1964-10-06 - Wolf Tracks: Prelude
Summary: What can take down Pietro Maximoff? It's up to the twins to stage payback.
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pietro-maximoff wanda 


.~{:--------------:}~.


Wanda will sense something is wrong. Pietro has been off in Mutant Town, investigating a series of disappearances. He's not exactly the warmest of presences, though, and so getting people to talk has been difficult, especially among some of the shyer residents of the ghetto.

But he's felt like he's making progress, from what he's told her, hints of a pattern emerging. The mutants taken are marginalized, the weak and sick of the herd, so to speak. It speaks at least to the character of those responsible: jackals, picking off the vulnerable.

Today should have been just another day of research. But the shock of pain she feels along her connection to her twin would indicate something far worse has happened.


Mutant Town has been the epicenter of certain things. Though for this time of year, Wanda tends to be active. Stupid people do stupid things in October, like notably trying to summon creatures, demons and infernal entities besides, to impress their friends or take advantage of the Celtic new year. She keeps her hands full. Perhaps it surprises no one when she simply emerges from the shadows, following an intangible tether to the moon that spins around her sun, as far as the colours of them go.

Through the less lovely developments she goes, sidestepping puddles full of questionable things, moving past the boxes housing the vets or the creatures too strange to be called normal; tolerable, even to the population here. Her boots protect her from the gunk. The fact she exudes a sense of fell purpose might keep any but the most drugged or foolhardy of them from harassing her. She's a child of the streets, in many ways, and those trained to hurt and defend themselves from as soon as they could walk aren't people to bother lightly.

Her mood is far from pretty as she reaches the street, sweeping a glance. There's a nigh invisible orb over her shoulder, violet, bobbing around as it points out the direction to the nearest source of her blood kin. It's an old spell for her, a useful tracer, and sufficiently gaudy to make other sorcerers laugh. That's the point.


The building in which she finds him is decrepit, even by the standards of the district. One of the doorways has completely caved, the structure of the doorjamb collapsing in on itself, leaving only a narrow, triangular aperture, unstable and half-filled with rubble. Some has been pushed aside, however, enough to hint at the recent passage of a body.

The place had been industrial, once, the smell of oil and machine redolent in the air, a stain of a past revolution. Once, this had been a sweatshop, the psychic taint of the suffering still palpable to Wanda's sensitivities, bleeding fingers and broken bones leaving their indelible mark.

Lying in the middle of the floor, on his chest, is her brother. Pietro doesn't bear any visible marks, but he's obviously unconscious, snow-white hair bright against the dark concrete of the dank floor. Near at hand, a large, brass-and-steel cage sits, the door swung open and half off its hinges.


Ugly buildings are a dime a dozen. Habit forces her to seek out gang marks, signs of ownership, warnings in the trade cant used by the slum dwellers or the mystic community alike. Some things never change, only the symbol set preferred. Nothing says 'I'm dangerous' like a gaping entryway, anyhow.

He always takes her to the nicest places. Shoulders winging back in a shrug, the witch takes the necessary step of zipping up her coat. Such seals her in the protective swaddle of the basic spells infused there. She certainly doesn't have a red cloak (yet) to snatch missiles out of the air or pull her back from danger. The old-fashioned way surveys the interior through the Sight.

Too obvious to just walk in there, with an open cage and what it caged absent. Wouldn't that be lovely, step in and get flattened. Her eyes flare all the brighter into the spectrum of cerise. Look up. Look behind. Look down. Anything lurking? Well.


Pietro Maximoff makes a low groan, as if the mere presence of his sister stirs him from his slumber. He rolls just a bit, pain shooting down the length of his spine. He opens his eyes blearily to find the glow of his sister's presence over him, warming him like a lamp.

"Wanda," he murmurs, his voice a croak, "How…when…?" he says. Clearly, he's lost track of time, trying to push himself up with his arms only to cry out when more pain hits his body.

The corners of the room bear machines but a keen eye will recognize no conventional use for them. They seem almost medical, many with chairs or tables, some with manacles attached. They are not new, at least, not in basic construction, seemingly cobbled together like Frankenstein monsters from the corpses of the dead tools of this place.

Something might nag at the back of the mind. Something in the design.


Wanda's response is a simple one, extinguishing the spinning lantern orb that floats eagerly towards its source. It pinches out in a puff of crushed marigold and basil, the notes blurred together on the nose. His cry hardens her expression, the hackles rising oh so slowly. "Stay still," she murmurs at him in Transian, as though it helps under the circumstances. Most might guess Russian, not safe in this place and time.

Medicine isn't something she knows well. Not as if they end up in the hospital. But she lives with someone who knows the finest details in everything possibly used for delicate surgery, and at least a few of those mind-numbing books cross her lap. So she can identify certain things. Her body shudders responsively before the mind even catches up. The blood stained darkness in her eyes only spreads.

They haven't memories of what made them. Not really. Those killing fields, the testing grounds, they are all long lost in Germany. But she holds out her hand, almost uncertain. Pull her brother to her, a lifeline to sanity, or rip the place apart brick by bloody brick? Or timber, as it may be.

"We can't stay."


Pietro Maximoff shakes his head, "No, I…they got…there were…children…" he says. But then it's too much and his body shuts down again, carrying him down into darkness again. He trembles for a moment, a seizure of some short, the aftermath of whatever happened to him. Judging from the scorch marks around him on the concrete, nothing pleasant.


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