486/Buenos Aires, No Bueno Inferno

Buenos Aires, No Bueno Inferno
Date of Scene:	18 May 2017
Location:	Buenos Aires
Synopsis:	Scene Seed: Bad guys need to die in Buenos Aires.
Cast of Characters:	Scarlet Witch, Doctor Strange

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Scarlet Witch has posed:
"You would not have liked me in a short dress showing my thigh, as I spin around you, with one of those moves which is not a box." A light and easy guess derived graces her full lips, a breathtaking bit of ribald humour for someone so little inclined towards speaking in salacious terms. Rather she allows herself a moment to champion a cause: making Strange forever stand off his guard, and stumble sometimes where her unpredictability emerges. Corner of her mouth crooking mildly higher, she presses the mark of her palm to her hipbone, pinning down the leather sheath of her coat.

Scarlet Witch has posed:
Daggers surely lie against back, side, thigh, calf, pinned in place by a variety of holsters fashioned from nylon and elastic-infused cloth, allowing her unparalleled degree of mobility. "Oh. There you have found them." The shoes show signs of use, but not a great deal, still fairly new. Straps sway and threaten to hook over his fingertips with the right movement, licking at the scarred flesh. "Not so useful for a jungle. Good for Buenos Aires. You know how different is the land, yes?"

Doctor Strange has posed:
With so few words, she conjures up such images. Has she even seen what the most skilled of Argentine dancers wear as they cavort around one another like so? With such nonchalance, the gauntlet flies to his side of the court and the stumble shows in the marked rise of his eyebrows and curling grin.

"You presume to know me so well," he flings back with a low ripple of repressed laughter in tone. The pitch deepens at marked points as he continues. "I've never been to Buenos Aires, but I've heard enough to hazard a guess that you won't find the natural rainforest in the city unless you count the locals as wildlife. A culture all its own," and he takes a step into her personal space, allowing the hand currently escorting her shoes to fall to his side, "where European grandeur meets..." Never once does he drop her gaze, even as a breath of space remains between the teasing minx and himself; he looms, broad-shouldered, his expression all cool confidence and conniving charm in that deep-claret dress shirt. "...Latin passion, as the brochures put it."

Before not another second passes, he's back a long-legged step and holding up the heels to eye them. "But no, to answer your question, not useful for the jungle at all."

Scarlet Witch has posed:
O handsome devil, he opened the doors and now marvels that Wanda throws herself wholeheartedly into the magical world unknown to her until now? How those dashing swishy skirts and bold strappy dresses would ever elude her, he must not be so utterly ignorant and shut-eyed, not with the apprenticeship he undertook before the witch's coming. Illyana is as much a fish out of water as the brunette witch, save their tastes diverge and Wanda's may tilt towards the explosive and dramatic, couched in the most intense terms.

"Latin passion. Yes, they might have. But I would know nothing of that, child of Latin soldiers and Slavic wars and Indian travelers." Words selected carefully for their delicious auditory appeal crash and rush back, hissing around the barriers of consonants, rounding them out. "You would have liked the balcony. Very pretty. A place of wealth sparkling with lights, a place of bravery and excess. Grand. Passionate. Joyful. But stained."

Doctor Strange has posed:
Not one to assume, but now that he can gather that she's been there -- and recently, given the information presented to him in carefully-picked Wandaism -- there's little doubt in his mind that she paused to observe such finery in motion. Strange's charm dampens to his usual sober state as he realizes that the Hellcat has found a nest of vermin and that her intent is likely to snap each individual neck herself to ensure they don't scurry away to live another day. The minute wrinkling between his brows betrays his concern even before he murmurs,

"Yes, I'm aware of the Germans who escaped. Stories, most of them, but there's always a grain of truth embedded in them. It sounds like you've already been to Buenos Aires," and he glances at the shoes in a new light. They led his Beloved to her prey. "What are your plans?" He looks back to her, lips drawn in a thin line.

Scarlet Witch has posed:
Charm will not be without some reward, for the notion is planted in the brain she surely knows how to wear those ballroom-worthy garments in a size suitable to her height, and maybe how they swish about. What girl cannot help doing a little chacha or uncoordinated foxtrot when enveloped in such a slinky, provocative garment? Let him savour the imaginative notion while he lines that up to the dark-haired demonhunter met in a misty glade, blades and spells flashing, to deliver their worthy demise two decades after the fact.

"Submarines. Boats. So many ways they came, helped by many hands. I found the hands and the being who aided them. I ended it, though not the runners. They go, and they have a twelve hour space ahead of me. Only fair, yes? Sporting. They do not have my gifts." Her serene expression is a brittle paper-mache mask mounted for the moment, no more enduring than his own foul moods, easily blown away in the right circumstances. "There are places in the mountains and forests, the valleys. They were made for these men to hide in, stocked. I know one of these must be where the cult lies, the cult who gives worship to the one who made me. In a different name. They are not sure who //he// is, or that his proxy is a demon, but it is my business. Yours too. Maybe ten? I think no more."