The Universe's Mixer

The telephone was ringing. If the cell had caller ID, the number would come up as belonging to one Wanda Maximoff, cranky teenaged mutant. There was a tense edge to her voice as she began talking - to person or to voicemail didn't really matter. Wanda did not wait to see if Dean's drawl belonged to a living person or to a recording.

"It's Wanda. Pick up. Fff--- Look, I know I rolled my eyes about that Scooby Doo crap, but I swear to God a were-something just tried to bust in my window. This apartment building sucks."

Dean's phone was ringing.

As soon as it picked up - whether by a human being or the voicemail system - a girl started talking. She sounded both angry and panicked, and there was a loud bang in the background as she threw something and it clattered off of a wall.

"You had BETTER not have been lying about the ghosts." Wanda's voice was a hiss. "I can't hex this damn thing. It's not just intangible, because my powers work on Pryde. Probability manipulation should work."

Another bang.

"I brought the kitchen cabinets down and I think that slowed it, but--"

But she was running out of voicemail time, and griping about the stupid intangible thing wasn't going to help.

"I'm at 44 Orchard Street, apartment 507. I'm going to try and get down to the lobby. If you weren't putting me on about all that weird stuff, I might actually need your help."

It had not been a good few weeks for the Doctor. It was exceptionally rare that something managed to get one over on him; it happened, but infrequently enough that the occurrence was a surprise every time. He was worried - about Pond and Rory trapped on a strange planet (just imagine the trouble Pond could get herself into), about Lyra and Fred and Sherlock Holmes, trapped as he was in this strange place, about the designs behind the abductions. Things like this didn’t just happen. They took effort and knowledge and planning.

So? He’d paced about like a madman. The Doctor didn’t sit still easily, and exploring the City made him feel productive. Perhaps he could find where his crafty Urban Overlord had hidden the TARDIS. Perhaps he’d meet someone with some answers - or at least someone interesting.

He’d give the City one bit of credit: it had provided him with a suitable wardrobe. Tweed, ties, proper comfortable shoes for running about, and even a whole shelf of headgear. Now he could choose among fedoras, bowlers, a Stetson, three different takes on the fez, and what could only have been a Phillip Treacy original. It was in zebra print and had little ears on the sides.

The Doctor chose a broad-brimmed tartan fedora. ( It felt jaunty. It felt dashing and heroic, like Indiana Jones mixed with the Scottish Highlands. )

Even though she'd broken free days prior, Wanda still felt a little like an animal in a cage. As a very young child, back when her family life had resembled something approaching normal, her nanny had taken Wanda and her twin brother to the zoo. She'd been in possession of a better attitude back then, but her empathy had been lacking. She'd enjoyed looking at the animals and, when they hadn't moved to her satisfaction, she'd been happy to tap on the glass.

These days, the very idea of harassing something in a prison made her nauseous and angry. It was a sick, queasy feeling that she vaguely recognized as shame. She felt like the animal in the zoo enclosure, and Wanda strongly suspected that the face on the other side of the glass felt very little empathy or shame over what it had done to her.

Oh, there'd been attempts at making amends, but Wanda hadn't accepted the overtures. After her escape from Arkham, there'd been nowhere to go; keys appeared in her pocket, but she refused to use them. It felt like a trap. Instead, she'd slept in parks and abandoned buildings and had made use of the facilities in public recreation centers. Not a comfortable existence, but she was used to discomfort.

Unsurprisingly (given her hatred of feeling trapped), the new morning found Wanda out-of-doors, seated on a bench at a bus stop. She looked pale and unhappy and she was busy slowly destroying a croissant, which she plucked apart and tossed carelessly to a small group of pigeons. She wanted to destroy something. It wouldn't make her feel any better, not really, but lashing out was what she did. If she felt hurt or like she'd lost control? She broke something.

The croissant-tearing increased in pace. A nearby mailbox creaked abruptly and Wanda drew in a hiss of breath. Her head snapped up and she turned wide eyes on the source of the sound. The creaking stopped.

Buffy walked calmly down the hallway. The alarms were loud enough that the sound in her ears had temporarily dulled, while lights flashed on and off like camera flashes. The Slayer couldn't remember who she was looking for-- someone who had helped her. Someone British. The only thing she could remember, having woken up early from the medication she'd been given, was Sherlock Holmes stories. At least fragments of them. They didn't help her deduce anything about the current situation except that she was leaving. Now.

"SLAYER."

Orderlies rounded the corner equipped with tranquilizer guns and fired. Buffy had less than a second to duck and did so, as unfriendly looking darts embedded themselves into the wall. Buffy blinked, still hazy. Her head was swimming like she'd woken up from a lengthy slumber. She didn't waste any time charging, leaping in midair and in a cinematic kick. All three medical staff went down like dominos, unconscious. Though Buffy didn't have much experience with firearms, she'd used a tranquilizer gun pretty effectively against a werewolf before. Crouching down she picked up one of the guns and kept walking.

She walked past doors but it wasn't until she passed one with someone locked in a room that she stopped.

"Come on slayer strength. Don't go all wiggy on me now."

Buffy ripped the door off its hinges.

"Alright, who all is for leaving this crazy train?"

In the first five minutes after waking, Wanda had destroyed her room, a huge swath of the hallway, and the nurse's station near the elevator. Four orderlies had been hurt as the ceiling collapsed above them; it had taken two more and a nurse to restrain her and still her hands. The glow around her fingers subsided once she'd lost the ability to move. The chaos stopped.

( Apparently, they'd made a mistake in her dosage. )