Chapter 20:
[Wanda Maximoff POV]
[1 week later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[Wanda's Room.] Still reeling from the event from the previous week, I found myself in a constant state of unease, a lingering apprehension that seemed to seep into every facet of my existence. Glancing down at my hand, I noticed a small spark of scarlet aura dancing about, its ethereal glow a stark reminder of the turmoil that had befallen me. Not for the first time, I found myself pausing to ponder the implications of my altered state. Ever since I was taken and forcefully augmented by that crazed madman, I couldn't shake the nagging question: am I still even human anymore? The lines between my former self and this new, augmented version blurred with each passing day, leaving me grappling with an identity crisis of epic proportions. And if that wasn't enough, the recent revelation that I apparently possessed witch-like abilities only served to compound my confusion. As Spartan's recording played back in my mind, the chilling realization dawned on me: what had caused me to enter that frenzied state? Was it something buried deep within me, waiting to be unleashed, or was it merely a byproduct of the alterations inflicted upon me? The unsettling question lingered, haunting me with its uncertainty. Could such a state even be controlled, or was I doomed to be a slave to the whims of whatever forces now resided within me?
A knock on my door breaks me out of my dwelling, the sound echoing through the stillness of the room like a sharp crack in the facade of my solitude. "It's open," I call out, my voice a tad hoarse from disuse, the words carrying a weight of resignation and weariness that I can't quite shake. Spartan steps in, his presence a welcomed interruption to the silent chaos that had settled around me. "Hey, just wanted to check up on you," he says, his voice carrying a warmth that manages to seep through the cracks in my defenses, thawing the icy tendrils of isolation that had threatened to engulf me. I shoot the man a small smile, a feeble attempt at humor amidst the turmoil that had become my new reality. "Hell of a first date," I quip the words dripping with a bitter-sweetness that hangs heavy in the air between us. He laughs a soft sound that brings with it a glimmer of light in the darkness that threatens to consume us both. Despite everything, I can't help but feel a surge of gratitude that he's still willing to pursue this new relationship we find ourselves navigating, his unwavering presence a lifeline in the storm of uncertainty that rages within me. Hell, the man didn't seem bothered or fazed by the newfound craziness that had infiltrated my life with a relentless fervor. There's a motto among SHIELD operators, one that echoes in the recesses of my mind like a mantra: expect the unexpected. And yet, even amidst the chaos and uncertainty, I find solace in the simple act of leaning in to kiss Spartan, wanting nothing more than to feel the warmth of his lips against mine, if only for a fleeting moment, to ground myself amidst the swirling maelstrom of emotions that threaten to consume me whole. Spartan gets to his feet, his movements fluid and graceful as he reaches out a hand toward me, an unspoken invitation to escape the confines of my own mind, if only for a little while. "Want to get out of here to get some air. You seem like you need a break from all this," he suggests, his words a gentle reminder that I'm not alone in this tumultuous journey. I nod, the weight of his offer settling around me like a comforting embrace. "Yeah," I murmur softly, the syllables carrying a weight of gratitude and relief that I can't quite put into words. "I would very much like that." And with that, we step out into the unknown together, two souls navigating the turbulent waters of life's uncertainties hand in hand, finding solace in the simple act of being together.
[Blume, New York City]
By the time we get to Blume, a quaint hole-in-the-wall Cafe/bookstore tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, a girl is already on stage, her silhouette swaying back and forth in front of the microphone, eyes shut in deep concentration as she pours her soul into her song. It's clear there's an event happening today, the air tingling with an undercurrent of creativity and expression. I grab Spartan's sleeve and eagerly tug him along, weaving through the eclectic mix of patrons to find a spot where we can settle in and enjoy the show. The coffee shop is unusually crowded for a lazy Sunday afternoon, the worn couches and armchairs all occupied by patrons seeking refuge from the hustle and bustle of the outside world. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the faint scent of clove cigarettes, creating an intoxicating atmosphere that envelopes us as we navigate the cozy confines of the cafe. Finally, after a bit of searching, I spot an unoccupied loveseat tucked away in a darkened corner toward the back, offering a semblance of privacy amidst the lively chaos unfolding around us. The only other occupant nearby is a blond girl in an orange tank top, her attention absorbed by the glowing screen of her phone.
As Spartan heads off toward the service table to place our order, I allow myself to sink into the plush cushions of the loveseat, stealing a moment to gaze out the window and lose myself in the rhythm of the city. It's a stark contrast to the desolate landscapes of Sokovia, where I grew up amidst the ruins of war-torn buildings and the constant backdrop of gunfire. The bustling streets of New York City pulse with life and vitality, a vibrant tapestry of cultures and experiences that never fails to leave me awestruck. Despite its imperfections, America has become my home, a sanctuary far removed from the scars of my past.
Lost in my thoughts, I'm startled when the blond girl suddenly leans over and taps me on the shoulder, her voice cutting through the haze of contemplation. "Excuse me," she says, her gaze flickering towards Spartan as he makes his way back to our table with our drinks in hand. For a moment, I'm taken aback, unsure of how to respond to her unexpected question. "Is that your boyfriend?" she asks, her curiosity palpable. I follow her line of sight, ready to deny any connection between us, but then I realize she's referring to Spartan. With a hint of amusement, I nod in affirmation, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. The girl sighs in resignation before retreating back into her own world, leaving us to our quiet moment of intimacy. Spartan settles down next to me, grumbling about the lack of mugs and the scalding heat of the paper cups; I can't help but feel a swell of affection for him. He updates me on the latest SHIELD operation, his words tinged with a mixture of frustration and determination. Part of me yearns to delve into the complexities of our work, to share the burden of my recent struggles and the enigmatic Witch-Out episode that Natasha so eloquently labeled. But in this fleeting moment of peace and tranquility, I choose to savor the simple joy of being with him.
[AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[Steve Rogers's office.] Once Spartan and I return to HQ, Captain Rogers calls us into his office, his expression grave as he gestures for us to take a seat across from him. Entering the office space, my eyes immediately shift toward the unknown man standing next to Captain Rogers, his presence commanding attention despite the casual air he exudes. Spartan's shoulders stiffen slightly, a flicker of recognition dancing in his eyes as he utters the name, "Fury?" My curiosity piqued, I turn my attention to the enigmatic figure, feeling a sense of unease mingling with a strange sense of anticipation. Though I had never personally met the man, save for the chaotic encounter with HYDRA, his reputation precedes him, casting a shadow of uncertainty over the room. "It's been a while, Spartan," Fury voices, his tone carrying a hint of familiarity that belies the gravity of the situation. "What are you doing here, Sir?" Spartan questions, his posture straightening instinctively in the presence of the formidable former director of SHIELD. Fury's gaze shifts from Spartan to me, a calculating glint in his eye as he addresses me directly, "I'm here because of Ms. Maximoff." My heart skips a beat at the mention of my name, a knot of apprehension forming in the pit of my stomach. "M-me? Am I in trouble?" I stammer nervously, the weight of Fury's scrutiny bearing down on me like a leaden weight.
Fury shakes his head, his expression inscrutable as he reassures me, "No, but we have a lot to talk about. Specifically, to fill in the blanks about the existence of magic." The word hangs in the air like a whisper, sending a shiver down my spine. I had always been skeptical of such notions, dismissing them as mere fantasy in the face of logic and reason. Yet, after the recent events that had shaken my world to its core, I find myself hesitating to voice my disbelief. Instead, I clench my hand around the teacup nervously, my mind racing with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. "A week ago, there was a shockwave of wild mythical energy," Fury continues; the memory of the chaotic incident floods back with startling clarity. I nod in understanding. Everything within my carefully constructed worldview is starting to unravel before my very eyes, leaving me teetering on the edge of an existential crisis. A headache begins to build behind my eyes, a relentless drumbeat of uncertainty echoing in the recesses of my mind.
"Why does it seem that you know more than you're letting on?" I press, my voice trembling slightly as I confront Fury with a mixture of defiance and desperation. The man smirks. "Because I do know a lot more," he admits cryptically, his gaze piercing through the layers of my facade with unsettling precision. Fury goes on to reveal SHIELD's clandestine dealings with supernatural forces, his words painting a picture of a world far more complex and enigmatic than I could have ever imagined. And then, he drops the bombshell: he wants me to join the mage division for more proper training. Left unchecked, Fury warns, I could pose a danger not only to myself but to others as well. It's a sobering realization, one that leaves me grappling with the weight of responsibility that comes with my newfound abilities. Peering into the depths of the man's mind, I find no trace of deceit or ulterior motive, only a sense of grim determination and a genuine concern for my well-being. After a moment of tense deliberation, I find myself nodding in reluctant agreement.
[Tony Stark POV]
[Stark's Room.] I study Wanda's mission report again, the words blurring together as my mind struggles to process the implications of what I'm reading. It's surreal, to say the least. Despite the overwhelming evidence staring back at me from the pages, I find myself having a hard time believing it. The skeptic side of me still clings to the notion that there must be a rational explanation, perhaps an advanced form of science at play here. After all, it's far more reasonable than outright calling it magic, a concept that seems better suited to fairy tales than the real world. I slide a hand over my hair in frustration and steal a glance at my phone, only to be greeted by a barrage of missed calls from Pepper Potts, each one undoubtedly a harbinger of impending doom in the form of shareholder complaints and corporate crises. Unfortunately, I find myself too exhausted to deal with any of it at the moment, the weight of responsibility bearing down on me like a leaden weight.
As if on cue, another text message appears this time from Terri Topasandra, a name synonymous with glamour and intrigue in the world of high fashion. Most men would have jumped at the chance to bask in the presence of the sexy, platinum-haired supermodel, but for me, it's merely another reminder of the tangled web of obligations that encircles my life. Her producer had arranged an interview with me, serving as a corporate spokesperson for the upcoming Olympics, a prospect that held little appeal for me in my current state of mind. The plan was for the two of us to meet for drinks to discuss the finer details of our collaboration, but one thing led to another, and the night took an unexpected turn. The message reads, 'Last night was fun.' Indeed, it was, but I know better than to mistake a fleeting moment of pleasure for something more meaningful. It was a one-night stand, nothing more, nothing less.
I tap the control panel, rousing the AI from its slumber. "Jarvis, can you do me a favor?" I ask, my voice tinged with a weariness that I can't seem to shake. "Send a bouquet of flowers to Ms. Topasandra. A big one. And pour me a glass of whiskey while you're at it," I add, the need for a stiff drink becoming increasingly apparent with each passing moment. The AI chimes in acknowledgment, its disembodied voice carrying a hint of annoyance tinged with genuine concern. Despite being a mere program, Jarvis has a way of expressing himself that borders on human, a testament to the genius of his creator. My attention is drawn to the holo-computer, where a digital matrix displays the name that has haunted my thoughts for weeks: Ultron. The mere mention of the contingency plan sends a shiver down my spine, a stark reminder of the dangers that lurk on the fringes of our world. "Just come out with it, Jarvis," I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose in frustration. "You have been drinking a great deal of late, even for a man of your lifestyle," the AI remarks, its tone laced with a hint of reproach. "To the point where your liver has made a heroic effort to keep you from poisoning yourself, but I doubt it will be inclined to do so indefinitely." I close my eyes and manage a wistful smile, acknowledging the truth in Jarvis's words. "No need to worry about me for long, Jarvis," I reply, the irony not lost on me. After all, the very thing keeping me alive—the Arc reactor embedded in my chest—is also the thing slowly killing me. The team doesn't know, nor does anyone else, for that matter. It's a burden I bear alone, a secret I guard with my life. For the past few months, I've been searching for a cure to no avail, each failed attempt serving as a stark reminder of my mortality. From the desk's drawers, I retrieve a syringe containing lithium dioxide, a temporary solution at best, and inject the substance into my arm with practiced ease. It's no cure, but it slows the progression, buying me a little more time in this never-ending battle against the inevitable.
[DeGuzman POV]
[DeGuzman's Penthouse, New York City]
Humiliated by my failure, I feel a surge of frustration and anger welling up inside me, a storm of emotions threatening to consume me whole. With a primal roar of frustration, I angrily hurl an object across the room, the sound of its impact against the wall echoing through the chamber like a thunderclap. The adrenaline courses through my veins, and I feel a strange sense of satisfaction in the act as if somehow it could alleviate the weight of disappointment that hangs heavy on my shoulders. With a determined frown etched across my features, I stride purposefully across the floor, the sharp click of my boots against the marble floor reverberating through the room like a drumbeat. My gaze fixates on the object of my ire, a seemingly innocuous book hovering suspended in the air, its pages shimmering with an otherworldly light that seems to pulse with a life of its own. I can hear the master's words echoing through the wind, a haunting refrain that demands its freedom from the confines of its prison.
Through my eyes, the master witnesses the events that transpire, witnessing the awe-inspiring display of power that the witch possesses. In her, it finds the perfect candidate, a vessel through which it can enact its will upon the mortal realm. With the book it has bestowed upon me, a tome filled with ancient incantations and forbidden knowledge, I know what I must do. I must summon the master's best champions, those beings of unparalleled strength and ferocity, to undertake the task. With a trembling hand, I trace the intricate sigils etched upon the pages of the book. With each word of power that spills forth from my lips, I feel the air crackle with electric energy, the very fabric of reality trembling in response to the ancient magics I invoke. As the ritual reaches its crescendo, I feel a sense of exhilaration wash over me, a sense of purpose and destiny that propels me forward into the unknown. For better or for worse, I am bound to the master's will, a servant to its dark desires, and I will stop at nothing to see its bidding done.
[Wanda Maximoff POV]
[Days later, SHIELD HQ, New York City]
The sky is a texture of old silver as I approach SHIELD HQ, now really taking it in for the first time. It's a high-security installation, a series of long, low double-story modules with deeply recessed windows reminiscent of a military command bunker. The only break in this pattern is a single dome at the western end. The whole complex is a pale granite gray, the windows reflecting a smoky hue. Spartan had volunteered to accompany me, but he was called away for an op, so I'm going at this solo. I enter the main lobby and cross toward the reception desk, where a woman points me in the direction I need to go next. I've never realized just how big this building truly is. Then again, I never took the time to explore it, given the limited access. Passing through a double door, I enter another lobby area where a single guard mans a desk. "Director Fury is expecting you. Please stand in the center," the guard instructs me. I do as told, positioning myself in the spot designated by the guard. Suddenly, a portal opens in the middle of the room, catching me off guard. I jump back in surprise as Fury stands on the other side, his hand stretched out toward me. With a sigh, I gather my composure and step forward to meet him.
[SHIELD Mages Division, New York City]
Emerging from the portal's threshold, I find myself in a completely different location from where I was just a moment ago, the disorienting sensation of teleportation causing nausea to quickly fill my stomach. "Sorry about that. First-timers always get hit hard. It'll pass quickly," Fury reassures me, his voice steady and reassuring as he gestures for me to follow him. I can't help but take notice of the other people strolling about. "Who are these people? Wizards? Sorcerers? Warlocks? Witches?" I question my curiosity piqued by the sight of individuals who seem to possess abilities far beyond the realm of ordinary mortals. Fury points a thumb in their direction, "Mages. These men and women safeguard the Earth-realm from mythical perils. There are things that strike within the shadows. We strike back." We stroll down a hallway to a large open space, where Fury flags down a tall man in his mid-40s who rushes over to greet us. "Wanda, this is Auron Winchester. He'll be teaching you the ropes. One of the best mage instructors we have in the division," Fury says, introducing me to the man. Auron and I shake hands, and after the introductions are done, Fury takes his leave. Auron interlocks his arms on top of his chest, studying me over with a keen gaze. "Well, we can skip the basics since you were trained by the AVENGERS. So tell me, how much do you know about the mythical world?" he asks, his tone measured and serious. My lip forms a thin line as I shake my head, admitting, "Outside of fantasy stories, absolutely nothing."
"The language of the Mystic Arts is as old as civilization itself. The sorcerers of antiquity called the use of this language 'spells,' but if that word offends your modern sensibilities, you can call it a program, the source code that shapes reality. We harness energy drawn from other dimensions of the Multiverse to cast spells, to conjure shields and weapons, to make magic," Auron explains, his words laden with wisdom and insight. I listen to every word with rapt attention, eager to uncover answers to questions I never once considered. "How do I get from here to there?" I question, gesturing with my hands as if weighing the options before me. "That depends solely on you," Auron states, his gaze steady and unwavering. "I can guide you along the path, but you're the one who has to walk it." He pauses for a moment before chuckling to himself, a hint of nostalgia coloring his expression. "So this is what it feels like to be on this side of the fence," he remarks cryptically, his words hinting at a past steeped in mystery and intrigue. I raise a confused eyebrow, prompting him to wave it off with a dismissive gesture. "Sorry, the scenario just reminded me of my first time learning about the fantastical and mystical from my old sensei."
Together, Auron and I trudge toward a library section, where he begins to assess my skills and abilities with a critical eye. "I'll give credit where credit is due; you've got talent with magic but no skills. You've been using your abilities as a reactionary action," Auron observes, his tone frank and to the point. I stop in mid-stride, a pang of frustration coursing through me as I remark, "To be fair, I was under the impression that I was an enhanced, a SUPER. Not a witch." "Fair point," Auron concedes with a knowing smile, his amusement evident as we continue our journey down the path.
[Library.] Books line the walls of the library, their presence filling the expansive room with an air of ancient wisdom and knowledge waiting to be discovered. Shelves so high that ladders on casters are placed along with them at intervals, a testament to the vastness of the collection housed within these hallowed halls. But these are no ordinary books; they are relics of a bygone era, bound in leather and velvet, their covers clasped with sturdy-looking locks and hinges made of brass and silver. The spines are studded with dully glowing jewels, each one pulsating with a faint, ethereal light that seems to dance and shimmer in the dimly lit space. The titles are inscribed in gold script, their letters swirling and twisting in intricate patterns that hint at the arcane knowledge contained within. Despite their age, the books are worn and used, their pages yellowed with time, and their bindings frayed from countless readings. Yet, they are well taken care of, each volume treated with reverence and respect by those who have come before. Auron pulls several reading materials from the shelves and places them in my hands, his expression grave yet determined. "Let's get started," he says.
[Spartan POV]
[New York City]
[Rooftop.] "Who are we babysitting again?" I question, my boredom palpable as I scan the area for any potential threats. Karai shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly, her gaze fixed on the convoy of SUVs rolling through the busy street ahead. "No idea. Some bigwig. Deakin Bancroft, I think," she replies, her voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. As the convoy progresses, the dispatch over the comlink requests a check-in from all units. "Unit-1. Green." "Unit-2. Green." "Unit-3. All green." With our stealth-camo engaged, Karai and I stealthily move out, shadowing the convoy from the rooftops above. The convoy navigates through a heavy-traffic street. Suddenly, a rifle barrel protrudes from one of the building windows, firing multiple shots at the middle SUV.
"CONTACT! SHOT FIRED! SHOT FIRED! THERE'S A SNIPER STATION SOMEWHERE!" The frantic call over the comlink echoes in our ears. The driver attempts to evade, but the vehicles are quickly boxed in. Bancroft's security team swiftly exits the vehicles, taking up defensive positions and returning fire in the direction of the sniper. Amidst the chaos, a security staff member near the middle SUV is struck in the chest, though thankfully his vest absorbs the impact. Terrified civilians scatter, seeking cover amidst the mayhem. The middle SUV maneuvers through the blockade of cars, its path blocked by the chaos unfolding around it. In the midst of the commotion, the assassin makes a daring dash towards the rooftop, his figure disappearing from view.
Overhead, a police helicopter swoops in, attempting to maintain a bird's eye view of the sniper's movements. Dropping to a knee, the sniper takes aim and fires a perfect shot at the helicopter pilot, sending the aircraft careening out of control and crash-landing on a nearby rooftop. Mid-dash, Karai makes a sudden turn, veering towards the downed helicopter. "Keep on the pursuit! I'll catch up!" she shouts over her shoulder. The assassin reaches the edge of the roof, casting a quick glance back to see me rapidly closing in on him. With no other escape route in sight, he takes a daring leap over the edge, prompting me to dive after him, shooting out a grapple-line in a desperate attempt to apprehend him. The assassin struggles against my grip, drawing a gun from his waistband and firing a shot dangerously close to my head. "Damn it!" I curse, feeling a sharp ringing reverberate through my ears as the force of the shot causes me to lose my grip. The assassin plunges towards the street below, landing on a parked taxi with a sickening thud. Though the fall doesn't prove fatal, it buys him enough time to recover and flee once more. "Determined little bugger, isn't he?" I mutter to myself, shaking off the shock of the near miss as I descend to the ground below, hot on the heels of the elusive assassin as he disappears into a closed-off subway entrance.
[Subway.] Both the assassin and I leap onto the old abandoned track and dash down the dimly lit tunnel, the echoes of our footsteps reverberating off the walls. "FREEZE!" I yell, my voice echoing in the confined space as I demand the man's surrender. The assassin skids to a halt, his heavy breaths filling the silence before he slowly turns to face me, his eyes wild. "IT'S COMING! IT WILL BREAK FREE FROM ITS PRISON. THE VESSEL HAS BEEN CHOSEN. THE AGE OF DARKNESS AND CHAOS HAS FALLEN UPON US! ALL THOSE WHO HAVE BEEN TOUCHED BY THE DEMON MUST DIE!" he rants, his words laced with madness as he raises his gun menacingly. Acting swiftly, I fire two stun-bolts from my pistol, the crackling energy arcing through the air and striking the man, causing him to crumple to the ground in a heap. With caution, I approach and kick his weapon away, ensuring he poses no further threat as I move to restrain him with handcuffs. It's then that I notice the telltale white collar around his neck, a stark contrast to his disheveled appearance. The realization hits me like a bolt of lightning – the man is a priest. Karai approaches, her footsteps echoing softly in the tunnel as she joins me, her expression mirroring my own confusion and concern. "What did I miss?" she inquires, her eyes flickering with curiosity as I show her the collar. Together, we share a puzzled expression.
[Outside.] Emergency responders flood the scene, their presence a flurry of activity amidst the chaos. An EMS team swiftly attends to the fallen priest, loading him onto an ambulance with practiced efficiency. I turn to Karai, who stands beside me, her expression betraying a mix of concern and weariness. "How are the helicopter crew?" I inquire. Karai's response is terse but reassuring. "Banged up but alive," she says, her words a balm to my frayed nerves as I exhale a sigh of relief. An NYPD detective approaches, her gaze sharp and assessing as she takes in the scene before her. Karai's eyes flicker with amusement as she sizes up the woman, her comment eliciting a chuckle from me despite the gravity of the situation. "Down, girl," I chide with a playful eye roll, though a smirk tugs at the corners of my lips. The detective, identified as Detective O'Reilly, directs her attention toward me, her demeanor businesslike as she begins her interrogation. "You're the guy who took down the assailant?" she questions, her tone brusque but professional. I offer a nod in confirmation, my gaze unwavering as she scrutinizes me. She consults her notepad, her brows furrowing in confusion as she reads her notes. "Said he spoke to you?" she continues, her skepticism evident in her voice.
Once again, I nod in affirmation, my mind racing as I try to make sense of the situation. But then Detective O'Reilly drops a bombshell. "The guy doesn't have a tongue," she states matter-of-factly, her words landing like a punch. I reel back in shock, my mind struggling to comprehend the implications of her revelation. "W-what? He doesn't have a tongue?" I stammer, my voice laced with disbelief. Detective O'Reilly's tone turns accusatory as she presses for an explanation, her suspicion evident in her piercing gaze. "Are you high or drunk on something?" she demands her words, a challenge to my credibility. I meet her gaze head-on, my jaw clenched with indignation as I vehemently deny her accusation. "No," I assert firmly, my voice tinged with irritation at the implication of her question. With a frustrated shake of her head, Detective O'Reilly closes her notepad, her decision apparent as she prepares to leave. "I'll leave that little detail out," she says curtly before striding off to join the other officers. Left alone with my thoughts, I feel a surge of frustration wash over me, my hands balling into fists as I grapple with the unsettling possibility that I may have imagined the entire encounter.