Pietro Maximoff doesn't have a custom title currently.
Location: No Information
Born: No Information
Website: No Information
character's age: 24 (& 12 min.)
character's pronouns: He/Him/His
link to app: http://writeyouatragedy.jcink.net/index.php?showtopic=1707
link to shipper: http://writeyouatragedy.jcink.net/index.php?showtopic=79
gif of character: http://i1108.photobucket.com/albums/h416/asdfgfiles/140x140_zps74kb3dho.gif
player's alias: asdfg
player's pronouns: She/Her/Hers
player's timezone: GMT-3
character's codename: N/A
Joined: 19-February 17
Last Seen: May 14 2018, 06:54 PM
Local Time: Aug 15 2018, 02:06 AM
35 posts (0.1 per day)
( 0.35% of total forum posts )
May 7 2018, 11:16 PM
The city made no sense. The entire, country, really. It was like it was determined to make the least bit of sense possible, doubling down in any possible chance for spectacle they could charge for, even if that meant lying through their teeth.
Pietro had been fully aware of it, of course, but it was one thing to know it, and another to discover they had turned the destruction of his home, the death of his countrymen into a [i][musical/i]. "Avengers: The Sokovia Assault", they called it, starting on a small off-Broadway theater, but with enough publicity that Pietro could see an ad for it on one of the city's many electronic billboards.
He immediately set to the place, watching the small, gaudy building with burning hatred. Pietro made it inside from the backdoor, right as they rehearsed a number about the ungrateful sokovians who turned their backs on their Avengers saviors, preferring HYDRA over them. Pietro, before even he realized - much less the actors on stage - had the gangly idiot with a bad white wig pushed against the wall, the rage he felt keeping him from even being able to speak words out loud. It didn't take long for someone to call the cops, and police showed up quick. Well, over half an hour later, actually, but Pietro had been too busy arguing with the people inside to notice.
The arrived, coming through the open doors he had left behind, their hands resting over their guns. When they did, Pietro had already moved on from the brainless actors towards the equally brainless director and writer backstage, and, as they saw the police, they took to walking towards them, calling for them to throw him out, how they had a right to his life, because they bought the rights. Pietro followed them, rather, ahead of them, turning over to keep arguing, until the cop put a hand on his shoulder. Pietro shoved it away before it even touched him, and that made the cop angrier. "Listen, pal. If you don't like it, don't come watch it, alright?""This is <my country> we are talking about."
Pietro, as usual, drifted between his heavily accented English and the Russian dialect they spoke in Sokovia when he was angry. "<You people destroyed it, and now you mock it?>"
That was the wrong way to say it. The cop had no idea what language it was, only that it was foreign. He took steps back, by now far enough that he stood by the sidewalk, and pulled up his gun. Pietro let him unafraid of him."Calm right down, fella."
, he said, pointing up his gun. He hoped Pietro would cower."How quick are you with that gun?"
Pietro said, walking closer to it, and him, until the muzzle was inches away from his chest. "<Do you want to bet I'm quicker? I do.>"
May 5 2017, 04:22 PM
Break breadBackdated to
a few days after Wanda brought Pietro home I guess.
Pietro did what he was supposed to do, gave it a few days, tried to be open-minded and accepting, and things just kept on being weirder. He and Wanda were living with the Avengers - or half of it - in a high-class apartment in New York city, where they were, technically, hiding. Absolutely none of it made sense, at all, and it all still managed to be boring.
The first days still held something for him to do, mostly going around meeting people and getting them over the ‘dead’ stuff, but now it was over. Wanda was eager and participating in conversations and meetings and whatever they did there, while Pietro watched, not telling much. He said plenty, never being one to leave even an unspoken comment unanswered, but he didn’t know those people, didn’t trust them, and didn’t understand them. Pietro’s English was not the problem, the problem was they all - even Wanda - spoke some other, alien language. Avenging, or something.
The one thing Pietro they all seemed to agree on, was in that hiding in plain sight, thing. They left and went somewhat carelessly - Pietro noticed they sometimes picked different ways around, or didn’t leave together even when they were apparently going to the same place, but they moved around the city at will. Which meant Pietro was also free to come and go unbothered. He was almost annoyed by it; maybe he was looking for a fight. He had never been good in just coexisting with other people, he was always somewhat conspiring with them, protecting them, or fighting them, and, with those people, he didn’t know how to do the first two.
What he did know what to do was run, and even that was harder in the city. For starters, it was so busy, everywhere. Pietro could either keep at a snail’s pace, or exhaust himself quickly having to twist around the crowds. He was still figuring out his way around, and it was weird, living somewhere and not knowing where he was going. He knew home like the back of his hand, what is was like, what it used to be - before it got obliterated, right. He knew every building, and what it used to be ten years ago, the hiding spots, where to go for whatever he wanted to buy, sell, get or give. Who was friend and who was foe. In New York, he still kept getting lost all the time. He was figuring things out, slowly, but he hated the feeling of not being sure of where he should go. He had no purpose.
Worse, he was always so hungry. He had never been the sort to care for food, when life was eat what you have, when you can; after he was enhanced by the scepter, HYDRA was happy to offer him all the food he wanted, but he wanted none. He was bored by eating, and he kept eating more, and more. And now, while his body was still putting up the weight he lost (when he was dead, but he didn’t talk about it, thought it was all he seemed to talk about), he still ran so far around for so long, he was actually needed more calories than usual. One thing in favor of New York? There was so much food. From every country in the world, it seemed, every style.
Pietro had been making his way home from a run when he spotted this Chinese place, the one Wanda ordered from, so he ordered the special supposed to feed ten people. Worst case scenario, he’d have to share, and there wouldn’t be leftovers for the next day. Getting back at the Avenger’s hideout, he left it all in the kitchen, before making himself a plate.
Mar 28 2017, 01:21 PM
The rules of magicBackdated to:
The whole thing was ridiculous, it was all Pietro could think. The doubts, the questions, the tests, as if he could anyone but himself, because they were all convinced he had died. That they’d had a funeral and everything. At this point, Pietro thought it was a good thing he had come to them during the day, or they’d have gone to his grave to stake the corpse. He considered suggesting it out loud, but they might actually do it, and then it all felt too morbid for his tastes.
Is it was, the two groups of Avengers, divided but still connected through nebulous means that he didn’t care much about, finally managed to reach each other, and he could get a message to Wanda. He’d prefer to go to her, of course, which would have taken only seconds and settled the whole matter at once, but they had insisted in not trusting him.
A deal was made at least, that they’d let her know of him - and that she needed to be told of him, when she was the one who called him in the first place was ludicrous - and they’d meet once she was ready. Pietro was still wondering since when she needed to be ready for him.
The time was set, at 2 o’clock in the afternoon at a park. An open, public place, for some stupid reason. He was not the type to ever bother to be on time, but often he was early, anyway. This time, twenty minutes. He knew there was no way he’d ever miss her, but he still kept himself at the exact spot of the meeting, unwilling to give fate a chance to ruin it. He sat down by the bench, got up and walked around, tried to waste time watching the people around, but they were always doing something boring.
He tried to think of what he’d say. He still didn’t understand since when he and Wanda had to say anything to each other.
Mar 14 2017, 05:02 PM
The yellow brick roadBackdated:
Tony Stark’s tests had confirmed: Pietro was, in fact, himself, and, in fact, alive. The whole problem was, he had never doubted that in the first place, and the only reason he had even gone along with it all was because he was hoping the tests would also tell him he was not crazy, but that wasn’t something his machines could measure.
Still, some things were facts: he had a big chunk of time missing, going from a little after he left Wanda at the church in Novi Grad, Sokovia, what felt like mere hours ago, to almost ten months later, when he had suddenly woken up in a tank somewhere in the United States. What happened in between, apparently, had included him dying - from being shot at, no less - and being buried. He didn’t remember it at all.
Another fact: his sister had stayed in America, instead of returning to Sokovia, and she had stayed with the Avengers; but the Avengers had split up over a new law, and now half of them, his sister included, were on the run, and Stark had no idea where.
The last one: his sister thought he was dead. Pietro wasn’t sure what to make of it, not that he was sure what to make of much of anything, since he had been feeling seriously disoriented still. Things were slowly making sense. And Stark had given him Barton’s address, who should know of her, because he had run off with them, but only made it so far as his own house, apparently. Pietro wasn’t surprised. It was almost unbearable to wait to go after her, but he knew he needed to make sure. His sister had survived without him for months - even if she turned into a fugitive superhero in another country during that short time - she could do it a few more days, while he figured things out. It was better than him showing up looking like a ghost and speaking gibberish (even if, to him, the ones speaking nonsense were everybody else).
He still couldn’t wait long before he couldn’t stand being away - not when he still had the memory of her calling to him echoing in his head - and went after the next stop in his messed up scavenger’s hunt: Birdman’s house.
Stark’s Tower had demanded he showed some self control, even in his state: he knew the place was full of safeguards, ones made to handle the sorts of Ultron and the Hulk (not that is succeeded most times), but he knew going in was only going to get him lost and trapped. The run-down building in the city, the one it took Pietro a long time to find, because he didn’t know the city, and it was a small, poorly-signed place that was hard to follow didn’t ask of him the same sort of consideration. Pietro had looked at it for a few seconds, trying to make sure it was the right place, when someone came off the door and he entered before it closed, moving past doors until he figured out the order made no sense and just brute-forcing his way to the right one.
He knocked a couple of times without answers; it might have been a few hours or a couple of seconds in-between, until he decided he wasn’t going to wait, and shaking the handle off the door to make his way in. Maybe he could find something to lead him to Wanda without having another round of people looking at him like he had just come from the dead.
Feb 24 2017, 12:24 PM
I came out of hell because you need to stop
Pietro woke with a start, as if jolted from a deep sleep he couldn’t remember falling in, a deep ache spreading from the inside out, bones and muscles and skin. His vision was blurred, and he felt dizzy. A voice called him, desperate, urgent. sounds arrived dulled to his ears, as if he was underwater. He felt around himself, realizing he was stuck. No, not stuck, locked, inside some sort of tube, machines connected to him. The sudden realization that he couldn’t run seemed like the trigger to bring everything into focus, his heart spiking for one, two, three beats, and suddenly, his fear settled in an icy feel in his stomach, and mind cleared. He heard it again, now clearly, and so obvious: Wanda. Wanda needed him. He needed to run.
He knew where he was; not the place, but the situation. It was a laboratory; he had been in one before, he knew how it worked. With the little range of movement he was given, he took out anything that kept him tied, except for the mask that covered his face, providing oxygen, knowing that machines would start to beep, and someone would come and check him. He closed his eyes again, against his better instincts, and waited. The moment he felt the rush of air of the open door, he jumped, his body feeling sluggish and weak against what he had grown himself so accustomed to, but still enough to push one of the now terrified doctors against the wall, while the other looked on. “Exit.”
He croaked, his voice rough, as if his mouth was unsure of how to make sounds. “Where?”
It took them more than half of a second to reply, and it felt like more than his patience could handle, so he simply grabbed the one whose badge showed a higher number, using their biometrics and signs around him to open up the doors, until they were both outside.“Where are we?”
He asked, and since the answer wasn’t fast enough, again, he simply ran. It didn’t take many seconds until he was on a road, and he followed it to the nearest city, running through until he found a sports store. New clothes, new socks and shoes covering his now torn feet, and he started running again. He knew where he was, and where he had to go. New York City.
The the trip took two hellish hours, because he couldn’t run as fast as he was used to, and still had to keep stopping to take a breather. He took his breaks in gas stations, trying her phone number, but the one he had was from Sokovia, and of course it never even completed a call. The only other number he knew to call was Stark Industries, but whenever he did, he got either hung up on, or yelled at, then hung up on.
When he did arrive, running into the reception, he only managed to say “Wanda”
out loud, grabbing at the marble not to fall down, breathing hard. He looked up, the receptionist staring at him with wide eyes and a quivering mouth, and he repeated himself three or four more times. “Wanda. Where?”
Two minutes later he was able to form coherent sentences, again, despite the thirst, and started attempting describing her, or anyone else who might know of her, without another reaction. “Wanda? This high, long, brown hair, probably wearing red?”
...“Birdman? He uses a bow and arrow?”
...“Captain America, freedom, has a shield?”
...“He’s huge and green, how can you miss that?”
In his desperation, he tried even the one he would rather avoid: “Stark? You don’t know Stark? He owns the building!”