This is my version of how things would go begin in Captain America Civil War based on the promo material and the fan theories drifting around. To all the readers reading my Cell story, I am in the process of writing the next chapter, but this idea wouldn't leave my head so I had to get it on paper. Enjoy –Tom Tomorrow.
It seemed like an unfortunate case of nerves. The auburn-haired agent pondered this as she watched the dark-haired telepath, Wanda Maximoff, clench and unclench her multi-ringed hands as she maneuvered her way through the crowd some distance away. Even from the corner, Natasha could see the anxiety that was barely concealed underneath the witch's careful look of concentration. One look at the tense cast to her jaw, the slight inward slouch of her shoulders, and the way she frequently, yet unconsciously looked to her left spoke volumes. It was the look of someone who had lost their other. Their constant figure, which could always be counted on, ripped away from them. For Wanda, it was Pietro Maximoff, her fraternal twin brother. One of the many casualties in Ultron's short-lived reign of terror.
Wanda had taken his death hard, which was to be expected. They'd gone through everything together. In her Red Room days, Natasha had often wondered what it was like to love and then loved back in return. Then she'd met Clint and his family, then Fury, then the Avengers. Yet Wanda and her brother had had something different. It had taken the Vision hours to drag her away from his body, after multiple attempts from the rest of the Avengers, even longer to convince her to bury him. When Wanda resurfaced after carrying out the traditional Jewish rites of death, it seemed that her confidence and control had died with her brother. Broken vases, constantly moving furniture, strands of lingering red. It wouldn't have been as big of a problem, except no one had known the scope of her abilities. Not that they knew much more now. Although Clint had brought Wanda in, with open arms, the rest of what was left of S.H.E.I.L.D had been reluctant. Especially considering her large role in the Ultron fiasco. Although Clint and Steve relentlessly advocated for her, it was Fury and his logic that won the rest of the suits over. Something along the lines of the world was filling up with uncontrollable and unmatchable people and having an enhanced on their team rather than against it would help even out the odds. So Wanda had officially entered the Avengers ranks, having been labeled in the S.H.E.I.L.D files as an 'precarious' ally and a high-level security threat, before being thrown to Natasha for combat training.
Granted Natasha had been distanced from most of those events, partly because of the situation with Bruce, partly because of Wanda's involuntary exposure of her Red Room past. However, she soon realized that they were both more alike than Natasha had initially presumed. Both soldiers who grew up with nothing, fighting with the wrong side until someone exposed them to the truth. After many sparring sessions, Wanda had gained back her confidence and then some, but she was still quiet and largely closed off from the rest of the team. Nevertheless, Fury was pushing his agenda and Maximoff was put into the field barely three months after the Ultron incident. Of course, these field missions didn't come without precautions. Precautions every team member was aware of. Regardless, Natasha refused to cut Wanda any slack and worked her harder than any other recruit she'd ever had.
"Maximoff." Natasha instructed, pretending to readjust her sunglasses as she lifted her hand causally to her earpiece. "I need you to be one hundred percent on this one. So concentrate."
Wanda nodded slightly to indicate she'd heard and Natasha watched as the witch disappeared further into the crowd. They were on a reconnaissance mission in the northernmost part of Kilinga, staking out a potential Hydra affiliate. It wasn't Wakanda, the Avengers having been banned from ever returning, but it carries the same sense of familiarity even when they're in another town a good distance away. Kilinga is in the front yards—a tourist town on a stage of hard red dirt under bare foot—abandoned by the French and now another victim in the long list of developing countries left behind. Rich in resources and natural beauty, but poor in everything else.
In the market place, the focal point of the town, tired thin women in every thinkable wear of bright colored print and patterned dress work endlessly for a meager day's living. These vendor ladies laid out produce on mats on the ground; squatting, scowling, and resting their chins on their crossed arms, behind fortresses of stacked kola nuts, bundles of fragrant sticks, piles of charcoal, beaded trinkets, or displays of dried animal parts. Their deliberate hands built and rebuilt their pyramids of mottled greenish oranges and mangoes and curved mounds of hard green bananas and poked at the local delicacies being cooked in the fires of their makeshift ovens. Packs of stray dogs lurked with beady eyes in the back alleys waiting for morsels of food to be left unattended. On the streets, clumps of children made games out of throwing pebbles upon terrified small goats, scattering them across the road so that the goats could tiptoe back and be chased again. Elderly men sat on overturned buckets, cheap cigarettes protruding from their mouths, and stared at whatsoever passed by. She counted seventeen guards standstill in their positions amongst the throng; each rested steadily hands on the buts of their ancient machine guns. In front of Natasha, a woman sauntered slowly down the road with bundles upon bundles balanced on her head. It was not an unusual sight, yet these women remained pillars of wonder, defying gravity while wearing the ho-hum aspect of perfect tedium.
Dirt-covered sightseeing vans packed with tourists; threw up dust behind their wheels, as they maneuvered down the crowded, unpaved roads. The massive red clouds of dust sent the children scrambling back to the sidelines, squealing in laughter and screaming at each other in French as they wait for the vehicles to past. Some of the children turned their attention to the red faced tourists with large cameras, fanny packs, wallets begging in French: "Cadeau, cadeau' until gold coins would be placed into their waiting hands. The tourists moved towards the shops under the big palm-tree leaves that waved in the bright light, providing slight refuse, as the crowds of people rushed past one way and then the other. A little blond girl clutched bright red balloons as her parents ushered her along. The Black Widow took in the atmosphere of overripe fruit, dried meat, sweat, and spices. She and Wanda would fit in perfectly amongst the other tourists in their own civilian clothing.
"Falcon, Captain." Natasha whispered in a hushed voice, getting the two men's attention as she checked her watch. Wilson should have reached his designated scope area by now, a coffee shop about four hundred meters away, while Steve had remained in the jet on the outskirts of the city, instructing them from afar as he flexed his newfound leadership skills. They had agreed that unless specifically addressed, they shouldn't be on coms.
"Captain in," came first, followed by a "Falcon in."
"Romanov, do you need something, or did you just miss the sound of my voice?" Sam Wilson's teasing banter rang out over the coms. The sound of clinking cups and muted French and English being spoken in the local dialect could be heard in the background. She could almost imagine the bitter aroma of coffee under the humid sun.
"Are you in position?" Natasha asked, a light smile on her face in spite of herself.
"In position. And if you're going to ask if I've seen anything strange yet, the answer is no. Just a lot of tourists with pit stains and bitter coffee. I haven't seen hide nor hair of this guy. Are you sure we have the right intel Steve?" Wilson griped from his end of the coms.
"The intel's right Sam. Besides, we've barely been at this for an hour, Sam." Despite Rogers's authoritative tone, Natasha could hear the grin hidden in his voice. "You signed up for this remember?"
"Yeah, yeah, but there's only so much black coffee a guy can take. I'm guessing you and Wanda haven't seen anything either?" Wilson asked, this time the question is directed towards Natasha.
"Negative." She responded and Wilson groaned theatrically over the coms.
The man in question went under the presumed alias, Amahl Farouk. He was a quiet figure who took great efforts to remain out of the public eye, as a result not much was known about the man. The mission report itself revealed only a few memos, a couple of grainy surveillance photos, and a transcript from a telephone call. Not a lot to work with, but the photographs confirmed Farouk to be a known affiliate of Baron Von Strucker and by extension Hydra. Another rumor drifting among the streets was that he used to command the local crime syndicate in the area, but there was a lack of concrete evidence to cement that fact. However, S.H I. E. L.D had managed to decipher Intel suggesting that some kind of transaction was supposed to take place in the city of Kilinga. Only a few of them were able to attend. Stark and the Vision were too busy in Sokovia with reconstruction efforts, Bucky was recuperating at base, Bruce was out of the picture, Barton was on the farm with his family, and Rhodes was keeping the government off their asses in DC.
"Maximoff? Maximoff copy?" It wass Steve again, ignoring Wilson's complaint, as he checked upon every member of the team.
"Maximoff in." Wanda's thick Sokovian accent rang out softly over the coms. Natasha scanned the crowd for her Sokovian friend and spotted her a good distance away leaning inconspicuously over a fruit stand filled with fuzzy peaches, ripe blood oranges, and green bananas. Her brooding dark eyes swiped over the stand uninterestedly on food she's obviously not focused on. As if she knows Natasha is watching, the younger woman's dark brown eyes drift up to meet Natasha's and despite the distance, their eyes lock.
"Seen anything yet, Maximoff?"
"No. Not yet." The dark-haired telepath responded confidently, searching Natasha's eyes for approval. The nervousness from earlier gone, but still needing some reassurance. Natasha nodded and Wanda turns back to the fruits. Steve seemed to accept this as an adequate response and nothing further was said as the coms returned to silence. The golden sun beat down on them as another hour of team pretending to be tourists passed by slowly.
"Are you interested in something, miss?" A tall, dark man with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and yellowing teeth asked in a deep French dialect. Apparently, she had looked too interested in the multi-colored bracelets. Keeping up appearances, Natasha smiled at him shyly and shook her head motioning that she was only looking. He gave her a toothy grin and waved in acknowledge, his triangle of white shirt moving away from her as he walked purposefully back into the crowd. When she moved along to the next stand, the hackles rose on the back of her neck and she knows that someone else is watching.
Natasha stepped away from the market stand and scanned the crowd. Wilson sitting on the balcony of the coffee shop as he read a newspaper. The girl with the red balloon making her way steadily down the street. Two dogs fighting over a piece of meat. Wanda watching a local as he prepared some sort of meat dish over fire. A group of mothers nursing their children. A couple of tourists exchanging brightly colored bills in exchange for souvenirs. Another bus rumbling it's way down the dirt red road. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then Natasha saw him.
Amahl Farouk. Similar to the surveillance footage, Farouk was a very large and very fat man, with a wide, unyielding face, and a stern expression. His large slicked back head of hair was very grey; and his whiskers, which he wore only around his face, like a frame, were grey as well. He looked slightly uncomfortable in a tight pinstripe suit about one size to small, but his furrowed demeanor exuded an aurora of authority and malevolence. He stood in the shadows with a black briefcase clutched in his beefy hands. No doubt containing the information of that the Avengers had been sent for. Two more men come into view. One was shorter, more muscular, and Natasha presumed he was Farouk's bodyguard, by the way his eyes watch the crowd and his hand subtly palms the area where a gun would be concealed. The other, a skinny, tall man, must be the client, as she watched him shake hands with Farouk.
"I've got eyes on the suspect," Natasha informed quietly to the others over the coms.
"What, where?" Wilson asked bewildered.
"Your six o' clock. Two hundred meters straight." She watched Sam subtly change his position to get a better view and then nod behind his newspaper, laughing as if he saw something hilarious in the paper.
"Confirmed. It's him." Wilson upheld. The joking banter was gone, replaced with seriousness as the team focused on the true start of their mission.
"Remember. This is a recon mission. Don't engage. Only tag and follow. Copy?" Steve reiterated over the earpieces.
"Copy." Come a chorus of voices. Natasha ignored the buzz of fruit flies, the barking dogs, and conversing people, as she began to weave her way through the crowd and towards Farouk and his men. Wilson remained in his position at the coffee shop, but remained on guard.
"Maximoff, can you get a read on him?" Steve asked, though it was more of a demand.
"I can try," Wanda responded in a quiet voice and turned her head and closed her eyes to focus. Natasha knew Wanda's eyes were turning red under her aviator sunglasses as she concentrated her magic on Amahl Fuhrok. The S.H.I.E.L.D agent diverted her gaze back towards the group of men and suddenly everything seemed to turn to slow motion. The bodyguard had leant forward and whispered something in Fuhrok's ear and she saw the large man smile almost imperceptibly in response. A beat passed and both men turn their attention on Wanda. Another beat passed and Natasha had reached for her gun and changed her direction away from Fuhrok and towards her teammate. Wanda's eyes were still closed, but Natasha can see her visibly falter as she removed her aviators and grabbed the side of the meat stand for support. A look of confusion, then pain flickered across her face and her knuckles turn white against the wood. Another beat. A quick glance at Amahl Fuhrok and his men, and now Farouk has his hand on his temple looking in the witch's general direction with narrowed eyes. Son of a bitch. Time snapped back into full speed.
"We've got an enhanced in the field!" Natasha informed her team members, weaving her way between the oblivious civilians, trying to reach Wanda. The last thing they needed was for the Avenger's to be on front-page news again. Tension was already brewing between the governments of the nations over the Sokovia incident.
"What? Who?" Steve asked urgently.
"It's Farouk. God damn it." Wilson replied having witnessed the events as they took place.
"Do we know what he's capabl-" Steve began, but Natasha wasn't listening any more. The truth was they had no idea what Farouk was capable of; there was not enough sufficient evidence to suggest that he had any real authoritative power in Hyrda, much less any supernatural abilities. They were completely in the dark. Almost there…Thirty feet. Twenty feet. The gap rapidly closed between them, but not fast enough. She saw Wanda stumble away from the meat stand, both hands pressed against her temple as she backed further into the crowd. Her face was twisted in pain; both Natasha and Sam hear her ragged breathing over the coms. Something is wrong. Ten feet.
"Maximoff copy? Maximoff?" Steve, being the only one out of the loop, was forced to rely on the audio feeds, but even he realized something was off. "Widow. Falcon. Report!"
Then Wanda started to scream. It was a gut wrenching, soul-tearing scream that could be heard even over the bustling noise of the market place. A scream filled with so much pain, agony, and despair. A scream Natasha never wanted to hear again. Wanda fell to her knees, hands coming up to brace the sides of her head, eyes tightly shut as she knelt her head forward, still screaming, the sound as terrifying as it was deafening. At first the tourists, then the locals recoiled away from Wanda. Covering their ears, and whispering among each other as they backed away a few feet, to stand and gawk safely from a distance. A few had the audacity to take out their cell phones and record. None stepped forward to help. Bastards. Natasha broke through the crowds.
The younger women was visibly shaking, sweat poured down her face and her fingers raked down the back of her neck, tearing at the skin, making it bleed. Still screaming. Outwardly, Natasha kept calm, even though she was fuming on the inside. She will get that bastard's head.
"Wanda, look at me."
Nothing.
"Wanda!"
Nothing.
The coms crackle to life again.
"Nat? Do you copy? Is she okay?" It's Sam, his voice heavy with concern.
"Follow Fuhrok!" She yelled over Wanda's hoarse screams, ignoring the Falcon's question. If she were alone, Natasha would have gone after him, but not now. "Don't let him get away. Understand?"
"Affirmative." Sam sounded reluctant, but Natasha knew he would comply.
Natasha turned her attention back to Wanda, whose screams have dwindled to desperate spbs, grabbing the younger woman's hands away from her neck as gently as possible, trying to keep her from hurting herself. The witch's skin is practically boiling and even when Natasha holds her hands, Wanda still unconsciously rakes at the air in front of her, trying to scratch at something that wasn't even there. A camera shutter snapped behind her as both the locals and foreigners watch with wide eyes. At this point there was nothing that was going to stop the Avenger's from being on front-page news again, but the Black Widow finds that she doesn't even care.
"I need you to look at me." Natasha forcefully, but gently took Wanda's head by the chin and forced her to look up. The witch's eyes snap open. They wandered aimlessly, not staying on a single thing, but drifting from spot to spot sporadically. Her pupils were dilated and unseeing, bright red with power, but filled with pain, grief, and complete unbridled terror. Natasha had never seen Wanda so scared before. Tears threaten to fall as the witch struggled to hold herself together. She's shaking harder now, practically quaking on her spat. Crimson blood began to trickle from her nose, trickling down her face, blending with the red dirt beneath her.
"Get out, get out, get out! STOP! Stop it! LET ME OUT!" Wanda screamed hoarsely, but her mouth remained unmoving. Natasha heard her blood-curdling scream again. Then she realizes it's only in her head, not aloud. Wanda's voice was with her mind. The witch wrenched her hands away from the red-haired agent obscuring her face once more. Suddenly, the veins on her bare arms protrude and some invisible force began to work its way up her body. Natasha doesn't know what it is, but she can hear Wanda screaming again with renewed vigor. This time it's aloud.
"I-I –can't… I can't feel my hands!" Wanda sounded like a scared kid as she choked on her spit and blood as she writhed on the ground. "I c-can't.. I-I can't f-feel them!"
"Wanda! I need you to calm down and let me help you." Natasha placated, but Wanda wasn't listening. She's hysterical. The invisible force is at her neck now and the veins protrude awkwardly at her neck.
"I can't f-feel my h-hands! I can't feel them!" she screamed hoarsely. Behind Natasha there's a murmuring from the crowd as the amount of spectators grows louder, but she ignores them as she tried to calm her friend down. Too little to late. Wanda lets out a guttural groan and a sudden psychotic blast of red tendrils burst out of her from all sides. The force of the blast sent a spike of white-hot pain that caught Natasha in the chest and pitched her backwards sending her crashing into the fruit stand. The fragile wood splintered behind her weight and the rocks scraped gashes into her skin as the tendril sent her skidding across the floor. Her earpiece cracks and then falls from her ear, disappearing in the disarray. Natasha rolled easily to her feet, but another red wave peels off of Wanda threatening to knock her down once more. The next time she tries, she crawls against the ground and inches closer.
The blast radius was large, Wanda's tendrils having covered the entire area. And while the crowd merely stood and gawked earlier, they screamed in terror now, running spastically in different directions.
"Diable! Diable!" The locals yell as they distance themselves from Wanda. The marketplace was in chaos. The meat stand had exploded into a fireball of flames. A tour bus had destroyed several tents and collapsed a building wall after being flipped then rolled several times on its side. Gnarled metal twisted into odd-looking sculptures. Poorly constructed buildings in the close vicinity, have all but been obliterated, now piles of brick and rubble. A couple of locals are swifting through the rubble looking for friends and family that have been trapped underneath. A man she'd seen sitting on a bucket earlier, expelled the contents of his stomach onto the ground, blood staining the right side of his temple. Countless stray dogs lay motionless on their sides, nothing more than furry corpses now. In the distance, a child screams for his mother, but no one is listening. They're all to busy screaming, trying to get away. As the ringing ceases in her ears, Natasha watched a bright red balloon disappeared into the blue sky and she remembers the child. The child is nowhere to be found.
Wanda's tendrils haven't dissipated. The tendrils decorate the market like tinsel on a Christmas Tree. Blood oranges, fuzzy peaches, bananas float telekinetically in the air, joined by multicolored beads and bracelets, twirling like miniature globes in the universe. Grainy red sand floats up like steam on a fryer, floating lazily in contrast of the chaotic situation.
Natasha's stomach lurched, as she surveyed the scene, but she didn't move forward to help. She knew the only way the damage could stop was by stopping Wanda. She palmed the syringe in her jean pocket. When anyone from S.H.E.I.L.D with extraordinary abilities was sent into the field, a set of second set of precautionary devices was sent with them. This was a recent development after the recent increase in enhanced beings and complications involving the Hulk destroying New York City. Bruce had the dream talk. Steve had extra strength sedatives. Wanda was no different, and of course, once she got into the field any mission came with precautions. The serum in the syringe was a concoction of sedatives and other chemicals that Stark had developed in the bowels lab. It would shut off her abilities completely for a short period of time. Hypothetically, of course. It had never been tested on Wanda, whose distrust of Stark and abhorrence of needles post-Baron era, had refused to take part. A Chi-squared test had proved 95% confidence, so Fury had allowed the lack of live tests to slide.
Wanda had wrapped herself in a carefully fetal position. Dark red blood streamed in steady droves from her nose onto the ground, but she did nothing to quell it. Lost in her old Natasha inched closer, not wanting to scare her again. She can hear Wanda's teeth chattering as she drew near, cold even in the boiling African heat. Natasha can see jagged blood-filled scratches making her trembling arms. Another wave of red expelled itself from the witch's body, but it was weaker than the others and only managed to spin the fruits lazily in circles.
"Wanda." Natasha whispered softly. Wanda's eyes meet hers and they're an unnatural pitch black, even the irises. Then they rapidly averted away. Her hand hit at the ground jerkily, but when Natasha leant forward she pulled away.
"G-get out." Wanda managed to get out. Her voice is barely a whisper, but it sounds garbled and congested and Natasha knew it probably took all of her energy to say, but it left her just as confused. The veins on her bare arms begin to protrude again expelling blood and some invisible force began to work its way up her body. Natasha immediately recognized the signs of the precursor to the massive expulsion of power Wanda had released earlier and knew it couldn't happen again. There were already to many civilian casualties. The Black Widow pulled the syringe of blue liquid from her pocket, ripped the top away with her teeth, and quickly inserted it into the crook of Wanda's neck, expelling its contents before she could realize what was going on.
At first nothing happened. Then the red tendrils begin to draw themselves back into the younger women. The fruits and bracelets drop to the floor. The sand fell with a splatter. Within seconds the red tint is gone, the remaining wisps disappearing into her hands. Wanda slackened on the ground in front of her, curling in on herself once more. Her shoulders shake with exhaustion. There's a sound coming from her, too. A terrible gasping noise. She's crying. She's breaking. It was a horrible sight to see. Wanda's rubbing her forehead and her temples, her fingers white with the effort. Natasha turned the girl to her side, resting the witch's head on her knees so Wanda wouldn't choke on her blood. Wanda doesn't resist. Natasha ignored the witch's blood that dripped between her fingers, coating her hands with thick smears of crimson, as she tries to get Wanda to focus.
"Wanda, I want you talk to me."
She doesn't look up, only whimpers.
"Wanda!"
The witch mutters something incomprehensibly, her voice muddled by tears, blood, and sheer exhaustion. Natasha strained to hear what she was saying, but Wanda's repeating it over an over again like a mantra. It was only when she leant closer, that Natasha realized that Wanda was asking for her brother.
She doesn't know how long they stayed like that. Seconds, minutes, hours. Eventually, Wanda relaxes as she lets exhaustion took over her, yet even in sleep she seemed uneasy. Whatever the hell Farouk had done to her, seemed to have taken its toll. Someone tapped Natasha's shoulder, and by reflex she moved to attack, but it was only Steve. His face was grim, having already assessed the situation. His blue eyes quickly fall to the sleeping Maximoff.
"She's going to need medical attention." Natasha muttered despondently. Steve nodded silently as he reattached his dirt-smattered shield to its clip.
"The jets not that far away." Steve informed as he bent down to check Wanda's pulse.
"Farouk?" Natasha questioned. Steve's face fell.
"Farouk escaped. Sam tailed him… but then he and the client disappeared. Apparently, one of them had teleportation abilities."
She inwardly groans, all of this damage for nothing. Steve caught her looking at the destroyed market place, once thriving economy, now a pile of rubble.
"I've called Stark. His repair bots are coming to fix the damage. Four civilian fatalities. Countless more casualties. The market place is pretty much done for… He's not real happy with us at the moment" Steve informed and Natasha knows he is thinking of the consequences and potential fall out as a result of this failed mission. They both know that this won't bode well for the future.
"It wasn't her fault." Natasha felt she had to say it, even when they both know it wasn't.
"I know."
It was only going to be a matter of convincing the rest of the world that.