#I still had plans to perhaps include them on the main pride flag but that flag never materialized so we never had the chance. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

anonthenullifier · 5 years

Text

An Auspice of Scarlet - Chapter 9

A Scarlet Vision Victorian AU

Chapter Title: In which a courtship is debuted and the game is afoot.

Chapter Summary: A day at the Exhibition serves as a test to convince Ultron of Wanda's usefulness.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/41745698

I’ve been waiting over a year to put all my Exhibition of Industry historical research to use! Plus, for the first time, not all the steam in the chapter comes from steam-powered engines ;).

I hope you enjoy!

Being a poorly paid and much maligned spiritualist affords few luxuries in life but one that Wanda has fully embraced is the less stringent standards of dress. The general air of mysticism required of her craft includes the option to eschew traditional bodices for more airy, unconventional (and far more comfortable) fashions. Thus, her body is wholly unused to the structural boning currently digging into her sides, poking her ribs with every rattle of the railcar over the cobblestones. One particularly jarring bump causes her to wince and then suck in as deep of a breath as she can manage. Wanda holds the air in, hoping her efforts can loosen the fabric just a little bit more. Another bump, this one enough to send her and the others around her into the air, and she is forced to release her breath with a pained gasp. Why they couldn’t have just walked the two miles to the Exhibition, instead of this awful makeshift transport systemA is beyond her.

“Once we get to the Exhibition, you have to stop acting like you’re in an Iron Maiden.” Natasha sits next to her on the bench, an image of grace and self-confidence, her gloved hands crossed and resting on top of the folds of her Brunswick green skirt. Everyone on the railcar must automatically perceive her as the epitome of the docile and demure woman so revered by society. Assuming the paragon of femininity has at least five daggers and a pistol entombed in the folds of her skirt.

Wanda awkwardly rotates to address the judgmental comment with an equally annoyed, “I’ll try.” If the corset is a bit too tight, she imagines it is all part of reinforcing the hierarchy of power today. The thing is, Wanda has never been one to bow easily to assumed superiority. “I still don’t see why all of this,” her hand (bare because she negotiated a more complex braided up-do in exchange for ditching the bow-accented lace gloves) runs along the long-sleeved, basque bodice she was bound into this morning, “is necessary.”

“Wanda,” her name, just like the sharp tugs it took to close the dress, is threaded with annoyance, “no one will believe a couple dressed in social discord.” Natasha’s eyes remain forward, disinterested in the bodies huddle around them, swaying and shifting with the pace of the horses over the uneven road. “If you haven’t noticed, even as a butler, Vision is better dressed than most men of wealth.”

“I’ve definitely noticed.” And thoroughly appreciated the impeccable fit of his fancy threads.

Bemusement briefly snags the corners of Natasha’s mouth, though she disposes of it efficiently. “We weren’t going to be able to dress him down, so you were given the opportunity to expand the horizons of your wardrobe.” This is the closest her tone has ever gotten to amicable and if anyone is eavesdropping they might even misconstrue it as the prattling of long-time friends.

Wanda is willing to concede that for their plan to work it is important that they put on every air of being a posh, socially adroit couple. What she is unwilling to fully accept is the degree of formality they are taking. If, for instance, they had decided they would embark on their public courtship at the Stark gala in two nights, then this ensemble would suffice, even if it paled in comparison to the drama of the other costumes. But for a day at an Exhibition? It seems excessive. The crimson taffeta of the bodice is too luxurious for a crowded railcar. The thick black lines that travel down her torso and dissolve into the gathered ebony skirt (that requires a hoop and three petticoats) is too bold even under the extravagance of the stained-glass ceilings of the Crystal Palace. These two features alone are over the top, self-consciously so, yet it gets worse. All of it is embroidered with a delicate, floral brocade placed in ways that accentuate the curves of her waist that only exist due to the tightness of the corset. She feels like a stuffed swan that’s about to be placed in a flock of pigeons.

“I’m just not sure about the bodice.” Natasha doesn’t sigh even if the action is implicit in the hard stare she maintains with the road in front of them. “Won’t this,” Wanda points at the exposed skin of her chest and shoulders, “garner unwanted attention from the prudes on the prowlB?”

Natasha studies the ensemble, a critical frown masking any outward signs of her thoughts. A rustle of fabric corresponds with her shrug, the action small yet pointed enough to dismiss the entirety of the world. “I think the point of today is to get as much attention as possible. We should be more focused on the mission instead of your clothes.” It is said with exuberant finality, the masquerade of partial deception they are entering a homey place for the spy. “What’s the most important rule?”

Somehow while being caged into this dress and pinned into a class of discomfort formerly unknown to her, Wanda was also expected to strategize. Numerous rules were discussed, each one treated with equal importance depending on where they were in the timeline. “Be amorous,” believability was underscored an offensive amount, an unspoken yet clearly conveyed suspicion in the veracity of their affections, “but not to the point of distraction.”

“Good.” A small spike of pride fills her at passing the first part of the exam. Natasha dips her head as she peers through the grand hats sitting next to them and out the window. “Be aware of your surroundings, always.” Reading minds is a level of awareness perhaps no one else has, but Wanda tries not to bring it up lest she seem fully insubordinate. So, she borrows a page from Natasha’s book and keeps her attention forward, inspecting the feathered vermillion fascinator three benches away. “You haven’t looked over your shoulder once since we left.”

The tips of the feather bob happily to the rhythm of the horseshoes and Wanda can’t keep her words to herself. “You know what I can do.”

“I do, but how am I supposed to find a person based on your description of their thoughts?” Natasha glances out the window again. “We’re the next stop.” With that the conversation is shuttered, left purposefully on her word and the angle of her body solidifies that she isn’t willing to take a rebuttal at the moment.

When the railcar comes to a harsh stop, two men anoint themselves the bearers of civility, taking each woman’s hand as she exits the car. Wanda offers a small, gracious smile before taking her hand back and stands in awe, for a second day, at the shimmering panels of the Crystal Palace. Even the far too large flag atop the dome and the throngs of people milling about and forming queues doesn’t detract from the implausible elegance of the structure. A hand to her shoulder encourages Wanda to move, “Come on, they’re waiting inside.”

The lines are longer today, a menagerie of street performers and food vendors weaving between the impatient crowds in hopes of capitalizing on their antsy boredom. Natasha joins Wanda in watching a blonde, muscular man in a horned hat and fur-lined vest twirl a hammer through the air, much to the amazement of the children behind them in line. Then they move on.

Once inside, the Grecian statues, carved mirrors, and gleeful choirs lining the main hallway stream past as Wanda does her best to keep pace with the agile steps of Natasha. The energy inside is more chaotic today, no single demonstration drawing the attention like Stark’s did yesterday (something she’s sure Tony is gloating about), leaving all of the people to wander haphazardly based on what display seems more intriguing. Eventually, however, they come upon a small crowd and their steps slow as they skirt along the rim of people to stand at the foot of the Iron Man, no longer lit up and moving, but impressive, nonetheless. Clint smiles at them from his seat on the left foot of the machine, his clothes no different than any other day, except for a slightly cleaner cap on his head. Jealousy rises unbidden at the sheer comfort he seems to be enjoying. “‘Bout time you got here. You’re missing a good show.”

The Iron Man is not unoccupied. Rhodes is on a ladder, hands fiddling inside one of the valves in the side of the machine while Stark remains on the ground, barking orders, “Just turn it to the left, Rhodey!”

“It won’t go to the left, Tony.” Clearly this suggestion has been made many times already.

A more helpful, patient voice from behind the machine births a mass of butterflies in her stomach, “I believe you need to lift the rim of the valve and then rotate it left.”

There’s a pop, a distant Finally, and then a hiss that startles the people closest to them, which is followed by Stark’s, “Way to take the eggC, Rhodey! Come on down.” Tony braces the ladder, looks to the other side which is unpopulated, frowns, and raises his voice enough to be heard above the chatter surrounding them, “Vision, are you really going to hide back there?”

“I-” exasperation is evident in just the one syllable, whatever they’ve been doing this morning taxing enough for both Rhodes and Vision to be annoyed. The only difference is the butler corrects for his supposed out-of-line response, “No, one moment.”

Wanda is aware that Clint and Natasha are talking, yet her mind can’t comprehend what they’re saying, the fluttering in her stomach far too loud. It’s ridiculous, to feel like this, like one of the swooning girls who watch the military marches or stand on the docks as the sailors come in, the ones who rush straight to her tent, demanding a palm reading to confirm that the stray look from the blue uniformed blonde was a marriage proposal. Not to mention she has spent a lot of time with Vision, alone, in far more intimate settings. Yet somehow, standing in a ridiculous dress, barely able to take full breaths, surrounded by people, makes Wanda far more nervous to interact with him than even the first time she waylaid him on his balcony, or the first time at the river when she truly looked at his face and realized how handsome he was.

She blames her malfunctioning nerves for why it takes her several seconds to recognize him when he joins Stark at the ladder. The typical monochromatic uniform of the butler has been replaced by a barrage of colors and patterns so at odds with what she has come to assign her mental representation of Vision, that it is difficult to grasp that this is actually real. It’s not unappealing, by any means, but she’s never even seen his waistcoat have more than a light swirl of silver, much less the broad plaid lines adorning both his charcoal pants and mustard vest. The top hat might be a tad taller than normal, and is definitely a shinier silk. Even his bow tie is different, the knot more pronounced and the droopy curves are wide and showy in a cornflower blue that matches his coat.D

He spies her before she can collect her senses. There is a pause in his approach, a tentativeness that had been dwindling over the past weeks, and she wonders if it is because she looks just as at odds with the world as he does. He recovers, four long strides and a disarming smile bringing him to her, “Miss Maximoff, you look lovely.”

“Aren’t we long past Miss Maximoff?” A normal response would have been gratitude and a similar (genuine) compliment. Thankfully he doesn’t seem phased by her impropriety, sliding away, briefly, from formality into a mildly nervous dip of his head as he concedes her observation.

“We are, Wand-“

An arm wraps around Vision’s shoulders, as best it can anyway, Stark significantly shorter than the butler, yet he still tries to make the action look comfortable. “Did you kiss her hand?”

“I-”

Stark carries on as if he didn’t ask a question, “Did he kiss your hand?”

“Sir this-”

“He did not.”

A slow, disappointed shake of Tony’s head only serves to deepen the dismay on Vision’s face and Wanda, though sympathetic to his plight, is also thoroughly amused. “What did we talk about, V? You always lead with a kiss to the hand.”

“I have barely gott-”

“Wanda,” Tony grins, pure mischief dancing in his pupils, “forgive him, he’s so new at all of this.”

Defeated silence blares from Vision and Wanda decides it might be her duty to defend his honor, “There’s nothing to apologize for. We are long past hand kisses anyway.”

The escalation of Stark’s glee and the descent of Vision’s soul into the ground confirms the misstep of her attempt, “Oh really?” Tony clasps his arm tighter around Vision’s shoulders, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that is designed to be just loud enough for her to hear every word, “And you acted all horrified and puritanical when I brought up tipping the velvetE. The butler doth protest too much, methinks.”

Mortification leeches Vision's face of all color, his eyes refusing to meet Wanda’s as he tries to steer the conversation far from the murky waters it’s entered, “Mr. Stark, a touch more couth, please.”

Stark contemplates the request, slinging a smile towards her that says isn’t this fun? “Fine, fine, I will rein in my uncouthness to protect your delicate sensibilities.”

Wary relief twines through Vision’s, “Thank you” and the conversation lulls into several seconds of silence. Vision eases into a new topic, eyes sliding to see if Tony is going to interrupt, “Wanda, how was your morn-”

“Wanda,” tension instantly grips Vision’s shoulders far tighter than Stark himself and she finds it fascinating to watch the butler wilt under the incessant chatter, like watching a turtle desperately try to get back into its shell after spotting a hawk. “What do you think?” Tony waves his hand in front of Vision’s waistcoat much like the dancers did for the Iron Man the day before. “Are you all chucked all of a heapF at this fine tot-huntingG outfit I put him in?”

The question demands careful consideration, even if she already knows the answer, so Wanda steps back and makes a point of carefully inspecting the outfit. The fit is, unsurprisingly, impeccable, the colors have grown on her, melding into a palette that actually suits him remarkably well, not too audacious but providing a warm, friendly feel. It’s when she meets Vision’s timid gaze that the true wonder of the outfit chucks her all of heap. When he wears black, his eyes shine as the sole point of color, yet somehow, with the blue of his coat, his irises are positively lucid, mimicking the grandeur of the cerulean glass above. “I am.” A touch of color returns to Vision’s face. “You look jaunty, Vizh.”

Visions lips purse into flattery, albeit one drenched in insecurity. A small lift of his shoulders goes along with his quiet confession, “I feel like a bit like a peacock.”

Which seems fitting. A peacock who only just discovered its hue and a stuffed bird that doesn’t belong creating an awkward flock in amongst the chaos of the world. “I think it suits you.” A soft smile emerges on his face.

“Speaking of suiting him,” and the moment is wrecked by the battering ram that is Tony Stark, “would you believe-”

“Tony Stark!” Their conversation ends abruptly, displeasure latching to Tony’s mouth and dragging it into a deep frown, while Vision finally breathes normally under the lack of scrutiny. “Tony Stark!” The repeated yell is not the fawning or ecstatic screeches of his fans. It’s a challenge. Tony whips around in search of the booming voice as it continues, “You should be paying attention so you can see the real future!” A dark-haired, bushy-bearded man stands on a platform with his arms held out to his sides, waving a tall, satin top hat through the air as he ascends towards the variegated glass ceiling. The platform itself is hoisted on a wooden frame, a second, less finely dressed man standing atop the thin beam near the pulley system. When Tony finally looks, the man bows before straightening into a proud stance. “People of this fine Exhibition, my name is Elisha Otis and today I want to show you a true feat of engineering.”

In amongst the curious hushed murmuring around them is Stark’s commentary “Oh boy, an elevator, like that’s new.”

“One that will improve your lives instead,” a flourish of his hat towards Tony’s stall leaves little question of his meaning, “of something created to exist as a mere mechanical flight of privileged fantasy.”

Whoever this man is, Wanda finds herself drawn to the confidence it takes to publicly come for Stark in his own arena. It’s also deeply satisfying how annoyed Stark is at the moment, desperately seeking a willing outlet for his ire. “He’s acting so damn proud of an elevator I could have made when I was ten.”

Robert Roberts, Vision once explained, stated it is the butler’s job to offer a response to his employer when no one else will, as a sign of respect. It is doubtful he would condone Vision’s un-emotive, “Yet you failed to do so.”

The dryness of Vision’s retort is doused with Tony’s vainglory. “Only because I was already busy with better innovations. You know I pay you to agree with me not bubble aroundH.”

Wanda keeps her eyes upwards, though she has no trouble imagining the faint smile that must be on Vision’s face, “I believe both are outlined in my contract.”

“Give a man fancy clothes for a day and he becomes a sassafras.”

An impatient, “Shut yer mouth,” comes from somewhere ahead of them and miraculously it actually works in silencing Stark.

“We cannot deny that the elevator has given humanity the potential to ascend into greatness.” Otis’ top hat comes to rest over his heart as his speech grows somber. “But there are risks to any innovation, the men, women, and children of the Lowell Mill show us this.” A dramatic, effective pause works as a spell, the feet of the crowd inching forward at the hope of escaping another tragedy brought on by a defective rope. “I believe we should no longer have to gamble with our lives in order to embrace the future.” The man tips his chin up to talk to the helper on the truss, “Cut it, my boy.”

Shouts of dismay mingle with tense excitement when the helper walks to the rope, brandishing an axe. Vision grips her hand like a vice and Wanda can’t breathe as she watches the axe slice through the only thing tethering this mad inventor to the world. Her hands ignite as the people around her scream.

And then all is silent.

There is no wailing, no screaming, no whistles of the uniformed police. All focus is on the elevator and its maniacally grinning operator suspended in the air. “All safe, gentlemenI.” The man dons his hat, tipping the brim towards the crowd. “I present to you, the good people of this wondrous Exhibition, a self-locking mechanism for safer travel.” Thunderous applause fill every inch of the magnificent dome.

“That son of a bitch finally did it.” Tony's descent into indignant fixation is so quick and strong that Wanda can feel it pulsing in her own mind and ruining the thrill of what they just witnessed. "Vision," there isn't a moment's break for response, "I need it. Right now."

Vision cautiously proceeds in the face of Stark’s fervor, "I am certain Mr. Otis would be amenable to a contract to install his work for you."

It is a valiant effort at what would be deemed a normal, rational business response; however, every single one of them is aware this isn't what is wanted. "I'm sure he'd be tickled to do so." Vision's lack of response - not a single twitch of his face or shift in his stance - at the acidic drip in the comment is commendable. "No I want you to go over there and find out how he did it." The expression Vision gives is so foreign to his face it is almost farcical, but it is one Wanda recognizes, a prophetic disappointment that has been formed over eons, one her mother used on Pietro every time he claimed to not know why the neighbor was crying. "Come on, I promise I won't steal his thunder, I'm just curious."

"Mr. Stark we had an agreement."

Regardless of her personal views of Stark, she does have to give credit to the way he harnesses his audacity to get what he wants. "I believe we agreed that you could have a day off barring any emergencies and Vision," the two men make eye contact and the flight of Vision's resolve is visible in the millimeter sag of his shoulders, "If I don’t find out how that mechanism works, I might die."

"My apologies, Wanda," Vision’s fingers tighten gently around her hand as he bows his head, "I will be back momentarily."

She returns the pressure and provides a reassuring smile as well, "It's fine."

Tony shoos Vision away with a, "See, not a problem, go."

The self-satisfaction emanating from Stark only stokes her own, nigh constant irritation anytime he crosses her thoughts - an improvement that it is only irritation and not animosity. If she were to walk away now, it would only serve to distance herself from Stark and with Ultron's eyes no doubt already locked on her, that is not strategic, so she remains, trying to dredge up a topic of light conversation. She recalls some mention of Otis in the past, she thinks, though that evening her mind was drowning in the possibility of revenge. Even more salient than that, is the awareness she has of the cutthroat and questionable practices of Stark, based primarily on rumors spread by bitter voices on the streets. "Do you actually think he's going to be told the answer?"

"Most definitely," pride fills his voice as they watch Vision shake the hand of the inventor, who is now safely back on the ground, "Elisha adores Vision, always tries to steal him away with pithy salaries." Stark snorts as if it’s some sort of joke, all the while her eyes remain on the friendly, enthusiastic way the two men at the elevator are speaking and she wonders what Vision would do if he wasn't tied to Stark. "Now," the crash of Tony's voice forces her to pay attention to him, "Will Vision actually tell me the answer?" He shrugs, "He'll probably come back and say something like," the last time Stark attempted to mimic Vision's voice was offensive enough, it is no better now, "It's remarkably simple, I'm amazed no one else has thought of it before."

Wanda superimposes Vision's actual voice onto the comment and, even if she refuses to outwardly agree with Stark, wouldn't be surprised if that was the response when the butler came back. "So why even send him?"

"Because Vision is a handsy man." Wanda refuses to acknowledge the smarmy grin and expectant stare, even stepping slightly away in fear of Tony resorting to a nudge to get his graceless point across. Stark sighs loudly to make his disappointment clear. And then he moves on, "I'll just leave out a prototype, complain a bit about how it isn't working, and eventually he'll start fiddling."

The pride he has in his deception marks the extent to which she deems speaking to him has served its purpose. Wanda constructs a wall of polite, distant silence between them by keeping her eyes forward. Her choice is respected for all of five seconds. "You know, Wanda," all pretension leaves the man's voice, a rare, reluctant honesty imbuing his words that piques her interest enough peer at him, "I've never." He struggles with whatever it is he wants to say. "It's been a long, long time since I've seen Vision so...loose, you know."

Loose as a descriptor for Vision is a stretch. No one would ever watch him for a day, a week, or even, she guesses, a year and use that word; however, she will concede that if he were a coil, lately he has been wound slightly looser, his smiles a bit freer, but only when they are alone. "When was the last time?" The question comes out before she can remember her personal vow to stop conversing with Stark.

"Probably the day I met-wait, no,” mischief lights up his body, gesticulating excitedly as he corrects himself, “the swan. He was fuming for weeks. I had no idea he could even be angry.”

Wanda checks to be sure Vision is still occupied in his own conversation, certain he wouldn’t approve of this topic. Not wanting to derail Stark, Wanda keeps her inquiry simple, “Oh?”

Glee vibrates in Stark’s throat, never leaving his mouth, fully understanding the wealth of information he holds and has the power to dole out. “Yeah, I’m serious, up until that swan, he just was so quiet. Never smiled, never joked. When he would appease my need for company it was always fairly one-sided conversations. You know how he is.” Stark gives her shoulder a conspiratorial shove and something between them shifts, an unasked for kinship forming between the sole members of a secret club for those who know real Vision. “But that magnificent feathered devil. It was like the challenge of it knocked something back in place. I finally saw a some of that scrawny kid I’d met at the university.” He’s speaks so wistfully it’s tempting to peek into his mind and relive with him the moment he met this stranger, except it feels perfidious to sidestep Vision’s decision to start over with a new life and a new identity. Thankfully the momentum of his thought continues, tracking back to the point of their conversation, “Then he met you and well, he’s been different, a good different, mostly.”

It’s almost a compliment and far nicer than she imagined from Stark. Wanda’s mind is blank on how to respond. Unfortunately, this leaves Tony room to continue, “I don’t understand it, to be frank. Vision tried to explain last night, even likened it to how if Pepper had listened to naysayers like me she’d be married to Rockefeller right now. Granted,” any friendliness between them slips away as he affixes the blasé mask he wears so well, “I’ve never courted someone by putting them in a coma to seek revenge on someone else, but to each their own, I suppose.”

This Stark puts her on firmer footing, muscles tensing defensively at the flippant disregard. “I didn’t know that would happen.” For once he doesn’t talk, but the arch of his eyebrows and extended, direct eye contact with her speaks volumes of his continued dismissal of her honesty. What this man craves is power and influence, an inflated self-importance that demands his word be weighed heavier than everyone else’s. Wanda needles at his ego with a steady, “Your opinion on this doesn’t matter.”

“You’re right.” Expertly Stark wrests control from her, twisting her statement to his own argument. “If Vision wants to think you are the jammiest bit of jamJ, even with your abhorrent tactics, that’s his choice.” Wanda follows his gaze to the elevator and watches as Vision bids farewell to the inventor. “But let’s be clear,” his voice lowers, the gravity of the words clashing with the cheerful smile painted on his face, “anything like that happens again and I will eagerly fulfill my destiny and finish ruining your life. Understood?”

Wanda doesn’t need to fake the sincerity of her, “Yes.”

“The prodigal son has returned!” Tony spreads his arms out wide to welcome Vision back. “What news from distant lands?”

“What Mr. Otis achieved is ingeniously simple,” his words are abuzz with revelation, distant in a way that suggests his mind is still back at the elevator looking up to study the solution. “Remarkable that no one had considered it before.”

The sideways glance from Stark briefly welcomes her back into the folds of the Vision Friend and Lover club, and to her horror, she feels a slight congeniality at the wily smirk on his face. “And the mechanism would be?”

Vision closes off his excitement, locking it behind an iron wall of secrecy. “I am certain if you were to visit his exhibition you would be able to apply deductive reasoning and scientific logic to parse out the solution.”

“You do know you’re supposed to be loyal to me, right?”

Stark’s attempt to guilt him is only half serious, knowing full well it won’t work but he seems to enjoy getting a rise out of Vision. Which he does with expertise, the butler bristling at the comment and preparing a, no doubt, sharply polite rebuff. But if they are going to convince Ultron of anything today, this can’t keep going. Wanda intervenes, her hand sliding between Vision’s arm and chest, fingers closing around his bicep with a slight tug, “Vizh, you said we had a lot to see today.”

“I,” the axis of his attention tips towards her quicker than his mind, the shift in his words paced unevenly, “Yes, yes we have much to see. Mr. Stark, may I take my leave?”

Vision glances at Tony for some sort of dismissal and is met with a challenge tucked in the man’s lopsided grin, “Have you kissed her hand yet?” Under other circumstances, Wanda would take offense to the stilted, unenthusiastic method Vision uses to raise her hand, would likely internalize the delicate though emotionless press of his lips to her skin and the lack of steady eye contact they share. But Stark-mandated affection deserves to fall below the threshold of acceptability and she actually wishes Vision had been even more removed in his actions. The lack of passion doesn’t seem to faze Tony, his hands cupped over his heart in faux-delight, “Truly ambrosial. Now,” he waves his hand at Vision, “away with you and please, for the love of God, have fun, for once in your life.”

“Yes Sir.” Vision offers her his arm once more, his movements fluid and more affecting than the kiss to her hand, “Shall we find our chaperones?”

“I suppose we should.”

Said chaperones are less than ten feet away, Clint with his arms crossed and an easy tilt to his mouth and Natasha evokes the Grecian statues from the entryway with her cool and collected indifference.

“You all ready?” Clint’s enthusiasm is a welcome companion to their day, one that Wanda hopes to match and mirror.

“We are.” Wanda bends her arm just enough to draw Vision closer, at least as close as the stiff hoop of her skirt allows. “Where are we going first, Vizh?”

There is little doubt that the entirety of the day has already been mapped, timed, and solidified by the butler - in fact, if she were brazen enough to slip her hand inside his coat, she is certain she’d find an annotated map in his pocket. He still hesitates in answering, “I, um,” she follows his eyes and finds Clint staring directly at the closeness of their hips and Vision shuffles to the side until he receives a gesture of approval. “Um, I was thinking we could begin in the textile wing on the second floor. From my understanding, it is the least busy in the morning.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Natasha slides her arm through Clint’s and presents them with a convincingly vapid smile, “Let’s not forget our purpose today.” Firm nods from each participant in the ruse confirms they all know what to do, and Vision begins leading them through the palace hallways.

What she assumed would be a straight-line, purposeful stroll to the textile wing, turns out to be a meandering and informative journey. They stop frequently, sometimes to stare at their reflection (one that, though she won’t admit it, proves Natasha’s choice of clothing correct because they do look a dapper couple), learning about the strides Waller and Kreps took to construct the gildedK, painstakingly carved monstrosity of a mirror. There’s a pyramid made of cotton cord (“A truly novel approach to crafting rope.”), several hearths that are grander than even the ones Stark has in his homes, and Clint stops to test each settee and finely upholstered armchair they pass. The statues all have a story, whether a mythological and tragic love, or a fiercely won military victory, or a social testament to the evils of slavery, or even a bronze dog (“The sculpture decided to craft a new breed by mixing a Saint Bernard with an English Mastiff.”) that has become a bit of a celebrity within the first two days of the exhibition.

All of it is so otherworldly, bathed in the shimmering light coming through the glass panes but it’s only interesting insofar as Vision’s running narration is filled with vim, the conveyance of knowledge something he seems to relish. It’s charming. Almost distractingly so.

Yet the purpose of their day is never far from her mind, Natasha’s constant sweep of their surroundings pressuring Wanda into not becoming fully engrossed by the next story. Looking over her shoulder hasn’t seemed useful with the influx of bodies around them, so Wanda maintains a reach with her powers, brushing the minds around them at each display and in each new corridor. She tracks which ones are familiar, and within those, which ones come and go, and which remain conveniently on the same exhibition circuit.

By the time they finally reach the textile wing, Wanda has a firm idea of the presence of Ultron’s lackeys in the crowd. Two of their minds are currently centered on her, encouraging her to step closer to Vision as they join a crowd around a large wooden table-like structure. The flat part of the thing has been flipped open, four men placing wooden blocks and stones inside the crevices. “It’s a chromolithograph,” Vision explains, “they’ve recently perfected printing on scarves in at least twenty colors at a time.”

“Fascinating.”

A broad, very distracting smile accentuates his enthusiastic nod, “Plate technology has been used for some time but the innovation in fabric printing in such detail is quite a novel and fascinating topic.” It really isn’t and yet she would willingly listen to a detailed explanation just to experience the rare, unapologetic enjoyment he gets from all of this. “Apparently, it took four months for them to craft this specific print of the Crystal Palace.”

Four months ago she had only just moved to the town where they met and had no notion of what was going to happen with the river and a kind, nicely dressed gentleman. “That’s a long ti-“

“How many do you count?” Natasha keeps her voice low each time she checks in with them, her eyes forward and a mock interest plastered on her face so that any observers assume she is whispering to her companions about the exhibit. The number of interruptions seems a bit much and very well timed to whenever their conversation is hitting a stride, almost as if the spy is playing a game only she knows the full rules to and, thus, is clearly winning. Wanda finds the best strategy is to just answer and move on as quickly as possible.

“Three.”

“Clint?”

“Three.” For all of the talk of not getting distracted by the day, Clint has spent the majority of his time expertly placing himself as close to Vision as possible, including at the moment, his shoulder wedging strategically between herself and the butler in an act to better converse with Natasha. “We got yellow feather,” the man’s bright hat ornament is far too conspicuous for trailing people, assuming the point is not to be noticed. “Suspenders,” a jacketless and portly man who joined them around the time they stopped to marvel at pearlescent china bowls with hand painted forget-me-nots, “and questionable pants over there,” a truly atrocious pair of robin’s egg trousers.

“There’s one more.” Vision has proven surprisingly adept at their mission, the furtiveness of his checking rivaling even Natasha, but this is the first time he’s disagreed with them. “The woman to Ms. Romanov’s left, roughly eight people down, in the white lace and silver threaded lilacs.”

Clint’s body is now firmly between them, forcing Vision to step to the side, apologizing to the woman next to him for the inconvenience. “When did she get there?”

“At the lighthouse bulb,” Natasha doesn’t miss a beat, answering before Vision can take all glory for the observation, “she’s been pretty distant and hard to spot.” The comment is half bragging and half absolving her pupils of their first incorrect answer. “You ever consider a change in career, Vision?”

Wanda has to look towards the ceiling to see Vision over Clint’s head. His demeanor remains aloof, just as instructed by Natasha, even while his words are anything but that, “I see no need. Our careers involve similar skill sets, except mine is far less susceptible to ending with a charge of treason.”

Natasha’s eyebrows lift at the statement while she inspects a speck of fuzz on her glove. “Bold words for a man complicit in so many of Stark’s dirty deeds.”

The comment isn’t a threat or accusation, per se, tonally more similar to the banter between two professionals often heard in taverns. Wanda doubts Vision appreciates the yoking of their livelihoods together, “I,” but his self-preservation and intelligence mean he swallows his disapproval, “touché, Miss Romanov.”

In front of them, one of the men holds a silken scarf high for the crowd. The milky fabric comes alive with colors so perfectly chosen that Wanda actually feels the same awe looking at the replication of the Crystal Palace as she does staring at the actual structure. She joins the crowd in politely clapping for the display. “Okay,” Clint steps forward, spinning around to stare at the three of them as he talks, “Vision, what’s next?”

“There is a newly patented duplex lathe two booths away.”

“Yeah, no,” Clint’s lips quirk into mild dismay at the idea, “as delightful and practical as that sounds, take it from a seasoned professional and let’s go find something a bit more romantic, okay?”

Wordlessly Vision evaluates the opinions around him, face unreadable other than the hint of beseechment in his eyes. “I-” she isn’t sure what to tell him and knows her silence is louder than she intends it to be, “Um, there is,” Vision reaches into his coat pocket and removes a square of paper, the edges pressed into sharp creases that he unfolds in front of them. As she suspected, the map is marked with his pristine handwriting. “There is a display of glass just at the end of this nave and three booths from that is where the Tiffany companyL has a case of what have been called truly exquisite pearls.” Everything he says meets the qualifications of romance she believes Clint is functioning on, but the fetching enthusiasm of before no longer resides in his voice.

“Perfect!” Clint claps a hand to Vision’s shoulders, “Lead the way!”

The booths pass without narration as Vision cuts a path through the increasingly dense crowd, his hand gripping hers as they walk in a single file, snaking line. It takes them almost ten minutes of standing before they get close to the glass display, yet when it happens, Wanda understands the appeal. She’s been in fancy homes, only been invited to eat at two, but whenever there are guests the fine china and glass is laid out, brimming with sumptuous foods. No one, not even Stark, has ever had something like this. It’s just a sugar bowl, except it is cut to resemble a diamond, the clearest, most intricate pedestal-shaped diamond she’s ever seen. It even reflects the light around them in a way that rivals the Crystal Palace itself. Begrudgingly she admits, to herself, it is really romanticM. “The Brooklyn Flint Glass Company has been experimenting with a process to remove the oxide iron from the sand, which results in the full removal of color from the glass.”

“It’s gorgeous.”

Vision nods, squeezing her hand before walking to the other side of the bowl. He bends down to inspect the cuts, which sends his face into distortion behind the numerous edges and slants of the glass. “Rumor has it they will be awarded a silver medal.”

“How are those decided?”

“Hey Wanda!” Clint waves her over from another booth, “Come here.” She rolls her eyes at yet another intrusion, sending an apologetic sigh towards Vision, who, being a very good sport, simply nods, lips tight and eyes only somewhat downtrodden as she walks away.

There’s a glass case filled with pearl necklaces, earrings, and a bracelet. Each piece has to be worth more than her entire life earningsN. Aesthetically and objectively it’s all very pretty. It’s also unable to keep her interest. She’s aware Clint is making comments about being lucky to be courted by wealth and how she might get wear one of these, there might an innuendo or two, but Wanda doesn’t pay much attention, nodding her head and saying hmm and yes as Clint shows her the case. Her eyes wander away frequently, partly to follow Natasha’s orders but mostly to track Vision, hoping to find an opening to speak with him away from their chaperones.

The chance comes when he steps beyond a booth heaped high with gloves and scarves. “Excuse me.” Wanda leaves Clint without explanation, flicking her finger to send a strong desire into his mind to show Natasha the pearl brooch in front of him. This leaves her enough time to exit the booths towards the balcony where Vision stands, body impolitely leaned forward on the wooden rail as he stares at the vast expansive of archways and floors lined with inventors, entrepreneurs, and kitschy souvenirs.

She runs her palm up between his shoulder blades, enjoying the way his muscles move beneath her touch and how it contrasts with the immutable plate of metal fastened along his spine. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

Sometimes she can’t tell if his questions are genuine or out of politeness, ignorance a sign of manners that Wanda has never bought into. “I doubt this is how you imagined the day going.”

A shrug and a smile remind her of how, even though he thrives under order, Vision is a fairly easy going man, blessedly so. “It is slightly different from my expectation, but still enjoyable.” He leans into her touch, shoulder brushing against hers as he speaks frankly, “It will be more enjoyable once we reach phase two.”

Phase two is meant to start after they break for lunch, Clint insistent he not be left alone to enjoy the smash being touted as divineO. Other than extend their time as a quartet, there really is no reason to follow the timeline down to the minute. “We could start it early.”

“Are you hungry?” It’s the voice of a butler, concerned about missing signs of need and this failing at his job.

“No. I meant we could maybe make a new plan, one without our chaperones nearby.”

It takes three seconds for her comment to translate, the meaning clearing up as his face sifts through how to respond. “We spent a lot of time on the plan.” His dissent isn’t convincing, particularly when his voice ends in an uptick, as if he is asking her if it is a good enough reason to stay the course.

Wanda pushes forward, rubbing a circle into his back as she strategizes, “Wouldn’t it be more convincing if we just slipped away?”

He glances over his shoulder, far better at remembering to do so than her, “I am certain if we informed Miss Romanov and Mr. Barton they would acquiesce.”

“Where’s the fun in getting permission?”

If she had to hazard a guess, that phrase has probably never been uttered by the man next to her. “We are safer as a quartet.”

That was the main tilt of the insistence they all stay close, and it’s not a misguided belief. Wanda leans heavier against his arm, voice quieting so the ears around them can’t hear everything, “I don’t think any of them will try anything.” An honest assessment based on her own time as one of Ultron’s disciples. “But if they do,” she brings her hand to his jaw, directing his face towards her with a subtle flicker of red, “I can protect us.”

There is not an immediate rebuttal, his eyes locked with hers and his apprehension slowly melting away. He steps back with another look over his shoulder and then straightens out, hands fixing the fall of his coat as he turns around, her own body following his lead. “Miss Romanov, Mr. Barton.”

Clint clicks his tongue in disappointment, “Looked like my HAF rule was being broken.” Hands, arms, and face. The only acceptable locations of physical contact between them, or so Natasha informed her this morning while shoving hairpins dangerously into her braids. Vision slides a bit to the right to avoid further reprimand. “That’s better.”

“I’d like to keep moving,” Natasha’s voice lacks the paternalistic good-naturedness of Clint’s, an oddly welcome reprieve. “I think three more exhibits and then we can find refreshments.”

The suggestion adds another hour to their time as a group. Vision nods, eyes and body betraying nothing of his thoughts, making her hands itch to dive into his head. “I believe we should move on to the Colt exhibition.”

No one disagrees, and Wanda’s heart drops at the tacit acceptance of maintaining the course of the day. They walk down the crowded stairs to the ground floor, cross in front of a brass band playing a happy tune, and end up at a glass case. On first glance it is a simple, pleasing arrangement akin to the foreign, whimsical foliage often seen in paintings lining the walls of museums, but as they step closer, the pointed petals of the central flowers go from curved silver lines into the barrels of pistols. The rounded, brown blooms are gun powder flasks, engraved with scenes of hunting and sportsmanship. Their companions flock to it, even Natasha’s face cracking into one of pleasure at the deadliness before her. For the first time that day, the only eyes on them are the hidden watchers of Ultron.

“You,” Wanda grabs onto Vision’s arm, tugging him gently backwards from their engrossed chaperones, “are a brilliant man.”

“Thank you.”

“Come on,” she starts walking, instilling her steps with a confidence she has no right to possess, and keeps her hold on Vision so that he follows. Five feet and she looks back, neither of their companions noticing anything is amiss. Fifteen feet and she sees Natasha’s head begin to turn. Wanda flexes her powers to convince the woman to look down at the muskets in the bottom display, at how elegant and lethal they are. At that point Wanda leads Vision into the crowd, not stopping to check on him or answer the question she can feel blooming in his mind, statutes, mirrors, and glass cases moving past until they reach the feet of the Iron Man. “Rhodes?”

The man pops his head out from behind the machine, an easy friendliness curving his lips up as he wipes his hands down with a rag. “Having fun, you two?”

“We are.” Wanda loops her arm more firmly with Vision’s, pulling him closer than he’s been allowed to stand all day, “Are you still willing to be a gooseberry picker?”

Friendliness morphs into a conspiratorial glee. “What do you want me to tell them?”

“That we are,” the plan was clear, the first part of the day they stay together, the second part of the day they split up, without actually separating, merely increasing the distance. Clearly the plan is moot now, but a new one hasn’t quite formed. “Vizh, where do you want to go?” He hesitates and Wanda can feel Natasha’s mind register their absence, and so she tries to urge him into a decision. “What do you want to see the most here?” His hand starts to move for the map, except they really don’t have time for a consultation. “We need to choose some place. Right now.”

“The um,” Vision scans the branching corridors of the Palace, “the east nave.”

Rhodes winks at them, “So I’ll just let them know you went into the west nave, okay?”

“Thank you.”

This time she allows Vision to guide them through the people on the main floor, his shoulders breaking through the distracted onlookers until they reach a wing vibrating with energy—the screeching of steam waltzing with the whir of gears to the tune of pistons thrumming in joy. It reminds her of the factory, of her parents, of running through the smoke, screaming out Mama and Papa. “This is where I would have been presenting,” each soothing dip of his voice draws her back to the present, to the nervous sincerity sending his eyes bouncing along her face and the mournful curve of his mouth, “had my life gone differently.”

“Vision-”

“I know it is not terribly romantic, if you would prefer Genin’s Bazaar is only a floor away.”

Wanda blinks the last of her memories away, holding them at bay so she can focus on what he’s offered her—a rare, unasked for (though wholly welcomed) invitation into a life he claims to have sent to the grave. “Clint and I have different ideas of romance. I want to see everything here.” A brilliant, gracious smile sends her heart fluttering and she allows temptation (and a lack of chaperones) to win as she rises up to kiss his cheek, hoping her gratitude is palpable to him. “Come on,” she pats his chest two times before squaring her shoulders with the hall, “don’t spare me any details.”

No details are spared, each machine lovingly described, from threaded screws to arc lamps, direct and alternating currents and the difference between smooth and jagged toothed rows in steam engines, they even manage to find a threshing machine and his face lights up, “It is the same model my father owned.”

The sheer, unmitigated confidence he exudes as he walks her around is far, far more breathtaking than a necklace made of a hundred perfect pearls or a sugar dish that sparkles like a diamond. It’s not even just the way his hand moves over hers as he demonstrates the gentle pressure the gears of a tiny lathe have to exert as they brush together that makes her realize how warm this part of the Palace is, but it is also the interest and specificity he puts into his questions, inquiring of each and every inventor about their machine. All of it is alien to her, the language unlike what she heard on the streets, or in her tent, or at the fancy séance parties, or even growing up with factory parents, but it flows from his tongue as if he has been speaking it since he was born. After he thanks an elderly gentleman for the enlightening display of a self-refueling gaslamp, Wanda allows her curiosity into the open. “Did you learn all of this at University?”

Vision chuckles (an unknown sound until today) at the question, “No, well some of it.” They walk past another gaslamp and he ignores it to keep answering her question. “I began working in factories when I was quite young.”

“How old?”

“Around eight.”

Wanda stops walking to stare at him, unconcerned with the angry words of the people behind her. “Eight?” There’s nothing actually unusual about this, a common practice in her youth and now, yet she can barely imagine him as a child, much less he in a factory covered in grease and sweat.

“I was only there a half day,” he, unlike her, is unperturbed by his experience, “the rest of my day was spent at the parish learning arithmetic and literacy.”

As an expert in dancing around the truths of her life, Wanda can see all of what he’s not saying, a sadness buried deep in the center of his eyes. “When did you move to full days?”

He lays a hand to her shoulder and guides her into a space between two booths, freeing up the walkway for people to pass. “When my mother-” the first crack in his emotions is small and he recovers quickly, “fell ill, I left my lessons and worked both her shift and my own.”

“When did she…” Wanda can’t say the rest, but the question is clear as is the sorrow weighing down his face.

“She passed two days before my twelfth birthday. Consumption.” He shrugs, expertly detaching himself from the pain of the memory, leaving it to hang on the wall next to them where he can step back and nod as he examines it. “I moved to London soon after and rotated between factories. It may be difficult to believe,” the joviality in his voice is jarring, the opposite of her own feelings right now, “but I was far taller than the other youth and thin enough to fit inside most machinery. When your life depends on fixing the issue without being crushed by gears or impaled on levers, you pick up on a fair amount of the inner workings.”

She understands he is answering her initial question, and if he had only shared with her the time he spent in factories she imagines she’d playfully call him a factory rat and muse on how unexpected that is based on his demeanor and standing in the present. Instead her mind is fixated on a boy who lost his father at three and mother at eleven. He’d told her he had no family to miss him when he left with Stark, it was part of what made his decision to start anew easier. She’d just never actually considered what that meant. “You’ve been alone since you were twelve.”

“I, um, I suppose so,” this isn’t what he thought she’d ask about, his hands clasping nervously while his mouth hangs partially opened in thought, “it is not uncommon or more harrowing than others. You also have been without your parents for some time.”

And it has been miserable, but not always lonely. “I had Pietro until three years ago.”

Vision stares at her hand as she reaches out to him, intertwining their fingers. “I wasn’t always alone,” he doesn’t need to comfort her, to explain away her sympathy or his experience, yet he does so anyway, seeming to need to right the wrong of his sharing. “I did foster several relationships with temporary caregivers, mainly shift heads and foremen at the factories, I made friends at university. And I have Mr. Stark,” a pause and a gentle rise of the corner of his mouth suddenly puts Tony into a light she’d refused to acknowledge through her hatred, “he is a perhaps the closest to family I’ve found.”

“An eccentric uncle, maybe?” He laughs and the shroud of his revelations falls away, bringing them back to standing between hissing machines under the blinding daylight above. “Is there anything here you’ve worked on?”

“There is the-”

She doesn’t need the ability to read minds in order to predict his facetiousness, “Don't you dare be cheeky and say the Iron Man.”

This silences his comment, amusement remaining on his face as he pulls out the map again and inspects it. “There might be something on the third floor.”

“Great, let’s go.”

Her enthusiasm isn’t fully matched during their journey towards the back stairway, in fact with each step upwards his body seems to slow, uncertainty replacing the confidence she’d been admiring all day. “Before we continue,” his eyes roam the faces beyond her shoulder, far less calculated and hidden then when he checks for their still ever-present followers, “would you mind checking booth twenty-three to see if it is occupied?”

“Of course,” she untangles her arm from him, “if there is no one there I can send you a quick sign” a pulse of her powers taps at his mind, “like this?”

“That seems most efficient.”

There is a half flight more of stairs and then the booth can’t be more twenty or thirty feet away, not a long or particularly treacherous journey, except it requires she leave him alone and unguarded, and suddenly their master plan to shirk the decorum of their chaperones seems irrational. Wanda tracks the minds around them, finding two of the men peppered throughout the stalls on this floor and the yellow feathered hat is still on the stairs below. “Okay.” Wanda does her best to smile convincingly at Vision as she walks away, trying to reassure herself that she has been on numerous reconnaissance jobs for Ultron and the main rule was to never interfere. Interference destroyed a plan, unraveling the web so intricately crafted to get information. Destroyed plans led to anger and no one is safe when Ultron is angry. There is no reason they’d do anything to Vision right now. She hopes.

Booth twenty-three is empty when she arrives save a red satin banner with black letters strung between the wooden posts. No half full cups or lukewarm meals provide signs of recent occupation. Wanda reaches out to the minds around her, searching for any information on the person who should be here, a difficult task given she has no idea who this person is. After nothing alarming or suggestive turns up, she drops her hand into the folds of her skirt to flick a tendril of scarlet out to Vision’s mind.

“Ultron is impressed.” Despite the humidity in the air, goosebumps sprout along her arms and she clamps her fingers shut, extinguishing the strand of red.

Next to her is the woman in white, the silver-accented lace swishes against the front of the booth and her blonde hair cascades softly over her shoulder as she inspects the contents on the table. “Does that mean he’ll finally meet with me?”

Dainty lace gloves hug her hands, a fascinating and alluring contrast to the steel contraption she’s touching. “If you can bring him the plans for the Iron Man.”

She knows the way Ultron works, has delivered this sort of message before but now that she is on the other side of the exchange, all Wanda what’s to do is scream. If she brings the plans, next it will be the Iron Man itself, then the arc reactor plans, and all the while Ultron will have already begun implementing the endgame of his actual strategy. “I can get it from,” she almost says Vision, almost decimates her cover by being too personal, so she overcorrects, spitting out the descriptor like sour milk, “the butler, but only if Ultron meets me himself.”

“Will the butler be a sufficient source for the information?” The woman frowns at a spot of grease on her gloves and attempts to wipe it on the tablecloth. “Tony Stark is notorious for his technological secrecy.”

Spiritualism and espionage are predicated on a foundation of showmanship, each requiring the skill to take known information, pad it in a way that obscures the actual truth and presents it as something grander. Much like people who insist on wrapping tiny gifts in large boxes. “The butler’s knowledge of the Iron Man May be better than Stark’s.”

The oil stain is forgotten and the woman beams down at Wanda, a look more at home on a tiger preparing to pounce. “Tomorrow, your usual spot, half past ten. If you come without the plans, you will be dealt with accordingly.”

“I’ll have the plans.”

“Excellent.” Ultron’s associate hitches up her skirt, gripping the excessive fabric in her gloves, and nods at Wanda as if they have just had a jolly chat. “Enjoy your fetching plaything for the rest of the day.”

Wanda waits until the crowd has swallowed up the last silver strand of her dress before checking the booth once more and the surrounding area for signs of whomever should be excitedly explaining the contraption in front of her. Then she drops her hand and sends the signal to Vision, relief loosening the tension in her body when she feels his approach.

He is at her side quickly, hands jittery and voice strained. “Is everything okay, Wanda?”

Had she been waiting on the stairs for a sign, ignorant of everything but the increasingly long minutes, she imagines she’d have the same worried lines at her eyes. “Yes,” a hand to his arm drives home the dismissal of his worries, “there was someone here,” yet her quelling comment only seems to stoke his apprehension, several Natasha-approved glances resulting from the explanation. “So, what is this thing, exactly?”

The distraction works beautifully, his attention back to her and voice marginally reinvigorated. “This,” he points to a tiny metal contraption that could easily fit in the palm of her hand, “is a particle engine.”

“Does it actually work?”

Pride eases a fraction more of his nerves, “It does. Mr. Pym believed the future of technology was in small-scale devices that allowed for mobility.” He picks up a magnifying glass from the table and holds it over the engine, a hand to her back encouraging her to look more closely at the recognizable structure. Other than its size, it looks just like the engine they stopped to marvel at eight booths ago. “I doubt it is powerful enough to replace any true engines yet.”

“But it’s still impressive.”

“Yes.” Under the magnifying glass the tremble of his hand becomes noticeable, fingers struggling to grip the machine and turn it on its side, “This,” he attempts to point at a small coil inside, “is what I had been working on for Mr. Pym, it is an induction coil, a specific type of electromagnetic coil.” A pause and a quirk of his lips segues into the rest of his explanation. “Induction coil is a bit of a misnomer as it is actually a two-coil system. One vibrates to induce an electrical current and then this,” she’s not sure what he’s pointing at since his finger is the same size as the coil system, “is an interruptor, it, well, interrupts the vibration at set intervals and helps to transmit the direct current to the secondary coil.”

Wanda understands the individual words while struggling with the full meaning. What isn’t difficult to grasp is the intelligence and skill it takes to craft something like this, “This is really amazing, Vizh.”

“It is.”

Wanda stares at him in her periphery, trying to gauge what he’s thinking without intruding. Melancholy resides on his face, mouth descending slightly the longer he holds the engine. “Who is Mr. Pym?”

This question only sends his lips deeper into a frown, “Mr. Pym owned one of the factories I worked at. He also sponsored my seat at university.”

From her understanding, at least based on the students employed at the lab where they experimented on her, it is mandatory to take employment with whomever pays for your education. Even for her, there was an agreement that if the experiments worked, Pietro and her were committed to the organization for up to five years, depending on their performance. “Why did you interview with Stark if you were sponsored by someone else?”

Vision places the machine back on the table, wiping his gloved hand along the sides of his pants while shifting his attention to her, a polite smile on his face. “Mr. Pym encouraged it, actually. He and Mr. Stark are fierce rivals.”

Perhaps Natasha’s suggestions from earlier wasn’t so far off. “So, you were a spy then?”

“A poor one,” the admission makes her snort. “I am being sincere. I informed Mr. Stark of my affiliation with Mr. Pym prior to accepting the invitation. Providing such information seemed to persuade more than dissuade him. You,” his mood drops, the glimmer of the man he was prior to the fire folded up like the map in his pocket and slid away, “well, you know what happened next.”

“I do.” There is a niggle of unease in her mind, something about the situation, about his logic and decision making, about the disconnect in the stories he’s told and the way the world works that feels desperately wrong. She checks over his shoulder and discovers an partial explanation for her concern in the shocked face of a man several booths away, his bespectacled eyes wide and skin ashen, a sight typically seen around a séance table around the time the candlesticks start floating. “Pym thinks you’re dead.”

“He does.” There’s not a shred of regret in his response, only a confidence that this was the correct and inevitable decision. The picture of that life no longer merely hanging on a wall in front of them but nailed up on a shelf that is across a chasm, one Vision has formed between himself and that life, that man, the people who cared about him, a disinterest that she imagines has been reinforced and practiced over the years.

Wanda grabs his hand, staring hard at his face as she whispers, “Well there’s a man behind you who looks like he’s seen a ghost.” Now there are two hauntings at the booth, Vision’s carefully built facade draining away. “Vision?”

“We should move on to the Latting Observatory before it becomes dark.”

“Vizh?”

The man begins to move towards them and Vision’s terrified, desperate, “Please,” spurs her into action, the crowd around them parting with a scrunch of her fingers and she guides him through the gap, encouraging the bodies behind them to close and become intensely interested in Pym’s booth. They walk briskly down the stairs, his strides faltering on several steps yet he refuses her offers to slow down or take a break, urging her to keep going until they have crossed the street toward the towering wooden structure of the observatory, it’s spire reaching high into the sky. “Vision.”

“The observatory is considered the first skyscraper to be constructed, reaching three hundred and fifteen feet in height, making it the tallest structure currently in the United States.”

“Vision.”

His hand trembles under her fingers, the only physical sign of his disquiet. “Mr. Otis has installed a second exhibition elevator as a way to ensure the elderly and infirm may partake of the wondrous panorama that can be seen from the top.”

“Vision,” she turns his face towards her and his eyes are that of a man that’s been shoved out onto a bridge over a gaping chasm, one that sways with each step, betraying the frayed and dangerously insecure ropes. “Stop being a walking brochure for one second.” A tiny, forced smile only increases her concern. “I take it that was Pym?”

It’s the wrong topic to broach, the insecure smile fading and his posture straightening out. “I am happy,” a word that is not being used genuinely at the moment, “to discuss this later this evening,” something she does believe, though recognizes his reluctance in agreeing to it, “but,” his eyes scan the faces around them, “for now I believe we need to continue our day, lest you lose ground gained in persuading people of your power over myself and Mr. Stark.”

What he says is inarguably true, even though Ultron has bought into her influence in the Stark household, if they leave now, it could chip away at the visage of Wanda leading him blindly into the dark, “Fine,” just because she’s agreeing with him does not mean she’ll hide her displeasure, filling her words with the undercurrent that this topic will be picked up later, “let’s go up this tower.”

“Very well, we can even stop on the second floor for refreshments.” A suggestion that leads to the realization of how hungry she is, having skipped the scheduled lunch hour, “From my understanding the saloon for women has both soda and ice cream.”

The plan seems workable until they discover the small detail of the elevator still being under construction. A gruff, bearded man shrugs at them as they stare at the barricaded doors. “There are stairs, ya know.”

“Thank you,” Wanda moves towards the spiral staircase but her arm meets resistance when Vision doesn’t follow. “Are the stairs segregated by sex as well?”

He shakes his head, tongue darting out to wet his lips as she watches the mask of feigned joviality crack, each piece flaking to the ground as his mood plummets. “No, I-” Wanda steps towards him, the only other time she’s seen his feelings bared so openly and uncontrollably was when he was laying in his bed, disparaging his existence. “I cannot physically go up right now, I-” his eyes close and she doesn’t know if it is in pain, in embarrassment, in frustration, whether he is trying to blot out tears or simply wishes to shut out the world for a moment. “Mr. Stark has been very demanding the past few days and ,” his voice drops so only she can barely hear the rest, “I, I just can’t do it right now.”

A wisp of scarlet to his mind reveals thousands of pinpoints of pain, all racing up his body and congregating in the center of his mind, screaming at the thought of walking up 315 feet of spiral stairs. She feels guilty at never considering the physical toll the day might have on him, at never once contemplating how his body responds or handles things she had the luxury to not think about. Then she is angry for missing any signs, for not asking him about his comfort or well-being. “We don’t have to do this today.”

“No, you should go up.” It’s a firm statement, one unwilling to take refusals or other offers, “I will sit over on that bench,” a shaky finger directs her to the aforementioned resting place, “you should be able to see me the entire climb and then can wave at me from the top.” An unexpected and carefully constructed cheerfulness underlies the words. Hands loosely curve around her upper arms in a lazy embrace, his eyes sincere and apologetic as he lays the final thrust of his persuasion, “Please, Wanda, do not let me keep you from enjoying this.”

Nothing demands she go up the tower, her enjoyment is not controlled by panoramic views or ice cream and soda in a fancy saloon. All she wants right now is to be with him. What she also needs is to remove any question in his mind as to whether she agrees with his negative view of himself. “No, I don’t want to go up without you.”

“I can’t, Wanda.”

“If I go up there alone, I’ll have no idea what I’m looking at, just nameless buildings and rivers and trees,” a faint, very faint, smile flirts with his mouth, “I’d rather wait for the guided tour, even if it’s not for a week or more.”

Vision’s shoulders sag, whether in relief or defeat or maybe relieved defeat, “Then what shall we do now?”

Given he is the one asking for once means whatever else he had concocted for their day is inaccessible in his current state. Which is fine, all of the excitement and wild inventions in the world could never rival just sitting with him and basking in his presence. “Why don’t we find some place and just sit?” His eyes move to the bench he had already scoped out and Wanda rephrases the suggestion, “somewhere secluded, perhaps? I'm sure Clint and Nat are going to show up soon and I’d rather not deal with that right now.”

His face sets into a concentrated scowl, scanning the area as his encyclopedic mind ticks through the mental map of the Exhibition. “The Virginia is not too far and is unoccupied until this evening.”

“Perfect.”

The walk to the steamboat is slow, not in a purposefully delightful meandering sort of way, no, it’s as if the acknowledgment of his pain has conjured up a thousand-pound wraith that sits on his shoulders. Wanda tries to ignore her concerns, trusting his ability to decide if he needs to stop or can push on until they can rest. They make it to the boat and she watches as he fumbles with a ring of keys that any person who has ever had an ill thought towards Stark would love to have, his entire life and property represented in the iron and bronze clatter.

Inside, and with the main door locked to keep out other intruders, the ship holds a different character from its riotous other life. Still ostentatious in its opulence, still impressively magnificent in size, and majestic in the finer details of the railings, carpet, sconces, and furniture, but now it’s peaceful, a slumbering giant awaiting the next invasion of hoop skirts and four piece suits. “I just realized I never offered you a tour, the other day.”

Somehow he can never fully disrobe the responsibility of his job, leaving Wanda to remove the last vestige of it herself. “You’re exhausted.”

“That-” The spark of defiance dies on his face, his body begrudgingly accepting her statement, “I am. Wanda, I apologize profusely.”

Wanda allows him full view of her eye roll. “Vizh, stop.” She looks around for signs of other occupants, powers spreading out across the boat to confirm it really is just the two of them. “Come here.” She grabs his hand, tugging him easily across the wooden beams of the floor until they reach a large chaise lounge located under the painting of candlesticks she had admired the last time she was here. “We can rest until someone finds us.”

Temptation wages a war with rationality on his face, his mind working through whether it is better to accept the offer or suggest another option. Smartly he decides on the path of least resistance. “We can.” He pauses when she sits down, watching with interest as she settles her back along the headboard of the lounge and crosses her legs under the enormous cloud of her skirt. Wanda decides to make her intentions even clearer by patting her lap, “Are you certain this is acceptable? I know this is likely not what you expected from the day.”

“We haven’t been completely alone once today,” she throws him the largest, sunniest smile she can, hoping the light of her encouragement sears away the last of his hesitation. “Come and lay down, I really don’t mind.” Vision partially accepts the offer, sitting rather stiffly next to her, hands placed firmly on his knees. It’s the soft, pained wince shuttering his eyes that ignites her powers, threads of scarlet wrapping around his arm and nudging him closer. “You can ditch your hat and gloves and lay down. I swear I won’t tell anyone so your reputation can remain unsullied.”

Finally his stubbornness fractures, a sound somewhere between a laugh and sigh tipping his body back, her hands removing his top hat before she guides him into her lap. The sight of his blonde hair and anxious eyes being devoured by her skirt reminds her of falling backwards into a snowdrift. “Wanda, if you are ever in discomfort…”

“I’ll tell you, as long as you do the same.”

“I will.”

“Now relax.” Whenever she had a nightmare, her mother would always lay with her, her hands running soothingly through Wanda’s hair. Even Pietro did it, especially after particularly distressing missions. Wanda figures it can’t hurt to try. When she touches his forehead, his breath releases, the brush of her fingertips easy and light as she traces the lines of his face. His eyes close, losing some of their prior tension and she peeks at his mind, briefly, to ensure he is enjoying this and not just humoring her.

There is a weariness woven in his thoughts and a deep, unshakeable discomfort permeating every part of his body that work in tandem to pull him down away from happiness. It’s a feeling she recognizes in herself, a specter of hopelessness squeezing itself around her, suffocating her whenever she thinks of the past or longs for a future. She never thought she’d find it in him though, for some reason, his actions and words always so gentle and well-planned. But she’s seen his scars, witnessed the horrors of his life, and felt the anger and despair of his words when he was at his weakest. It shouldn’t be surprising that those thoughts remain despite his perennially mild tempered manner. His mind shifts slightly, a droplet of peace invading the weariness, one that follows the pattern of her touch.

A smile crawls across her face as an idea forms. “Vizh.”

“Hmm?”

“I think I know how to show you,” her voice breaks, the spell of tranquility shattered as his blue eyes pop open and peer quizzically at her, “what I can do. What you wanted me to do to you,” it’s a bad idea, one she wants to take back even if her voice keeps going, “last night.”

Apprehension mars his forehead, the wrinkles forming in his skin parting around her fingers. “Only if you are comfortable with it.”

From the moment her powers developed, she’d only been encouraged to use them maliciously, to tear apart the foundations of sanity and rationality in order to thrive. It took time and practice to even recognize the usefulness of her telekinesis in everyday life or the peacefulness it brought to be linked telepathically to a welcoming, loving mind. There’s no reason she can’t apply the same methods for good as she did ill. “Just close your eyes,” two long seconds pass before he obeys. “Good, now think of something tranquil.”

Images blink in and out of existence, a rapid succession of memories that leaves her only with a sense of unattached serenity, until finally he stops, the steady patter of rain echoing through his mind. Wanda’s perplexed at his choice but she accepts it, not wanting to ask him to change, her eyes closing as she drowns herself in his memory in search of what she needs. The rain whispers around her, attempting to share its wisdom in the dimly lit room. The pulse in his temple, just beneath her hands, evens out to the tempo of the droplets. There are other sounds too. A laugh, airy and amused, followed by a murmur that carries with it a cadence typically reverberating in the corners of music halls where giddy declarations of love occur. The memory clarifies more, an image of a sheet beneath a scarred hand holding a pen and instantly she recognizes the night they first kissed, his constant, cheeky questions about her tarot cards sending her into fits of laughter. Wanda can feel a blush blooming up her neck and her heart soaring out of her chest at the wave of sheer, unadulterated joy of the memory.

“Keep it there for me.”

His, “Okay,” is tipsy and unrefined.

The key to mental assassination is to never impose a new emotion - people far too attuned to their feelings. If she had tried to drop self-consciousness into Stark’s mind, the charade would have been up before it even began. No, the best way to handle it is to treat it much like her séances and hand readings, find the true, unfiltered beliefs and make them more prominent. If grief exists, she’d pull it to the forefront of the mind, feed it trickles of hopeless reassurance, bathing the mind in the hypotheticals that could have erased it, but that this person failed to do. This continues until there are literally no other thoughts or emotions, just the overwhelming, inescapable loneliness of loss. The principles should be the same, even without the intention of harming the mind. Wanda plucks at the strand of contentment holding Vision’s memory together, and nurtures it with her powers, slowing down the memory, replaying it in his mind. It starts to work, the nagging exhaustion just a little less, though still too strong of a presence.

Scarlet shimmering around her hands, Wanda draws his happiness into physicality, her index finger leading it down his nose, which garners a brief twitch of his face and a surge of euphoria in his mind. She repeats it, this time jumping from the tip of his nose to his lips, barely glancing his skin as she adds in her other fingers to trail up along his cheek, trying to ignore the way the faint hairs of his sideburns tickle, and then she ends at his forehead. There is a lazy, unabashed upturn to his mouth, one that she’s never seen on his face, a peace she suspects is foreign to both of them. Wanda continues, her hand reversing the pattern each time she returns to his forehead.

The crash of his emotions is welcomed and reciprocated, the imperfections of his skin (like the scar she feels along his hairline) are being imprinted into the memory of her hands, and the soft, wispy sighs that float through the air each time he flinches at the ticklish spot just below his ear consumes her thoughts until there is nothing but the two of them in existence. It’s a bliss she’s never known.

“How are you feeling?”

Her hands don’t stop as his mind wrestles itself partially from her hold to consider his response, never willing to speak without some thoughtfulness. “Logically, I know I must still be in pain since I always am,” a pause brings about a burr to his mind, one she smooths out with a sweeping pass along his cheek, “but all I actually feel,” now his eyes open, even upside down his features are stunning, particularly in such a relaxed state, “is you.”

For so long the only thing her powers could ever be were a curse, a pox upon her name damning her to living hell. There is no fear in the blues of his eyes, no wrinkle of discomfort in his mind at her presence, just a genuine, surprisingly unhesitant pleasure at her presence. She doesn’t deserve this adoration. At the same time, she vehemently refuses to give it away.

Wanda bends forward, her hands coming to cup his face as she lays a tender kiss to his forehead, that gives way to words she didn’t realize were on the tip of her tongue, “I adore you.”

A flare of gold in his mind sears away the last patter of rain and the only thing that remains is the silent ardor of his requited feelings. “Wanda, I-” She kisses him again, this time properly, accepting his words before he’s done stammering them out and she melts under the radiance of his touch and the way his admiration and gratitude is communicated perfectly by the parting of his lips to deepen the kiss.

When she pulls away, his eyes narrow in confusion before he reaches out, arm bumping her wrist as he brings his hand to the nape of her neck, and draws her back. Each subsequent kiss is a purposeful embrace of their lips, no trace of tentativeness or nerves, no questioning thought of if it will be reciprocated. Instead it’s confident, albeit languorous, like basking under the early summer sun and running your fingers slowly through the blades of grass, eyes closed so you can feel every tickle against your skin. They take turns coming and going, initiating and receiving, her hands firm along his jawline while his fingers dive into the depths of her hair. It’s amazing, the way he feels beneath her, the texture of his lips forming a map she hopes to explore eternally, the hint of coffee on his breath invigorating, and the vibration of his tiny, indecorous exhales bouncing down along her spine.

She only wishes it didn’t hurt her neck so much. “Do you mind if we,” speaking is secondary, words coming out in the small space created when their lips part, “change positions?”

Vision nods, hand leaving her hair long enough for him to sit up, a saucy slant to his mouth disarming, coaxing her forward onto her knees so she can reach him. His body turns to greet her, hand cupping her neck while his other hovers awkwardly in the air over her body. “You know,” a tug to his lapel brings his hips closer, closing the gap between their chests, “Clint isn’t around.”

It’s meant as a playful reminder, not a challenge or academic think piece, yet he breaks from her embrace, leaning back to scrutinize her words while his eyes bounce somewhat nervously. This is the man governed by Robert Roberts and normative decorum, so she decides to rewrite the rules, fingers coming to snake between the buttons of his crisp white shirt. “See,” her hand dips beneath the edge of his waistcoat, thrilled at the shiver he tries to contain, “no arrows or holy smiting.”

“To be fair, I do not believe the rules were applied equally.”

Now a challenge falls casually into the air, “Why not test it?”

His cheekbones develop a glow at her affront to Clint’s rules. “A fair and scientific approach, Miss Maximoff.”

Anticipation winds around her body as she watches his attention narrow in on her, weighing how to approach this new experiment. A featherlight tingle forms on her neck, bursting under her skin in the wake of his touch, the pads of his fingers cautiously skimming her skin, moving from just below her ear down to meet the folded fabric draped on her shoulder. Wanda’s eyes flutter shut, head craning to the side in encouragement. Thankfully he understands, cycling back to trace the curve of her neck, far more assured this time, her quickening, happy breaths spurring him to continue to her collarbones and back up to cup her cheek in his palm. She opens her eyes and sees a new man in front of her, one freed of duty and fear of reprisal, no one else tucked away watching their every move, and she grins at this new Vision. “See, no arrows.”

“Only Cupid’s.”

“That needs some work, Vizh.”

“Agreed.” Their laughter mingles, his forehead coming to rest on hers with an embarrassed, though good natured, shake of his head. Wanda seizes on their proximity to steal a kiss, which turns into two, then tumbles into three, and she loses count when his hand journeys back to her neck, thumb drawing circles in her skin. This descent into affection isn’t drawn out like before, replaced by a fury, a hunger leading to enthusiastic, more frequent connection. Emboldened by the moment, Wanda guides his hand lower, encouraging him to explore below the courteous line of her clavicle, and she shivers when he follows her lead, arching into his body.

Now that the dam of propriety is cracked, she realizes how much she longs for it to fully break, discovers a craving, a need to eliminate all space left between them. Wanda grips his lapels to maneuver even closer, cursing internally at the girth of her skirt and how it makes it impossible to bring his body fully against hers and how she is fairly certain his other hand has journeyed down indecently low on her back but she can’t feel it through the three petticoats. When she attempts to scoot into his lap, it all falls apart with a shocked yelp. Luckily their reflexes are functioning, his hands on her waist and her powers the only thing keeping her from falling face first on the floral rug. “I hate this dress, if you were curious.”

“It,” Vision helps her back upright, arms encircling her waist to keep her in his lap, though their bodies are still too far apart for Wanda’s liking. “Is striking,” he draws her into another passionate kiss, pulling her as firmly against him as he can in an attempt to prove to the dress it can’t win. Yet it’s still not good enough and even he admits it. “Though it is cumbersome.”

It could be resolved with a new angle, “You know you are supposed to be laying down.”

A mischievous, conspiratorial smirk sucks the air from her lungs, “That was the intent of our sojourn here.” His next, uneven words slowly breathe life back into her all while stoking the fire racing through her veins, “Will you join me?” All she can manage is an enthusiastic nod as he turns to align with the couch and then lays carefully back, his arms tight around her (her own arms wrapping around his neck at the sudden movement) as they stretch out.

Finally, the petticoats are behind her, the only thing beneath her is Vision, her feet delightfully only reaching his knees in this position and his chest is firm, dotted with small, fascinating rises, whether it's the vibranium, the rivets, or simply the buttons of his waistcoat is indistinguishable and unnecessary. All she wants to do is drown in the crashing waves of his affection, her powers instinctively reaching for his joy and his desire, inundating her senses, sensitizing her to his every touch, every breath, every shocked gasp when her hand slips beneath his coat. She’s felt lust before, and infatuation, she once thought she loved someone, but this, this is different. Yes, she thoroughly enjoys kissing him, particularly the satisfied, dreamy curve of his mouth whenever they part for air. But what she feels is more than enjoyment, an all-consuming need to know the entirety of his being, and blessedly, he’s complying, allowing her to get lost in the rhythm of his lips and the flow of his increasingly muddled thoughts.

The whole world could be crumbling around them and she wouldn’t care.

He readjusts under her, turning slightly on his side, and it kick starts the momentum of her skirt, rudely yanking her back to reality and off the couch with a start. Fantastic reflexes must be an unspoken requirement of butlers, Vision’s knee bending to catch her, caging her (delightfully) in with his body while offering a light reproach directed at her dress, “Quite cumbersome.”

“I know,” all day it has bothered her and she can’t decide if she is in awe of or horrified at the women who wear similar garments every day, “I just want to rip it off.”

Her laugh goes unmet with words, only a severe, part petrified, part inquisitive, part ravenous squint of his eyes. A wholly different warmth branches up her neck and she has to quash the need to fall into flustered clarification. “We could,” Vision proceeds cautiously, as if he is a man on a rope, strung between the top of the Observatory and the Palace on a windy day, “return to Stark Tower so you can change back into a more relaxed outfit.”

It is a tempting offer, but so is remaining in their current, tangled state. “I don’t want to end our day.”

Concurrence fills his smile while reassurance is laid along the surface of her mouth, “I am unaware of any edict that returning to the tower necessitates a conclusion to our time together.” She can feel his muscles against her, can even differentiate the metal pathways from his body due to their insistence on not following the flow of his shrug, “and, if it holds any weight, I believe I am the only person, other than the architect, who knows all of the hidden rooms and passageways, should that become necessary.”

Some couples lace insinuations into the way they fold their napkins or the pictures on calling cards. Her butler has secret passageways and rooms. Wanda is sure she has the preferable method, yet she tries to follow some protocol of coyness, “Was there anything else you wanted to do today before we retire?”

“The only other item on my list was a stroll around Sawkill Stream.”

Not just passageways and hidden rooms apparently, “Isn’t that a kissing bridge?P”

Whatever spell has been placed on the boat, she hopes to recreate later, his grin almost as effortless as the kiss he bestows, one that solidifies if they return to the tower it needs to be a fast trip so they can resume this new favorite pastime they’ve discovered. “I believe we managed to find a far more adequate location.��

“We did.”

Reluctantly she disembarks from the couch, sliding easily onto her feet once he lowers his knee, grabbing his hat and gloves from the floor as she waits for him. Vision is slower to move, a wince and clenched teeth betraying the discomfort he’d been ignoring. “Let me help.” Scarlet envelops him, supporting his tired limbs as he stands and Wanda feels guilty, worried she’s caused him more harm.

“Wanda,” an arm wraps around her waist and he bends to touch his forehead to hers, “I am fine.”

She rises onto her toes to kiss him, accepting his claim for the time being, though she still mimics his hold, diving her hand beneath his coat to hold him steady against her. “Ready?” He nods and she sends out a sweep of her powers and feels two familiar minds out front. “Clint and Natasha are outside.” The information is shared in a tone she hopes conveys her utter lack of desire to encounter them now, the admonishment they’d likely receive not in tune with her current mood.

Vision seems to pick up on her request, leading her in the opposite direction of the door they used to enter the ship. “Then it is fortuitous I happen to know of the aft servants exit.”

They leave the ship, exiting onto a relatively empty street, one far removed from the casual tourists of the Exhibition and one blissfully absent their chaperones. It’s an area she doesn’t know well, so she allows Vision take the lead, though her arm remains firm around his waist to help hold him steady, a concerning limp to his gait that he assures her, numerous times, is simply from being overworked. It’s as they turn down a side street that she asks something she’s wondered about most of the day and hopes it will distract them until they reach the next railcar stop, “So how does that elevator thing work?”

A reserved yet amused laugh precedes his explanation, “It is, as I said earlier, a surprisingly simple application of the laws of physics. When the elevator is in motion, the force exerted keeps a set of springs open, what Otis did differently is-”

“Excuse me sir, would you happen to have the time?”

Vision stops, turning expertly on his heel as he reaches into his pocket. “Yes, it is three forty five.”

Looking over a shoulder is key to espionage, distraction is dangerous, and Wanda finds her heart plummeting as she turns to stare into the sneering, scarred face of the man who has haunted her dreams for so long. “Very impressive, moja mala vještice. Jocasta here,” the woman in white is with him, triumph making her even more beautiful in the same way a bayonet is stunning. “Has been telling me the exhilarating details of your day. Why don’t you both come along, we have a lot to discuss.”

Victorian Language and Culture Decoder

This chapter has a lot of links for the footnotes - because Tumblr is awesome, if I put the links in this post it won’t show up in the tags. So if you’d like to see the pictures, hop on over to AO3 for the links.

The two primary modes of transportation for the Exhibition were either omnibuses (i.e. stagecoaches) or the cheaper railcar option - though it was a horse drawn railcar.

Prudes on the prowl: hypersensitive women who haunted music halls and other public establishments to discover misbehavior.

Take the egg: to win or succeed

A link to the look that inspired Vision’s outfit is on AO3.

Tipping the velvet: There are two meanings to this -- 1. French kissing and 2. Cunningulus.

Chucked all of a heap: Enthralled and fascinated by the beauty before you.

Tot-hunting: On the prowl for young, pretty women.

Bubble around: verbally attack

This is what Elisha Otis said after the rope was cut. Almost all of this scene - minus his whole speech and Tony Stark - is based on historical accounts of this demonstration.To see a picture a link is on AO3.

Jammiest bit of jam: Absolutely perfect woman

There is a really cool website that has a walk-through of the Crystal Palace. If you want to check it out, you guessed it, go on over to AO3.

Fun fact: Tiffany & Co had only recently changed their name right before the Exhibition and used their booth as a way to re-establish their company in the public’s eye.

Picture of the glass is on AO3.

Picture of Tiffany & Co’s display on AO3

Smash was the alcoholic drink of the Exhibition...but only for men. The Temperance Movement against alcohol was in full swing and women were socially prohibited from consuming liquor. All refreshment stands and saloons in the Exhibition were segregated by gender. In exchange for not getting alcohol, women did get ice cream, which was deemed a sufficiently feminine enough dessert for their delicate taste buds.

Kissing bridges were pedestrian bridges in secluded parks where young couples would go for some alone time.

#scarlet vision #wanda maximoff #vision #thescarletvisionnetwork #alternateuniversescarletvision #au #aos #mine #marvel

12 notes · View notes

cmpfmp2018 · 5 years

Text

First Draft Website

Because we have not met the leader of the Rainbow Trust, Chris, in person yet, or filmed anything about them, we therefore do not have enough concrete information/media to create final websites during this stage of the project. However, we can create shells/skeleton’s of a few websites to present to Chris during this period, and see what she likes/dislikes, and what she wants to add. This is, after all, a collaboration with the Trust.

Below are some screenshots of a couple of websites I have created. They are rough drafts but give an idea of what we want to include/how it might look. They will be developed throughout January and when we visit Goa in February alongside the Trust.

Screenshots of First Draft Website on WordPress

Homepage:

Link: https://goarainbowtrust.wordpress.com/

At the moment we do not have any photos or videos of the Trust or its members so I decided to find some photos on their Facebook page. I feel it’s important to have either a photo or a video (which is sadly a function only available in Business mode) on the RT homepage, because it immediately lets audience’s know who they are. Hopefully we will be able to take some photos and videos that are higher quality and more unique for them when we travel over.

I have opted for a wide yet simplistic theme, because I think visuals are more attractive than a lot of text. The photo expresses what the Trust is all about; happiness, inclusiveness and warmth, without looking messy. The white text and background below also make the colours in the photo, such as the rainbow iconography, stand out, similar to the websites I researched in my previous posts.

I found the tagline that is in the centre of the page from the RT Facebook page as well. Once we talk to Chris more in depth we will be able to include more information about the Trust, but this is just a taster of what info could be included. Perhaps the tagline fades into the background image too much though?

The screenshot above is the RT Facebook page, where I found all of the information I put on the website. The information may or may not stay, but I wanted to see how things would look if the website had recent content to post.

I had to zoom out 70% to show just half of the content that lies below the main image on the homepage, in the screenshot up above - this might be a bit of an issue with my chosen theme. Nevertheless, I chose to display recent posts first. Adapting information from the RT Facebook page, I made a recent post about an event they went to called ‘Freedom Is In The Air.’ Putting recent posts and events on the homepage will emphasise the activeness of the Trust.

Above is the sample post with text and images from the Facebook page. I like the cleanness of it, although the text and images may be a bit small? Also, the images look a tad clunky with their different sizes.

At the bottom of the homepage lies three main components I stated the website must have in our brief in my previous post; a translate option, a link to the Trust’s social medias (so audiences can connect more, which is a key convention of Indian LGBTQIA+ websites) and a calendar. However, the calendar only keeps a record of the latest posts, and I would have preferred it to showcase upcoming events.

One of the widgets I included on the sidebar of every page is a messaging chatroom, which I set up on the website Tlk.io.

Link to chatroom: https://tlk.io/rainbowtrustgoa#_=_

People can sign up, or chose to be anonymous, and leave messages on the website and chat to others. I think this will encourage discussion and build a stronger sense of community in the trust.

List of sections I included in the menu bar (most are empty at the moment due to a lack of information):

An About Page, and within that a Terms and Conditions and Privacy Policy Page.

A Blog Page.

An Events Page.

A Resources Page, for advice and support on issues like Coming Out, Friends and Family, Religion and Spirituality, Healthcare and The Law (all of which have their separate pages.)

A Media Page, and within that an Articles About The Goa Rainbow Trust Page, a Photos Page and a Films Page.

An LGBTQIA+ Page, which has separate pages for each letter of the acronym, to educate people and perhaps provide specific support for certain letters?

A Sign Up Page (which I haven’t mastered yet. It seems you have to be have a paid businesses account to include sign up plugins on WordPress websites.)

A Donate Page (which has the same issue as above.)

Ultimately there are a lot of different sections to the website, but I would rather be told be Chris that we have too much, and to strip it back, then too little.

Different Pages:

The screenshot above is the beginnings of the about page. I thought it would be visually and personally resonant to mention the various people involved in running the RT, such as Chris. I was inspired by my previous research of LGBTQIA+ websites. I have used a static photo for now, but perhaps we could shoot little 1/2 minute videos of the Trust members to give website visitors a greater idea of what the trust is about? This would further incorporate our moving image skills outside of the 10 minute documentary we still plan to make.

Above is a screenshot of the photos page, which has some images of Goa Pride 2018 that the RT captured. While I like the geometric and symmetric design, I think the single column Tumblr-like posting style does not work here. I would like the photo gallery to be a slideshow that fills the page. Perhaps this is the theme’s fault?

Summary of WordPress

Good Points:

The homepage, and the large image that greets visitors. Straight away states what the Trust is about, and evokes happy emotions.

The colour scheme; white and black, makes the rainbow flag inevitably present on an LGBTQIA+ website stand out.

The layout of homepage, very clean and geometric. Not busy or an eyesore.

Has google translate, a chatroom and social media links.

Bad Points:

While clean and simple, arguably it is a bit boring.

The single column Tumblr-like post style does not work on every page.

In free mode there is no option to sign people up or include a plugin which lets people donate to the Trust, a key component that Chris said she wanted when she spoke to Jeremiah.

Although the homepage photo looks good, the rest of the images on the website are clunky and small.

May have been too ambitious in the amount of pages to include.

#andrew

0 notes

blogwonderwebsites · 6 years

Text

Nature Naomi Osaka’s Breakthrough Game

Nature Naomi Osaka’s Breakthrough Game Nature Naomi Osaka’s Breakthrough Game http://www.nature-business.com/nature-naomi-osakas-breakthrough-game/

Nature

The temperature in Boca Raton had soared above 90 degrees, but on a side court at the Evert Tennis Academy, Naomi Osaka was just digging into one of her last training sessions before the summer hardcourt season. Wearing leggings and a tank top — her magnificent mane of frizzy blond-tinted hair emerging from the back of her Adidas cap — the 20-year-old smacked crisp topspin groundstrokes with her coach, Sascha Bajin, a German of Serb descent best known for working as Serena Williams’s hitting partner for eight years. On the sideline, Osaka’s Japanese mother, Tamaki, sat in the shade in a denim jumpsuit and sunglasses, her daughter’s miniature Australian shepherd sitting by her feet. Pacing on the grass alongside the court was her Haitian-born father, Leonard Francois, a taciturn man in a baseball cap who trained her from age 3 and still tracks nearly every shot she hits.

Some version of this simple scene — dutiful parents, a gifted child, the metronomic thump of a ball — plays out every day at tennis courts and sports fields across the world. Only in this case, the parents’ unlikely union has led to the emergence of one of the most intriguing young stars in sports today: an athlete who has grown up in one place (the United States), represents another (Japan) and, for some, symbolizes something as large as the world’s multicultural future. In playing under the flag of an island nation noted for its racial homogeneity, Osaka challenges assumptions about whether and under what circumstances a biracial person might be accepted as truly Japanese. For her part, Osaka, shy and quirky, with a penchant for unexpected candor, seems focused solely on becoming the next Serena. Her ambition, she once told a reporter, was “to be the very best, like no one ever was.” After a beat, realizing that her interlocutor was not tuned to her frequency, she explained: “I’m sorry; that’s the Pokémon theme song. But, yeah, to be the very best, and go as far as I can go.”

On this searing afternoon, Osaka was amping up the velocity of her shots. “Ninety seconds!” shouted her conditioning coach, Abdul Sillah, looking at his stopwatch. Osaka and Bajin were halfway through their first three-minute drill, a baseline rally that lasts about 10 times longer than an average exchange in a match. The drill is meant to make the legs and lungs burn without affecting the pace and placement of the athlete’s groundstrokes. It also happens to goad Osaka’s competitive pride. After about 80 shots, by my count, neither she nor Bajin had missed. As the clock slogged on — “Two minutes!” Sillah said, then “Two and a half minutes!” — it was clear that each was trying to make the other crack. Osaka let out a shriek as she scrambled to return one of his deep shots down the line. As the last seconds ticked away, Osaka crushed a forehand crosscourt for a winner. “I hit with Serena almost every day for eight years, and Naomi’s weapons are just as big,” Bajin says. “She’s not afraid of center stage, either, and that’s why I believe she has greatness within her.”

As the U.S. Open begins this week, Osaka may be a premature pick to lift this year’s trophy, but the prospect also wouldn’t be entirely outlandish. At 20, she is the youngest woman in the world’s Top 20 — and Japan’s highest-ranked female player in more than a decade. Serena Williams declared two years ago that Osaka was “very dangerous.” So it wasn’t a complete surprise when she put together a spectacular run in March at Indian Wells, in California, demolishing three current or former world No.1s on the way to her first W.T.A. title. Those upsets catapulted her up the rankings, from No. 68 at the end of 2017 to 17 by early August. “Ever since I can remember, I played better against bigger players on bigger courts,” she told me, her high, soft voice a contrast to the ferocity she displays on court. Tsuyoshi Yoshitani, a sports reporter with Kyodo News, says: “Naomi is like no Japanese player ever before. I think she will be the first Japanese player to win a Grand Slam.”

Yet Osaka’s rise is accompanied by a curious tension: She is half-Japanese, half-Haitian, representing a country whose obsession with racial purity has shaped her own family’s history. Though born in Japan, Osaka has lived in the United States since she was 3. She is not fully fluent in Japanese. Yet nearly a decade ago, her father decided that his two daughters would represent Japan, not America. It was a prescient move. Osaka’s success — and her tweeted affection for Japanese manga and movies — has endeared her to Japanese fans hungry for a female tennis star.

What makes Osaka so complicated for Japan is precisely what makes her so appealing to many fans and corporate brands around the world. The young woman with the fearsome forehand and 120-mile-per-hour serve may not simply be the future of women’s tennis. “When I look 15 years into the future, I see Naomi having a great tennis career, perhaps even with Grand Slam titles,” Stuart Duguid, her agent at I.M.G., says. “But I also hope that she’s changed cultural perceptions of multiracial people in Japan. I hope she’s opened the door for other people to follow, not just in tennis or sports, but for all of society. She can be an ambassador for change.”

In mid-June, Osaka’s mother, Tamaki, posted a tweet that was different from all the tennis, food and puppy updates that had filled her page before. This tweet featured a collage of three photos: one of Francois, shortly after the two met, wearing a black-and-white track suit; one of a younger Tamaki, smiling in a leather jacket; and one of their two toddler girls, with cherub-cheeked Naomi in front, two braids falling across her face. Above the nostalgic photos, Tamaki wrote a message that seemed at odds with the happy images: “was ‘disgrace’ to the family, had been in the desert&jungles for decades, I’m still surviving.” It was followed by two emojis — a flexed arm and a red heart — and a hashtag: #HappyLovingDay.

June 12, the date the tweet was posted, is also known as Loving Day. It commemorates the 1967 Supreme Court decision Loving v. Virginia, which nullified antimiscegenation laws in 16 states (including Florida), the last places in America where people could go to jail for marrying across racial lines. The ruling had no impact on Tamaki, who was born a few years later in Japan. But her sense of solidarity came from an experience so profound that her Twitter handle has long been the date of her wedding and the word “liberty.”

Japan’s long history of guarding against foreigners dates back to the 1630s, when the Tokugawa shogunate cut off the archipelago from the rest the world. The sense of separatism cultivated over the centuries remains strong today, especially in places like Nemuro, the coastal town where Tamaki grew up. In a country with one of the least ethnically diverse populations in the world, Nemuro — on the eastern tip of Hokkaido, Japan’s northern island — is a bastion of homogeneity. Tamaki’s world would open up, however, after her mother sent her to a high school in Sapporo, Hokkaido’s capital.

Among the early wave of foreigners coming to Sapporo around 1990, Tamaki met a handsome college student from New York. Leonard Maxime Francois was Haitian by birth and one of only a handful of black men in all of Hokkaido. The two started dating, keeping their relationship secret from her parents for several years. Tamaki says that when she was in her early 20s, her father wanted to talk about omiai, the matchmaking process that would lead to her arranged marriage. The truth then spilled out: Tamaki was already seeing someone — a foreigner who also happened to be black. Her father erupted in outrage, excoriating her for bringing disgrace on the family.

The couple moved south to Osaka, where both Tamaki and Francois, whose Japanese was improving, found work. For more than a decade, Tamaki would have virtually no contact with her family. (Tamaki’s father could not be reached for comment.)

Two daughters, Mari and Naomi, came in quick succession, born 18 months apart in Osaka. One evening in 1999, when the girls were just toddlers, Francois became transfixed by a broadcast of the French Open featuring the American prodigies Venus and Serena Williams, then 18 and 17, who teamed up to win the doubles title that year. Francois played little tennis. But Richard Williams, the sisters’ father and coach, had played none at all. And Williams had created a plan to turn his daughters into champions, teaching them how to serve big and hit hard from every corner of the court. “The blueprint was already there,” Francois told me. “I just had to follow it.”

Image

Leonard Francois, far left, and Tamaki Osaka, second from right, with their daughters Mari, left, and Naomi, right, and friends in Osaka, Japan, in 1999.CreditOsaka family

Naomi Osaka has few memories of her early years in Japan. The family left for the United States when she was 3, moving in with her Haitian grandparents on Long Island. There, with access to a gym and free public courts, Francois was able to initiate his plan in earnest. Girded with instructional books and DVDs, he made the girls hit hundreds, then thousands, of balls per day. “I don’t remember liking to hit the ball,” Naomi told me. “The main thing was that I wanted to beat my sister.” When they played sets, Naomi lost every time, usually 6-0. “For her, it wasn’t a competition, but for me, every day was a competition,” she says. “Every day I’d say, ‘I’m going to beat you tomorrow.’ ” It took 12 years before that watershed moment finally came. (Mari, whose early career has been slowed by injury, is now ranked No. 350 in the world.)

For Osaka, the five years on Long Island evoke cultural memories too. “I grew up surrounded by both Haitian and Japanese culture,” she says. Her father’s parents, who spoke no English, filled the air with Haitian Creole and the aroma of spicy Haitian stews. Her mother spoke to her and her sister in Japanese, preparing seaweed-and-rice-ball snacks for them at school and dressing them in kimonos for international day.

Their Asian side won out in another essential way. Instead of taking their father’s last name, the girls used their mother’s name — a Japanese surname that, improbably, is the same as the city of their birth. It was mostly a practical matter when they lived in Japan, helpful for enrolling in schools and renting apartments. But as the girls grew up in America, their name would become a constant reminder of the homeland that they would one day represent.

The family moved to southern Florida in 2006 to focus on tennis full time. As other children went off on the school bus, the sisters trained most of the day on the Pembroke Pines public courts and were home-schooled at night. The girls grew in strength and talent, and in time, Tamaki decided they should meet their Japanese family, from whom she had been largely estranged for nearly 15 years. And so, when Naomi was about 11, she and her sister visited their grandparents in Japan. It wasn’t as joyful a homecoming as Tamaki might have hoped. Her parents took an interest in the girls, she says, but ridiculed their regime of home schooling and tennis training. Tennis was a hobby, they grumbled, not a profession.

Back in Florida, the girls skipped many of the usual circuit of junior tournaments and, eventually, started competing against older players on the pro satellite tours, just as the Williams sisters had done. With a growth spurt in her early teens, Naomi soon towered over Mari. Video clips of the girls’ matches and training began circulating among coaches and agents, but neither sister had an impressive junior ranking or much tournament experience. The United States Tennis Association showed little interest in helping them develop. Rather than vie for support with hundreds of other talented young players in America, Francois made a pivotal decision: His daughters, from age 13, would play for Japan, the nation they left behind nearly a decade earlier.

“My dad thought that since I grew up around my mom and I have a lot of Japanese relatives … I don’t know. …” says Osaka, letting the sentence drift off. Despite growing up in United States, with all the cultural references of a typical American youth, she told me: “I don’t necessarily feel like I’m American. I wouldn’t know what that feels like.” Her sister speaks almost fluent Japanese, but Osaka’s grasp on the language is more tenuous. “I don’t know if you guys know this, but I can understand most Japanese, and I speak when I want to,” she tweeted earlier this year, adding: “That applies to my family and friends.” She says she is too shy — and too much of a perfectionist — to speak the language publicly. Her reluctance can create awkward moments at news conferences, with Japanese reporters asking questions that she answers in English.

The decision to play for Japan has had major repercussions in Osaka’s life, from the way she is perceived in Japan and the United States to the size of the endorsement contracts she can now command as a top Japanese athlete ahead of the 2020 Tokyo Olympics. Though some in the tennis world wondered whether the decision was influenced by commercial prospects — the Japanese star Kei Nishikori’s massive endorsements were no secret — the family insists that the girls were too young and unproven for that to be a factor. The Japan Tennis Association, facing a drought of top female players, offered them an opportunity. But for Tamaki and Francois, who spent many years in Japan himself, it was natural for the girls to play in the country where they were born, even if the parent’s own memories of the place were tinged with anger and regret.

The bearded man on stilts bellowed into a microphone, exhorting the crowd to chant her name: “Na-omi! Na-omi!” The hype machine was revving up for a World Team Tennis match, a nonranking format designed to turn the sport into popcorn-eating entertainment. In the stands of the Washington arena on this July evening, cheerleaders in slit white miniskirts and tight red tops swung their pompoms while young men paraded around twirling enormous cutout posters of Osaka’s likeness. Above the tennis court — a Mondrian-like matrix of green, purple, blue and red boxes — four giant screens broadcast images of its headline act on the court below.

For the women’s singles match, one first-to-five-game set, Osaka was pitted against Taylor Townsend, an American ranked 44 places below her. It was expected to be a comfortable win for Osaka and her team, the Washington Kastles, but the circus atmosphere — and the pressure to win every game for a team that had brought her in just for this event, to help propel a playoff run — seemed to throw her off. Her first three service returns careered out of the court. As the errors piled up, a sore right calf got worse. At one point, the Kastles’ announcer pumped up the crowd. “Refuse to lose!” he yelled. “Get ’em up, get ’em up, get ’em UP!” Osaka still lost in a tiebreaker, dumping the final ball in the net and trudging off the court.

Two hours later, Osaka sat courtside, stone-faced, as her Kastles teammates pushed the overall match into a deciding doubles tiebreaker. Mari had been waiting to go with her to the Beyoncé and Jay Z concert in Maryland that night. The sisters had been planning this outing for months, but the W.T.T. match was blowing right through the opening act. Earlier this year, when Osaka thought she might miss Beyoncé’s tour, she tweeted: “Tell me why Beyoncé decides to have a concert in Miami at the same time as the US Open. I’m legit gonna cry.”

As the match dragged on, Osaka huddled with her personal team to discuss the situation. Her trainer warned against staying out late and dancing on her sore leg just two days before the summer’s first hardcourt tournament began. Her father agreed. Osaka and her sister, conferring quietly in Japanese so the others wouldn’t overhear, made the final decision together. After so many years of training and studying together, with few other friends or distractions around, Mari and Naomi have developed an indissoluble bond.

Early on, Mari was the focus of attention. A childhood picture shows her hitting balls with her father while Naomi, her hair in curlers, wanders the court with a broom. Mari had phenomenal drive and balance — she even mastered the unicycle — and could hit the ball on the rise at an early age. Naomi showed little promise at first and was sometimes relegated to a side court with her mother while Leonard trained Mari. In a way, this shielded her from the pressure that piled up on Mari as their parents learned by trial and error how to coax the most out of their daughters.

Today, as Naomi arrives at top tournaments and Grand Slams with a sizable entourage, Mari usually travels alone to low-level satellite events, often in small towns and cities. Even so, the sisters constantly conspire to hang out. Last year, the two played doubles together in a Tokyo tournament. “Here comes trouble, and make it double,” Naomi tweeted. In July, they joined the mobs at the Overwatch esports final at the Barclays Center in Brooklyn, screaming every time a competitor was (virtually) shot. And they scored tickets for a Drake concert at Madison Square Garden just days before the start of the U.S. Open.

On this night in Washington, as the W.T.T. carnival ended, Osaka slipped into the locker room and emerged moments later wearing a chocolate-colored pantsuit, her hair unleashed Beyoncé-esque. The Kastles’ owner was holding a team meeting on court, but the two sisters strode toward the exit without looking back.

Image

Osaka serving against Serena Williams during the Miami Open on March 21 in Key Biscayne, Fla.CreditClive Brunskill/Getty Images

All the tennis fans could see at first were Osaka’s bright pink visor and her bundle of hair, bobbing up and down rhythmically. It was her first match of the summer hardcourt season, and Osaka was arriving at the Washington Citi Open’s grandstand court with her head down, blasting Kendrick Lamar on her headphones. The afternoon crowd — with a contingent of Japanese fans and journalists — applauded her arrival, but Osaka couldn’t hear them over Lamar’s lyrics. Music is part of the ritual that Osaka has used to block out distractions, gird for battle and confer good fortune. “I’m superstitious,” she told me. “If I win, I keep listening to the same song. I only change it when I lose.” Osaka hoped to listen to Lamar for many days to come, perhaps all the way to the summer’s culminating event, the U.S. Open.

Pulling off her headphones, Osaka gave a bow to the umpire and to her first-round opponent, the Croatian-American Bernarda Pera. The polite Japanese gesture, a regular part of Osaka’s routine, has a gentility that seems at odds with the power she flexes on court and the stern expression on her face. “I think everybody who sees me would think that I’m really scary or something,” she told me. “But I’m not!” Osaka’s right calf was now wrapped in white tape, and she worried about her explosiveness off that side. As she pulled a racket from her bag, shouts of encouragement rang out from her biggest cheering section: Team Naomi, led by Bajin, her upbeat coach. Osaka glanced over at her crew, and her face transformed into a shy smile. “She plays better when she’s happy,” Bajin says. “If she’s only 60 percent happy on a given day, we’ve got to supply the other 40 percent.”

If there’s any pattern to Osaka’s career thus far, it is that she tends to perform well on the big stage — and get distracted on the smaller ones. Last year, Osaka dismantled the defending champion Angelique Kerber in the first round of the U.S. Open 6-3, 6-1 and went on to the third round. This year, just three days after claiming the title in Indian Wells, she beat Serena Williams in the first round of the Miami Open. “I kind of wanted to impress her,” she said later. “I just wanted to make her say, ‘Come on!’ one time, and I think she did, so I’m really happy about that.” Their post-match encounter at the net was one of the few conversations the two had ever had. Once before, Osaka had chanced upon Serena in the locker room but was too awe-struck to say hello. “I had my headphones in anyway,” she told me, “so I just pretended I couldn’t see or hear anything.”

The first round in Washington presented a different challenge. Pera, ranked No. 95, is a solid player who could test whether Osaka’s focus on consistency and foot speed was working — and whether her calf injury would hinder her, as an abdominal strain had before Wimbledon. At 2-1 in the first set, Osaka winced as she stretched wide for a shot, reaching down to rub her calf. She recovered and, with a series of bullet forehands and serves, finished off the set 6-2 in a half-hour. But then she lost her mojo. Pera broke her serve twice with a series of deft drop shots. Osaka laughed sarcastically at her own missed shots, but she fought back each time, ultimately tying up the set, 6-6. At 5-4 in the tiebreaker, she cracked a backhand winner down the line, clenching her first with a “Come on!” that would have made Serena proud. A point later, the match was over.

Team Naomi put a positive spin on the match. “It was better for her to struggle a little bit,” Bajin said, “because it showed she can come through adversity.” Even so, Osaka didn’t look her dominant self. In the second round, against the Polish counterpuncher Magda Linette, she forced a third set by reeling off a series of high-risk winners. During the break, she massaged her ears and did some Zen deep-breathing exercises. It didn’t help: Her patience seeped away, and so did the deciding set, 6-3. In the next two U.S. Open warm-up tournaments, in Montreal and Cincinnati earlier this month, Osaka lost in the first round each time, leaving observers to wonder how she might rebound on the big stage of the U.S. Open.

After a couple weeks of Twitter silence, Osaka reappeared on Aug. 16 with a heartfelt tweet. “So the last couple of weeks have been really rough for me,” she wrote. “I had a lot of pressure entering the hardcourt swing because I felt a lot of expectation on me from Indian Wells and I didn’t feel like the underdog anymore.” But now she said she had recovered “that fun feeling playing tennis.” She signed off: “See you in NY.”

In Japan, a mixed-race person is known as hafu (from the English word “half”). In the 1990s and later, when most hafu were of Asian and Caucasian parents, they gained visibility in the modeling and entertainment industries. But the word took a different turn in 2015, when a half-Japanese, half-African-American woman named Ariana Miyamoto won the Miss Universe Japan pageant. Miyamoto used her status to raise awareness for her discriminated segment of the population. Many young Japanese applauded the step forward, but some online commentators could not accept that a hafu could be seen as the face of Japanese beauty. One wrote: “Her face is foreign no matter how you look at it!”

The realm of sports has been more welcoming. Unlike Miyamoto, Osaka has been embraced by Japanese media, companies and fans hungering for a female tennis star. Nissin, one of the world’s largest instant-noodle companies, has already signed her to a lucrative deal, as has Wowow, the tennis channel that broadcasts her matches in Japan. The Osaka camp plans to announce a large new endorsement deal before the U.S. Open, and other Japanese multinationals are circling. Osaka’s biggest payday may come at the end of the year, when her Adidas shoe-and-apparel contract expires — just in time for the prelude to the 2020 Tokyo Olympics.

If Osaka played under the American flag, it’s very unlikely that these opportunities would exist. Japanese companies would have no reason to court her and U.S. brands would have other higher-ranked young guns to consider, like Madison Keys and Sloane Stephens. But as Japan’s top-ranked player, Osaka has the full attention of the country’s top brands, whose sponsorship fees can run far higher than those of their Western counterparts. There’s a reason Nishikori, despite never having won a Grand Slam title, surpassed bigger stars like Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic in endorsement income over the past year, with $33 million, according to Forbes. Only Roger Federer earned more. “Kei’s been a trailblazer for Naomi,” Duguid, her agent from I.M.G., says. “He’s opened doors for tennis in Japan and across Asia.” But with Osaka’s combination of youth, authenticity and cultural diversity, he says, “she might have more global appeal.”

Osaka has already shifted attitudes in one small town in Hokkaido. In 2014, when Osaka, then 16, scored a stunning upset over the former U.S. Open champion Samantha Stosur, her grandfather noticed the jubilant coverage in the Japanese media. His disparagement of Osaka’s tennis dreams has gradually shifted into support. He has sent Osaka text messages, phone greetings and earrings (because she told him all the top players are pierced). In April, after her breakthrough in Indian Wells, he even spoke to reporters in Nemuro to about her Japanese roots. “I heard people on Twitter saying, ‘Does she really have relatives in Japan?’ ” he said, “so I thought I should come out.” Hanging from Osaka’s tennis bag is her grandfather’s latest gift: an omamori, a small silk pouch on a string, blessed at a temple and designed to bring good luck.

Osaka may be the highest-profile hafu at the Tokyo Olympics, but others will very likely be there, too. A top sprinter, Abdul Hakim Sani Brown of the University of Florida, is the son of a Japanese mother and a Ghanaian father. The father of Rui Hachimura, a 6-foot-8 basketball star at Gonzaga University, is from Benin, while the tennis doubles specialist Ben McLachlan’s father is from New Zealand. “Ten to 20 years ago, we didn’t see many mixed-race athletes,” says Yoshitani of Kyodo News. “But I think Japan is changing slowly. It’s more international now. The older generation doesn’t change its habits or mentality. But the young generation has a different outlook.”

Still, Osaka stands apart from other Japanese players. The only two Japanese female players to reach the Top 10 — Ai Sugiyama (No. 8 in 2004) and Kimiko Date (No. 4 in 1995) — maximized the potential of their smaller stature, relying less on power than on defensive skills, sharp volleys and footwork, and mental toughness. At the Federation Cup competition in April, Osaka’s game and powerful 5-foot-11 frame stood in stark contrast to the other Japanese singles player, Kurumi Nara, who is just 5-foot-1. “Everything about Naomi breaks the mold,” says Kenshi Fukuhara, a producer with Wowow. “Physically, she’s so much more powerful than other Japanese players. She looks more like Serena, but she’s very Japanese inside.”

Nao Hibino, a 23-year-old Japanese player who has been ranked as high as 56, appreciates all the attention Osaka has brought to women’s tennis in Japan. But she still finds it hard to conceptualize her as a Japanese player. “To be honest, we feel a bit of distance from her because she is so physically different, she grew up in a different place and doesn’t speak as much Japanese,” says Hibino, who first played Osaka when she was an unpolished 16-year-old. “It’s not like Kei, who is a pure Japanese player.” Miyako Kamei, a middle-aged Japanese fan watching Nishikori warm up on a back court at the Citi Open in Washington, said, “We all support Naomi, but Japanese fans tend to like those players who have come up purely on Japanese power.”

Living on the hyphen — balancing Japanese, American and Haitian cultures — is something Osaka has done all her life. And she has become aware that her mixed identity may bring her more fans around the world. “Maybe it’s because they can’t really pinpoint what I am,” she has said, “so it’s like anybody can cheer for me.” In Japan, sports fans already know who Osaka is: She’s the rising star playing for the land of the rising sun. Her Japanese might not be perfect, her appearance not traditional. But the barriers may ultimately be no match for success. “If Naomi wins a Grand Slam, the other things won’t matter as much,” Fukuhara says. “All of Japan would embrace her.”

Brook Larmer is a contributing writer for the magazine.

Read More | https://www.nytimes.com/2018/08/23/magazine/naomi-osakas-breakthrough-game.html |

Nature Naomi Osaka’s Breakthrough Game, in 2018-09-08 22:51:53

#Nature of Business in the Current Market

0 notes

blogparadiseisland · 6 years

Text

Nature Naomi Osaka’s Breakthrough Game

Nature Naomi Osaka’s Breakthrough Game Nature Naomi Osaka’s Breakthrough Game http://www.nature-business.com/nature-naomi-osakas-breakthrough-game/

Nature

Image

Leonard Francois, far left, and Tamaki Osaka, second from right, with their daughters Mari, left, and Naomi, right, and friends in Osaka, Japan, in 1999.CreditOsaka family

Image

Osaka serving against Serena Williams during the Miami Open on March 21 in Key Biscayne, Fla.CreditClive Brunskill/Getty Images

Brook Larmer is a contributing writer for the magazine.

Read More | https://www.nytimes.com/2018/08/23/magazine/naomi-osakas-breakthrough-game.html |

Nature Naomi Osaka’s Breakthrough Game, in 2018-09-08 22:51:53

#Nature of Business in the Current Market

0 notes