengers as a whole and includes Wanda with a nod. "Glad I was able to get it to you though, if it's delicate and important." With his own exhalation, the soldier then briefly shifts into business. "Anything to report? Rumbles from your end of the spectrum?"
*
Them's Inviting Boxes.
*
Biting boxes with great big teeth. Fangs. Rows of fangs. Let the imagine extend to every box, parcel, envelope, satchel, sack and salesperson wandering around New York. The imagination should run wild. There are many dangerous in the vastness of creation and all of them would be pleased to dig their claws into Captain America's optimistic shell. He must stand there with a dimpled smile facing the truth there are horrible things hidden in uniforms, innocuous seams concealing great, horrid maws of great horrid teeth.
Munch munch.
"It is not right to bring in doom. I let it stay out there." Wanda speaks with troubled conviction on this. Mind, she also sleeps with a knife under the pillow. "Keep your trouble not to your pillow but the street." A sharp nod at the door. As if ever works out that way. Reports are a strange thing as she considers him. She shakes her head slightly. "The dead zone is wrong. It always will be a scar. I have to see it up close."
*
Steve follows her directive nod and seems to squint across the distance towards the zone in question. It is a blight upon the city, where the UN building's remains lie scattered in ash and slagged steel. The stories are myriad. Haunted? Potentially. Irradiated? Possibly. New tidbits continue to filter in, but they need filtering in turn.
"Wouldn't mind having you along for a reconnaisance of the area. It's been under control, but you can see things some of us can't." He glances back to Wanda and while the knowledge of the zone is a perpetual weight in the back of his mind, he endeavors not to let it show upon his fine facial features. "Text you if I can gather up a few folks and we'll travel as a unit? Strength in numbers and all."
*
*
"Ground or air?" Wanda seems to treat this with a significant amount of consideration, though it's a backhanded comment that might take someone aback. Someone not familiar with the odd investments of his team, and to be fair, her file is conspicuously blank in many places. "I can bring them in too. We can open up a window to look, safe for anyone who is worried about sick. Do we have clothes to not be sick?" Haz-mat uniform is not a word that fits well in her lexicon. She rolls her free wrist as an example. "I look to see nothing comes out of there, using it to lair. There of course will be any number of things drawn to the place. Its poison sings and her poisonous nature knows it, tasting, tormented, teasing a way along the boundary. "I will not let it go unwatched. At least we can go together and know what we are looking at."
*
*
"Yep. I'll be on the ground. If you wanna be airbourne, it'd be another edge for us," confirms the soldier. "If you wanna wear a Haz-mat suit, I'll put out feelers and see if there are options that won't hamper you in-flight. Either that or we take a Geiger counter and stay out of the major click-range. You're not wrong about a window." Steve's eyes go distant again as he gets to mulling over approaches on the spot.
"Still…" The word escapes on a sigh as he looks back to Wanda and gives her a friendly smile yet again, one of those rare sights on the stoic man. "Good to know we've got eyes on the place even when we're not present. The team appreciates you for it. Hope you know it."
*
The carved smile is so faint, it doesn't exist. It's so slight that not a moment passes without its probable death sliding away. A hint, a chase of it. She holds the box still, satisfied it will not be likely to crash or fall apart. The sigh hovers out of sight. "Both. It is important you see above. Not only below." Her hand gestures slightly. "Down there is not the same. I cannot say what lies down there. It will not come to the sky as easily." A small, sharp look cast back over her shoulder sees nothing. "I am unconvinced the threat is quiet. And when it wakes, I will be there to serenade it back into the Abyss."
*
"And we'll be the better off for it. You pack a mean punch as it stands. Hopefully it doesn't come to needing it." Steve means it kindly, for the necessity of involving Chaos magic — even if he'd be hard-pressed to define precisely how the Witch completes her tasks in her complexities in crimson light-fields — means there's a huge issue indeed. His phone chimes again, though the sound is a much weirder warble than normal, and when he pulls it out, the screen is showing that he has a text. However, it's translating into gibberish coding text rather than simple English lettering.
"'m sorry, I think I need to take this…?" By the lilt in his tone, the Captain's not certain. He gives Wanda an apologetic smile. "Say hi to the wizard for me. I'll stop by for tea sometime and he can… Y'know, Tony said he could pull a rabbit out of a hat, but I think it's rude to ask that. I'll just have tea." With that, Steve presses a few buttons on his phone's screen and then comes the muted sound of a line ringing — and breaking up — and ringing more clearly the farther he moves away into the interior of the mansion.
"Yeah, hey, it's — can you hear me? No? Lemme move over here…" Down into the hallway he goes. "Can you hear me now? Good."