Author's Note: Look who's on time!? It's me! :) Thanks so much for your interest and reviews! I've loved to hear from you! :)
Warnings: Some violence, disassociation, panic attacks.
Chapter Six:
Wanda jerks awake when light pours across her face. She flinches, her body automatically curling further against the wall like if she remains swathed in shadows for long enough, she'll be kept safe. She knows that this isn't the case realistically, but she can't help the primal instinct of hide that surges through her.
Is it her interrogator? Is he back?
She hasn't seen him in a...while. She can't tell time here anymore. She only goes by when she gets food, but she knows that it hasn't been regular since her interrogator left her. He threatened her twin, and then left with an empty promise. Had he done something to Pietro? Is that why they've waited so long? Did they kill him? Or are they tearing into his mind and rattling everything around until they find what they want? (But part of her insists that if Pietro was here, she would know, and he's not. Not yet. Not ever.)
There are multiple voices talking now, sniping at each other, and Wanda presses her back into the wall, but doesn't get up. She's...afraid. This hasn't happened before. She hasn't seen many of these figures since Vision was murdered.
They enter the cell, pooling inside like water. The woman she stowed away with. Their leader, Thanos, the blue woman, others. Her interrogator. She never learned his name, and suspects that it was on purpose. They weren't—and aren't—bosom friends in the making. She sets a scowl on her face to hide her fear and watches them all warily.
What are they doing here?
Why are all of them here?
Her interrogator faces her, his thin face blank. Green eyes are watching her with an exhaustion that speaks more of dread than anything else. Wanda takes a moment to study him, noting for the first time how haggard he looks. Before, she'd noted that he was thin, but not that he looked ready to topple at the first gust of wind that hits him hard enough.
No.
Stop it.
She can't pity the man she's vowed to kill. She's an Avenger, she's going to avenge Vision's death, and that will involve her interrogator's death, the blue-haired woman, and Thanos. All of them will be dead by her hand because of what they did. She swears on her life. And if she takes out the rest of this fleet in the process, she won't mourn their loss.
She remains quiet, waiting for someone to explain what's going on.
No one does.
All waiting, hungry with their anticipation.
"Wanda," the name sounds strange coming from the interrogator's lips, as if he's never spoken it out loud before. Thinking back, Wanda can't remember a time that he has. She wasn't even aware that he knew it. He breathes out shakily, as if trying to steady himself.
Wanda sits up slowly, suddenly wary. All the eyes in the room follow her. Her hair spills over her shoulders like a comforting embrace, but she ignores it.
The young man swallows thickly, and Wanda realizes suddenly that he can't be much older than she is. But Thor looks in his mid-twenties and is over fifteen hundred, so how can she properly judge aliens. This doesn't matter, Maximoff. Stop distracting yourself and focus.
"When you first stepped into Thanos's care, you were thought to be something of legend. A living Infinity Stone, but that was proven false, and you have little purpose to serve us now. You may think that you have suffered, but in truth, you have been rewarded. For there is no better mercy, no better fate, than to die a child of Thanos." The man continues, his voice toneless.
To die a child—
Wanda feels herself blanch. This isn't some sort of strange ritual.
They're going to kill her. This is an execution.
Wanda jerks, attempting to scramble up to her feet and bolt for the door, but Ebony waves his hand slightly, almost stultified, and she's frozen in place, her entire body locking in a way that is unnatural. Her muscles are stiff and yanked, producing an agony that she can't breathe through.
They're going to kill her.
She can only watch, helpless, as her interrogator grasps a sword hilt and pulls the weapon from its sheath. There's a hum in the air as if the vibrations of sound have been poked at sharply and a pale purple light slowly lights the cracks in the cell. She glances up to see that one of the stones on Thanos's glove is glowing softly. Her interrogator's weapon gleams in the lighting, and he takes even steps towards her, gripping it in both hands.
Hands, she notices almost frantically, that are shaking.
When he's close enough, Ebony seems to release whatever hold he had on her because she tumbles to her knees, muscles spasming. "Rejoice, Wanda," the tone still flat, as if the words were rehearsed so much they've lost all meaning, "and embrace the warmth of those who came before you."
A sharp breath escapes her nose, but she refuses to face this with her neck open for the kill and looks up through her messy hair to see the man over her, sword poised for a final swing. The edge is sharp enough to draw blood by merely skimming fingers across it.
Their eyes meet.
His green is raw and red, something desperate bleeding into his features. He looks like he's the one about to have a sword cleave his head from their shoulders, not her. There's nothing left to destroy, she remembers him saying to her, and the words make a little more sense now. There's nothing left to destroy because there's nothing there. He looks empty.
And for the briefest moment, Wanda wonders what has been done to him to make him like this. What seeped every drop of life from his body and left a functioning corpse, rather than a living man. But the moment passes when he re-adjusts his grip and she remembers who this is.
It isn't some lost soldier on the wrong side of a battlefield. This man is responsible for Vision's death. If it wasn't for his binding on her magic, her beloved would be with her. They would have never left that barn so long ago and been safe. Instead, here they are, Vision dead and she about to join him.
She drops her head, closing her eyes and waits for the final sting to take her. She mouths a silent prayer, accepting the end. There is nothing she can do to fight this. Nothing meaningful.
At least this way she'll be with her parents again. With Vision. She only wishes she wasn't leaving her brother and team behind. But there's very little she can do, the chances of her returning at all were slim to none anyway.
The weapon shings through the air, and she waits with baited breath.
And waits.
And waits.
The sword doesn't touch her neck. The pain of a beheading doesn't crawl across her skin and rage through her brain. She is left alone, barely breathing as she waits for her execution. An execution that isn't coming.
The sword clatters to the floor in front of her and Wanda startles, looking up sharply to see that her interrogator is shaking and gasping, but doesn't make a move to pick up the weapon. He doesn't seem to have lost it on accident. Almost like he threw it.
But why would...?
Behind him, the rest of the party share confused looks, obvioulsy not expecting this. Thanos takes a weighted step forward. The sound of his boot lapping against the ground causes her interrogator's face to lose all remaining color. The terror that shines in his deep emerald causes something in her to stir.
"My child," Thanos says, voice even. "What are you doing?"
"I can't." Her interrogator whispers. Wanda watches him, confused. She doesn't understand. Why did he spare her? He had no qualms about everything else before, but he draws the line at execution?
"I gave you an explicit order. This is an honor to be performing such an act and yet you throw it away as if I have given you a burden." Thanos's voice is a warning.
"I won't." Her interrogator squeezes his eyes shut.
"Brother," a woman hisses, "don't be an idiot."
"I won't." The man repeats, taking a step back from her and the sword as if it has wounded him personally.
"I see." Thanos glances once at the creature beside him, a hooded thing with two thumbs and pale, marble skin. It—he—releases a snarl and takes several steps forward, wrapping a hand around her interrogator's arm. The dark-haired man flinches, his expression flaring with open pain.
"It would appear that you and I have some discussing to do then." The creature hisses. His voice is old and grainy, as if his tongue is forked.
"No," her interrogator whispers, his eyes popping open. They jerk away from Wanda still next to the fallen sword and rest on the creature beside him. He struggles slightly, attempting to wrench his arm from the grasp of the creature, but has little success. "No!"
"Then pick up your sword and kill the witch." The creature growls between clenched teeth.
Her interrogator breathes in and out, hard and fast.
But he does not pick up the sword.
He doesn't even move to, as if considering her death again is the farthest thing from his mind. Wanda eyes him, flabbergasted. He would choose to let her live at the cost of himself? She, who has done nothing to even warrant this rescue? She promised to kill him, and he…
The creature huffs, grip tightening and yanks sharply on her interrogator, obviously moving for the door. The man stumbles in his grip, his face pale and eyes hunted. He's afraid. What will they do to him, now that he has spared her?
Will they kill him, too?
"No! Please, please—Father, please, don't—" her interrogator turns to Thanos desperately, twisting his arm up in a way that must dislocate his shoulder, but he doesn't seem to care.
"Father," the blue woman hisses in disapproval.
"Silence, daughter. Proxima," Thanos's voice is level, but still threatening. The blue-haired woman glances up to the large man, "Deal with the witch. Your brother and I need to have a discussion about insubordination."
"No," the man is openly sobbing now, falling to his knees as if he can't bare his own weight anymore and Wanda watches it. She can't seem to stop. The terror on his features makes her want to help him. It disgusts her, this compassion, but she can't shove it down into the pit of her stomach and never think about it again.
She is going to kill him.
She can't help him.
He killed Vision. He tore through her mind. He is not her ally. She hates him.
"Of course, Father." Proxima says, fisting a hand over her heart and giving a slight bow. She moves across the cell and grasps the fallen weapon, holding it out for a moment as if feeling the balance.
Then, she looks up at Wanda and snears angrily.
As if this entire thing is her fault.
She raises it up and Wanda sees the sword arc through the air, wondering why she's just sitting here. She could move, attempt to scramble—something, but she remains idle.
(Shock, a part of her diagnosis. You're in shock.)
"Wait." Thanos says, and Wanda sees Proxima's muscles coil, stopping the sword just as it touches at Wanda's neck. The metal is cold, and Wanda flinches sharply, scraping her skin against the sharp edge. She feels blood draw and begin to pool down her neck. "On second thought," Thanos continues, voice deep and contemplative. Wanda can't look up to read his expression, but she can almost hear the gleam in it. "Let her live."
"Father," Proxima sounds annoyed.
Wanda decides at that moment that, when she gets the chance to avenge Vision, this woman is going first.
"Hush, child." Thanos chides. He takes a few more steps and Wanda sees him draw closer to where the creature and her interrogator are standing. Metal creaks, and her interrogator's tears stifle themselves sharply. "You have served me well, my son. You are loyal, if hardheaded. A simple lesson should be enough. Your compassion has gotten you into this mess, and when it dies, you will be free."
"I don't...understand." The voice is soft.
Blood drips onto the floor beneath her, and Wanda tries not to panic. Did an artery get clipped? Is she going to die anyway?
"You will." Thanos promises. After a moment, he adds, "Bind him."
"Wait—" her interrogator starts in panic, but there's a loud scuffle. The sound of flesh hitting flesh and her interrogator releasing a sharp gasp of pain, but it's over quickly. Wanda wants to look up, to see what is happening, but the weapon remains at her neck, a promise of what will happen if she attempts to interfere or do something they don't want.
The man is thrown to the floor sharply, and if Wanda strains she can see him. He's been stripped of the armor he was bound in, left to bare feet, and there's manacles of some sort wrapped around his wrists.
Thanos's shadow falls over her and Wanda tries not to jerk back, but she doesn't quite stop her sharp exhale.
The weapon is removed from her neck and thrown at the man's feet. "When she is dead, you will be free." Thanos says. "Compassion," he snears the word with disgust, "has no place in the Black Order. You will learn this, or you will die here."
Oddly, her interrogator makes no verbal reply. He isn't facing her, but shudders sharply.
Wanda glances up, her neck spilling more blood, and notes with some surprise that the generals that were with Thanos in that room made no move to help him incapacitate her interrogator. It was the guards with four arms that click and hiss that did so. Instead, they watched in stoney silence, but the disapproval is obvious on the blue woman's face.
Thanos's words catch up with her, and Wanda struggles to comprehend them for a moment.
Thanos is…
Thanos is leaving the man here until he kills her? That his his grand plan? To wait it out and hope that enough time of sitting together in silence will convince her interrogator to kill her? What's stopping her from picking up the weapon and killing him herself?
Nothing.
(And everything.)
"Children," Thanos addresses the rest of the group. "Come. It would appear that we will not have an execution today, but soon." The creatures begin to make for the exit, but the generals linger, gazes locked onto the crumpled, shuddering figure. Wanda can't hear him gasping, but his breath seems to be blowing against something.
"Children."
The group shifts slightly, moving towards the exit after their father.
They exit the cell and leave them alone in the dark. The dark that doesn't stop eating. That is always hungry to chew on her and spit back up remains of the person she used to be before it started to feast.
The pipe drips in the corner.
Wanda allows herself to tremble, lifting a hand up to her wet neck. The cut appears to be only shallow, but she can still smell the blood clearly. She wants to cry, but can't. Not here. Not with her interrogator in the room with her.
A prisoner, because he refused to kill her.
And look where that mercy got them both. Nowhere. Now it's only a waiting game. Wanda would have preferred the sudden surprise of her inevitable death and then the nothingness that would follow. Dragging it out is only making her sick with anticipation. Now she knows it's going to happen, because the interrogator is loyal to Thanos.
He won't choose her twice.
The dark claws.
The pipe drips.
Wanda breathes.
She has to get out of here. She can't wait for them to finish the deed. They left a weapon in the cell with them, and she may not have even held a sword that wasn't Thor's before, but it can't be that hard to stab someone. She crawls across the floor, trying to remember where they dropped it. She passes the drain, and the wet river of the pipe touches at her hands.
Drip, drip, drip.
Wanda's fingers brush against the sword's blade and she follows it down until she's touching the hilt. She grasps it with both hands and hobbles up to her feet, squinting into the dark, but it doesn't help. The dark is too thick. Too heavy. Too hungry. It refuses to let her see her target.
The sword isn't as heavy as she thought it would be.
She listens, moving closer to the ragged, muffled breathing. When her boot touches at the edge of a body part—elbow—she raises the weapon. This is for Vision. For herself. She wouldn't do it if he hadn't forced her hand.
She raises the weapon awkwardly—
There's nothing left to destroy.
—and stops. Her hands tremble and she stares down at the figure she can barely make out. He saved her life, and she is going to repay him by ending his? But it's not just honor that stops her. It's a quiet, nagging voice in the back of her head that whispers something is not right with him and she can't get the sword to move. It feels like her magic would when it touches a mind and glimpses the inside. Like so long ago, when she felt Vision's mind for the first time.
In a way, perhaps she is studying him. He is holding her magic captive—but it's still inside her—and because of that, their two powers are colliding and she is reading him.
Something is not right with him.
But he does not fill her with fear. He doesn't strike against her and scream and lash out. Not like Ultron inside of her beloved did. There is very little there, as if he is...not entirely whole. As if there is something wrong. Something powerful has touched at his mind and burned away the edges, leaving only a small circle of sanity intact.
Something—
Wanda drops the sword.
She moves away from her interrogator as quickly as she can, nearly stumbling over him in her haste. She slumps against the far wall and draws her knees up to her chest, rings digging against her knees. She cradles her broken hand, and rests her forehead on her knees, trying to breathe.
Her interrogator breathes heavily into the dark, and the pipe continues to leak.
Drip, drip, drip.
000o000
They don't talk, interact, or even acknowledge each other for about three days. The only reason that this breaks is when the guards come to give them rations—some bread and water—and the door is yanked open harshly. Both of them flinch, and Wanda looking up towards the creature standing in the doorway and the dim light behind him.
It's enough to see her interrogator with. His head has tilted up towards the door and she feels color drain from her face. Instead, he turns revealing his angled profile. His hair is dripping water, but his green eyes are narrowed with frustration. The most prominent thing, however, isn't the fact that he's wet, but rather the muzzle strapped to the lower half of his face. Wanda is immediately drawn aback.
A muzzle.
They muzzled him.
Like a dog?
She doesn't understand. What did he do to earn that?
The dark-haired man wipes water from his face (where he can), heated eyes flickering towards her for a brief second before he looks up. The creature throws the water and food to the floor of the cell and the door is shut and locked again. The darkness hums hungrily, and Wanda tries to shake off her need for light.
She has lived in the dark before. There is nothing dangerous about it. The only thing here is her interrogator.
Wanda's stomach twists hopefully, reminding her that she's ravenous. She can't bring up the willpower to move, however. She'd have to crawl, slowly, to find the food or water without crushing it, and she doesn't want to lower herself to such standards with another person in the room. Her pride will be her downfall, but she doesn't care.
She doesn't hear her interrogator make any move for the supplies, either, and realizes that it would be pointless if he did. He can't exactly consume either with a muzzle. They did that to him. Because he wouldn't kill her. She squeezes her eyes shut, burying her face into her knees. She's not hungry...she's not as hungry as she thinks. No. She can last a little longer. She doesn't need to move, no, she can remain here and fall asleep forgetting about the pangs for a little longer and—
She is not hungry.
She curls around her stomach and tries to ignore the borborygmi, but doesn't find much success.
A few hours later, she gives in and grabs the water because she can find it, but she doesn't know where the food ended up and she doesn't want to search. She downs the water bottle, then returns back to sleep. Her interrogator doesn't talk or interact with her and they remain in this cycle for a little over three days. Wanda hasn't eaten in two, now, and her vision is beginning to fuzz at the edges.
It hurts.
Pain and pain and pain.
But the pain is better than the worry, the dark, and now she's too tired—too hungry—to think about anything but how numb her toes are. The meals are sprattic, and Wanda feels herself caving even if she's sick at it.
She feels like a feral animal, locked in the dark until it consumes her entirely.
She wants to scream. To shout. For something other than the dripping of that stupid pipe and the ragged noises of their breathing to feel the empty air. The darkness eats, but the silence hurts. It bleeds into her ears and laughs, causing her to wonder if she's ever been without it.
She has to have been.
She can remember Vision's warm hands on her face. How his lips felt when he kissed her. She remembers her brother holding her. She remembers. She can't forget.
The silence still stretches on.
The darkness keeps eating.
It won't stop.
She doesn't bother trying to interact with her soon-to-be-killer. There isn't a point. They aren't going to be friends. She's...she doesn't know what she's going to do to him, but they haven't spoken a word to one another.
Wanda is fine with this.
She passes the time by sleeping and thinking, but her thoughts grow heavy and loud. They don't come with water for long enough that she feels sick and nauseous. She hears her interrogator get up to his feet and pace restlessly, back and forth across the small cell like he can burn a hole through the floor if he tries hard enough.
Drip, drip, drip.
The darkness keeps gnawing at their bones.
She doesn't know how long they've been here together—days. Weeks—when she hears the sound of a sword scraping against the ground. She freezes, her body tensing in preparation for the other man to come rushing at her and lop her head off then cheer merily because he's been returned to his previous duties, but it doesn't happen.
She stops and listens, her heart banging against her chest in an obnoxious, panicked rhythm.
There is no further movement.
The sword drops against the ground, clattering loudly, and the dark-haired man begins his pacing again. It's faster, as if he's disgusted with himself. But it isn't the last time that he picks it up. There's two others that she's awake for, and she wonders how many times he contemplates killing her while she's asleep.
She rubs a hand against her chest, an ache setting into her lungs. A slight cough has begun to form, and Wanda wonders if she's getting ill. That would be the highlight of all of this, wouldn't it? He won't even have to feel guilt—or whatever it is that stops him from killing her—about her dying because the bacteria will finish that job long before he ever gets around to chopping her neck in two.
She rubs against her chest.
Breathless.
And coughs.
000o000
Things don't get better from there. She can't breathe deeply without hacking, she's congested, a fever wracks her body with chills. Her vision begins to grow hazy and she can't stay away for long periods of time. She rubs at her chest, at her ribs, trying to make the ache go away, but it never does.
She stares blankly into the dark, hearing the man pace.
His company is...strange. After the weeks—days?—alone, it's almost a relief to have someone present. But it's always short lived, because then she remembers why he's here, and she sobers. The only reason she is alive is so he'll kill her. She hates him for it. Just like she hates him for Vision.
Wanda coughs miserably.
When the guard gives them the rations for the first time in what must be days, Wanda only rolls over and does her best to ignore it. She's too exhausted to move, even if she is thirsty. Or hungry.
The pacing stops.
Wanda doesn't care. Let him take up the stupid sword. At least this will be over for both of them, then. She squeezes her eyes shut and attempts to fall asleep, curled around her aching stomach and tight lungs.
She makes it about five minutes before flinching back from a sudden touch on her shoulder and gasps with pain, coughing sharply several times. She twists around, attempting to elbow her assailant, but stops when her elbow meets empty air.
She bites sharply at her lip and remains still.
The darkness sits between them.
"What?" She questions, her voice is a low croak. She hasn't spoken in days—weeks—and its hoarse. It's then that she remembers that he is still wearing the muzzle and cannot speak back to her. Wanda mentally kicks herself for her thoughtlessness. The man seems undeterred, however, and merely reaches for her palm despite her open protest and something is pushed inside. Bread. Food. Rations. He's...
Wanda's stomach twists sharply, reminding her how hollow it is.
She coughs weakly. The man, strangely, offers it towards her more firmly. She shakes her head no, and attempts to rest her hand on her elbow again, intent on sleeping some more, but the man jabs her upper arm. Wanda hisses sharply at the sensation and looks back at him with a scowl.
He shoves the bread at her more urgently.
"I'm not going to eat it," she promises, accent thick and voice dry, "save your strength."
The man slumps with defeat, sighing through his nose, resigned.
Wanda coughs.
And the pipe drips in the distance.
The dark swallows her whole.
000o000
It's later when he attempts to force water on her, but Wanda takes the strangely shaped bottle from him without too much argument. She drinks it in one go, her stomach empty and sharp as it makes contact with the liquid. Annoyed, her digestive system begins to process it, but not without sending sharp pangs through her body as often as possible.
Wanda ends up expelling it later, but the strangeness of this situation hits her.
This man should leave her to succumb to dehydration and malnutrition. He shouldn't help her. And he is.
The darkness teeters on the edge of her vision and Wanda coughs sharply, tired and cold. She wants to sleep, but lying prostrate doesn't help her body's incessant hacking.
Drip...drip…
"Are you going to kill me?" Wanda whispers into the Stygian. The pacing stops. "Just do it. Stop waiting."
Her fellow captive doesn't say anything. He can't. He's been voiceless since this started. He resumes pacing, and she listens to the patter of his feet until she falls asleep.
The darkness nibbles on her.
She wakes up, surprised to be alive, and blinks with confusion when she sees that there's a faint light source coming from inside the cell.
It's green and misty, almost like a glowing fog. She tilts her head to the left and sees that the man is seated cross legged next to the small river from the pipe. His hand is glowing in the darkness, veins alight with the power of his magic. His other is tracing something onto the floor.
Wanda sees that the sword is laying near the door, as if someone attempted to use it to scale the wall. Given the fact that she's not in a climbing state, she can only guess he got desperate enough to try.
The lack of the dark makes her eyes sting, but her body surge with a sudden, desperate want.
She can see her fellow captive in the darkness. His eyes are shadowed, his face gaunt. His skin is pale and waxy, dark hair clinging to the sides of his face. He looks hollow. She feels hollow.
Light.
No more darkness.
Wanda coughs softly, but rolls to her hands and knees, crawling bit by slow bit towards the light source like it is her one salvation in this life. She moves, dragging her dead feet and exhausted limbs to the light, her body needing to touch it. To hold it. To see it. To be where the dark is not.
She stops beside the man, breathless and coughing, but her trembling fingers reach for his glowing palm.
It's not dark.
She can't stand the dark.
The man stills when her fingers make contact with his palm. His skin is cold, almost biting, but she doesn't care. She traces the light, a soft sob escaping her. She cradles his fingers between her own, seeing the deformity of her left hand that has long since begun to heal. The swelling has gone down, but her fingers don't move right.
She can feel his eyes on her, but she doesn't care. She wants to keep this light forever.
Please don't make it go away again.
The pipe drips.
Her fellow captive sighs softly, almost sympathetically, and slowly curls his fingers around her hand. The light is not bright enough to cast away all the shadows, but it's a start.
She and the prisoner stay like that for long enough that she begins to nod off, but refusing to leave the light behind, slumps against his arm. He's tense and coiled beneath her touch at first, but slowly calms. Not relaxed, but he's less sharp.
The light lingers between them.
Wanda breathes easier because of it, even if she does cough and her ribs hurt.
She watches through tired, fever-hazy eyes as the man slowly dips a finger into the water of the pipe and shifts some without disturbing her so he can scribble text across the ground in a text that's hasty and sloppy.
It takes her exhausted brain a moment to interpret what he wrote.
No.
Her brow furrows. She blinks tiredly. "I don't understand," she whispers in the dark. The silence eats her words greedily.
More dripping. He writes above it.
Kill. Order.
He's not going to kill her. Wanda stares at him, her stomach releasing in relief, even though she knows that it should not. Her body is slumping further against him, too exhausted to keep itself upright. The sword is behind them, a haunting presence.
Wanda forces herself to nod. She coughs. "And I you." She promises softly.
He chased the dark away.
The man traces his wet fingers across the ground, scraping lines like claw marks. Wanda watches him for a few long moments before questioning in a softer tone, "What is your name?"
She rubs her fingers against his hand.
The light.
It chases the darkness away.
The man hesitates before dipping his finger into the water and begins to trace out. It takes a moment before she can read what he wrote, scribbled with the dirty pipe-water onto the floor.
They told me I am Nova.
Author's Note:
Next chapter, February 21st, 28th, or sometime inbetween that.