10256/Pitstop at the Bank

Pitstop at the Bank
Date of Scene:	23 February 2022
Location:	Downtown Manhattan
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	James Barnes, Wanda Maximoff

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James Barnes has posed:
"... and Steve... okay," Bucky is cracking up, "Steve looks the guy right in the eyes and says, 'Justice may be blind, but you can consider me her guide dog,' and just pimp-smacks him across the room with the shield."

Hotdog in his metal (gloved) hand and his other hand moving emphatically with his nstory, Bucky continues to walk through the Downtown Manhattan streets, avoiding pedestrians while he regails Wanda with stories of Captain America's cringiest one-liners.

"Peggy and I spent a _month_ asking him who's a good boy."

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Wanda understands enough of English to get most jokes. Sometimes even the bad ones. Her auburn hair falls over her face as she shakes her head, something she has to brush away. Bucky gets a wry smile, briefly coloured for a moment by something a bit deeper. "'Pimp smack? I do not know that Captain America wants to be associated with prostitution in any fashion. Bit too clean an image, maybe?"

Her smooth gait matches the faster moving soldier, though she isn't in so much of a hurry as to be a problem. "Did you tell him to sit for dinner?"

This may be a serious question. She sips her iced coffee.

James Barnes has posed:
"I think Captain America can take a pop-culture tarnishing of his image among friends," Bucky shoots back with an amused smile, pushing the rest of his hotdog into his mouth and munching down on it. Her question gets a snort as he chews, and then he bobs his head. "Once," he finally says, after swallowing, "but he put on such a sour expression we decided it crossed a line."

The thing about New York --especially Manhattan-- is that there's always something criminal going on. So even as Bucky is reaching across Wanda's shoulders for a more intimate walk, acros the street, van screeches to a stop in front of a bank, a nd a series of people donning black hoods and tac-gear pour out. They rush into the bank too quickly to stop.

Bucky blinks and raises a brow, coming to a stop. "I'm at odds," he admits. "On the one hand, fuck the bank." He sniffs. "On the other, they had machine guns." And people could get hurt. He doesn't care about the bank being robbed; but people's safety, that's different.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
"Considering his illustrious company includes people with issues," Wanda murmurs, a look of worry passing over her face as a soft grey cloud spilled in front of the sun. She goes on to look up at the sky, her mouth softening back into a smooth line. "Not to judge. We all face our demons, most of the time. He seems above that, even though he is human. Just like us."

Mostly like them. The thinnest veneer of humanity might cling to them some does but they at least have the look and concerns.

She sips the drink through the straw, unconcerned about the cold, caffeinated hit being chillier than the temperature. Both winter biting in and the thrill are welcomed, her breath drawn in. Pulled in a little closer to Bucky is a welcome thing, eliciting a stifled pang of laughter made affectionately. "<<Well hello the-->>"

Something screeching through the street is enough to warrant a look and the stiffening of her body, too much practice and experience producing a definite reaction. She doesn't even have a chance to question it, spreading her hands out. She may be too slow for the robbers, but their getaway van is another question. The Witch is bloody good at vans.

"People need help. That's enough. Let me get this out of the way." An angry flic of her wrists sends the van spiralling up, headed for a rooftop. Unfortunately most rooftops in Manhattan are /high/. Even a reasonably high one is twenty, thirty storeys up, so that means some careful placement atop a hotel. <<I hate double parkers.>>

James Barnes has posed:
"I was going to suggest you handle the van," Bucky says, looking up into the sky as the vehicle gets raised, the getaway driver at the wheel letting out a startled cry and looking out the window, only to quickly roll it back up in some pointless attempt at protecting himself.

While Wanda is doing that, Bucky's kissing her cheek and then already jogging across the street, humming a tune. "Meet you inside," he calls back. He pulls his cellphone out as he reaches the top of the stairs outside the bank and then just walks right on in, looking down at his phone.

Inside, there's not a lot of chaos, but yes a lot of fear. There's six robbers, all heavily armed, wearing those black hoods; and they've got most of the clientel on the ground with their hadns behind their heads, while the employees are either in the same position, or behind glass, working to get them their demands.

"What the fuck?" That's a bank robber, surprised to see Bucky in there.

"Hrm?" Bucky looks up with a smile. "Damn, forgot I have to put away my phone in here," he says, pushing his phone into his pocket.

"GET ON THE FLOOR, HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD OR I BLOW YOUR BRAINS OUT."

"... that's not nice," Bucky says, furrowing his brow. "Also, it might piss my girlfriend off."

"Bitch will deal. I'll take care of her. Now GET DOWN."

"Ooooh, now it's not gonna matter if you hurt me or not..."

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
The van requires more time than simply dashing across the street unless it doesn't matter about testing the roof structure or the struts on the vehicle. The getaway driver really doesn't have much of a getaway now short of proving himself to be a Spider-Man of some kind, and in that case, she's got her work cut out for her. Pedestrians crying out in alarm might be further troubled by the wave of telltale red energy around her hands connecting to the vehicle proper.

Someone snapping photos of her gets a nose-wrinkle. "Not a celebrity today, da?" The question may or may not blur-out the recording. Not particularly concerning, given they don't have secret identities, per se.

But robbers. The typical chaos will always include someone rebellious who wants to be a hero or scrabble away; in this case, it's a scrappy looking nurse, glaring at one of the robbers having sent a man with a prosthetic leg and walker to the ground so unkindly. The elderly man only whimpers in pain, while she hurls herself over his body and glares. "Are you going to shoot me? Then do it, look into my eyes if you're going to kill me."

Such defiance won't go far. Neither are the shouts to get down, to die, hands on heads and the rest. Wanda isn't there to hear it or see someone get a blow to the face from the butt of a gun. Only the flood of movements and impressions gleaned by people fleeing from the bank or standing still, recording. The pull to get over there is strong, and once the van is stable, there might already be the first of the robbers hunting for the electronic controls into a vault, or pulling a middle manager out at gunpoint to do the deed.

So walks the witch...

James Barnes has posed:
Overprotective Nurse: clocked.

Downed Amputee: clocked.

Particularly Personal Trigger: pulled.

Bucky frowns when one of the robbers hauls back to give the nurse the butt of his machine gun and his thoughts go out instinctively, only faster than his movements by the sheer nature of how fast information can be transferred in large quantities.

But he still moves far faster than anyone present in the room with him can possibly comprehend in the moment.

His normal arm reaches out as the robber gets too close -- << I need cov -->> -- and yanks the weapon towards him, pulling on the cord that holds it to the man's tac-vest -- << -- erage in here, gorgeous, >> -- which leads into a headbutt right into the guy's nose and a swing of his arm and a spin of the Winter Soldier's entire body -- << They threw shit and I'm the fan. >> -- and launching the robber across the room towards the one about the hit the nurse.

They collide and both of them fly clear of the nurse and her patient, with Bucky mere _inches_ behind them. Mid-stride, he catches one of the rope-stands with a heavy base and swings it, letting it fly at a third robber, slamming right into the man's chest and sending him flying backwards with a couple of busted ribs.

The other three are on the other side of the tellers, trying to get the manager to open the safe. But they're about to realize something's going on...

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Nurse Mahoney and Edgar Parr are merely two victims in a small crowd of hostages. Someone's there to make deposits for an esteemed charity after a long, arduous fundraiser. There's the kidney cancer survivor, the man who privately collects books for underserved school libraries. The couple dedicated to trapping and spaying feral cats in a colony near the Battery. Altogether, New York in a slice, a cross-section of society that ends up preyed on for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Doesn't matter if they're bankers from Wall Street or just ducking in to use the ATM because it came without fees.

A banker tries to hit the alarm button. Maybe late, maybe not.

Pitiless cameras stare on, recording what they can unless the central system is ripped down. Maybe they've got something to break technology, the thugs wearing masks and daring the Kingpin's rage.

The crackle of gunfire shears through glass, sending one of the pretty tall plated slices meant to be an art piece crumbling to the ground. Shrieks emanate from somewhere close by, the dank scent of fear thickening on the air. Someone scrambles when a robber gets punched across half the width of the building, crumpling when they land.

No point in tearing the door off its hinges, for it still opens, and training a weapon on a single person coming in is probably pointless. The rattling shots come from the one robber clued in enough by trouble going on fast, and he indiscriminately sweeps from side to side. Ammo's plentiful, bodies too. That's partly why Wanda doesn't make herself a framed target in a metal box, diving to the side. Unlike Cap, she's not got a shield. Unlike her boyfriend, she has no metal arm to deflect such things either.

Instead, the strawberry tendrils weave around in front of her like some kind of cosmic nebula searching around the Earth. Bit of a mystery, that, hanging mid-air, reaching out innocuous as a stain. Red, glowing fingers, cherry-bright eyes, nothing odd about the woman crouching around a corner. They can take their chances on the assassin; another civilian isn't much to worry about.

Except with the glittering webs of energy twisting fortunes in a place of... well, fortune. Order and rules don't /like/ her messing around, but that isn't stopping her, scything through the resistance to construct patches of bad luck and good. Oh dear, was that electronic pad supposed to accept that password? Guess not.

James Barnes has posed:
Give a man like Bucky Barnes good luck and you get someone that can't really be stopped by mortals. It just can't happen. He's too skilled; too fast, too strong, too agile, too perceptive. You add upon that fortune's favor --sometimes natural, often a gift from the Scarlet Witch-- and the Winter Soldier is a smooth, unstoppable, unerring machine.

He takes weapons and bends them; turns just in time to ricochet fire into the ceiling and walls where it won't do any damage with his metal arm, and then lobs the bent and rent firearms over the teller counter, smacking the robbers in the head.

One. Two. Three.

He hops over it, lands just past the teller hiding under it, missing her extended pinky by a millimeter.

By the time he's reached the men who still have weapons, their guns are jamming, and he's got his hands on them.

It's over.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
A hundred years in battle leave marks on a man. If he survives it, not hiding under a rock, then he ought to be considered a fierce foe. Something to run from, someone to not get on the wrong side of. Too late for that.

It's an odd feeling watching him dance wit death, and few applications in which that observation is actually pleasant. Wanda focuses still, enduring with those dark eyes twisting fate around. Not like her speedster brother hasn't taught her to see ghosts and watch spaces between the world. This is her penance and the price of making the improbable to the possible.

He destroy the threats, an avenging angel of sorts, if she believed in such things. Cracked skulls, broken wrists, they tell their story in lush ferocity. She still cringes a little when the forehead meets the counter, threatening to dent one or the other.

Their price is paid in blood and fear. They will always be afraid; it's what you do with that which matters. She slides around the corner, standing up straight. "The police are on their way!" Her accent is always heavy in moments like this. An outsider, weird to the ear then. "Does anyone need medical assistance? Speak up, we're here to help."

James Barnes has posed:
By the time anyone is replying to Wanda, the robbers are all either unconscious or bound by some means or another; all have been removed of their black hoods for their identities to be seen by all and sundry. Bucky has bent, with his bare hands, the machine guns used for the robbery as well as any other firearms, and divested them of any firearms.

He takes long strides away from the once-hostages, not really wanting to deal with people saying 'thank you' over and over again.

<< I'd like to be gone by the time the cops get here, >> he admits.