Chapter 21:
[Wanda Maximoff POV]
[AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[Dream.] I stand within an empty space. "Hello!" I call out, peering around the surroundings. In a blink, the scenery change to a humble apartment: a tattered couch in the middle and a boxy TV atop a worn dresser. The wallpaper is stained and peeling. A white crocheted tablecloth covers the dining table, and a small bed is wedged between it and the kitchen stove. The room is drab but clearly loved. I reel back. The apartment door opens. A sharp inhalation escapes from me. Olek Maximoff enters. "Papa…" I whisper in a small voice, barely audible to my own ears. Iryna Maximoff hurries into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. I melt at the sight of her, "Mama…." A young Pietro runs into the living room along with his sister, a young version of myself. Upon seeing my brother, my heart tightens with nostalgia.
My eyes begin to water. The weight of it all is too much to bear. I drop to my knees. The scene continues, unaware of the out-of-time visitor they have. I watch as Mama, Pietro, and the younger version of myself hug papa lovingly. As an adult, I have forgotten what my family's physical presence feels like. Can hardly even remember their voices as well. Everyone hears the distant whine of something falling. A bomb tears through the apartment. My eyes go wide with terror, "NOO!" BOOM! An explosion. The blast sends young Wanda crashing to the other side of the apartment, away from her brother and parents.
The apartment lay in ruins, debris scattered everywhere. I stand in the middle of the space, completely unharmed, tears stricken my face, staring at the spot where my family stood but no longer. The atmosphere suddenly turns cold and dark. Vapor forms from my breath. "A dreadful fate fell upon your family," a disembodied voice states. I snap around, searching for the source, eyes alert. A silhouetted shadow emerges from the darkness, "Lost so much at a young age. Tsk, tsk, tsk." I take a step back, getting a sense of dread, "Who are you?" "Chthon. I am your destiny, Wanda. Your final destination. Sum quod eris," it voices. With a gesture of its hand, I'm suspended in the air, wrists magically bounded behind my back.
Moving his claw-like finger, I'm forced toward him. He places a hand on my face, "Such raw power. Limitless potential." I move away from his touch. "What do you want?" I question, struggling to break free from the restraint. The creature flashes a wicked grin, "To make you happy. To give back what was lost." My family surfaces. Each of them has their arms open. They say they miss me, want us to be together, to be a family again. Despite their heartfelt words, it feels shallow and empty. No love or sincerity behind them. The three individuals themselves are the main glaring issue. They have the appearance of my family, but everything about them is wrong and perverted. "Join me, Wanda. Surrender yourself to me and all of your greatest desire will come to fruition," Chthon proposes. I shake my head, seeing past the lies, "No."
A flash of anger crosses Chthon's face. With a flick of his wrist, he batters me back and forth like a rag doll. Now still again, I keep my head down, spitting out blood from my mouth. He grips my face tightly, claws sinking into my skin, "YOU WILL NOT DENY ME, WITCH!" A power deep within my core burst to the surface of my being, "GET OUT!"
[Living-area.] My eyes snap open, breaking out of the nightmare. Sitting up, I drag a shaking hand over my sweaty brow. The TV is on, but no picture. It must have automatically turned off when there was no activity. A hand strokes my shoulder. I jerk by surprise. Spartan rapidly pulls his hand back and holds them both up, "Whoa!" A flush of embarrassment hits my face, completely forgetting that I was sleeping with Spartan on the couch. "Sorry. You surprised me is all." "Nightmare?" he inquires. I nod. "Want to talk about it," Spartan questions thoughtfully. I press myself onto the man's chest, closing my eyes, "No. I rather lay here and forget it." Spartan tightens his arms around my body, effectuating a feeling of safety. My heart leaps from his embrace.
"How did the op go?" I ask. Spartan sighs, "Weirdest encounter I've ever faced." I look up at him, brow raised, displaying a 'really' expression. "Okay, maybe not so much. But it still goes on the crazy list." He tells me what happened. My skin crawled at the tongue part. By his far-off gaze, he's lost in thought. His mouth morphs into a thin line. "Are you okay?" I ask, concerned. "Yeah. Sorry. Just got all weirded out at the…," Spartan draws his fingers like a scissor, making a cutting motion. I shake my own head, trying to erase the image. I sit over his lap, facing him, and force a subject change by kissing him. Passion ignites me. Spartan's body comes to attention. The two of us peer into each other eyes yearningly, then kiss again, letting ourselves go.
[DeGuzman POV]
[NYC Presbyterian Hospital, New York City]
[Lobby.] The hospital's hallway was obnoxiously white. Maybe a blue crash here and there, but a blank white canvas overall. Doctors, nurses, and patients go about their business. None of them take real notice of me. My eyes linger on a fairly attractive receptionist. Average height. Short auburn hair. Thick in all the right places. I stroll the hallway toward the target's room. An overweight security guard stand posted at the door. He stops me on my approach, "Sorry, pal, you can't come in here." I sniff the air, "Huh, the boy you forced yourself on the other night left his stench on you." The security officer's eyes go wide. Via a spell, I take control of his will and mind, an enslaved person under my power. "You serve me now," I state, letting out a slight growl.
[Room.] I casually walk into a room. The priest lay strapped in the medical bed. "Wake up, Thomas," I say. The man snapped into a sitting position, fighting to break free from his restraints, glaring at me with righteous hate. I bark out into a fit of laughter, mocking his pathetic display of steadfast defiance. "Look upon the face that haunted your nightmares," I say, moving on the helpless priest. Light a cigarette and blow smoke into the man's face, flashing him a grin. His eyes widen with terror knowing full well what is going to happen next. I move toward the exit. Wipe my hands clean of blood.
[Later]
[Spartan POV]
[Car.] "You want to talk to the crazy guy? Despite the fact the dude has no tongue," Karai says to me while the two of us drive to the hospital the priest was taken to for medical care. "He may not have a tongue, but he still has hands. Only need a pen and paper," I quip. She scratches the back of her neck, then sighs, "This whole thing is giving me the heebie-jeebies." "Ditto," I state back.
[Lobby.] We flash our SHIELD badge at the receptionist manning the front desk, asking for the priest's room. The woman points down the hall, where a security officer stands, guarding the room. We make our way over. After presenting our badge for the second time, the security officer opens the door. We repeal back in alarm. Blood painted every inch of the interior. The priest was nailed to the wall, eviscerated. "By the primus," Karai chokes out. A crime scene is quickly established. Everyone on the floor was interviewed.
"You didn't see anyone go in or out?" I press the security officer. "No. Maybe he did himself," he voices lamely. That had to be the most idiotic thing I had ever heard. "How the hell would he would get the last nail in?!" I snap, not believing a word he's telling me. 'Should've brought Wanda.' Move to the forensic team. "Anything?" I ask. Karai shakes her head, "Nope. Not a thing. No one saw anything or heard anything. No traces of any physical evidence." I sigh, frustrated. My partner points a finger at the priest's exposed arm, indicating the tattoos. It's identical to the two John Doe's tattoos. A connection. Via the man's personal effects, obtain his ID. The priest's name was Thomas Bueller. Doing a quick search, located the deceased place of residence.
[Apartment complex, New York City]
Karai and I advance toward a sketchy-looking brownstone. The type of place used to stay off the grid. An unsettling chill runs across my neck. I double-check the address to make sure we're at the right place. Once confirmed, we head in. 'No turning back now.' We cross the corridor, passing several apartment doors until we reach our main destination. Breaking the lock, the two of us stroll into the apartment. [Inside.] The place is plain and simple, not overly decorated with mementos or other unnecessary material items. "What makes a priest become an assassin?" Karai questions out loud, stepping deeper into the apartment, "Clearly not for the money."
"Assuming if he was a freelance contractor. No, the guy was a true believer." "So a zealot," Karai remarks. "Yeah. The type of nutjobs who are convinced wholeheartedly they have a direct link to God," I say with an eye roll. I pick up a book laying on top of the table. Tilt my head in confusion. On the cover is an undifferentiated symbol of the tattoo. I comb through a few pages. According to the book, the symbol is a badge for the Templars. An order of guardians tasked to protect the world from demonic forces by any means necessary. Spot a photograph beneath a folder. I reposition the envelope out the way. My eyes go wide. The photograph is of Wanda.
[Wanda Maximoff POV]
[National Museum of History, New York City]
Waiting impatiently at a busy uptown intersection, I'm half-temped the throw a hex at a traffic light. One little burst would change *don't walk* to *walk* easily enough. But that isn't appropriate behavior for a card-carrying member of the AVENGERS. I'd imagine the headline on the front page of the Daily Bugle, 'Wanda Maximaxioff caught vandalizing city property. Mayor denounces menace.' Not that I was in uniform. As far as I can tell, no one seems to recognize me. Then again, I'm not heavily well-known compared to the other team members like Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, or Natasha Romanov. 'Perfectly fine with me. I prefer the privacy,' I thought to myself. For today's outing, I decided to take a trip to the museum. I pause for a moment to admire the museum's unimposing concrete facade, inspecting the banners on display on the ground floor.
[Lobby.] After obtaining a pass, I crossed toward the museum map constructing a checklist of all the exhibits to explore. Even make a special note of the Captain America exhibit. There's a noticeable lack of visitors. In fact, I virtually had the entire medium to myself. I shouldn't be too surprised most people in this generation don't venture to museums or libraries anymore. They prefer smartphones and computers to obtain knowledge. I sigh; it feels like I took an unnecessary jab at tech enthusiast. As I walk the grounds, my eyes scan through each exhibit. Everything is so informative and detailed. Display added to the flair, practically putting you in history's shoes. The WWII exhibit had more of an emotional punch. A war-torn Sokovia flashes through my mind. I shake the image away.
Swiftly the hairs on the back of my neck straighten. SHIELD training has conditioned me to never ignore odd sensations. Peeking over my shoulder, a man in a long trench coat stands about 10 feet behind me. He didn't appear to be one of the museum's employees or security staff. "Wanda Maximoff?" the mysterious man calls out my name. I stop my walk and face the stranger, guard up. He steps deeper within the exhibit's space, "I am God's chosen warrior. Here to vanquish you back to the Hell pit, Witch." Without warning, he fires a blast of energy. I conjure up a shield to protect myself from the blast. Suddenly the man blitzes in close, places a hand on my stomach, fires another shot, sending me flying across the floor. Whatever he threw at me hits like a freight train. Everything inside me just caught fire. Hot glass and acid in my veins. This was magic.
"See? See how the holy burning light of heaven dispels the darkness? Now you, Witch. I'll make you scream," the man says, stalking toward me. Shooting outward a hand, I fire a hex blast powerful enough to knock the man back. He cries out more in surprise than pain. To complicate matters, a security guard comes running around the corner, only to abruptly halt at the bizarre sight that greets him. Pistol in hand, he froze, uncertain what to do. I sympathize with his confusion. He was hired to protect the exhibits, not deal with this type of insanity. "GET OUT OF HERE!" I yell to the security guard. Taking advantage of my momentary distraction, the assassin shoots a beam of energy at my back. I crash to the floor. "You can not run or hide from me, Witch. You can not escape God's judgment," the man says. Can't see straight. Everything is a haze. My ears are ringing.
Ignoring the pain, I force myself to rise to my feet, clutching my side. The man glares at me with hateful eyes, "You're going to burn, Witch." "Why are you doing this?!" I yell to the man. His hands glow a bright golden yellow, "I have already told you, heathen. It's God's will for you to burn." He unleashes a blast at my shoulder. I shriek in misery. Quickly apply pressure to my bleeding arm. He charges me. I duck low under his first attack swing, block the following blow, grab a tight hold of his arm, then arm-throw him to the ground. The man fires blast after blast in rapid succession. I leap out of the way behind a stone pillar. The makes his way toward me. Peaking out a slight bit and fling a few rocks at the man with my magic. The man stops his approach, too busy shielding himself protectively from the oncoming rocks striking at him. Dashing from side to side, I sprint in close range, bash a hex-augmented punch to the man's face, sending him crashing through a wall.
I let out an exhausted breath after the fight was over. All of a sudden, Karai and Spartan arrive, weapon ready. They quickly scan the surrounding for threats, taking in the disarray of the exhibit. Ecstatic to see the two, I throw myself into Spartan's arms. The masked crusader embraces me tightly, "I got you. I got you." Turning my attention back to the gaping hole, the lunatic is gone. It doesn't take long for police to hit the scene. As I was being patched up by a paramedic, a police detective approached and initiated an interrogation about what transpired. I tell her everything that happened, leaving no detail out. By the woman's doubtful expression, she doesn't believe a word of it. Who would accept such an outrageous story? Thankfully the security guard validated my tale.
Once the detective dismisses herself, Spartan walks over to talk to me. He tells the man who attacked me is connected to the assassin. An assassin who is a priest, if memory serves me right. Spartan goes on to state the priest was murdered. "Who are these people?" I ask, shaken. "Templers," he says. A raindrop falls. More soon follows.
[Bunker, New York City]
[Living-area.] Not wanting to be caught in the storm, the three of us take shelter at the bunker until it clears. Spartan and Karai's hideout and home. "Make yourself at home," Spartan says to me as we step inside the installation. It's big. About four levels. It reminded me of those underground military bases seen in sci-fi movies. Karai walks off to another room, leaving Spartan and me alone. "So this is your home?" I question, breaking the silence. Spartan nods, "Yeah. Used to be a subway station. Fell off the radar in the mid-90s."
I rub my wounded shoulder. Spartan notes the blood leaking through the bandage, "Need to get that change. Don't want to get an infection." Shedding off the jacket, I take a seat on a nearby chair. Spartan sets down a mid-ket and starts working. I wince sharply as he pulls away the old bandage, dry blood sticking to it. He applies some medical ointment. It stings slightly but quickly cools. Then spartan places on a clean bandage. I flex my shoulder and arm, "Thanks." "No problem," Spartan says, putting the med-ket away. The storm is coming down harder. Even down in the bunker, I can hear the raindrops hitting the surface. "Hate the rain," I say to myself, staring off into space. "Why?" Spartan found himself asking. I stay quiet for a long moment, "Brings back unpleasant memories. After the bombing. The first three months on the streets were the hardest. Alone, hungry, and cold. The constant rain didn't make it any easter." "I don't like the rain either. It's so damn depressing," Spartan says. We both laugh, not necessarily a joke laugh. A laugh that shows we understand each other point of view.
"Speaking of being hungry. Do you have anything to eat?" I question. Spartan peers around, "We got donuts." He hands me a pink box full of pastry treats. With a smile, I take two. While eating the donut, I catch Spartan eyeing the bandaged arm, "Sorry." I peer over at the man, consideringly and a bit confused, "What are you sorry about?" "For not getting to you on time. But you fought back hard and survived. It's a win," he tells me. Beaming at his words, I link his hand with mine and kiss him.