Chapter 97:

[Spartan POV]

[1 Week Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]

[Wanda's Room.] I sit on the edge of the bed, my eyes darting back and forth between the two Wandas standing in front of me. I've faced impossible situations before—hell, I've gone toe-to-toe with superhumans, faced down entire armies, and come back from the brink more times than I can count—but this? This is something else entirely. Two Wandas. Identical in every way. They stand side by side, one holding our newborn son, the other with her arms crossed, wearing a half-amused, half-smug expression as if waiting for me to catch up. "Okay, explain to me what exactly I'm witnessing again?" I ask, running my hand through my hair as I try to make sense of what's happening. My voice comes out more controlled than I feel, but that's how I operate—stay calm and stay rational, even when the situation is beyond comprehension. This definitely qualifies as one of those moments. Wanda, the one cradling little Jericho in her arms, chuckles softly. Her laughter is like a gentle breeze in the room, reassuring and familiar. "It's an Avatar spell," she explains, her voice carrying that ever-present blend of mystery and warmth, "It means I can create an exact copy of myself. Memories, skills, powers, and all. Hell, I can even transfer my consciousness into it if I want to." I raise an eyebrow. "So... like a clone?" I tilt my head, trying to grasp the concept, "It's you but... not you?" Wanda shakes her head, that amused smile still playing on her lips as if I've just asked the wrong question in a game she's already mastered. "No, it's nothing like a clone," she corrects gently, "It's very much me in every way possible. Body and soul. Magic works with a different set of rules outside of science."

I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees, still processing the magnitude of what she's saying. Two Wandas, both completely her. No lab-grown clone, no tech-based duplication, just pure, unadulterated magic. There's no flicker of instability between the two, no subtle differences to tell them apart. "Body and soul, huh?" I murmur, glancing between them again, "You're saying this... this Avatar is you in every sense of the word? No drawbacks, no limitations?" Wanda—the one not holding Jericho—nods, "Exactly. No drawbacks. I can interact with the world through my Avatar as if I were physically present. If something happens to it, it dissipates, and the magic flows back into me. But until that happens, it's like having an extension of myself walking around." She glances at the other Wanda holding Jericho, her face softening, "It's useful, especially now, with him needing so much attention. This way, I can be with him while also helping the Avengers, or just… living my life."

I stand up, pacing the length of the room, my boots making a soft thud against the floor with each step. The room feels both too large and too small, a contradiction I'm not sure how to explain. I can't shake the feeling that I'm witnessing something profound, something that blurs the lines between reality and magic in ways I've never fully understood. But that's the thing about Wanda—she's always been a blend of both worlds, a living testament to the power of magic, and yet so grounded in the reality we share. I stop pacing, turning to face both versions of her, "So, there's no 'original' and 'copy' then? You're both... you?" My mind is racing through all the scenarios—tactical implications, potential risks, what this could mean for missions, for our life together. Wanda nods, her eyes twinkling with that mix of wisdom and amusement she always gets when she's explaining magic to me, knowing I'm still grappling with the nuances, "That's right. No original, no copy. Just two of me, as long as the spell lasts." She smiles again, her gaze softening as she looks down at Jericho, "It's given me a lot of peace, honestly. I can be there for him, fully, without feeling like I have to choose between being a mother and being an Avenger."

I cross my arms, staring at the two of them—her—wondering what it must feel like to live in two bodies at once, to experience two sets of sensations, thoughts, and emotions all at the same time. It's beyond anything I can comprehend, but Wanda's always had that power, that ability to transcend the ordinary and step into realms that leave me breathless. She's never been bound by the limits of the physical world, not like I am. She bends it, molds it, commands it with a flick of her wrist, a whisper of intention. And yet, despite all her power, she's right here with me, with us, in this room, present in a way that makes my chest tighten with something warm, something grounding. I run a hand over my face, exhaling slowly as I let the reality of this settle in. "So you're telling me you could be in two places at once? Here with Jericho and out on a mission at the same time?" I shake my head, half in awe, half in disbelief, "That's... that's a hell of an advantage, Wanda. You could be... everywhere." Wanda—the one holding Jericho—shrugs lightly like she didn't just tell me she's essentially capable of being omnipresent. "It's not about being everywhere, Spartan. It's about balance. I'm not using the spell to overextend myself. I'm using it to make sure I'm where I need to be when I need to be," she glances at Jericho, her eyes softening with that maternal glow that makes my heart skip, "Right now, I need to be with him. But if something urgent comes up... I'll still be there."

"And you're sure... there's no risk?" I ask, my voice quieter now, more serious, "No strain on you? I mean, you're talking about splitting your consciousness between two bodies. That sounds... intense." Wanda—the one without Jericho—steps forward, her eyes meeting mine with that unshakable confidence I've come to rely on, "It's not splitting, Spartan. It's more like expanding. I'm still me. It's just... more of me." She smiles softly, that gentle reassurance I need right now, "And no, there's no risk. I wouldn't do anything that would put myself—or Jericho—in danger. You know that."

I nod slowly, her words sinking in, though I can't fully shake the concern gnawing at the back of my mind. But this is Wanda. If she says there's no risk, I believe her. I have to. Still, I can't help but think about how this changes everything, not just for her but for us. Our lives are already complicated, tangled up in a web of heroics, danger, and the constant threat of losing the people we care about. But now? Now there's a version of Wanda that can be with Jericho and another version that can fight alongside the Avengers. It's comforting. I cross the room, standing close enough to touch the two Wandas, feeling the energy radiating from both of them. "You're something else, you know that?" I murmur, more to myself than to her, shaking my head in disbelief, "This... this is incredible. I just... I don't even know what to say." Wanda smiles, that warm, reassuring smile that always makes the chaos around us seem a little less overwhelming. "You don't have to say anything," she says softly, "Just trust me. I've got this." I look at her, really look at her—the way her eyes soften when she looks at Jericho, the way her posture shifts when she's in full Avenger mode, the way both versions of her are so effortlessly her. And in that moment, I realize something. It's not just the magic that's remarkable. It's Wanda. Her resilience, her strength, her ability to be so many things at once—a mother, a warrior, a partner. And through it all, she's still here, still grounded, still Wanda.

I step closer to Wanda, gently brushing a strand of hair away. "I trust you," I say, my voice quiet but firm, "I've always trusted you." I glance at Jericho, who's fast asleep in her arms, oblivious to the impossible things happening around him, "And if this means you can be here for him, without having to give up everything else you care about... then I'm with you. Whatever you need, I'm with you." Wanda's eyes soften, and she leans into me, her presence warm and steady. "Thank you," she whispers, and I can feel the weight of her words, the gratitude behind them, "That means more than you know." I nod, feeling a sense of calm settle over me for the first time in days. "So, two Wandas, huh?" I say, letting a small smile tug at the corners of my mouth, "Gonna take some getting used to." She laughs softly, the sound like music in the quiet room. "Don't worry," she says with a grin, "I'll make sure you know which one's which." I chuckle, shaking my head, "I don't doubt that."

[Steve Rogers POV]

[Rogers's Room.] The soft morning light filters through the curtains, casting a golden glow across the room. I stir slowly, blinking away the remnants of sleep, the familiar weight of the early morning calm settling over me. For a second, everything feels quiet and peaceful—like the world outside doesn't exist. It's one of those rare moments where time seems to slow down, letting me just be for a while instead of constantly rushing forward. As I turn slightly, my gaze falls on the figure lying next to me, half-hidden beneath the sheets. Betsy. Psylocke. Her dark hair is splayed out over the pillow like spilled ink, and her bare back rises and falls with each deep, peaceful breath. I watch her for a moment, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. There's something so serene about the way she sleeps, like she's finally found some rest, some calm in the middle of all the chaos that surrounds us. I feel a warmth spread through me, the kind that only comes when you're in the presence of someone who makes you feel at home, even in the most unlikely of places. For a long time, I wasn't sure I'd ever get here again—wake up next to someone and feel this kind of contentment. I used to think that part of my life was lost to me, swallowed up by war, by duty, by all the things I couldn't control. But with her, with Betsy, it feels different. She's different. And maybe that's what I needed all along—someone who understands the weight of responsibility, the burden of a past filled with hard choices and sacrifices, and yet, somehow, she still manages to bring light into my life.

I lie there for a moment, just watching her, the way her lips part slightly with each breath, the way her shoulders shift with the subtle movement of sleep. It's one of those moments you want to freeze in time, to keep forever. But I know better than anyone that nothing lasts forever. So, instead, I decided to make this morning last as long as possible. I slide out of bed quietly, careful not to wake her. The cool air hits my bare skin, but I barely notice it as I grab a discarded t-shirt from the floor and pull it on. Betsy shifts slightly in her sleep, turning onto her side, the sheet slipping lower to reveal more of her bare back, her skin kissed by the soft morning light. I can't help but smile at the sight; the image is so perfect.

As I step out of the bedroom and into the small kitchen area of my quarters, I find myself thinking about how far we've come. It wasn't easy getting here—hell, it's never easy for people like us. But somehow, we've found each other again, and that's something worth holding on to. I've learned not to take moments like these for granted, not when so much of our lives are spent fighting battles, both out there in the world and within ourselves. I open the fridge and rummage through the contents, deciding on something simple but comforting. Eggs, toast, and maybe some fruit if I can find any. I'm no gourmet chef, but I can manage breakfast. It's been a long time since I've made breakfast for someone. The thought brings another smile to my face as I set the eggs on the counter, cracking them into a bowl. I move quietly, mindful of the stillness of the morning, but my mind is far from still. It's racing with thoughts of her, of us, of the road that led us here. When Betsy and I first tried to make this work back in the early days, we were both too caught up in our own battles to really see each other. I was still trying to adjust to this new world, to find my place in it, and she was dealing with her own demons. We were two people fighting to survive, and somewhere along the way, we lost sight of what we had. It hurt like hell when things fell apart, but now, standing here in this kitchen, preparing breakfast for the woman I love, I realize that maybe we needed that time apart. We needed to grow, to learn from the pain so that when we found each other again, we'd be ready.

The eggs sizzle in the pan as I turn them over, the smell of breakfast filling the small space. I grab a plate from the cupboard and start preparing the tray, adding toast, some fruit, and a glass of orange juice on the side. It's nothing fancy, but it's from me, and that's what matters. As I set the tray down for a moment, my eyes catch the reflection of myself in the window—an odd sight, considering how often I avoid looking at it. The man staring back at me is older, wiser, and, despite everything, there's a certain peace in his eyes. Not the kind that comes from an end to the fighting, but the kind that comes from knowing you've found someone who makes it all worth it. I carry the tray back into the bedroom, careful not to make too much noise. Betsy is still asleep, her breathing steady, her body relaxed in a way that makes my heart feel lighter. I set the tray down on the bedside table, taking a moment to just look at her again. She looks so peaceful like this, so far removed from the sharp-edged fighter I know her to be. I've seen her in battle, seen her face down enemies with a calm, deadly precision that still amazes me. But here, now, she's just... Betsy. The woman who's made her way into my heart, the woman who's shown me that maybe, just maybe, there's something more to life than the fight.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake her too suddenly. I watch her for a moment longer, feeling the warmth of her presence wash over me. Then, gently, I brush a strand of hair away from her face, my fingers lingering for just a second as I touch her skin. She stirs slightly, her eyes fluttering open, and for a split second, there's that familiar flicker of disorientation, the moment where she's not sure where she is. But then she sees me, and her expression softens into a sleepy smile. "Morning," I say quietly, my voice soft as I meet her gaze. She stretches, the sheet slipping lower, and I have to force myself to focus on her face. "Morning," she murmurs, her voice still thick with sleep. Her eyes flick to the tray, and a small, amused smile tugs at her lips, "Breakfast in bed? Aren't you just full of surprises this morning."

I chuckle, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. "Figured you deserved it," I say, pulling the tray onto her lap, "Consider it a reward for putting up with me." Betsy grins, sitting up slightly and pulling the tray closer, "Oh, so this is a reward for me? I thought maybe you were trying to get back on my good side after hogging all the blankets last night." I laugh, shaking my head, "You caught me. But, in my defense, it was pretty cold in here." She raises an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eyes, "Steve Rogers, cold? I didn't think anything could make Captain America shiver." I smile, watching as she digs into the breakfast I've made for her, the light from the window casting a soft glow over her skin. "There are a few things that get to me," I say, my voice low, the weight of the moment settling between us, "But you... you make it all better." She looks up at me, her expression softening, the teasing fading as something more serious takes its place. "You make things better for me too," she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. There's a vulnerability in her eyes that I don't see often, and it makes my chest tighten in a way that feels both overwhelming and grounding.

For a moment, we just sit there, the two of us, in the quiet of the morning, with the scent of breakfast in the air and the weight of the world forgotten for just a little while. It's moments like this that remind me why we fight, why we keep going despite all the darkness we've seen. It's for these small, perfect moments of peace. Moments where I can look at her and know, without a doubt, that she's where I'm meant to be. I reach out, taking her hand in mine, my thumb brushing over her knuckles. We sit there in the quiet, letting the moment stretch between us, until finally, she breaks the silence with a small, amused smile, "But you still owe me for stealing the covers." I laugh, the sound light and free in the morning air.

[Spartan POV]

[New York City]

The city hums with life beneath us, a restless, living organism that never truly sleeps. Up here, on the rooftops, everything feels more distant, the noise of honking cars, bustling crowds, and the occasional siren all muffled by the height. The lights from the city stretch out in every direction, glowing like a sea of stars, and for a moment, it feels like we're the only two people in the world. Me and Wanda. Or, more specifically, Avatar Wanda—but if I'm being honest, it doesn't feel any different. It's still her in every way that counts. I glance over at her as we crouch on the edge of a rooftop, the cool night breeze tugging at her hair. She's breathtaking, even in this form. She's wearing her usual crimson attire, the cloak flowing behind her as she perches beside me with an effortless grace that makes her look like she belongs in the night sky, a goddess of the moonlight. Her eyes catch mine, and she smirks in that way that drives me crazy—like she knows exactly what I'm thinking and loves that she has that effect on me. "You're staring again," she teases, her voice soft but laced with amusement. "Can't help it," I reply, not even bothering to hide it. Why should I? She's right—I am staring. The city is supposed to have my attention, but all I can focus on is her, the way her eyes gleam with mischief and the way her lips curve in that sly, knowing smile, "You make it impossible to concentrate."

Her laughter is soft, almost like a melody in the wind, "That's not my fault. You're the one who's supposed to be on patrol." "I am," I say, though even I can hear how half-hearted it sounds. We've been out here for hours now, supposedly keeping an eye on the city, but in reality, we've spent more time flirting and dancing around each other than actually paying attention to what's happening below. Not that I mind. In fact, I'd say it's been the best patrol I've ever had. Wanda stretches, her fingers brushing lightly against mine as she shifts closer to me. The brief contact sends a jolt through my body like electricity sparking under my skin. Damn, she knows what she's doing. She doesn't even have to use her magic to mess with my head—I'm already completely wrapped around her finger. Judging by the playful glint in her eyes, she knows it, too. "You know," she murmurs, her voice dropping to that lower, more intimate tone she uses when she wants to get under my skin, "We could always... take a break. Find somewhere more private."

My heart skips a beat at the suggestion, and for a second, all I can think about is what she's implying. My mind conjures images of us sneaking off, slipping into the shadows somewhere where the rest of the world doesn't exist. No missions, no threats, no Avengers business—just us. Together. Alone. The idea is tempting, almost irresistible. But I manage to keep my voice steady as I glance over at her. "We're supposed to be on patrol," I say, though the words lack conviction. I'm already leaning closer, drawn in by her like a moth to a flame. Wanda smiles, tilting her head slightly, her lips inches from mine, "You say that like we've been doing anything productive for the last hour." She's right. We've been moving from rooftop to rooftop, but every time we stop, it's like we can't keep our hands off each other. I've lost count of how many times I've reached out to touch her, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath my fingers, and how many times she's responded with that playful grin like she's daring me to forget about everything else. Her presence is intoxicating, making it hard to think about anything other than her—how close she is, how much I want to close the distance between us and kiss her, damn the patrol.

And the thing is, she's not some illusion or shadow. This is Wanda, as real and alive as the woman I love, standing right here next to me. The magic that lets her be in two places at once doesn't change the way I feel about her. This is her in every sense, the same warmth in her touch, the same fire in her eyes. She leans in just a fraction closer, and I can feel her breath on my skin, the temptation pulling me in like gravity. "Wanda," I murmur, my voice barely a whisper now, as I lift a hand to gently brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture is small, but the closeness between us feels like it's crackling with energy, with all the things we're not saying aloud. "Yes?" she replies, her voice soft, eyes locked on mine. There's a challenge in her gaze, an unspoken dare that's as much a part of our dynamic as anything else. She wants me to give in, to let the patrol fall by the wayside, to focus on her and nothing else.

I let out a slow breath, the tension building between us to a breaking point, "You're making it really hard to focus." Her smile widens, her lips brushing against my cheek, just a whisper of a touch, but it sends a shiver down my spine, "Maybe that's the point." I laugh softly, my chest tightening with how much I want her right now, "I'm starting to think you planned this." She grins, not denying it. "Maybe I did. After all, I'm pretty good at multitasking." Her fingers trail lightly down my arm, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. "Besides, you're supposed to be able to handle distractions, Mr. Super Soldier." "Super soldier, yes," I say, my voice low and thick with desire, "But still human." "Good," she whispers, her lips finally finding mine. The kiss is soft at first, gentle, but it quickly deepens, becoming more intense as all the pent-up tension from the last few hours comes rushing to the surface. I lose myself in the feel of her, in the way she presses against me, the warmth of her body melting into mine. For a moment, everything else fades away—the city, the patrol, the world. It's just us, wrapped up in each other.

Her hands slide up to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and I respond in kind, my arms wrapping around her waist, holding her tight. The kiss deepens, and I can feel her magic thrumming through her, a low hum of power that feels like it's dancing just beneath the surface. It's intoxicating, like being caught in the eye of a storm. When we finally pull away, both of us breathing heavily, she looks up at me with a satisfied smile. "I told you, Spartan," she says softly, her voice teasing but filled with affection, "I always get what I want." I laugh, shaking my head in disbelief, "You're impossible." "Only for you," she replies with a wink, stepping back just slightly but not enough to break the connection between us. We stand there for a moment, the city sprawling out beneath us, the quiet hum of traffic a distant sound in the background. I know we should get back to the patrol, that we should be keeping an eye on the city. But right now, all I can think about is her, the way she makes me feel alive in ways that nothing else does. "Alright," I say finally, my voice still a little breathless, "We'll take a break. But just for a bit." Her smile widens, and she reaches up to brush her fingers along my jaw, "I knew you'd see it my way." We find a more secluded spot, away from the prying eyes of the city below. It's not long before our flirting turns into something more, something deeper. Every touch, every kiss feels like a promise.

The air feels cooler as we step out from the shadows of our secluded spot, the distant hum of the city slowly creeping back into focus. My heart still pounds in my chest, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins, my body alive with the lingering heat of the moments we just shared. Every part of me feels electrified, from the taste of her lips still lingering on mine to the way her body felt pressed against mine. It's hard to pull myself back to reality, to let the world reassert itself, but out here, the city never waits for anyone. I glance at Wanda as she walks beside me, her movements graceful and unhurried, like nothing in the world can touch her. The way she moves, so effortlessly confident, makes me wonder how she can just transition from one state of being to the next. We were tangled in each other only moments ago, and now she walks with the poise of someone who controls everything around her. Her fingers are busy fixing her hair, tucking a few stray strands back into place after the whirlwind of passion we just unleashed. The crimson cloak billows slightly behind her, catching the cool night breeze. Even now, there's something otherworldly about her, something that pulls me in every time.

I can still feel her warmth on my skin, the ghost of her touch on my neck, and it takes every ounce of focus not to lose myself in her again. My mind flickers back to those fleeting moments of connection, her breath warm against my ear, the way her hands pulled me closer like she couldn't get enough. And the truth is, neither could I. There's something about her that consumes me, that makes everything else fade into the background, but as much as I want to stay in that feeling, the city doesn't let us stay lost for long. I exhale slowly, trying to regain my composure, but it's difficult when she's right there, walking so close, her presence as intoxicating as ever. We've been doing this dance for a while now, balancing between the weight of duty and the irresistible pull we have for each other. Tonight feels like we've pushed the limits, but I don't regret it. Not for a second.

EPYON's voice suddenly cuts through the quiet, breaking the spell that hangs between us. "Spartan, I've intercepted a 9-11 call. Report of a gang shooting three blocks away. Multiple gunmen, several casualties already." My muscles tense instinctively, the shift from warmth and intimacy to cold, hard reality happening in an instant. I can feel the gears turning in my head, my body already moving into mission mode before my mind even fully catches up. Wanda notices the change in my demeanor immediately, her eyes narrowing slightly as she listens to the update from EPYON. I meet her gaze, and there's no need for words—she already knows what's coming. Duty calls. Always. "Let's move," I say, readying myself for the confrontation ahead. The heat between us vanishes as the weight of the situation comes crashing back. Wanda's expression shifts, her playfulness gone, replaced by the fierce focus I've seen countless times before. It's a reminder that while we might steal moments like these, the world outside never stops spinning.

We leap from the rooftop, the ground rushing up to meet us, the familiar rhythm of the city coming back into sharp focus. I can already hear the distant echoes of gunfire, muffled by the concrete jungle but unmistakable. My mind races through possible scenarios—how many shooters, the layout of the streets, and potential escape routes. EPYON feeds me real-time data, painting a picture of the chaos that awaits. Wanda lands beside me, her hand briefly brushing against mine as if to reassure me that she's still here, still with me, despite the sudden shift. Her eyes meet mine for a split second, and in that brief glance, I feel a surge of adrenaline that has nothing to do with the danger ahead and everything to do with the fact that she's by my side. "Stay sharp," she murmurs, her voice low and serious now, as she casts a glance toward the darkened streets. Her magic flickers to life around her fingers, a soft red glow that contrasts with the cold steel in my hands. It's time to go back to being the protectors, the soldiers. The city needs us, and we're always ready. Even if part of me is still lingering on that shadowed rooftop, lost in her. I nod, my focus returning to the mission at hand.

Wanda and I emerge onto a wide-open street, the sounds of chaos and gunfire filling the air as two gang factions war with each other from opposite sides. I take it all in—scattered debris, flashes of muzzle fire, the sharp echoes of shouting voices, and the panic of innocent bystanders ducking for cover wherever they can find it. It's like stepping into a battlefield, but instead of military precision, there's pure, raw violence fueled by anger and desperation. My instincts kick in immediately, scanning the scene for possible cover, entry points, and a way to minimize the casualties. The air feels thick with tension, like a powder keg waiting to explode, and one wrong move could set it off. I glance over at Wanda, her crimson cloak billowing slightly in the breeze as she surveys the scene with a calm, collected look that I've come to rely on. There's no fear in her eyes, just that sharp focus she gets when she's about to do something incredible. I don't know how she does it—stay so poised when everything around us feels like it's about to come crashing down. But that's Wanda. She's always been able to find that delicate balance between power and control, and right now, I'm going to need her to do exactly that. "How do you want to approach this?" I ask, keeping my voice low and steady as I crouch beside her, readying myself for whatever plan she's about to hatch. My eyes dart between the two warring factions, trying to gauge their numbers, their positions, their weapons. I'm calculating and analyzing, but I know that whatever I come up with, Wanda's about to pull something out of her bag of tricks that's going to leave me in awe.

She looks at me, and a slow, mischievous smile spreads across her lips. "Ever seen that movie Meteor Man?" she asks, her voice tinged with amusement. I blink, taken off guard for a moment by the sudden pop culture reference, but then it clicks. Meteor Man. That scene where he de-escalates a gang fight by pulling the weapons out of their hands, defusing the situation with nothing but sheer presence and a little bit of creative thinking. I grin despite myself. "You're really going to pull a Meteor Man?" I ask, half-laughing, half-impressed. Only Wanda would reference a 90s superhero movie in the middle of a gang shootout. But if anyone can pull it off, it's her. "Watch and learn, Spartan," she says with a wink, her fingers already glowing with the familiar scarlet hue of her magic. She rises to her feet, and I can feel the energy shift around her, the atmosphere thickening with power as she steps forward, completely unbothered by the bullets zipping through the air around us. I keep close, ready to act if things go south, but I know better than to interfere once she's set her mind on something.

With a wave of her hand, she casts a wide arc of red energy that sweeps across the street, gently pulling the guns out of the hands of every gang member on both sides. The weapons float into the air, suspended for a moment like they've been plucked out of time, before slowly disassembling themselves—barrels, magazines, triggers—all coming apart in midair as if they were nothing more than toys. The sight is mesmerizing, and for a brief moment, everyone—gang members, civilians, even me—stops in awe. The silence that follows is palpable. The gang members stare in disbelief as their weapons vanish, disassembled into harmless scrap, and their power over the situation is suddenly stripped away. Wanda stands tall in the center of the street, completely unfazed, her eyes glowing faintly with that dangerous but controlled energy she wields so well. She doesn't have to say a word. Her presence alone speaks volumes. "Now," she says, her voice calm but carrying an authority that demands attention, "I think we can all agree this is over."

Some of the gang members look like they're about to protest, but Wanda takes another step forward, her magic swirling around her like a protective shield. Her expression softens, though, and I can see what she's doing. She's not just scaring them into submission; she's connecting with them on a deeper level, showing them that continuing this fight is pointless and that there's no victory to be had here. Her powers may be vast, but it's her compassion that's always been her greatest strength. She's offering them a way out without forcing them into it. "Walk away," she continues, her tone gentle now, "You have a choice. You can end this without more bloodshed, without losing anyone else. Go home. Be with your families. This doesn't have to be how it ends." Her words hang in the air like a lifeline, and for a moment, I can see the hesitation in their eyes, the flicker of doubt as they look at each other, realizing that their weapons are gone and their fight no longer has meaning.

One by one, the gang members begin to lower their hands, their faces a mix of confusion and relief as they process what just happened. The tension that had been crackling in the air dissipates, and the noise of the city slowly returns—distant car horns, footsteps, the murmur of onlookers. It's like the world is coming back into focus, but this time, without the threat of violence. I watch in silence as both factions start backing away, no longer interested in continuing their fight. Wanda remains in the center of the street, watching them go, her eyes soft but alert, making sure no one gets any ideas about reigniting the conflict. When the last of the gang members finally disappears into the shadows, she lets out a slow breath, her shoulders relaxing as the magic around her fades. I step up beside her, shaking my head in disbelief, "I can't believe you just Meteor Man'd a gang shootout." Wanda smiles, that same mischievous glint in her eyes, "Told you I was good at multitasking." I laugh softly, glancing around at the now-empty street. The tension in my chest loosens, and the adrenaline finally begins to ebb. "Remind me never to underestimate you again," I say, my voice laced with admiration.

"You'd think you'd have learned by now," she teases, nudging me lightly with her elbow. As we stand there in the quiet aftermath, the city humming around us, I can't help but feel a sense of awe wash over me. Wanda's ability to de-escalate the situation without a single casualty, to defuse the tension with nothing but her presence and a little bit of magic, is something I'll never fully get used to. But that's what makes her extraordinary—her power doesn't just come from the magic she wields; it comes from the way she uses it to bring peace when everything else seems impossible. As I walk beside her, I realize how lucky I am to have her by my side, not just as a partner in battle but in life.

[Auron Winchester POV]

[SHIELD Mages Division, New York City]

The air in my office feels charged, thick with the familiar hum of magical energy that always lingers around the SHIELD Mages Division. Ancient tomes lie scattered across my desk, their pages filled with centuries of arcane knowledge, the kind of wisdom only a select few can grasp. I've spent most of my life pouring over these texts, mastering spells and incantations that even the most seasoned sorcerers struggle to comprehend. And yet, every time I turn my thoughts to Wanda Maximoff, I'm reminded that no matter how much experience you accumulate, there's always someone who can defy all expectations. As I sit, poring over a particularly complex spell about dimensional barriers, I feel the familiar tug of dimensional energy behind me. Wong. I don't even need to turn around to know that the Sorcerer Supreme is stepping through a portal into my space. The air around the doorway shimmers with that distinct orange glow, casting flickering light across the room. "Auron," comes Wong's voice, calm but with a sense of urgency. I close the tome in front of me with a quiet thud, rising to my feet and turning to greet him. Wong steps through the portal with his usual grace, his robes swaying lightly as the portal closes behind him in a wave of magical energy. "Wong," I reply with a nod, the formalities unnecessary between us. We've worked together long enough to skip the pleasantries, though I can tell by the set of his shoulders that this isn't a social visit.

"Updates on Wanda?" he asks directly, his brow furrowed slightly in concern. Wong doesn't waste time when it comes to matters involving Wanda—he knows, as I do, the raw potential she holds and the weight of that power if left unchecked. I exhale slowly, running a hand through my graying hair as I step around my desk. Wanda Maximoff has been my student, my protégé, and, if I'm being honest, one of the most talented mages I've ever encountered. But even that doesn't begin to describe the extent of her abilities. "She's becoming more and more powerful by the day," I begin, crossing my arms as I meet Wong's gaze, "Wanda's mastering spells in days that would take most of my other mages years to even grasp. I've never seen anything like it." Wong's expression shifts, his concern deepening as I continue. "You've felt it, haven't you?" I ask, watching the Sorcerer Supreme closely, "Her magic—it's not just powerful, it's evolving. Every spell she touches, she perfects it, adapts it, makes it her own."

Wong nods slowly, his eyes narrowing in thought. "I've sensed the shift. The ripples in the mystic forces have been growing stronger. But tell me, is she in control? Can she harness that power without it consuming her?" I pause for a moment, considering my words carefully. Wanda has always had a deep connection to chaos magic, something that sets her apart from the rest of us. It's what makes her so extraordinary, but it's also what makes her dangerous. And yet, in all my time training together, she's shown a remarkable ability to walk that fine line between control and chaos. "For now, she's in control," I say, though there's a heaviness to my tone that I can't quite shake, "But Wong, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried. Her growth is... unnatural, even for someone as gifted as her."

"You once told me you suspected Wanda is a Primordial," Wong says, his tone as steady as ever, but there's a slight edge to it that betrays his concern. I glance up at him, my eyes meeting his. Wong isn't someone who rattles easily, not after everything he's seen. If he's bringing this up, it means we're both on the same page, both trying to grasp at the threads of something far larger than we'd anticipated. I nod slowly, the weight of my own words settling in. "Yes, I did say that," I reply, my voice quieter than usual, as if admitting it out loud somehow makes the reality of it heavier. I cross my arms, leaning back against the edge of my desk, and take a breath, trying to find the right way to explain what's been gnawing at me for months. "But it's more complicated than that," I continue, feeling the gravity of what I'm about to say. Wong's gaze sharpens, and I can tell he's hanging on every word, waiting for the explanation that's been lingering in the air between us. He knows, as I do, that we're treading into dangerous territory. "I now believe Wanda has a Primordial fused to her soul," I say, each word feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds. Wong's expression doesn't change immediately, but I can see the subtle shift in his posture, the way he stands a little straighter, his eyes narrowing in thought. It's not an easy thing to process. Primordials are ancient, elemental beings, older than most can even comprehend, tied to the very fabric of creation itself. The idea of one of them being linked, fused, to a human soul is... troubling, to say the least.

I run a hand through my graying hair, feeling the tension in my shoulders as I continue. "It's not just that she's powerful, Wong. It's that her magic doesn't follow the same rules as the rest of us. Every spell she touches, she alters, perfects—like she's tapping into something older, deeper than anything we understand. I thought, at first, that it was just chaos magic, something inherent to her connection with it. But no, this is different. Chaos magic is unpredictable, yes, but it still has a rhythm, a flow that we can tap into. What Wanda is doing… it's like she's drawing from a well that has no bottom, a force that's infinite."

Wong listens intently, his brow furrowing deeper as I speak, and I can see the gears turning in his mind. He's trying to reconcile everything we know with what I'm suggesting. "A Primordial," he says slowly as if testing the word on his tongue, "If one of them is fused to her, that would explain the... unnatural growth you've observed." He's right, of course. It's the only thing that makes sense now. I've seen students grow quickly and seen gifted mages leap forward in ways that defy expectations. But this? Wanda is surpassing centuries of magical knowledge in weeks, bending reality to her will with a precision that's terrifying in its ease. "Exactly," I say, pushing off the desk and pacing across the room, my mind racing as I try to articulate the scope of what we're dealing with, "It's not just that she's learning faster than anyone I've ever seen. It's that she's mastering spells that even I don't fully understand—spells that should be impossible for any human to wield. But for her, it's like breathing. She's not just powerful, Wong, she's evolving. And it's happening faster than I can keep up with. The Primordial... it's not just amplifying her power. It's becoming a part of her, fusing with her soul in ways that... frankly, I don't fully understand."

Wong's face remains impassive, but I can see the concern in his eyes. "And you're sure she's in control?" he asks, his voice low but insistent. It's the question I've been asking myself for days. Is she in control? Wanda's always had a connection to chaos, to the unpredictable. But this is different. I stop pacing, turning to face him. "For now," I say, my voice quieter, "It's a delicate balance. So far, the only thing that seems to ground Wanda is her beloved and her newborn son." The words linger in the air, heavy with the truth I've come to understand over the course of her training. Wanda Maximoff's power may be limitless, but her humanity, her connection to the people she loves, is what keeps her tethered to the present—to reality. Without that, I'm not sure how she would cope with the growing strength inside her, the chaos magic that pulses in her veins, and the Primordial essence fused to her very soul. Wong tilts his head slightly, absorbing my words. "Her beloved… Spartan, the Avenger," he says, more of a statement than a question. I nod in confirmation. It's no secret that Spartan has been a stabilizing force in Wanda's life, grounding her when the weight of her power threatens to pull her into chaos. Their bond is more than just emotional—it's almost symbiotic. He's able to reach her in ways that even I, with all my knowledge and experience, cannot.

"Yes," I continue, "Spartan is the only one who seems to pull her back when she drifts too close to the edge. Their connection is deep, perhaps even deeper than either of them realize. And now, with their son, Jericho…" I pause, feeling a pang of worry, "… it's given her a new anchor. She's fiercely protective of them both. It's almost as if that love, that need to protect her family, has become the counterbalance to the chaos inside her." Wong listens intently, his expression contemplative. "Love can be a powerful anchor," he says softly, his gaze distant as if recalling something from his own experiences, "But it can also be volatile. If anything were to happen to Spartan or their child… that anchor could become the very thing that unravels her." I nod, fully aware of the precariousness of the situation.

"I've thought about that," I admit, running a hand through my hair, "It's a double-edged sword. Her love for them keeps her grounded, but if they were ever threatened… it could trigger something even more dangerous. The Primordial energy within her is bound to emotion. If she were to lose control—if she were to experience that kind of loss…" My voice trails off, not wanting to speak the worst into existence, but the implications are clear. Wanda's strength is her heart and her love for her family, but it is also the key to the potential chaos she could unleash if that love is ever threatened. And in a world as dangerous as ours, threats are never far away. Wong's eyes darken as he contemplates the weight of my words, "It's a precarious situation, Auron. If she's using her family as her anchor, then we must protect that anchor at all costs. But we also need to prepare for the possibility that, one day, it may not be enough." I exhale slowly, nodding, "I've already considered that. I'm trying to teach her other ways to ground herself—ways that don't rely on external forces, but it's difficult. Her power is tied to who she is. And who she is… is tied to them." We stand in silence for a moment, the enormity of the situation sinking in. Wanda is a being of immense power, capable of reshaping the world, perhaps even entire realities. And yet, her greatest strength and greatest vulnerability are intertwined with the people she loves most.

[Wanda Maximoff POV]

[AVENGERS HQ, New York City]

[Wanda's Room.] I hold little Jericho in my arms, his tiny form nestled against my chest, and I sway gently, back and forth, humming a soft lullaby that my mother used to sing to me when I was a child. His little fingers curl around a lock of my hair, tugging softly, and I can't help but smile down at him, my heart swelling with love that feels almost too big to contain. His eyelids flutter, heavy with sleep, and I trace the delicate curve of his cheek with my fingertip, marveling at the life we've brought into this world. There's a kind of peace in this moment, a stillness that I don't often get to experience, especially with everything going on around us. It's as if, for just a little while, the world outside fades away, leaving only me and my son in this small, quiet bubble. But I'm never fully disconnected from everything, not anymore. My consciousness is tethered to my avatar cell, the other version of myself that I created so I can be in two places at once. That part of me is still out there, watching, feeling, and sensing everything that happens beyond these walls. And right now, through that connection, I can feel Spartan—my beloved—making his way back to me. His presence is like a steady pulse in my mind, a constant reminder that I'm not alone, that he's always close, even when we're physically apart. It's comforting in a way I can't quite put into words, knowing that no matter what dangers or battles he faces out there, he always comes back to us. To me. To Jericho.

I can feel the rhythm of his movements through the bond we share, the weight of his steps as he crosses the city streets, and the hum of his thoughts as he navigates through whatever challenges the night has thrown at him. I smile softly to myself, knowing that even when he's surrounded by chaos, his mind drifts to us—to this quiet room where I'm rocking our son to sleep. It's moments like this that remind me how much we've built together and how far we've come despite the odds. Jericho stirs slightly, his little fingers gripping my shirt as if he senses Spartan's approach, too. I smile down at him, rocking him just a little more, singing the last few lines of the lullaby in a soft whisper, "Shh, Little Jericho. Daddy's almost home." And even as I speak the words aloud, I feel it—Spartan's presence just beyond the door. The bond between us hums with life, and I know he's right there, ready to step back into the warmth of this room, where love and magic intertwine, where we can steal a few more quiet moments before the world outside pulls us back into the fray.