8180/Assassin Shopping Hour

Assassin Shopping Hour
Date of Scene:	09 October 2021
Location:	Brighton Night Market
Synopsis:	In which two friends may be more than friends.
Cast of Characters:	James Barnes, Wanda Maximoff

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James Barnes has posed:
The Market.

The market was a good space. Reasons why are innumerable, but typically surmount to a space that is easy to disappear into should forces come to find him, a place with many witnesses, making it difficult for him to be assassinated or taken down from a distance. They'd have to get up good and close to him. They'd have to risk his immediate notice.

So here he is, dressed in largely anonymous clothing that doesn't associate him with any known force or faction. He wears a jean jacket with a hood, same jean-colored pants, dark boots, black gloves on his hand, and a baseball cap over his head as he seems to be looking at some olives.

<,These ones...and these ones. Kalamata olives are delicious, I can't wait to try them.>>

Bucky makes small talk with the vendor, completely selling his innocent persona as he accepts the bag of fruit. He's rationing, with no intention of actually cooking the meal.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Not merely a market, the Night Market. Such concepts are common in Asia, particularly in busy cities where people working for 10 hours a day, 6 days a week might not have the liberties to simply enjoy a bit of shopping on the weekend. Other cultures ingrained to a different norm might likewise see the late hours as an ideal time to go forth and purchase produce, the next day's brekkie and sweetbreads, and socialize over tea while they're at it. Americans aren't the only game in town.

Brooklyn's night market at Brighton caters to a different sort, largely those of the former Russian republics and their nearest bricks in a wall against the west. Wanda comes here often enough for components, camaraderie, and a good white borscht that's quite the thing, prepared by a Polish woman who might or might not have survived the Great Northern War. Truly good stuff, though, worth the witchcraft and aged excellence.

Lots of blind avenues and weird setups between lean-tos and temporary shelters constructed of wood give an opportunity for Bucky to run where he needs. Or hide. Or lean, and look impressive; that's common enough for the mafiya types and those who wish they were.

The mafiya sorts might be a little too interested in the witch, which goes with type. She doesn't hide, walking in a black dress and chatting up a baba selling herbs and arguably some fresher dill, last of the season, that needs to be stuffed into a bag. One who sweeps by trying to pat her down, maybe steal her wallet, will be most disappointed when she catches his wrist.

First, there's no wallet.

Second, that stark stare could be from an icon of the Madonna, except her inverted, dark cousin.

James Barnes has posed:
Shadows know how shadows operate.

As Bucky moves through the streets, he takes a moment to understand his surroundings. His eyes ever watchful, ever on edge, ever vigilant against people who might even so much as pick pocket him and say the words in his ear to activate him. But imagine his surprise when he sees an old friend walking through the streets.

The witch in the black dress and chatting up a sweet older woman seems to be immediately accosted by a Mafiya-looking wannabe who seems to desire her wallet. Or some kind of other horrible intention, and Bucky starts to draw nearer and nearer. He was like a shadow or a dark spirit, moving from place to place, hard to pin down, invisible to the naked eye.

Though she catches the man's wrist and it looks as if the Scarlet Witch can handle herself -just fine-.

This was her area. This was her people and friends and neighbors and loved ones. If anyone can take care of themselves here, its Wanda. Though Bucky takes a moment to watch just in case. Metal arm flexing in preparation, his right hand clenching tightly into a fist. just in case. He's ready to move at a moments pause.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Shadows know much. The auburn-crowned witch moves away from the unimpressed baba selling spices and herbs, the kind of indomitable woman who would probably give any of those idiot boys a smack of her sandal or a broom and send them off. The night market is no place to invite violence.

Are those quiet murmurs a threat or an apology, sheepishly given, while trying to look tough? A criminal this side of twenty might push things but the shove can be found in the press of the crowd, the pop of knuckles, the slow stare that doesn't affect anything cowed. He shakes off Wanda's hand on his wrist, more than able to knock her grip away. She doesn't protest this, but tips her head a little.

"You mind?" Russian, of course. That's the warning, aside from the head tilt, since anyone subjected to that should probably be aware she might well call up that furious telekinesis. This is a place where people come, people go, and business can be many different things. Is it worth it?

Bucky might get a shoulder brushed aside when the mafiya kid and his friend make their hasty, irritated departure, too cool for school.

James Barnes has posed:
Fear the woman who can throw a sandal across the room and somehow -still- hit you in the ear.

Babas are some of the strogest people in the world. Though the quiet mumurs are briefly heard, Bucky can't hear from this distance, and so the punk criminal shakes off Wanda's wrist and seems to shove back into the crowd, though in a normal scenario, running into somebody shoulder-first is more than enough cause for an ass-whooping...

Bucky's trying to change.

The shoulder brush is met with some indifference, especially since Bucky doesn't seem to budge. No dubt a curse in Russian will be slung at him too. He frowns though, before his eyes turn to look forward. Would Wanda notice him? Or is she simply going to go about her merry way? Perhaps it was better like this.

That she never noticed.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Fear the elder baba who doesn't care. Fear the spirit of Baba Yaga who would so gladly consume the unworthy, chewing them up, while her house stands by and laughs.

They embody the crones, the fearsome cutters, grandma who knows all the secrets and mutters under her breath. "Louts. In my day you would have a job," hisses the old woman.

It doesn't register for Wanda; the anger might hum through the air, left behind, a relic of another hour like the layered smells and stained hours where men and women spend hours aplenty. Her shoulders twitch slightly, straightened up in a tidy arc as she regains her dignity in the swaying flow of traffic.

Would she notice the soldier, hidden like a shadow among the regular faces and souls? How not when the thrum of the ring echoes his thoughts in gold if he projects them, and her own spark in return? Would it be better they never know of one another? Perhaps, but the songs played in the dark are different than those by the cruel light of day. Deep in the cell of the mind, there might be felt a shining red spark, a hum of light.

Colours and sparks in shining crimson circle round and the faintest brush of <<Hullo>> dances where it will.