A/N: Updated on 5/13/2022
Chapter 18:
[Wanda Maximoff POV]
[1 week later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[Living-area.] I bite down on a forkful of delicious pancakes made by Clint. The man knows how to put together a meal. It made me a little envious. The only thing I know how to cook properly is chicken paprikash. My skills have been gradually improving thanks to online cooking videos. My eyes fall on the archer, who is busy chatting with Natasha. I like the sibling dynamics the two of them have; it reminds me of happier times with my own brother. Natasha gives Clint a small box. He opens it. Inside is an advanced-looking hearing aid. Right, I recently discovered Clint is deaf in one ear, an injury sustained during a mission years ago. He hid it well. If Clint hadn't told me, I would have never known. Now, a lot of the things he did make sense to me. For example, paying close attention to a person's lip during conversations or always having them on his left. After I am done with breakfast, I give my thanks.
[Room.] Stand by the shelf, staring at my collection of DVDs and VHS tapes of movies and classic TV shows. For a moment, I froze in a memory, reminiscing of how papa would gather the family together for movie night. It provided an escape from the horrors of war outside our very windows. I was so lost in a sea of thoughts it took me a moment to realize that Natasha was standing by my open door, calling out to me. "Y-Yes," I say, voice staggering a slight bit. "Are you okay? You were all zoned out there," she tells me. Wave her off, "Only recollecting on happier times of an old life." Natasha regards the DVD collection, "Are you a movie buff?" I shift my shoulders, "A casual. My father, however, was a real movie buff. Every weekend, we would watch a movie or tv show from his massive collection." the spy shoots me a raised brow look, "Never spoke about your family or your life in general before joining the team." She's right. I hang my head, "Sorry. In my defense, I didn't know you well enough to open up." Natasha gives a half shrug, "No big deal. Most of us would've done the same thing," takes up a thinking pose, "Altered carbon. Think that would be a good pick for you and Spartan to check out. Enjoy."
I blink in surprise, "Wait, what? I-I Um- I do not know what you are talking about," I blabber out defensively. Natasha overlaps her arms, shooting me a knowing gaze. For a moment, I considered denying the allegation, but it's Natasha; she would've seen right through it. Natasha smirks triumphantly, "Going by that reaction, I hit the mark." Should have known someone as observant as Natasha would have clocked my behavior toward the crusader. Not trusting my own voice, I only bob my head, dropping myself onto the bed. "Was it really that obvious?" I say in a small voice. "Only to me. Well, and maybe Karai. Some men are oblivious to our interest in them." Natasha steps further into my room and takes a seat next to me. "Okay, I admit it; I like him more than a friend," I confess, rubbing my hands together nervously. "Then go for it if you are interested in pursuing something with Spartan. You got nothing to lose," the spy states to me bluntly. Natasha pats my shoulder, then makes her leave. I take a long while to think it over.
[Hours later]
[Living-area.] Tonight Spartan and I have AVENGERS HQ to ourselves; the rest of the team are out handling their own affairs. With little to do, we decided to make it a movie night. I picked out a film we would both enjoy. Well, the film Natasha suggested. Halfway through the movie, I start to drift to sleep. Guess the day drained me out more than I thought. I stir awake when I feel movement. After a few blinks of my eyes, my vision clears, and I quickly realize what I'm lying on, or rather who. Face entirely crimson; I jolt up straight, panicked, "Sorry!" "No, it's fine. No harm, no foul," Spartan reassures me. 'The display was cute, though.' I hear his mind say. The comment makes me even more crimson. My stomach starts to flutter. All the while, I'm wrestling with myself to gain the courage to confess my feelings to the man in front of me.
[Spartan POV]
Wanda slides herself closer to me, "This is nice. It has been a long time since I had a moment of peace." I drop my head, understanding what she means, "I'm sorry you had to go through that. We both witnessed the horrors of war." She moves a strand of hair behind her ear, "A shared life experience." I nod, "Yeah." Wanda drops herself onto my chest, "I hope you do not mind." "No, not at all," I tell her. The Sokovian woman gets herself more comfortable, "The nightmares don't haunt me as much anymore, but there are a few nights they slip through. But since joining the AVENGERS, I found a sense of peace and acceptance. Even purpose." My brow knit, "I feel there's a but coming on." Wanda giggles lightly, then quickly turns serious, "But I still do not know who I am as a person. I spent so long focusing solely on survival; I barely know how to function outside of that." Unconsciously, I wrap my arms around Wanda. She takes my embrace and follows up with her own, "Thank you, Corvo." Wanda leans up and places a kiss on my lips. It catches me by surprise but not unwelcome.
[Wanda Maximoff POV]
To my astonishment, Spartan doesn't push away. Natasha's words echo within the corner of my mind, 'Go for it if you are interested in pursuing something. You got nothing to lose.' The kiss starts soft and sweet; then, it becomes more intense. His lips against mine send shivers across my nerves, making my whole body tremble. Finally, the two of us pull apart for air. There's a long pause of silence; thankfully, it wasn't of awkwardness. "Okay, that was intense," Spartan says. "Yeah," I answer, still blushing. "What brought that on?" he asks. 'No turning back now.' With a small sigh, I straighten myself to a sitting position and rub my arm nervously, "I like you, Spartan. More than a friend. During the time we spent together, I developed strong feelings for you. And if you don't feel the same way, fine. I only hope it will not ruin our friendship." Spartan steps in and takes my hand in his. I lean into his touch. "Likewise. I'm willing to take a crack at this and see where it goes," he voices to me. My eyes light up happily, mentally throwing a parade for myself. Without another word, I throw my arms around Spartan and pull him in to kiss me again. The moment is interrupted by the EPYON tagging a 9-11 call.
[Doc's Diner, New York City]
Arriving on the scene, the police are present, lights flaring through the darkness. Yellow tapes pave the perimeter. Standing at the entrance is a single NYPD officer. Living in a war-torn country, I have never gotten used to death. Only learned to live with it. Swiftly an odd sensation shifts the air. Together, we approach. The cop peers in our direction, "Area is close off. Active crime scene." Spartan flashes his SHIELD badge to the police officer. He steps aside, allowing us through.
[Inside.] Minus the police presence, the place seems nice and welcoming. By a table, a man in a black-tie suit gives Spartan a wave. A SHIELD agent. "Hardison. What's the story?" Spartan asks him directly. "Homicide. Open and shut. Vic got stabbed to death by a psycho with a knife. Real slasher shit. Perpetrator was caught red-handed by an off-duty cop," Hardison points a thumb toward the cop who's being interviewed by another officer, "He was forced to shoot when the perp tried to lunge at him." As the two continue to talk, two gurneys are rolled out. Passing by, the body encased within a body bag reaches out a hand and grabs me. Instantly disjointed visions assault my mind's eyes.
In the mental picture, I see a shadow sitting across the table. It speaks in an unknown language. My body is frozen, paralyzed in place. Panic starts to set in. A flash. The vision switches to a first-person perspective. A knife in hand, I stalk up behind someone. A voice, not my own, screams frantically. The body is completely acting on its own accord. I can feel someone fighting for control, but it's a losing battle. Grabbing the person by the shoulder, I forcibly turn the individual around and plunge the knife into his throat. The man could only let out a barely audible gargled shout of pain and shock. I stalk over to the dying man, mount on top of him, and drive the knife down into his body again.
In a final flash, the vision cuts to an end. I find myself back in the diner, Spartan's hand on top of my shoulder asking if I'm alright, his face full of concern. I slowly nod my head, brushing off the episode while scrutinizing the lifeless body. 'What in the world was that? Did I imagine all of it?' The paramedic continues pushing out the gurney as if nothing happened. Spartan strolls to one of the witnesses. I follow right behind him. The witness is a waitress, likely in her 40s. It's obvious she's still shaken up from the whole ordeal. "Hello, Ma'am. I'm Corvo. This is my partner Maximoff," he tells the woman, "Can we ask you a few questions?" She nods, "Sure." I glance at her name tag. Sheyenne. "Been working here long?" Spartan starts. Sheyenne bobs her head, "Yeah. It'll be 11 years next month… I've dealt with a lot during my time here. Down-&-outers, Junkies, and even a few robberies. Murder is the first. Poor Johny. He was such a nice guy."
"Did you know the victim well?" Spartan presses. Sheyenne rubs her hands together, "Johny was a regular customer. Ordered the same thing every time. Left a nice tip. "What about the suspect? Seen her around before? Was there any indication that the two each other?" The woman's shoulders slump, "No. I never saw her before tonight." "Where did she sit?" I inquire. Sheyenne turns in her seat and points to the table in the far corner. I walk over to the table. Inspecting the scene, there's a plate of food. It's barely touched. An uneasy chill blows through the air. Going off ahead, Spartan treks into the back room where the murder took place with me right at his side.
[Back-room.] White chalk outlines and dark red stains mark the murder scene. "Hardison wasn't exaggerating. Real slasher show," Spartan comments, peering around. He scans everything, reconstructing the scenario with the HUD. The HUD collects, assembles, and minds data from the surrounding environment. Renders it into a 3D holographic image and projects it onto the user's HUD. This technique is called ECHO and lets agents/operators gather intelligence and 'see' critical evidence. The HUD played out whatever it stitched together. Two digital silhouettes appeared. Each is marked by color, blue and red. I tense up at the display. The whole scenario plays out exactly like it did in the vision. "Weird," Spartan voices to himself. "What is?" I quiz. "A murder by a complete stranger doesn't happen very often, especially by someone that doesn't have any criminal history or psychological issues. Yet, nothing about this seems premeditated. From the corner of my eyes, I catch movement. A big black raven sits perch on a nearby tree, watching the two of us through the window. 'Ominous.' Being that there's nothing else for us, we make our leave. While exiting, Spartan tells Hardison he wants a copy of the patrol officer's bodycam footage.
[1 day later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[Room.] Didn't get much sleep last night; the murder case kept plaguing me. Something about it felt inexact. But I couldn't explain it. Suddenly there's a knock on my door. "Come in," I call out to the person on the other side. Spartan enters, "Hey." I give him a wave and then note the tablet in his hand. "What's that?" I ask. He holds it out in front of him, "I did a check on the perpetrator of last night's case. Becky Summers, 27. The girl was clean. No prior criminal record. No mental health issue. Drug test shows she wasn't under the influence of any narcotics or alcohol. Girl was a modeled law abiding citizen. Never even got a traffic ticket." "So you are not buying this was a random act of extreme violence?" I state. "No, it was random. But coming from a person like Becky. It makes no sense," Spartan says. With a troubled expression, I tell him about the vision. Overlapped arms, he listens to everything I have to say in rapt attention. "A rogue SUPER with mind control abilities. Great," Spartan asserts.
[Spartan POV]
[Bunker, New York City]
[Living-area.] On the holo-computer, I study through the patrol officer's bodycam footage. At the 2:45:20 mark, the vic, Johny, walks into the diner and gives Sheyenne a wave. No audio, but the man ordered the usual meal by his lips movements. Four minutes in, Becky makes an appearance. So far, nothing. These people were strangers to each other. A distortion flicker on the screen. Quickly I rewind the footage a few seconds back. The distortion I saw has a silhouette of a human-shaped figure. 'What the hell?' Everything after that plays out exactly how Wanda described it.
[Wanda Maximoff POV]
[Hours later, New York City]
As the day comes to an end, Spartan invites me to come along with him for a cup of coffee. Being that it's cold out tonight, I couldn't bring myself to object to the kind offer. So, together, we stroll toward the coffee cart a block down from HQ. The man behind the window looks at Spartan, "Hey, Corvo, I'll fetch you the usual order. Who's your friend?" "Titus, this is Wanda. Wanda, this is Titus," Olivia introduces the two of us to each other, "Titus here makes the best coffee in the city. Because it's real coffee."
The man beams, "Aww, Corvo, you flatter me." He holds his hands up, palms open, "Hey, I'm just stating the facts." The man behind the window has a broad smile and an open demeanor. "Real coffee?" I question with great curiosity. He nods, "Indeed. Costa Rican coffee. Nothing like the fake stuff sold in the markets." I give the man a raised brow look. He leans in close, lowering his voice to a whisper. Long hours in the cart have perfumed his body with the commingled scents of coffee, incense, and applewood tobacco. "Trust me, if your caffeine experience is limited only to Starbucks, you cannot deny this opportunity," Titus states. I'm sold. I give the man a nod, "I like a cup." "Very good," Titus hands me a ceramic travel cup which he then fills to the brim with dark steaming liquid. The scent is intoxicating and freshly brewed. Drinking the coffee, it's absolutely amazing. Pure bliss. There's no other word to describe the feeling running through my body. This coffee indeed lives up to Titus's words. At that moment, Spartan's phone rings. It's an incoming call from Hardison, telling us he needs to see us ASAP.
[SHIELD HQ, New York City]
The elevator door's side opens, and Spartan and I are met by Hardison. He indicates for us to follow him. We tail the man to medical. The whole walk is dead silent, and I don't like it. Finally, we entered one of the exam rooms. [Med-bay.] Before Spartan can get a word out, Hardison holds out a file. "Found some interesting info on our vic. Namely, Johnny Tyrell isn't Johnny Tyrell," Hardison starts, "The real Johnny Tyrell died years ago. Our guy assumed his identity." "If this man is not Johnny Tyrell, who is he?" I ask. Hardison waves a finger, "That's the million-dollar question. We don't know. There is no record of this guy anywhere. Nothing on dental, fingerprints, or facial recognition. Like the guy never existed. A ghost. And that's not even the craziest part." We peer at Hardison, perplexed.
Hardison places a hand over a digital panel. The tinted window turns transparent. On a medical table lays the body of the victim. My eyes instantly fixed on the odd-shaped patterns on the body. Noticing it as well, Spartan questions Hardison on it. "No idea. At first, I thought they were tattoos but never seen ones that burned into the skin," the man states. "Design and style are nothing I'm familiar with," Spartan comments, studying the markings, "Hell, nothing popping up on the net either." My eyes trace over the odd symbols; something about them seems otherworldly. Old and powerful. EPYON tags a 9-11 call. Another body has been found. A homicide with striking similarities.
[New York City]
[Brooklyn.] [Alleyway.] Via Spartan's motorcycle, we pull up to the crime scene. This time the murder took place in an alleyway. We stride forward and cross the yellow tape line. A single body lay sprawled on the cement ground. Spartan kneels down and pulls off the white covered sheet. The man's body was riddled with deep lacerations. A limb or two were hanging by a piece of meat. My partner scans the surroundings with the HUD, but it glitches out. "Getting a lot of electrical interference. Can't get an ECHO going," Spartan says, frowning.
A homeless man sits at the mouth of the alleyway. I slowly stroll to him. The street was not kind to the man, but it did harden him. Man is a survivor who wrestles with the onset of age and arthritis. "What do you want?!" he snaps. The cold night put him in a sour mood. "Know anything about what took place in the alleyway?" I question him. "You a copper?" he shoots back, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "A concerned party," I state. The homeless man's defense drops slightly, "As long you're not a cop. Never trust the blues in this city. What do you want to know?" "Sounds like you live in the alley," I voice to him. "Sure do. For the last few months, that alley has been my home. But I spent my days doing odd jobs for the local street merchants," he tells me. "Did you see the murder?" I quiz. The man's shoulder tense up; eye alert, he gazes around the alley, searching. "Sir?" I call his attention. "I didn't see anything," he snaps, voice shaking uneasily with fear. It's clear the homeless man saw something, but he was unwilling to talk. I consider what actions to take next. The direct approach seems more favorable even though it's not something I don't particularly like doing; the situation calls for it. I dive into the man's mind to see the event through his eyes.
I see the vic dashing through the alley. He came to a full halt when he reached a dead end. The man turned to face whatever was pursuing him. Vigilant, the vic eyes the surrounding. The shadows within the alley expanded themselves, and a figure appeared. With no other options available, the mage takes up a combat-stance. They were clearly speaking to each other by their lip movement, but the homeless man was too far away to hear. The shadow threw up a hand. The vic started to levitate off the ground, convulsing violently. He screamed out in torturous pain and terror as if he was being ripped to shred by an unseen force.
A touch on my shoulder snaps me out. I flinch back but quickly calm down, seeing it's Spartan. The homeless man was already making his leave, groaning that he wanted to be left alone while gathering his things. "You, okay?" Spartan asks. Peering over at the masked crusader, I tell him what I did and what the homeless man witnessed.