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*
Cafe Odessa, seated deep on the southern side of Brooklyn, faces the Atlantic and holds next to no memories of a landlocked Soviet republic physically. Yet it's not for nothing that they call the place Odessa. Samovars serve up potent tea, and familiar meals for an Eastern European audience are the main claims to fame, even if English is something of a rarity here in the daytime. Young people speak it; their parents often prefer not to, having all sorts of conversations to carry on in Ukrainian, Polish, Belarusian, Russian, and so it goes. The comfortable atmosphere belies the fact the seats aren't very comfortable, the posters are worn, and the china may not be especially fancy. This is the sort of place where people can spend hours wiling away their cares, sipping coffee and munching on pastries, with no one much complaining. Though there are subtle ethnic divides, it takes a seasoned eye to notice them in a sea of people of all ages.
Wanda is balancing a tea service on a tray, given the servers aren't in a hurry and, by their standards, she is. It helps to negotiate in the native languages of the staff, anyways, and the great dented teapot with its clutch of tiny cups surrounding it like chicks to a hen. They rattle along excitedly, along with a disturbing number of small, honey or nut washed pastries. "Breakfast," she explains in English to her dapper companion, swiveling with considerable skill around the random chairs occupied by patrons reading books, newspapers, doorstops (War and Peace, anyone?), and their horoscopes.
*
It has been a few months since Laynia arrived in the United States on her official assignment to the ACT-F. She managed to meet some impressive individuals, some less so, and learn about the United States in a way she never could before. By actually being there. But there is a harkening for home that cannot be quieted the longer away one tends to be. That is precisely while Laynia was delighted to learn about Cafe Odessa in Brooklyn.
Being off duty, for once she's not wearing her very eye catching Soviet uniform, today she's dressed quite normally, a red turtleneck blouse, along with black pants, cinched with a golden ribbon instead of a belt. The very moment she sets foot in the cafe her blue eyes light up at the sound of familiar languages, and she rather eagerly asks the hostess if they happen to serve Okroshka, Borsch, or Ogorkowa soups, the smile widening on her face at the reply shows how much she missed more familiar cuisine. Not many seats open, she is lead to a table right next to Wanda's, as she sits down and nods at Wanda in polite acknowledgement. Seeing Wanda's features, she tries asking in Russian, "not from around these parts, are you?"
*
"Yes, I can see that's breakfast," the dapper companion replies, amusement apparent in his tone. It never ceases to amaze him of the sheer volume that the Witch can put inside that stomach of hers — and never mind the amount of sugar!!! She'd be a true medical conundrum in the future and outstanding example of someone diabetes wouldn't touch with a forty-foot pole. She might swivel, Strange merely follows in her wake. Something about the acrobatic feat of twirling about a tea service on a tray makes people move. Hmm. Must be the risk of being clonked.
At their table, he's the one to pour out and sips at his tea. His black Belstaff has been shed, along with the well-behaved scarf in crimson hues, and he leans back in his chair to simply…observe. Having never been to Cafe Odessa, it seems proper to file away the pertinent information in his head. He could utilize a translation spell to understand the general murmur of conversation, but he trusts Wanda to bring anything of interest to his attention. This is breakfast; not a hunt for the supernatural — a welcome breath in the middle of hectic lives.
Wanda has the honor of being addressed first and the Sorcerer in the chair across the table from her gives her a small smile before disappearing behind his tea cup. Ah, small talk.
*
The sugar content Wanda can consume might make another soul a diabetic, but they do not have the immensely combustible metabolism she does, to say nothing of the raw energy requirements her art requires. Future generations might simply shake their heads and say something about temporal anomalies or plainly 'We hate you' for staying somewhat slim given all the desserts piled up in front of her. The other reason people likely dodge the golden-skinned young woman, she has a pile of baked goods she may just devour on the spot, then fall asleep in a waiting sunbeam. Amber eyes intensely focused upon the topmost flaky delight warn anyone with an iota of sense, do not get between girl and breakfast.
She doesn't even wait before reaching the chair to seize upon opportunity, and thus will chopped walnuts and the baklava joy, at least as interpreted by northern Orthodox bakeries, prevent her from making an immediate response to the Russian woman fixed upon the familiarity of soups and cuisine she probably grew up with. Her dark lashes widen and she glances to Strange to run interference for a moment, as long as she can find the means to swallow. Small as that bite was, it might as well have been molasses and parchment paper. One hastened swallow and she can resume being polite once more, settling into her seat with a rustle of her claret leather jacket. Add a corset and the dark pants that might as well be leggings, and she is a very odd sartorial duck in this age of trapeze dresses and nothing fitting. Her Russian comes with an accent, traceable as Baltic possibly. Lithuania, Estonia, throw a dart. "«Our attempts to blend in among the regulars have not gone so well, have they?»"
*
It clearly isn't lost on Laynia the delectable selection of sweet goodness before Wanda, but than she's also been in the company of those with increased metabolism and higher energy demands from their bodies. She herself, after all, tends to consume more than one would expect, considering her figure. She starts her order with the borsch, requesting a generous helping of sour cream to go along with it. She chooses the mushroom variety over meat, at least this time around. She laughs at Wanda's comment, quipping, «I'm here on official capacity, you can imagine the looks I get walking into a room wearing Soviet Army uniform.»
*
Laynia might steal one of those morsels without anyone being the wiser. It's not like the staff numbered them top to bottom. Seated primly on part of the very real corset, the brunette selects another of the small, sliced baklava pieces and puts it on a plate equally dainty in size. Tea will come later, though under the table, she brushes her foot against Strange's as a kind of reminder. Sinking into her own not-quite-native language might exclude him, though he is given something of a wordless look of gratitude for allowing the diversion. Garnets glitter at Wanda's temples, the open cobweb of her red headband stretching in a crescent from ear to ear. Another show of solidarity? Certainly someone raised under the hammer and sickle could think so; wayward Canadians probably also feel a kinship. Nodding lightly, she pauses for a moment. Shifting gears from one adopted language to another doesn't come instantaneously, but the rough points will smooth out. "«Your uniform would cause much confusion.»" The terseness fits with the people on the furthest western rim of the USSR; ignore Kaliningrad. "«Are you part of the embassy?»"
*
Ah, Russian. Not a language he's incredibly familiar with — other than those nasty necromantic incantations sometimes used by the warlocks from the inhospitable wastes known to the region. Wanda seems nonplussed by being addressed, so Strange merely rests his elbows on the table and continues drinking his tea, those light eyes flicking from woman to woman with keen interest. He returns the brush of her foot gently with his own, instep gracing a bit farther up that boot than could be considered proper. Tease.
There's something different about the woman who first encourage the small talk…a touch of other-dimensional powers…and the Sorcerer's eyes narrow briefly, if only to hide most of the minimal lambent light that fills his irises for checking on her with the Sight. Ah — he knows that particular flavor. It shows in miniscule residue; he'd only recognize it for the fact that he's come across it before as Sorcerer Supreme. For the Witch's mind alone, along their connection, he projects the whisper of,
"Rakshasi, your new friend has abilities." Another sip of tea and he glances aside at a paper left on the table, all in some language he can't hope to read without a spell. A sigh and a quick glance back at Wanda. "This isn't a funeral, you can smile." Tiny crow's feet appear at the corner of his eyes, where the grin shows rather than upon his lips currently sampling more of his drink.
*
«Indeed, I'm sure you saw what Bugle writes, Soviets are the devil, along with blacks, mutants, and anyone else who might be a little different,» Laynia remarks to Wanda, before shaking her head, «special taskforce ACT-F, joint effort of Soviets and Americans to protect the world from alien and gods and whatever else lurks in darkness. Or space.» She looks briefly at the dapper fellow who is Wanda's companion, getting an odd sensation about him as he looks her over, something that gives her a strange vibe. Still, she is quick to ignore him when her soup is served, «ah! Proper borsch! I am already drooling…this will be a joyous meal. A celebration!>
*
The witch gives the mildest shake of her head, umbral hair flowing around her shoulders in a cloud. "«Fears drive people to seek the familiar. They are full of uncertainty.»" Slim fingers raise her small cup to her lips, the potent brew contained therein packing a punch and enough to breach the saccharine overtones of the drink. "«In this time, who puts aside their old rivalry first feels the most exposed. But it must be done.»" The companion to Wanda, consumed as he is with his reading, might very well be interested to hear her speaking so many words. As a rule, Wanda tends to be fairly laconic in the presence of others. Maybe the Odessa is lively enough to cover her conversation, or she simply has someone who comprehends her better than the average American. Her English still has many rough edges, a narrow vocabulary compared to the nuances Russian allows her. Even if she gets on the red list, she'll take the chance. "«The soup is properly made? I have not tried it here. Their pastries are quite good, however.»" Those wide amber eyes of hers miss little, usually attuned to a spectrum no one can see. Still, conversation is conversation, and she isn't the rude sort to stare unless aggrieved, and fear the direct glare of an annoyed twenty-something. "«Is it this task force you are part of? I know a little of it. I'm Wanda.»" The last is almost just tacked on.
*
"«Fear is a strong motivator for hate, but it also shows weakness,»" Laynia remarks, taking another spoonful of the soup, with a bit of sour cream for that added deliciousness. She nods and makes a savoring sound that shows her appreciation for the soup, "«just like home,»" she notes, and after a few more spoonful to relish the soup while it's hot, she turns to answer that last question. "«Yes, some people assigned to it are impressive.»" It only occurs to her that she didn't offer an introduction when Wanda introduces herself, so she follows suit, "«pleased to meet you, Wanda. I am Laynia. A Captain, if you would believe it.»" The military, after all, is quite notorious not to promote women anywhere near as much as they deserve.
*
Agreement follows in a shallow nod, while Wanda drains the tea in a small sip interspersed by quiet regard for all that takes place around her. She has a level of vigilance that isn't normal, for as subtle as she makes it. Then again, with the Sorcerer Supreme in the cafe and countless mundane souls folded around them in this corner of Brooklyn, whatever has she to fear? Ruminating on whatever thoughts fill her empty head, she blinks back when Laynia offers her name. "«Light.»" The translation is passed without effort, plucked from the blue. "«It suits you. A very good name, and a rare one. I am surprised, a captain? There is an achievement not often heard.»" The young woman rests her hands over the tabletop for a moment, and gives the slightest shake of her head. "«For all that women have shown themselves able to do, the doors remain shut to them. Maybe that is where you lead by the torch into the dark unknown.»"
*
"«Yes, it does, but how would you know…we've only just met, you have a good sense of people?»" Laynia asks curiously, starting to wonder about Wanda, after all, the fellow she was with was rather strange. Maybe she wasn't the most mundane either. "«Yes. Not often. But I am lucky. I had a special teacher, and I have ambition to stand out." She smiles at the word play as Wanda suggests a metaphor for her achievement. "«Yet I'm no good for those afraid of the dark.»"
*
"«You sat down among strangers to talk.»" If it's self-evident, Wanda does not speak with the derogatory contempt some in her shoes might. Those would probably be professors or bureaucrats in a pair of exquisite leather boots, which might look odd on them. "«I see your happiness with the soup. You speak of helping others.»" It stands on its own there, and she reaches for the cup to refill it again.