The girl is curled up on a couch in a near-fetal position. She is listening to the men arguing in raised voices in the hallway outside. She doesn't want to listen, especially since she is the topic of the argument. But she can't shut the voices out.
"Hey, I get that she's a little off," Tony Stark is saying. "I mean, the kid grew up in some slum in Eastern Europe, for starters. She had a building dropped on her family when she was ten -"
"A building destroyed by rocket bombs," Steve Rogers interrupts, unable to keep the edge of irritation out of his voice. "Bombs that were designed by your company -"
"Don't change the subject. It's not my fault she and her brother were corralled by government goons and turned into living weapons."
"She's not a living weapon. She's a kid. A scared little kid, who has no idea what's going on, and didn't ask for any of this to happen to her."
"So, what are we supposed to do with her, Cap? Hmm? Lock her in the basement for the next thirty years? She can warp reality as we know it with a wave of her freakin' hand. How are we supposed to control that?"
"It's not about control, it's about responsibility, and right now, we are responsible for her. She has no home to go back to. She has no family. Her brother died - helping us. We're the closest thing to a support system she's going to have."
"So, we're running an orphanage now?"
The girl squeezes her eyes shut, huge tears spilling down her cheeks. She wishes desperately that the men would stop shouting. She wants nothing more than to simply disappear. But she doesn't dare move, because any movement might trigger her powers, and everyone - even the few who would advocate for her - are terrified by what she can do. Unheard by the men outside, the girl begins to cry, because try as she might, whenever she closes her eyes, the only thing she can see is the lifeless corpse of her brother.
The glassy stare of eyes that no longer see. The dark holes that mark the passing of bullets through flesh and clothing. The pallor of skin that has lost circulation and warmth. And the blood - the massive, spreading pool of steaming red blood beside a lifeless body, just beyond the reach of an outstretched hand. Less than three weeks ago, Pietro is laughing, smiling, teasing his little sister. Now he is gone. Only this horrible image of his mutilated body remains. The girl is frozen in horror, unable to see anything else.
She has other memories, of other people, not nearly so terrible. There is a man named Clint, who in some off-kilter, self-effacing way, admonishes her to be brave. There is Sam, beautiful Sam with his strong arms and sad smile, and it is Sam who carries her to the helicopter that whisks her away from the ruins of her home to some strange city on the other side of the world. There is the woman, Natasha, who frequently checks on the girl, and never seems far from her side. And there is the Captain.
Natasha has returned. She is gathering the girl in her arms, holding her close, stroking her hair, murmuring phrases of comfort in Russian which she partially understands. Her sobs quiet. She is grateful to be held. But no act of compassion from these kind people can unwind the barbed-wire thorns of fear embedded deep in her heart. She is alone. She is feared. She has heard men and women shouting in angry, intemperate voices that she is a criminal, a monster, and worse. And what is she supposed to do now?
"It's all right, Wanda," Natasha murmurs. "You're safe now. You're safe."
Wanda feels anything but safe.
The days pass. The night terrors still come, but they are less frequent, and Wanda is able to sleep for several hours at a time. She no longer wakes screaming. She is offered food and drink, and slowly, the natural rhythms of her body reassert themselves. She gratefully accepts what she is given, although most of the food is strange to her. Natasha brings her paprikash, strong and flavorful, and this unanticipated act of kindness brings Wanda to tears once again. She had grown accustomed to abuse and constant threats of violence. Acts of kindness leave her feeling vulnerable in ways she does not expect, and she is uncertain as to how to respond. She eats the food and thanks the giver. Natasha also brings her clean clothing, of finer quality than any Wanda has ever known, soft and comfortable and warm. This too pleases her, but she does not know what is expected of her in return. She learns to speak only in English with the few people she meets. Americans always assume that everyone speaks their language, regardless of what part of the world anyone comes from. Her accent is strong, and she must often repeat what she has said in order to be understood. With Natasha, she can also exchange a few halting phrases in Russian. There is no one here who speaks the language of her home. Most could not even find it on a map.