Welcome to my full length Avengers story! School is officially out for the summer and I have plenty of time to write (and fangirl) :)
This story is set in an alternate universe from my first story Twelve Days. It is not necessary to read Twelve Days first.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers.
Enjoy!
Beep.
Beep.
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Every part of Pietro Maximoff's body hurt. His eyes felt like lead as he forced them open, wiping sleep from their corners. "Where…am I?" By all rights and accounts, he should be dead. He'd intercepted a series of bullets meant for one of his fellow Avengers, Clint Barton. No one could survive something like that.
And yet he was decidedly not dead.
A nurse in clean blue scrubs seemed to materialize by his side with a smile and a clipboard. "Pietro Maximoff?"
He nodded slowly. "I…think so. What happened? Where am I?"
"Dr. Helen Cho's lab in Seoul. We've been using the cradle in an experimental procedure, to see if we can regrow some of the tissue your body lost when those bullets tore through them. And I'm happy to report that the experiment was a success. It will take time, but you'll make a full recovery."
"What happened to agent Barton? Did we defeat Ultron?"
"Yes. Barton is alive and Ultron perished in Sokovia. The Avengers saved the world-yet again. And you were a part of it. You're a superhero, Pietro. As a matter of fact, a couple members of the team made the journey here to see you-including agent Barton. Shall I send him in?"
"Yes, if it's not too much trouble. Where's my sister? I want to talk to her."
The nurse's smile seemed to fade a few notches. "I'll get agent Barton." She was gone before Pietro could question her further.
A few minutes later, Clint came in. He seemed a little wearier and a little warier, but other than that he appeared to be unharmed. "Hey kid. How're you doing?"
"My chest hurts so much I can barely breathe. I have no idea what happened to me or where my sister is. My entire body feels sore. Other than that, I'm doing great. How about yourself?"
Clint managed a smile, although his eyes were troubled. "I'm doing pretty well. I've been trying to spend more time with my family, in between other missions of course. My youngest son, Nathaniel, is just about to turn a year old. I want to be there to celebrate the occasion."
"Wait-you have three kids?" Pietro's brain seemed to be on an extremely low setting-everything seemed slightly blurred around the edges.
"Oh, right. I forgot to tell you." Clint cleared his throat, looking out the window. "Pietro, this procedure was not seamless. It actually had many side effects-including placing you in a coma for almost a full year."
"So I've been unconscious for a year?"
"Yes-ever since the Battle of Sokovia."
"This is ridiculous…where's Wanda?"
Clint didn't answer. He seemed to be absorbed in his current mission of investigating Pietro's progress reports.
"Clint, where's Wanda?"
When the archer finally looked at him, Pietro was shocked to realize that his eyes had turned as hard as granite. "Wanda died during the battle. When she thought you had been killed, she went to find Ultron. We lost contact with her…Tony postponed the vaporization for as long as he could, but eventually we had to blow the city to kingdom come. Wanda's body was never recovered."
The blood running through Pietro's veins had turned to ice water. He could barely breathe; the world seemed to swim in front of his eyes. Clint hadn't said that. He must have misheard him. Wanda couldn't be dead. She couldn't.
He'd never gotten to say goodbye. "What?"
"We did everything we could. We had a search crew out there for six months…but nothing was ever found. We think she got vaporized. I'm sorry, Pietro. I'm so sorry."
For just a moment, he was hit with a wave of sadness that was so intense he actually felt dizzy with its weight. Then he decided to get angry-because at least anger burned. It didn't freeze. "You're lying."
"Would you like to see the records?"
"What records?"
"The Sokovian government released a list of all the victims. There were 139. 139 people we couldn't save. 139 people dead because of us." He handed Pietro a thick sheaf of papers. Each paper was headed with the seal of the Sokovian Embassy.
With a feeling of dread, Pietro scanned the list of the dead and their respective ages. There was a wide variety-from little babies to the elderly. There were even a few names he recognized: the baker who had owned a shop down the street from the Maximoffs and always had extra cookies for the city's children, the social worker assigned to their case after their parents' deaths-Pietro and Wanda had run away from her no less than seven times-even two of his best friends that he'd played games of baseball in the streets with for twelve years. But he was to numb to feel anything as he skipped through to the Ms. He was hoping there wouldn't be any names he recognized.
Finally, he reached victim 102.
Wanda Maximoff. Age seventeen.
Pietro abruptly pushed himself to his feet. He was still shaking from months of inactivity, but that didn't stop him from doing the only thing he could do at that moment.
He ran out the door of the clinic, down the street, and into a small forest off of the city. Branches tore at his shirt, but he didn't care. He had to stay in constant motion-he didn't even want to think about what would happen if he stopped.
Finally, he reached a meadow filled with yellow dandelion heads. He stopped short, shoes skidding in the packed dirt. Dandelions had always been Wanda's favorite flower. Even though they were just common weeds, she'd loved them immensely-more than any other flower, including the rather exotic orchids their mother had gotten at the florists on special occasions. She had always thought they were beautiful, despite their innate ability to spread anywhere and everywhere. Before the shelling, she'd been able to see the beauty in everything-even in the smallest patch of dirt.
And now she was gone.
He dropped to his knees among the weeds, crushing a handful of plants in each hand. "Wanda!" He screamed it to the sky, reaching out for her presence the way he'd always been able to in the past.
There was nothing there.
"Where are you?" The cry tore from his throat, lost and broken.
Just like him.
How was he supposed to live on without her by his side?
"Wanda?" He didn't know what he was expecting-some kind of reply maybe, or even a feeling of warmth rather than the earth shattering darkness that seemed to be devouring his insides. But nothing happened. Nothing changed. He was still on his knees in a foreign country, broken and lonely, with only coldness and bitterness where his heart should be.
He was still missing the sister he had lost forever.
There was blood underneath her fingernails.
She knelt near the stream, trying frantically to scrub it out. The water was stained red, yet there was still more blood caked on her hands-on her fingernails, in the joints of her fingers, in the lines and ridges of her palms. There was too much of it.
She tried to remember something, anything, about how she had come to be here. Memories came in bits and pieces-a long, thin needle; blood everywhere, choking her, scrambling up a grassy hill, her fingers slipping in the damp grass as she groped for handholds, and screams. Her own screams.
She lay on the bank for a long time, waiting for her pulse to go back to normal. She felt sick and scared-because she couldn't clearly remember a thing about her past or even her present. Her mind was a blank slate, devoid of faces.
Except for a single name.
Pietro.
A name that had no face to accompany it.
Finally, when she had cleaned herself up as best as she was able, she began to consider the pressing problem of finding a place to stay. Preferably with someone she could talk to-someone who knew Pietro. It was still light out-around five thirty if she was reading the sunlight correctly-but it would be getting dark sooner rather than later. And she didn't exactly relish the idea of spending the night outside.
She turned down a beaten and worn dirt path and continued along in silence, listening to the chirping of birds in the canopy above her head. After about ten minutes, the path widened and turned to gravel-soon it became a concrete road. Ten minutes later, she was having to dodge cars as the road turned into a highway snaking its way into a city of tall buildings. The sun was starting to set by now-a burning ball of fire on the western horizon. Soon it would be full on dark-and she was still hopelessly lost.
She passed a sign that read 'Now Entering the City of Belfast. Enjoy your Stay!' and tried to pinpoint her exact location. Belfast was a European city; she was certain of that. Belfast…Ireland. The pieces finally began to click into place.
The street was busy with commuters heading home after a long day of work-and the sidewalks were no less jammed with pedestrians. She felt herself being shoved to and fro as people left and joined the current, carrying her along to an unknown destination. For the first time since starting her journey into the city, she felt frightened. She was in a strange city in a strange country with only an ID and a handful of paper bills to her name. She didn't know where she was or where she was meant to be.
Suddenly, she was shoved aside by a man in a long brown dinner jacket. She fell, hitting the concrete hard and rolling instinctively. Waves of pain crawled up her arm as she looked around the busy thoroughfares to see if she could find whoever had pushed her down. Unfortunately, he had already disappeared into the onslaught of people.
She tried to stay out of the way of the other pedestrians while she got her bearings. She needed a plan. Wandering the city streets would only last her so long. Eventually she would need a place to stay the night, even if that turned out to be just a small coffee shop where she could get a hot beverage to calm her nerves.
Suddenly a callused hand entered her line of vision. She allowed the stranger to help her to her feet, taking a good look at him as he did so. He was wearing a Game of Thrones t-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts. His unruly black hair stuck out in every direction, and he had the deepest dimples she had ever seen. "Are you lost?" he asked kindly.
"Perhaps. Who are you?"
"Damien Walker-of Walker and Sons: Attorneys at Law."
"You don't look much like a lawyer."
He laughed. "I'm on vacation. We should be able to have some fun too, you know. Every great once in a while."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"
"You don't look much like a local." he said, interrupting her casually. "Who are you?"
"Marya Lanham." she lied smoothly.
"And what brings you to Ireland, Miss Lanham?"
"Vacation." she answered quickly. Too quickly.
Damien didn't look convinced. "As you say. You know, you never really answered my first question. Are you lost?"
She looked down, scuffing the toe of her shoe on the cinderblock edge of a nearby building. "Yes. I've only just arrived."
"Do you need a place to stay for the night?"
"That would be nice."
"I know of a little place where you could stay for a week or so if you wanted to. They have good accommodations and reasonable rates…They also tend not to ask a lot of questions." He gave her directions; it wasn't a long walk. Which was good; her feet were starting to hurt so much she thought they were in danger of coming off entirely.
The hotel was named Inn by the Garden, and she immediately thought the name was relevant. Plant fronds and tendrils grew up over the low stone building like a protective shield.
Shield…She stopped in the driveway, trying to interpret the memory fragment. What did a shield have to do with anything?
She waited intently for some time, but nothing happened. Eventually, the feeling faded away until she was no longer sure the word held any special significance to her at all. She was so tired she could barely stand; her sleep deprived mind could easily be conjuring fantasies.
The woman working the front desk greeted her with a smile as she checked in. "How long will you be staying with us, Marya?"
She didn't know why she was so set on keeping her real name a secret. All that she was certain of in this strange new world was that there were people after her-perhaps even now closing the distance between them-and they knew her by the name on her plastic ID card. It was burning a hole in her jacket pocket, especially since it had the name 'Wanda Maximoff' written on it in black ink. "Indefinitely."
The woman handed her a single key on a long silver chain, to wear around her neck so she would have easy access to it. "Enjoy your stay."
The room Wanda had been given was large and spacious, with a view of a sprawling flower garden that covered the back of the lawn. It was massive, almost like one of the fairy gardens she'd liked to make when she was just a little girl. It made for a calming view; she stood facing it as she scrolled through the contacts on her phone for the millionth time. The small electronic device had been completely wiped; her phone was devoid of all numbers, pictures, or other identifying information.
And yet none of that mattered to Wanda. All that did matter was that name: Pietro. As she got ready for bed, she promised herself that she would find out exactly why that name was so important to her. She knew that she had met someone named Pietro before; perhaps they'd even been close. She was sure that he would remember her, if no one else did.
She was going to meet him again, even if it took weeks or even months of careful research. She didn't know of another person, living or dead, who could help her unlock her memories.
And at the moment, that was first priority. She had to figure out what was going on-and fast, before her pursuers caught up with her.
Maybe Pietro would know where she had been for the last year of her life.
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