Summary:Reunion. Plotting. Planning. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
Related LogsTheme SongNone |
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Rain lashes the windows, hot weather bowing to the storm racing down the Green Mountains into the Hudson Valley and the island beyond. Manhattan is drenched and the umbrellas popping up like mushrooms. The sights and sounds of the city are muted behind a white noise screen, though the splash of wheels on the street and the rumble of engines protesting the humidity persist. The witch herself is somehow tuned into this, sitting cross-legged on the rooftop. She floats about six inches off the mat under her, and the efforts not to get wet are limited to wearing a coat with the hood up. No candles here; there are potted plants arranged around her in a semi-circle, no surprise as they can help root her. And there's a box of pastries from one of the Russian bakeries close to the disaster zone, just waiting. A lure. What's the trap?
Pietro Maximoff is fast. Everyone who knows the man is sure to agree to that fact. But even he is not fast enough to dodge the drops of rain that fall from the sky. As such, the blur of color that marks his progress to the observant eye collects a fair share of water as he races along the sidewalk to the Avenger's Mansion, the moisture seeming to spread into an unshed sheet as he flies up the stairs and then through the interior of the building on his climb upward. Not a drop is lost as he hurtles along the stairway and bursts out onto the rooftop. He skids to a stop as he steps free of the door, and only then does the water leave him like a small wave to crash to the floor of the rooftop. Pietro stands in a black rain coat, the hood cast back from his head and his hair plastered to his forehead from the water. "Sister," he says by way of greeting.
Running between the raindrops would be a bit much. Mustn't make the gods jealous, any more than they already are in their distant domains. The shimmer of a rainbow thrown from the sky or across the streets in a trail would be enough to halt some in their tracks, if only to wonder at the smattering of a puddle from feet they can't see, from pumping arms they can't detect. But there is a bond with a twin defying gravity and physics, so much as it defies all comprehension. A knowing, innately, of where one's self is: the turn of the head, the lift of the chin, blindly orienting on the pull in a given direction calling to her from the void of the self. The golden-green eyes widen, returning to the moment instead of staring into the void. No more distraction from the immense play of leylines here and there, she draws in a deeper breath than likely done in an hour. Wanda is still seated thus, uncanny in her proximity to the ground without contact, scorning its presence. Her mouth parts for that life giving breath, water spattered all about when he halts. She's bound to be hit by a little. "Are you going to shake, too?" A mild inquiry from the younger, her head tilted a fraction. Transian, as always; English isn't her preferred language, a hard one to master when they're both children of another continent and almost other times. Her mouth tips up though. All is right with the world even when it isn't.
Pietro stands looking at his sister and at her question the right corner of his mouth lifts in a somewhat cocky, every bit mischevious smirk. "I likely could, if you would like a little bit more of a shower this morning," he says with the hint of amusement present in his voice. He walks closer to his sister, though his eyes drift away from her to eye the box of pastries as he says, "What are you doing up here? It's raining, you know?"
That cocky smirk is as familiar as her fleeting, rare smiles. Very few ever have the benefit of receiving that benediction, and not for more than a moment. He's the exclusion to the rule, and she tips her head. "You would dare?" Her eyes hold that kindled spark, darker in the heart than his pallor but every bit as risky to brave without accepting consequences thus. She indicates the box with a nudge of her elbow, as though the waterproofed selection of sweet rolls and fluffy, light creations is not meant to be devoured lock, stock, and one crispy crumb. "Listening," she says. "The world is always shifting and troubled. If we paid attention we might be able to deal with the situation."
"I think you know the answer to that," Pietro answers easily, that smirk still lingering about his features as he reaches up with both hands to tug the hood of his jacket up over his head. One might be curious what the magnitude of sibling squabbles resulted in with the two Maximoff twins, given their skillset. But where Pietro is concerned, he seems quite comfortable to tease and push his luck with his sister. He reaches down and flips the box open long enough to snag a treat from the inside and take a bite before turning to cast his gaze out over the city. "Hmm… I don't hear anything. What's the city telling you today?"
The answer is graven in his bearing, hidden in every line of the familiar form so unlike her own. So like their unknown father, that being said. She doesn't fight for the pastries, even if her metabolism is every bit as cursed as his with none of the benefits found in a speedster. Hungry is a state neither of them should be, and none of the ugly heads of hunger appear, at least not at the moment. She waits long and gracefully until he is finished, and then nods to Pietro, reaching out to claim something of her own dusted in powdered sugar. A complete mess in the rain, but hastily munching would be a welcome matter. The nibble around the edges is dainty, hurried all the same. One never knows when an angry eagle might show up, snatching the food out of the woman's hand. Because sometimes fate works in strange ways. She watches Pietro with pleasure, nonetheless, proximity something that satisfies. "It's not unhappy. Dirty, sickened, always sick. Too much pollution here. The disaster zone is an open wound. None has shut it fully."
Similarly, Pietro finds some peace and comfort in being close to his sister. Generally forced to fly rapidly through his day to day in an effort to calm his mind's demand for activity at the risk of extreme boredom, he seems quite content to stand there on the rooftop at Wanda's side. He nods his head as he looks out to the city, considering her words and seemingly agreeing. "Yes, well. I don't think that there are any that would argue that the city is dirty. It makes me miss home, from time to time." He brings his gaze back around to Wanda and questions, "How have you been?"
She lives in a slower frame. Accelerating to his is immensely draining, and besides, what would Pietro to have to do with a /second/ speedster? Would they speed crochet? Speed tell bad knock-knock jokes? Date? All that being said, she at least feeds the beast and licks her fingers clean of the sugar with a diligence rarely seen elsewhere. Rain splatters off her coat, showing no signs of slowing, but she isn't hurrying in. "I miss it too." A turn of her head east, invariably. "Whatever we call home." How many cities, how many places? The wandering path is long and chill, though she leans in slightly towards him all the same. Pietro's hair might be white and wet or dry as a fox's pelt, but she watches. "Watching." Which translates to the dreaded /bored/. "Someone asked me what I thought of SHIELD. If I felt more purpose here than there, in a way. I hadn't the heart to say neither gives the purpose needed. We sit on our hands too much."
As Wanda leans in, Pietro remains firm to present a stable base should she need it, likely much the same as he has tried to do for much of their lives as the older, protective Maximoff. He grins at her evaluation of the organization they belong to and nods his agreement. "Yes. I feel like we got more accomplished on our own before we came to this country. When it was just you and I on the hunt. I suppose that there is no reason that we couldn't take things into our own hands once again." He turns his gaze from the city to study Wanda.
"Not enough for us to sit by. There is a scar there, still bleeding wrongness into the world." Not evil. Evil is a hard thing to describe. Wanda shakes her head, hesitating a little. "We can try. What can we do to fix that? The Avengers wait for the dangers. SHIELD hunts them, but they can be so…" At a loss for words, she shakes her head. Getting even this much out of her is rare, as though she stores up all her vocal energy to release in a torrent rather than drips and drabs through the week. Dark hair falls over her face, brushed aside with the back of her knuckles. "What do you want to do? We can hunt here."
"Well, we could start by looking into some of the wrongness that is seeping from that scar," Pietro says with a shrug of his shoulders. "Do we know anything about where it comes from or why it is coming? Maybe some of your other friends?" Pietro doesn't name whoever Wanda's other friends might be, but they both know that he is not a member of Wanda's more Arcane brotherhood.
"It came from the attack by the sentries." Sentinels, they have a name, but they're not necessarily all that well known. Wanda shakes her head. "I found a demon near there. A man hunting them, but not wisely. He seemed unsure what he went to." Her shoulders lift and fall, but her gaze flickers all the same in the direction of the zone. "Not nearly enough. I should ask them. They are hiding most of the time. I have not heard of anyone saying they should seal the breach."
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