1963-11-30 - Conspiracies of Kings
Summary: Maximus of the Inhumans thinks he can use a witch helpfully. Little does he know…
Related: N/A
Theme Song: None
wanda maximus 


Attilan is astoundingly quiet. Maximus has sent his people into a curfew, and no unnecessary movement on the streets. Guards are heavy in the palace, but also…there are other humanoids. These creatures appear human at first glance, but the way they stand without reaction, stare into space, they share something with passive zombies. They are thick about the palace and dressed identically. The style of the palace is most closely related to Mediterranean, with round rooms and open spaces, no bare wood, but everything has a stone or stucco finish.

*

Maximus himself is in his throne room, the crown of Attilan in his hands. Honestly, its a little dated and stupid looking, and Maximus' expression seems to indicate that he wishes it were cooler.

*

Suppose you happen to be a young woman of no particular means in a city the size of New York, one awash in chilly weather but no hints of snow yet. Where might you be? Knock out the obvious: shop, restaurant, university, pushing a baby buggy somewhere. Try fifteen feet off the ground in southern Brooklyn where émigrés settled in the last forty years. She crouches in an open window, hunched down to fit inside the bungalow's flimsy second-floor confines. What passes as a decorative porch overlooks the fire-burnt shell of a duplex. One side is clearly damaged from being engulfed, the wooden fingers sticking out in charred shards while the other side closer to her is marginally more intact. Brick gives way to soot painted wood siding, the next window broken but for shards of broken glass coated in ash.

Some efforts to keep scrappers from disturbing the site amount to a sign, a bit of tape, and boards sagging from the front. Whatever destroyed the house was recent, not today.

Her red leather coat does a fine job concealing knife and gun, or whatever else she deems essential. Why look at a burnt house? Good question. It could be the grey cat poking around at ground level, where most intrepid cats wouldn't ever be.

*

Maximus moves to the bowl of water to spy on the various people he's keeping an eye on. A swish of the crystal and then he can see Wanda, easier than the last few times. Ping! "Ugh, where is she now? Is she homeless?"

*

If only he knew the bittersweet truth of his own question. The girl doesn't move, although under the course of observation, she gives every indication of long-term occupation of that spot. Long enough for legs to cramp, knees to protest, and joints to harden up. Yet who is more the cat, the brunette alert to the felines activities, or the sleek grey beast paying around in the ashes, nosing at a burnt section of wall with its proud whiskers?

The cat looks nonplussed. It continues about its business in its own time, which is to say, it's a bloody imperious beast. Wanda Maximoff is not substantially different. Albeit she turns her head slightly, and pinches the hilt of the blade sheathed on her leather belt, wrapped above the black molten lines of her thigh. The pool can't convey sound, can it? She looks askance, lips moving slightly. Or she's blowing him a kiss. Either way.

*

The pool is visual only, and he can only sometimes see the cat. He can always see Wanda, when he's working it right, that is. He pulls his chin in against his neck, studying the image he sees with a curious gaze. Max is almost about as lost as she is, when she suddenly turns to blow him an ethereal kiss across hundreds of miles. He smiles faintly. "Ohhh…you definitely need to be my ally. I could get you a stool to perch on and everything." Of course she can't hear him, just feel that she's still being peered at.

*

A ring of garnet dust flows over Wanda's honey gold eyes, and she rests her feet against the worn wooden window frame. Rocking forward redistributes her weight, allowing her to stare down into the precipice a little further. The cat carries on its merry way, ignorant of an even bigger predator about to launch itself down. Her toe goes flat to the wall, and a slim motion blocked in this perspective does nothing obvious. Unless, of course, one is a mystic, codenamed Scarlet Witch.

She looks up, and in that brief moment, her face turns directly towards the scrying sensor. She stares up through the pool, distortions of water giving few overt blessings to an already memorable face. Sun-kissed skin framed by the pallid light of the day gives little expression other than observant regard…

Yes, Maximus, she's looking right back. Holes in reality go both ways.

*

Well then, at least she knows who the spy is. Max's somewhat familiar face shows a curious sort of surprise…and not-surprise, because he wouldn't be looking at her if he didn't think she was spectacular in some way. It takes him a moment to recognize that since she can possibly see him, he could communicate through the charades of an insane person.

First, he picks the crown back up. It is pretty big, and made out of a silvery metal, with two strips on the side that stick up, and two that stick down beside his face. But it is certainly a crown, rather than a helm, like Thor or Odin. He puts it on and then bows his head, like an introduction to his real self. Then he makes a gesture towards himself, and a questioning lift of his brow.

*

It would not be wise to ask this particular woman if she thinks the crown looks fetching on Maximus or the design is somehow stylish. She lacks that particular brand of sartorial knowledge.

Raised eyebrows match her searching look, the firm bow of her rosy mouth gathered into something of a circle. She gives the slightest nod; it takes no great or especial skill to ascertain what he asks. Slim fingers tap her bare brow, and then draws a question mark, curlicue shortchanged out of range of the vision. Curling a digit, she leans back against the window sill, projecting an open inquiry.

*

Maximus becomes more animated on the other side of the scrying hole. This is dangerous for him, because…he's pretty new at that whole thing. He smiles, takes the crown off, and then makes a series of gestures. First he points at her. Then he sticks two fingers straight down, and makes a 'walking' motion with them. Then he gestures to himself again. Then again. Then again and again. Then he starts talking, even though she can't hear him. His mouth moves, but he turns his head too much to really lip-read. He's definitely excited though.

*

The aperture doesn't widen any, but remains fixed to the size of the spell. Wanda can see through as clearly as he sees her, albeit the magical enhancement lends her shades of perception he might not fully possess. Her gaze commits the strange construct of polished metal to memory, its curves and its peaks leading to vertical pieces so utterly foreign to her eye. So this is what it means to rule and lead, all caught up in a bit of hammered metal as a symbol. So watches him walk and point to himself, eyes narrowed slightly. One finger is held up. Two. Three. Eventually ten with her shoulders shrugged at specific times, as though to seek a numerical value for how many times he points at himself. Maybe there are ten Maximi on the prowl. Wanda's not foolish enough to assume.

*

Maximus frowns. It is an expression of frustration, certainly. It cannot escape him, also, that his brother is mute, essentially, and has to deal with this shit all the time. He closes his eyes, then pops them open for another try. He points at her…and mouths some words. Then he points at himself again. Just once this time.

*

To her, it looks like he says, "Unto"

*

It pays to be the sorceress. Written words are somewhat important, after all. She slips her fingers into her pocket and pulls out a small spiral-bound notebook. Flipping through the ruled pages, she comes to a fresh spot. What shall one use to write, however? That proves to be a little more straightforward, a pen pulled from another jacket pocket. She scribbles «WHERE?» in block caps, and holds that up. To anyone on the street, it must look a bit odd, but who dares look to a burnt out duplex and the neighbouring house?

Strands that present themselves to the facets of divination beg to be pinched and adjusted, the fine changes slow and guided. She uses no incantation for this; it's not necessary. Narrowing her eyes, a shimmering wave passes invisibly over the window.

And a second later? Sound.

*

Maximus can be seen yelling, to someone not in her view. But when he suddenly hears the wind from a place that is not here, he looks sharply back to the bowl and leans over it. "You can hear me? Can you?" Eager, perhaps even…desperate..to be heard.

*

Her gaze holds all the promise of a sunset wrought in a mask of sunny gold and alabaster. The brunette dips her head in a nod, presumably capable of either reading lips or considering his response there. Her notebook gains another neat line of written letters in capitals, the way she writes them distinctly European.

«You call me several times. Why?»

Wanda taps her pen against the side of the notebook and holds it up, presumably within focus. It's a fairly accomplished feat for someone crouched in a window of a presumably vacant building.

*

About this time, a brunette male comes over and into view for a second. He hands Maximus the pencil and paper he was yelling for. The king writes out his own message on it, and boy its a lot when he finally shows it to her.

«You interest me. I am the ruler of a great people, but I am soon to be besieged.»

Maximus sends her a sorrowful expression, but there is something overdone about it. Of course there's something overdone about almost everything regarding him.

*

«You can speak.»

For a girl, her handwriting is much more like an architect's. It lacks any flourishes or hearts over the Is and smiley faces. She does not even put a rose on the end. Wanda has to focus slightly to read the details, for the scrying window is not precise in a way as she might wish. Easing off her heels, she settles upon the broad rim around the window. Legs dangle over the sides, giving her feet a rest from supporting her weight. Evidently there can be an end to her stamina after all. Boots dangle high above the ground, enough a simple jump would be awfully unpleasant did it go wrong: twisted ankle, broken shin, dislocated knee. Pen slanted over the pad of paper, her gaze remains fixed upon the man that none save her can see. And, evidently, hear.

Her head tips sideways, giving Maximum an expectant look.

*

"I am the King of a…hidden…powered people. I came to New York to find help, but, before I could, I was threatened and had to return to my city, and my people. The threat is there…my brother." Maximus looks mournful. "I need allies…to stop him." Maximus says, softly, and definitely putting his own little spin on the circumstances. None of it is exactly untrue, but he's definitely leaving out some details. He doesn't have a bad face. He can make a pout look pretty good. There's a vibe about him that says in another life he might have been a musician, or a poet. Something that involves drinking, smoking, and wearing a lot of black.

*

He might as well be speaking to a statue. A lifelike one, naturally, a beautiful thing created by a Roman or someone inspired by the hollow-eyed maidens of Greek temples. The features of her face do not immediately shift, hints of emotion contained largely to the fringes. One has to search to locate the traces, faded paint washed away to reveal the underlying translucent alabaster and tawny sandstone. Disbelief at least isn't present; neither is something akin to bouncing enthusiasm. Mind, this is a girl who rarely if ever laughs; she embodies something old and, by some notions, potentially as cold as her blood surely runs exquisitely hot given her native coloration. That proudly has to be earned.

«Why does he stop you?»

No, English isn't her first language; he has heard her accent, a fluid Eurasian creation rooted somewhere roughly in the Indo-European sphere of influence, as likely Greek as Russian.

*

Maximus has noticed her face. He can't help noticing her face, since its almost all he sees. His appreciation is different, though, than most men. Attraction is trumped by needs more pressing, making his gaze at her /honest/, even if the rest of him is bending the truth. He sees /her/, what little tastes of expression she gives him, and how her eyes are when she's changing her magic, or helping it. If she's ever felt Asgardian magic, Max's is identical. He spreads his hands. "He wants the crown. /He/ wants to be King and he will stop at nothing to accomplish this goal!"

*

Her magic, by contrast, belongs to something so rarely seen that it might as well be inconceivable. It behaves a little like Asgardian magic in some respects… and then completely not at all in others. The mystic arts give a charge to certain spells, and then whatever she has done to will herself to be heard, contains a taste of something entirely different.

"Mm." The sound actually rises above the street and the moaning wind moving around the sooty, burnt-out house. Her boots rasp against the wall. Looking down at the pad, she inscribes a few more words, mulling over what he has to say. Once again, she lifts the page for his regard.

«Your city — people? — won't protect you?»
«What do you mean to do to him? Would you ask your brother to go do something else? What do you want from me?»

Important questions, really.

*

"I protect my city, and I protect my people. They protect me. But he calls on Asgard. He calls on my traitor cousins, also in exile, and their mutant associates. I want you…." Max struggles with this part. Its a hard sell, and crazy as he is, he has to know that. "It would really…work out for me if you shoved my brother through a tear in space like that one you fixed up the other night. Not kill him. Just…" Max makes a little motion with his hand. "away."

*

That request takes her aback, pushing her into a quiet state of equilibrium and deep silence for a time. Maximus might even grow impatient with the brunette witch seated proverbially upon the doorstep. She controls nothing of that, the lines forged in a radiant bow upon her brow and the thoughtful line of her mouth pinched at the corners while contemplating what everything means. First comes translation, an assessment of the contents and sifting through the answers for hidden meanings. The visionary she may be requires no less, searching for diamonds in dross, exploring the entangled lines of a dynasty seeking her aid. This supposed king gives her the account she seeks, a vastly troubled and difficult issue put in her lap.

"You make him go," she finally says, her voice carrying over the distance, as clear as if he stood in a burnt-out ruin facing her. The cat shuffles around down there still. "He leaves. Is that it? You wish him well and raise your hidden people?"

*

Maximus hits a stumble when she speaks. "Do you mean…raise, as in lift up, or raze, as in set on fire and burn to the ground?" His own accent is elegant, but displaced from anywhere else on Earth, something…that English has evolved into. To Americans he probably sounds English, but to the English, he does not. "He is my brother. I have no wish to kill him."

*

The puzzled look from the young woman puts her at a disadvantage, but she nods to the first definition. "Guide and help. What are your goals for your people? Why should Asgard care about them?" A subtle slant to the name of the foreign realm marks it in a slightly odd way, for Wanda isn't native to English-speaking lands, but damn if her command over the other Teutonic languages and their Slavic cousins, if any, mean she pronounces it truer than most would attempt.

There may be too many questions, but her words are terse, thoughtful as she can give them. He wants her cooperation, she wants his understanding. "Who is this brother? You expect me to find him or you know and will show me?"

*

Maximus steeples his fingers in front of him, thoughtful. "I believe he hides. But, one of my cousins is not hidden. Crystal. She dwells in a mansion in Westchester, New York, where there are many other powered people. She knows where he is. The Hotel Chelsea is where one of my contacts still resides. He can give you the address." Maximus shows an edge of agitation, as well, not because she did anything wrong, but because he hadn't really thought to what he'd say once he got her attention. He just wanted. And that was enough.

*

Want, cousin to desire, is a dangerous thing. Exceptionally dangerous when unleashed as a tide, left to choose its own channel or carve one out. "I see." Acknowledging this with a wave of her hand, Wanda leans back a fraction towards the interior of the intact house. No signs of movement and no cries of dismay yet interrupt them. Her sunset eyes shimmer under those dark lashes drawn low, almost sleepily, though it could be hard to measure. "Your cousin knows his location. Then your agent has this address. He has a name? She?"

*

"My agent is Yelsus. /He/ remains at Hotel Chelsea. I…" Maximus can be seen to move again, but whatever he does, it disrupts the bowl, or his crystal, or both things, because it suddenly POOF, is gone. Or its possible that his little present had a duration that he has exceeded. Either way, it ends on a cliffhanger sentence, leaving Wanda with a curious set of 'facts', and decisions to make. DUN DUN DUN!!!!!!

*

The young woman shrugs lightly, unable to see within the scope of the spell. She soon enough slides back into the house and descends the stairs, exiting by way of another ground-floor window. It takes very little for her to position herself as just another face in the crowd, melting among the masses of humanity coming and going every way. Decisions indeed. Whatever will Maximus do, that mad King of the Inhumans, with the agent of chaos in play?

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