14795/Coffee is What the Cool Kids Do

Coffee is What the Cool Kids Do
Date of Scene:	27 April 2023
Location:	Coffee of DOOM
Synopsis:	Et tu?
Cast of Characters:	Wanda Maximoff, Kwannon

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Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Now why would a native Transian be in a Latverian coffee shop? Nearly as strange as a Sokovian slumming it in here. But two reasons apply to Wanda's attendance.

The coffee and pastries are authentic, and overall very good. Reasons one and a half? Two, the authenticity appeals to her. No $20 lattes or fuelling a corporate, cookie-cutter place. She holds a mug, headed for one of the tables near a window. Music played in the background is all very nice and soothing, but the fact the cafe serves up coffee properly with a glass of water, a small biscuit, and other pleasures is worth the hike across Manhattan. Even if she gets looks.

Even if half the staff may just be compromised by Victor von Doom. Or not!

Kwannon has posed:
Apparently today is a day for Coffee of DOOM (complete with requisite echoing fading of 'DOOM') to be the gathering point for quite the varied international clientele. For while it is unusual for a Latverian coffee shop to be playing host to a famed Transian witch, when you add in the arrival of a Japanese assassin, you're one French aristocrat away from the start of a very confusing joke.

Kwannon is doing her best to blend in, which is to say she's standing a few inches taller than her natural 5'11" in a pair of sleek black leather boots with heels, black jeans, and a black leather jacket zipped up to her throat. And she's throwing off the kind of cold, serious aura that... well, doesn't really lean towards her blending into the background. She's focused intently on the menu, like picking the right coffee is a matter of life and death. But not so focused that she's not keeping up her situational awareness, tracking all the staff, patrons... and then her attention is diverted and she's rushing through ordering a medium sized dark roast.

Because Wanda Maximoff is not anonymous, and that is most definitely Wanda Maximoff.

Is she here for some sort of... official business? Unlikely. But possible. And so as Kwannon receives her own order, she makes her way through the milling throngs of caffeine-desperate patrons towards the Scarlet Witch. Just to try and get a handle on why Wanda's here... without trying to read her mind. Because that would be dangerous.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
What a joke that would be, however, aristocrats or not. Alternately a Nigerian warlord would be an excellent choice, especially one with the lineage to imply a need for official assistance with economic matters. Doom may himself not be present, but DOOM speaks to the various middle powers of the world gathered under his long shadow by simply looking around. The lot of diners and patrons are rather diverse, as New York tends to be.

Wanda might try to blend in, and in some ways she does. A woman in fine health, dressed in cosmopolitan attire that fits with the prevailing styles; a spliced neck shirt baring a sliver of her neck and stomach over a pair of flared pants and delicate sandals definitely call back to the mid-90s. All she really needs is to replace the shirt with a jeweled butterfly halter and she'd be ready for the club, if twelve hours early. Neither is she wearing red; spring calls for jade greens, caramel, warm shades. Such gives her an instant to avoid being identified immediately as 'the Avengers sorcerer' or 'a wizard', giving her maybe ten seconds to avoid being stared at, whispered about, or framed in someone's Insta snap. There's no privacy in the world anymore, not that there really ever was. Magneto -- Dad -- saw to that.

She swivels and claims that table by dropping a napkin on it. Then her cup follows, put down. The rest will show up when a server in a tuxedo deigns to visit this outward atoll and bring the remainder of her order, an unrushed affair. The whole purpose here intends to build on the experience of drinking, socializing, dining. The purpose of a rushed drink doesn't fly in Mitteleuropa, and it never has. Witness an abundance of board games, newspapers, and pianos among other things.

Her gaze flicks upward, perhaps pulled by Kwannon's lack of inquiry. That purposeful movement, the keenly controlled self, stands out even without being psychic or disposed to magical. Here, among the elegant furnishings, the Japanese woman is something unique even beyond that, far more sophisticated in her way. The green-gold eyes taking in that fact turn warm, her smile lifting.

Kwannon has posed:
The tall asian woman offers a slight smile, it's a subtle little quirk of her lips, but there's something else, something in her eyes. Almost conflicted. Confused. With a hint of recognition that goes beyond 'I have seen this woman on the news'.

But then, that's the problem with having your own memories, and also the memories of one Elizabeth 'Betsy' Braddock, especially when some of those memories were formed in your body, while she was in control of it. Memory is a complex, confusing morass for Kwannon.

Which is why she actually doesn't drink caffeine. It makes her mind work faster, and if she's not on a job, she starts thinking about thinking and then she's thinking about memories and then... well, it goes on and on, spiraling outward into sheer confusion. Fortunately, she can avoid that with focus. And what better than to focus on Wanda?

Her lips quirk in a slightly wider smile as she gestures lightly, "Do you mind if I sit?" For a brief moment, a word and a half, there's a noticeable posh British accent, but it fades into her own Japanese accent and she offers the slightest little grimace, like she's all too aware she slipped up again. "I don't mean to be a bother... but people tend to avoid me, and I get the feeling you'd enjoy someone keeping the interested crowds from asking for selfies?" Eyebrows perk and her lips quirk in a wider grin again.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Recognition of a familiar face settles in. She's not Cap or Thor or Superman, people who face the scrutiny of the genera populace no matter where they go. A mask doesn't hide the truth of the public face from the masses. She still has some shreds of blending in left, after all. But not in New York. Not so much here where she can speak the native languages with ease.

A smile comes naturally but it's not the painted on thing that some people choose to wear to hide their private thoughts and conceal their opinions. Her expressions are open, welcoming, tinged by curiosity as the woman approaches her. Memory is complex; so is a lack thereof, perhaps a whisper of familiarity held up against a mosaic of unknown information. Details the mind is hungry to hold onto, or fill in, could lead her down the wrong garden path. But the connection between Kwannon and Betsy isn't quite there, not in the same respect it might be for, say, Emma Frost. Jean Grey. Dad, maybe even Lorna.

"Not at all. Chairs can be in short supply if you aren't willing to perform." The inclination of her head to one of the pianos currently tickled by an older man in a fine tweed suit leaves little imagination to her meaning. The moment of hanging on the cusp of sitting will lengthen until Kwannon sits; more comfortable to be the hostess in the place of someone else. Her accent is Transian, shot by traces of British, not much but there. Oxford, if anyone's listening hard. She's from the Home Counties in where she learned anyway. "Hardly a bother. I know what it's like to sit here alone. The city doesn't seem to like singles very often."

A factor to be afraid of, to fear.

Kwannon has posed:
Kwannon bobs her head in thanks and settles into one of the chairs, long legs crossing at the knee, taking up a bit f space into the aisle, just a little physical aspect to the aura of 'We are having a conversation, please don't intrude' she begins to exude to the coffee shop as a whole. Both hands cup her mug and she lifts it for a slow sip, eyebrows rising up curiously.

That painted on smile is recognized... really, Kwannon has her own far too often. It makes socializing so much easier. No one ever questions that practiced, easy smile after all. Even she, aware of it, finds herself accepting it. Her breath escapes in a soft sigh. "That's very true. And if you don't bring a laptop to work on your script, novel, or thesis, people are very territorial about taking up table space in coffee shops."

She bobs her head in agreement with a soft murmur, something that might be near the ghost of a laugh. "Yes, well, Tokyo, New York, Madripoor, all have their... hostilities to navigate." Her head tilts and her lips quirk slightly. "I admit, I had thought that might be my own view from the nature of my work. I'm something of a troubleshooter. People are rarely happy to see me. But I suppose perhaps it might not just be a reaction to /me/ being around."

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Watching Kwannon is rather like being an audience for ballet or another performance art. For all the grace she possesses, it's nothing close to that, a fulcrum of control and purpose. In some ways, it's tough not to admire obliquely, but objectifying someone isn't ever in her list of things to do. Better to let it pass.

"I am Wanda," she offers, easy about it. "If you prefer to read a book or enjoy the silent company, you only need say so." Manners first, all being given to their own predilection. She's not upset by this, not at all. Her nature is warm, sunny and basking in company. "Laptops are the new byword for staying away. Headphones can be good, but here you might miss out on a good rendition of Rachmaninoff." More's the pity.

Her cup of coffee is mostly full, a proper mélange. "Madripoor had its own secret laws that prove almost impenetrable. I'm told Berlin was like that too in its way. You're not alone here in feeling sometimes the greatest crime is claiming a two top and not hosting many at it. I'm not bothered by you here and I shall resist anyone who thinks otherwise." e

Kwannon has posed:
It's true, Kwannon moves with smooth, steady grace, with precision and purpose in even the slightest motion, the angles of her elbows, the shift of her hips in her seat, like it's all being calculated at any given moment for maximum efficiency. She's not on edge, not tensed for trouble, it's just... how she moves. How she lives. Constantly alert and prepared.

The closest to a naturally genuine reaction is the momentary smirk as Wanda introduces herself, "Oh, I know who you are. You've come up during my... professional research before coming to the city. I like to know who I might run into while working." She laughs softly, almost ruefully, "Not that you came up as... a /likely/ acquaintance, but I prefer to be thorough. Surprises are never as fun in work as they are in birthday parties." She sips her coffee and murmurs out a low, thoughtful noise, "I'll do my best to be enjoyable company. I'm afraid I'm not terribly fine conversation about the city. I haven't had much of an option to do the tourist thing."

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
The silken precision of a hunting tiger is still admirable. The way a bow on a warship breaks through waves, a source of awe, despite its purpose. Wanda herself might be seen as the kinder face of the universe, which by its very existence cuts deep and fearful through the vastness. Totality of creation, squished in a pair of well-tailored pants or the occasional sundress. Her own air of calm is superficial; under the surface, she's much bubblier than that, whereas Kwannon is more in the mould of the person most important in her life after her volatile twin.

Put them together and wouldn't that be terrifying: Winterlocke?

She's settled into a seat in a moment, turning to the window just a fraction. Enough to get the spring light, wherever it may find her. The pale glow of the day will only brighten as time goes on. "I have? Should I be flattered?" Her wink is almost a tease, but not thorned. "Big city, many faces and people. I feel sometimes like everyone is here. You have your work cut out for you, ma'am." Her thumb rubs one of the rings on her adjacent digits; she wears several, none particularly or overtly valuable. "You don't have to tell me about the city. You can talk about whatever interests you, whether that's work, tea, the places you've been. I'm happy to try it all."

Kwannon has posed:
As the first time meeting between Kwannon and Wanda continues, the assassin finds herself relaxing, as much as she ever does, without truly considering it. But if the woman is worried about being the more calm and placid of the pair, she doesn't let any concern show on her face, indeed, her eyes are focused _almost_ exclusively on Ms. Maximoff, level and calm, and all too attentive, like she's memorizing every expression, every tone and syllable of her accent.

Kwannon's aware she's a bit intense. It's why she so rarely gets her coffee to _stay_. Then again, it's also always annoying to give her name for a to go order and then having it mangled. She drinks a lot of depressingly poor instant coffee from home. The life of a skilled assassin.

She allows a soft laugh and shrugs lightly, "I don't think I would be particularly flattered or insulted. The write-up was terribly clinical about you being quite the accomplished magic user, but not much more. It was really very basic. Not terribly informative." She smirks and dips her head at that wink, murmuring dryly, "I would have appreciated it if it had focused more on just how stylish you are as well. Not necessarily a focus of a professional profile, but then, I didn't consider that I might meet an Avenger in... less than professional circumstances." Her lips press into a thin line for a moment, "I overlooked the possibility of needing appropriate smalltalk to make myself look good. I'm not certain we have the time for an in-depth discussion of tea." Her own right eyelid flicks in a wink, a brief moment of genuine playfulness, "Which may mean we must cross paths at least once more, yes?"