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Walking out from one of the thick copses of trees that somehow manage to remain vividly green and bursting with life in the middle of a place like New York, Strange squints up at the bright morning sunlight. He pauses, scanning the area around him again. Dew clings to his boots and pants and darkens the hem of the crimson Cloak about his shoulders. He rubs at the wrist of one hand with a little wince before looking at it as one might a misbehaving dog; shame — we've talked about this before.
However, the positivity lies in the fact that there is no feral Malk population at this time. At least…not anymore. A quick startle and a Gate sent the one idler back to its shadowy Sidhe dimension. But is that…a scratch on the back of his hand? No good deed goes unpunished, it seems. He's in easy range of sight from anyone walking on a nearby Central Park path or lounging about the expanse of greenery between pond and trees. No doubt the bright color of the Cloak doesn't aid in being inconspicuous.
Pietro was sitting on a bench looking like he was waiting for…someone? He was currently in disagreement with a pigeon as he sat there in his running suit with a small bag of peanuts in hand. "No you see brid, this is not for you. If big thing comes back then I have nothing to be feeding it and we are having to feed you to it instead. So you see, eating Pietro food? Very bad for you health." There was movement in his peripheral vision and eery little thing got the slightest of glances if he was slow enough in those moments to be noticed. Ah, the Wizard. "Ah, is you. Come. Stay a while."
Forge comes on out to the park. It's getting to be a warmer time of year, after all. Jacket off, holding it over his shoulder, he comes to the park in his shirt sleeves. Hot dog in his other hand, he enjoys a day in the city like you're supposed to. While watching for dogs and their leavings as he steps.
He knows that voice well enough. Strange turns in the direction of the accented words and smiles to himself, albeit a little wryly.
"Pietro," he says by way of greeting as he walks over. Even as he does so, a deceptively-smooth gesture drawn before his torso, from chin to belt, shifts his mantle-blues into something far more mundane. By the time he sits down beside his brother-in-law, he's in a black blazer with crimson lining, jeans, and dress shoes. "I see you've made a friend," he comments in regards to the pigeon. Glancing to one side, he sees Forge on his walk and gives the man a polite nod by way of greeting.
Pietro narrowed his eyes at the birt staring at him , or moreso the peanut in his hand, owlishly. "Is not friend. Is chubby feathered peanut begger. Learn to steal food like respectable bird. Do not you beg at me bird." He tossed the peanut into his mouth, shell and all letting something catch his eye. Yes Forge, you caught the speedster's attention. Metal arm? Cuuuuurious. He called to Forge in Russian, "I know you, guy. Big hero yeah?" There was a look of amusement there looking to Strange, "You know who this guy is? I cannot believe he is all the way in United States. Is small word."
Forge approaches the pair, raising his hot dog in the best wave he can do with his hands full. "Good afternoon. I should think I'm all the way in the United States, as I was born here, and have lived here my whole life."
The good Doctor smirks at the feathery city-rat before following Pietro's gaze once more. He notes the metal arm in silent interest, dark brows on the rise betraying this, and then glances at the silver-haired speedster.
"I don't believe I know him, no," he replies sotto-voce before Forge begins his approach. "Welcome back, if you've spent time away. Not a terrible day to be out and about." He offers a wane smile even as he rubs a thumb over the scratch on the back of his hand. It tingles now. Oh dear.
Pietro was on his feet. This was something that was unexpected giving the Speedster a grin, bemused, "This is man who help out many people and ruin many building that were causing us much troule, Stephen. Is Winter Soldier. You can tell by arm. Who else have impressive implant as such? Is great pleasure of mine to be metting you."
Forge finishes his hot dog with a bite, taking a moment to chew and swallow. As he does so, he holds up his arm. Showing off the home-built prosthetic, flexing his fingers, twisting his wrist. "While I do thank you for calling my arm impressive, as I built it myself, I am not the Winter Soldier. My name is Forge. I lost my arm in Korea."
Ever get the impression that someone's stifling down a laugh? Strange rolls his lips inwards and cants his face off to one side, the better to hide the sharp handful of sudden coughs. Wanda's going to hear about this one.
"The gentleman is correct, Pietro," the Sorcerer manages even as he too stands up after apparently getting that metaphorical tickle out of his throat. "Having earned the…dubious acquaintanceship of the Winter Soldier myself, I can attest that this is not him. Regardless, that is an impressive piece of craftsmanship. Doctor Strange," he says by way of introducing himself, seeing as both hands are tucked away into the pockets of his blazer.
Pietro squint at Forge whith those pale, near-white eyes. "If this is a put on? You have very poor sense of humor, chuvak." This? This was making him unhappy. Still it was not what he had planned and Pietro handled disappointment poorly. "Strange you you to be interducing me to national treasure. You are owing me for this." How Strange wound up withthe onus on this one required understanding the mad Rom's Rules of Order. Still he offered a handshake in all fairness. "Pietro. Am sorry to hear about Korea, but you are doing most impressive work here. You work on other projects? You are engineer then, yes or somehow just metal's gift to limbs?"
Forge steps up to Pietro, dusting off a few bits of hot dog bun from his metallic hand, and then gives a shake. "No joke. I'm currently working on a flying car. I have high hopes."
The Sorcerer turns upon Pietro a lofted brow and knowing, smug dimpling of lips.
"I'd be happy to introduce you two sometime. Maybe you'll manage to make it out with your limbs intact." His bright eyes slide back to Forge and linger on the arm before rising to his face. "Flying car? The technology sounds similar to what Stark was working on. Well, some time ago. The man turns to new projects faster than a wind-vane in a winter storm. If you were to approach him with a proposal, he might offer you aid of one sort or another." The suggestion is accompanied by a mild shrug of the man's shoulders.
Another wince and a little hiss is accompanied by a shake of his hand. "Ack. That needs treating. If you'll excuse me. Forge, enjoy your day. Pietro, we'll talk again, I'm certain. I'll say hello to Wanda on your behalf." With that, he turns on a heel and dismisses the pair. Man on a mission here! Gotta get the Malk venom out of his system.
Pietro narrowed a look at his brother-in-law. You win this round Sparklepants Supreme. Smoothly he regarded Forge again, "Flying car? Sounds like something out of one of those future films… or possible daemonic possession. We are doing this through science or putting literal demons under actual hood, friend?" Hey, sometimes the expression wasn't a metaphor. When one hunts demons? Always best to check.
Forge laughs, and lowers his metallic hand. "I'm not doing anything in the hood, except modifying the transmission to allow propellers. Though the real power is a rocket engine in the trunk."
The albino arched an eyeborw with a hanging half grin. It took a lot to amuse him. Flying car now qualified. "I have to imagine you are compensating for an amazing amount of torque. But really, what a fantastic problem to have. I want to race this thing. It sounds magnificent."
Forge laughs. "I hope so, I hope so." He shifts, changing hands to hold his jacket over his other shoulder, keeping it in place with the metal hand. "The way I work is, I Get an idea in my head for how to build it. Then I Find out later how it works. Questions like that, I can't quite answer yet."
Pietro popped another peanut, shell and all, into his mouth. One tennis shoe shoooooved the pigeon back from creeping up on him. munchmunchmunch. The process though, was something of a non-convention. One white eyebrow arched curiously, and it took no time for him to run some math there. "You are perhaps gifted?" This assumption coming from the albino? Not surprising. "Is okay. You are in good company." His hand lifted in a gesture of peace, man, before diving back into the bag for another peanut.