The Widow Takes Out the Witch.

Wanda Maximoff leaned into a tire-screeching twist that squeezed her motorcycle between a taxi cab's grill and and a minivan's rear bumper at a speed even her brother would find impressive. The otherwise silent electric motor whined a bit as she throttled back up, becoming a scarlet streak.

She didn't usually drive like this, or, in fact, at all. Not long ago, she hadn't even known how to drive, let alone the "combat driving" she used to dodge and weave through the jammed New York City traffic. Her pulse pounded to use her untested skills on the actual streets, but it had to be done. Natasha Romanoff had requested a meeting.

What emergency could cause the Black Widow to summon her? A four alarm fire, a natural disaster, a second alien invasion, or some similarly earth-shattering calamity seemed the only conceivable answer.

Wanda saw Romanoff waiting, leaning against a wall. The Scarlet Witch brought the crimson motorcycle to a screeching halt alongside the spy. She leaped from the bike, yanked the helmet from her head, and shook her hair loose while taking two fast steps toward the Widow.

"What's the emergency?" Wanda demanded breathlessly.

Romanoff considered the young woman, her piercing gaze seeming to see into Wanda's innermost soul while her beautiful, heart-shaped face gave no hint of what she found there. Casually, Romanoff kicked off the wall where she leaned, her hands nonchalantly stuffed in the pockets of her black leather jacket with the thumbs out, displaying nails the color of dried blood. She cocked her head toward the building on which she'd leaned.

"I'm starving. C'mon."

Romanoff ducked into a door Wanda hadn't even noticed. Dumbfounded, the younger Avenger could only follow. Inside, she found a dimly lit greasy spoon. The spy had already seated herself in a booth whose table's cracked plastic surface looked like a topographical map of Mars and whose seats were more duct tape than anything else.

From the rear of the gloomy space, Wanda could hear grease spitting across the grill and the yelling voices of angry men in a language she didn't understand. The smells that wafted to her from the kitchen were spicy and tickled her nose, but her stomach rumbled in approval of the strange odors.

Wanda made her way to the booth and sat down opposite Romanoff. They sat in silence, Romanoff lounging sideways, her back against a wall with one foot pulled up into the seat. Wanda sat with her back stiff and hands folded on the table in front of her. She tried to look intently at the woman across from her instead of thinking about the greasy grime beneath her hands. After several seconds of this, Romanoff finally looked at her, noted the rigid posture and laughed.

"At ease, soldier," she said around her silvery chuckles. "You look like Captain Sokovia over there."

Confusion creased Wanda's brow. "But you said there was an emergency."

Romanoff nodded and opened her mouth to speak, but a man in a Hawaiian shirt so colorful it made Wanda's eyes ache stepped to the edge of their table and interrupted.

"Natalia," the man said, his voice a throaty purr. The thick bags around eyes set in a wide face with thick, slightly downturned lips made him look as though he were half asleep and a little annoyed about it. "So good to see you again!"

Romanoff's face broke into a wide smile and she slid gracefully from the booth to hug the larger man. Her lithe, black-clad frame nearly vanished in his technicolor bulk and the man's own somber expression changed into a sleepy smile. They broke their embrace and he turned to Wanda, still smiling.

"My God, Natalia has a friend! What a glorious day this is!"

He grabbed up Wanda's hand in his own and brought it to his face for a quick brush of her knuckles across his lips.