The Lurking Fear (Closed)

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[attr="class","post2"]The dreams had been plaguing her for two weeks. Snatches of prismatic nightmares that bombarded her with startling clarity and realism. Even after all that Wanda Maximoff had been through in her life, the horrors and monstrosities she'd faced head-on time and again, the scenes left her short of breath and frightened of falling asleep. And, just as the dark turns her years had brought made this lingering fear all the more jarring for its carnal influence, Wanda long ago learned to tell when her dreams were some psychologically justifiable production of her subconscious, or when they were... more.

On the third night, even the latent and lingering despair from the dreams weren't enough to let her ignore their relevance. Daylight hours were thereafter spent poring over spells, tomes and scrolls. Wanda strove not only to make sense of the visions, but to deny their vexing, inexplicable stranglehold on her nerves in order to aid that task. All the carefully-gathered fortitude that the Scarlet Witch could muster thinned and finally failed when the sun set, so that it was a battle of her will against this alien terror to lay her head down and willingly wade into the dreams again.

Slowly but surely the disparate fragments of the tormenting dreamscape fell into place, at least enough so that Wanda's gaining ground helped embolden her at each step enough to forage on. When the sorceress departed from her apartment that morning, it was on the cusp of a fresh revelation divined from the frightful scenes forced upon her the night before. Painstakingly-laid spells and scrying rituals caught, while she thrashed and sweat beneath her silken sheets, a fistfull of dark energies that bled through the visions. Enough to follow, though faint and fickle.

Outfitted in a pale, pastel pink pleated maxi skirt and a sleeveless white blouse, Wanda pushed out into New York City hanging onto the delicate thread of power. The sun bled through an overcast sky, catching on the gold jewelry spilling from her neck and dripping from her wrists and fingers. Several times, the Scarlet Witch had to stop at a crossroads - once in the midst of a crosswalk, ignoring the blare of horns from drivers incensed by her refusal to move one way or the other - but each correct step thickened the force she trailed and shored up her confidences for the next.

Eventually, feet aching from her hours of wandering the busy streets, Wanda found herself threading the avenues and alleyways of Hell's Kitchen. She hinged on a corner, frowning, hazel eyes searching the faces of the churning crowds without seeing them. Within this neighborhood, the energy that lured the sorceress was discordant and spread in the air; tinging the atmosphere in a vast cloud rather than a definitive trail to follow. Wanda knew that the source of it must be brooding there - maybe it had been for some time? At least since the visions began for her. What it was, what it wanted and what it had in store for Wanda she hadn't the faintest idea, but knew that none of the answers would be wholesome.

She stood there, still disconcerted and questing with her powers, when an explosion rocked the block from an intersection away...

Natasha Romanoff

(OOC: I figured Nat could be there doing something entirely different, Wanda helps, then they turn to Wanda's side of things? The general idea I have working is that whatever force she's onto has been making the regulars/denizens of Hell's Kitchen extremely paranoid, anxious, fearful and nightmare-riddled of late, if you want to tie any of that in.)

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[attr="class","post2"]She crept across a raised gantry that encircled the warehouse, her footfalls silent though they fell upon metallic grating. Clinging to the shadows, her body suit dark enough to be one with them, she avoided the eyes of the armed thugs that were dotted about the floor below: both she and they were looking inward toward the storage building's heart. There, a larger number of Hell's Kitchen's 'finest' huddled around two dark sedans – men in masks and suits on one side, scruffy looking street thugs on the other.

Their duality made the observed situation an obvious one – a deal was being struck between two different organisations. It was one that Natasha Romanoff hoped to prevent.

The Russian had tracked the smuggling of the synthetic poison half-way around the globe. Originiating in Siberia, the nerve agent known as 'Vedma' was lethal – a concoction born of scientific tampering. Hallucinatory, it caused those that ingested it to witness horrific visions, accompanying the agony inflicted as it shut down the nervous system – death was inevitable no more than fifteen minutes after exposure.

As of yet, no cure existed.

Thanks to the Black Widow's efforts, a great deal of the substance had been seized. But not enough, and through her persistant tracking, she had found a large shipment had made its way to the USA – Hell's Kitchen was the first of many sites the poison had supposedly reached.

Once she'd located where it was being held, Natasha's insertion into the building had been easy enough. Despite its upgraded security, bypassing its electronic locks and motion sensors had been almost routine – though it was 'impressive' in Hell's Kitchen, it had posed little challenge to the experienced Avenger. Then, she worked to disable any immediate threats, before confirming the giant barrels actually contained the substance she hunted.

She'd quickly discovered her intelligence correct – and thus moved further into the warehouse, where'd she stumbled across the meeting between two factions.

A deal that was close to being done.

Picking up her pace, Natasha stealthed a little closer as a tall, broad suit shook a weasly-looking hoodie's hand, before turning and gesturing to his corporate clones. Stepping forward, they brought stacked cannisters on trolleys into view. Marked with a 'V', it wasn't too difficult to work out what each contained. A buzz of activity from the street gang side saw thugs come to retrieve the cannisters, and the Widow prepared herself to act. An electronic tracker would allow her to trace the sold Vedma, and once the less-well dressed criminals had departed, she'd deal with the more well-funded outfit.

However, best laid plans were always liable to change.

Romanoff wasn't sure what caused the hostility – as far as she was aware, nothing had been said to trigger the violence that broke out. All she could tell is that midway through the exchange, when money was transferred for cannisters, one twitchy, tattooed woman had pulled a firearm and taken a pot shot at a random suit –an action totally unprovoked. A moment of shocked stillness, both sides surprised, was followed with barked orders, more gunfire and an explosion as a gas pipe was hit in the crossfire, blowing out the building's mechanised door.

“Well that's less than ideal,” muttered the spy drolly.

She had little option but to intervene: Vedma was a volatile and flamable, and its noxious fumes were just as lethal as its usual liquid state. A leak wouldn't just be fatal to all those in the warehouse: the slightest of breezes could spread it through-out Hell's Kitchen. The death toll would be catastrophic.

Wanda Maximoff

(OOC: The twitchy tattooed woman has been affected by the strange paranoia you said had covered Hell's Kitchen, thus leading to the violence between the two sides. They can discover this later, when the Vedma is safe! I also tried to make the Vedma linked somewhat to your plot, so that it poses a double 'sanity' threat!)

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[attr="class","post2"]Wanda's head whipped toward the noise, brown curls lashing the air and falling over her shoulders. Years upon years of experience and training came to life in an instant. Her searching eyes found the dissipating smoke of the explosion fuming from the door of a building in the next block. The sorceress spared a moment to assess the populace, but if New Yorkers knew when to make themselves scarce due to criminal or (more usually) super-criminal activity, that went triply so for Hell's Kitchen natives. The crowds split on either side of the commotion, rerouting better than any motorized traffic detour.

The elusive malevolence that brought Wanda there would have to wait. Wanda wove and shouldered her way through the tide of foot traffic now pushing away from the smoking building. The sound of heavy gunfire rattled through the air. She broke into the quickly growing emptiness surrounding her destination and absently noted the sturdy metal door laying in the street that had formerly sealed the storehouse. Hex spheres shone, primed and ready for use around each of her palms. One she cast with long-practiced ease to protect her from any stray gunfire while she stepped into the open portal, looking in at the ongoing firefight within.

The Scarlet Witch scowled. The fight was too widespread and confused for her to safely make quick work of it. Things were further complicated because, were she to incapacitate some, they'd become helpless target practice for their adversaries. Wanda had enough weighting down her conscience without the lives of common criminals added to her vast pools of guilt. She knew, too, that the moment she actively entered the fray it gave each side a common enemy. Two wide shots throbbed against her defensive hex and Wanda decided which card she would play first.

"Guns," she scoffed. The sorceress gathered strands of chaos magick, knotting them together in the proper configuration then, hefting an overlarge hex sphere overhead with both hands, cast it. The light around her fingertips surged as it took affect: jamming every firearm within the confines of the storehouse.

Natasha Romanoff

(OOC: Wanda, accidentally screwing Nat over.)