#mizhak-draba

Victor settled into his room neatly, folded into the edges of America and its promises. Everything smelt different, an aroma he could not pin down. Although he had no home, he missed the bone curling chills of Latveria more than ever. Sighing, he put away the last book from his cardboard boxes. How long this tidy room would last? He did not know. Wanda might. He smiled softly to himself. Wanda. Red, scarlet against his dark frame on the airplane, in the car. 

Small distances, he could manage, even in this scent-filled madness of a place. He teleported himself directly into Wanda's room. Smiling at the joke, but a hint of sadness shined through. 

"Hi." He spoke softly in Russian.