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.>"