Chapter 11

Servat Regina Colorem


Only Tony Stark could get the idea to devote an entire floor to training, so Wanda had to search what looked like the Disney World of fitness-studios with far too many rooms, or like a greater version of Professor Xavier’s danger room. It had been three days since she had found the body of the Doctor’s apprentice. She had spent those days in her quarters, refusing food or even to pull the light switch to be alone with her grief. It had been one of these times when the hours just seemed to fly by while she was lost in thought. Still, she hadn’t got an answer to the question of why.

It was now past noon and she had finally got up, showered and made herself presentable, only to realize that she needed to talk to someone. That someone had to have her trust, and between all these strangers she saw day by day, Steve Rogers was the only one she could think of and the only one who offered a solution. She found herself really missing Agatha, as the old witch was the very picture of patience and the best friend one could wish for.

She found Steve hitting a sandbag, glistening with sweat, his muscles rippling under his far too tight shirt. A few strands of his hair fell onto his forehead while he punched the sandbag with methodical fervour. He looked adorable.

Wanda had leaned in the doorway and only indulged herself in watching the Captain for a few moments when he noticed her, looking a little bit concerned under his polite smile. “Out of your hidey-hole at last?”

So her absence didn’t go unnoticed. How could it? There were only so many occupants in the tower, and she was still on Tony Stark’s payroll. She hadn’t shown up for work, which must have driven Jane Foster nearly insane. Her work on the scepter was more demanding than she originally thought, and she clashed frequently with the astrophysicist over it - and Jane never let a chance pass to complain to Steve about her slow work. This time, she must have had a field day.

Squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath, Wanda braced herself, before she could finally present her request. “Steve, I need your help.” Not the best way to begin this conversation, but Steve Rogers was patient, although he looked a little surprised.

Wanda took another deep breath. “I don’t want to be sidelined anymore.”

Steve blinked, clearly confused. “What do you mean?”

“Over the course of my life, I have rejected a few opportunities. My father wanted my to be a part of his activist group. I declined because it put me at odds with S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint still wants to recruit me, but I declined because it might put me at odds with my father.” She shook her head. “These concerns still exist, but they aren’t my main concern anymore. Since the day I’ve been sent to London, I have stumbled over bodies again and again. I’m sick of all of this death.” She nervously rubbed her hands together; even to her own ears, she sounded more desperate than she had intended. This wasn’t going as planned, but that didn’t diminish the importance of her request. “I’m sick of just let that all happen. But if anyone can solve this mess, it’s you and your friends, all those extraordinary people with extraordinary abilities and extraordinary ways to gather information. At the very least, you will avenge these deaths, at best you will find out why they happened in the first place. I want to help you, not only with warding a dangerous tool, but with everything I have.” There. Everything she had tried to avoid the last decade had just been thrown overboard. She should feel something like regret, but instead, felt a little relieved. How odd.

Steve Rogers seemed to consider her request carefully, folding his arms before his chest and looking at her as if in evaluation. “You want in?”

“So to speak. I want to know what you know.”

Steve Rogers grimaced. Then he went to his bag, rolling off the bandages from his wrists, trying his best to look occupied while he was obviously deep in thought. Wanda waited patiently, feeling relieved and strangely confident, something she hadn’t anticipated. Steve however seemed to struggle internally with a decision, but turned around to face her. “Someone targets Gifted or people who are suspected to be mages. That includes you.”

“That is an argument in my favour, I presume.”

“True enough.” He shrugged helplessly. Then, he stepped closer, less than an arm’s length only to eye her up and down. There was something confused about his behaviour today. Perhaps he had a chip on his shoulder or something had gone more wrong than usual. “Look, things could turn ugly for you if you take a more active role and, say, help us investigating.”

“Fine by me.” Wanda replied, undeterred. Some part of her was actually itching to get itself into danger. This must have been the very insane part of her that needed to be thoroughly medicated.

The Captain sighed in frustration. “Very well. But I gotta ask you: Can you dance?”

She was fully aware that he just asked about her abilities in the area of self-defence and if she could hold her own in close quarters. Although he took the matter very seriously, he really looked a bit too stern. It didn’t suit him and would certainly leave a scar in the form of wrinkles if that went on. So, instead of answering him, she opted for a more playful approach to lift his spirits. “Foxtrot or Cha-Cha-Cha?”

He rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with irony, but also mild amusement. “Ha. Ha. So, no training.”

Wanda shook her head. “Sorry. Only Tai Chi for meditation purposes about six years ago.”

“What’s with that spooky energy-thing you do?”

Spooky … that was one description one could give about her powers. She could mask it with magic, but if she didn’t put that effort into it, it looked like glowing threads of scarlet red. Wanda thought it was disgusting. She crossed her arms before her chest and treated him with a doubtful look. “Half of the time, I am surprised myself what these hexbolts do. You really don’t want that loose.”

He grimaced in response. “You do know that the Hulk is a member of the Avengers roster?”

“Touché.” It was hard to compete with the Hulk in terms of loose cannons … that was, if Bruce Banner was found somewhere sometime soon. “But last time I used hexbolts against living people, it turned out bad.”

Steve Rogers just wordlessly seated himself on the table, made himself comfortable and made an offering gesture, beckoning her to elaborate. He without the hint of judgment, putting her at ease while sitting on a table in all his sweaty, tight-shirted glory. Wanda would have rather talked about his workout schedule than about the darker aspects of her past, but it was inevitable now. “Well … before Barton caught me, I clashed with a team of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. I just know that I pointed at them and they went all down, and that was everything that counted for me at the time. Later, when I woke up in the hospital, I overheard the nurse-talk - at least one of the agents had had a collapsed lung and suffered a serious choking fit. That woman later became the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent to watch over me.” She took a deep breath. So strange - she had kept her experience with this curious kind of violence to herself. In his eyes, it must have been mild, in her mind, it was frightening what she could do with as little as a gesture. The Captain was a different kind of beast in that regard; as a soldier, he was accustomed to death and fighting, of the more gritty aspects of fighting. He didn’t have the same view as she, a mere civilian.

However, Steve didn’t fail to be reassuring. “Barton would have told you if something worse happened.” He chuckled. “And I know how it’s like not to have his own power under control. You wouldn’t believe how many water glasses I accidentally crushed after the serum.”

“People can be frail like glass.” That was at least what Wanda feared.

He nodded. “As long as you use your own power with care and responsibility, you should be fine. You already demonstrated that you can change probability in your favour with simple cards. What else can you do and how exactly do you do it?”

“That depends on my will.” Wanda replied, suddenly feeling a bit shy. What did he want exactly, a demonstration? She hadn’t done that kind of thing in a while, unless for training purposes. And Steve wasn’t Agatha; he was someone she still feared could judge her, and if she was completely honest, someone she wanted to impress at least a little bit. Her chaotic spells and powers weren’t exactly ideal for this task.

“It’s ok to show off.” He reassured her as if reading her thoughts. Her uncomfortable feeling must have been very obvious. “How exactly do you do these ‘spells’?”

“Well …” She answered, mainly to gain a little time. There was a small part of her who was eager, anxious and giddy to show him what she could do, but that part was certifiably nutters. “I mostly imagine what I want to do and make a gesture or a ritual to achieve it. When I practiced something or when the effect isn’t that spectacular, it’s safe to say that I can do it.” She made a pointed gesture at the sandbag, letting a small bit of magic flow, and the sandbag started swinging as if someone had just punched it. Steve stopped the bag from swinging further with one hand, his eyes never leaving her, thoroughly interested and even intrigued.

“More sophisticated effects are also possible,” she said eagerly, gathering power for her next trick that was indeed more demanding in terms of complexity. It would be an illusion, which wasn’t exactly her forte, but something that stood reason not to cause too much damage. Since she was showing off, she would include a verbal component, something that she normally didn’t do - it looked so silly. Illusions were, by their very definition, messing with the mind of the observer, so she thought about the first tv-show that came into her mind and that had messed with the minds of the audience. She took her chant out of it. “Through the darkness if future’s past/the magician longs to see/One chants between two worlds …” She noticed that she was smiling while she worked on the suspense, finally opening her arms for the climatic end of the spell. “Fire, walk with me.”


It should have been a nice, illusionary spectacle. Fireworks, perhaps, or sparkling flames dancing across the room. But things didn’t go as planned; instead of an illusion, actual flames were blazing everywhere, taking the form of a huge bird spreading its wings, then dissolving into the air, leaving just the echo of brightness and the sheer force of flame behind. Like the flickering of candlelight, all the flames died after a moment, which was more than enough to startle Wanda and Steve. From one moment to the other, the room had been alight with heatless flame, but curiously enough, it had blackened the ceiling. Great … she just vandalized the Avengers Tower.

It got better. There was a short noise and the sprinkler system went off, drenching both Steve and Wanda completely. Both looked up to the ceiling where the water was coming from, both silent, both unsure how to react. Wanda noticed that the running water just served to make Steve even prettier, while with her, it just ruined her make-up. The world wasn’t fair.

“I think you made your point.” Steve said dryly, giving Wanda a wry smile that had nothing to do with ridicule. Maybe he thought it practical that he had technically done his post-training shower. “Jarvis, end fire extinguishing system.” Wordlessly, he went into another room, came back with a few towels and offered Wanda one, his face carefully neutral.

She didn’t know if she should laugh or cry. While pondering the decision, she carefully dabbed her face. Steve, however, hid his face in his towel, making muffled funny noises every now and then. It wasn’t until long that Wanda realized that he was desperately trying not to laugh. It was that kind of contagious laughter that completely took her dark mood away, so she started giggling as well. “Fire truly walks with me,” she snorted with laughter, while Steve, trying in vain to bite in his towel in an attempt to choke his amusement into submission.

“Poof!” He chuckled, accompanying his words with a gesture describing the flamy spell, all the while standing in a huge puddle of water.

After they had both calmed down, Steve’s grin died and he obviously needed to change the subject. “I wish we had found you earlier; Loki would have never known what hit him. Seriously, we have tons of free space. We’ll find one where you can practice your … spells. I call them chaos grenades.”

Wanda nodded, simultaneously trying to dry her hair and listening to the Captain. “Very well. Should I ever be in any shape to aid you without being a danger, my skills are yours. Even if I am not, my skills are still yours.”

“That’s all I can ask for. In return, information. You’ve met Natasha?”

In her opinion, Natasha Romanoff was a fascinating woman that carried herself with the confidence of a master of her craft, which was admirable in its own right.

The Captain sighed in frustration. “She caught a merc who was hired to protect not only her, but every person belonging to the Avengers. When asked who hired him and his colleagues, he described a tall woman in white.” There was a slightly accusing undertone in his voice, but he took the edge out of it quickly by sing-songing the last part of the sentence. “… hair black as S.H.I.E.L.D. catsuits, eyes blue like my water bottle, voice like melted butter, air of sadness ... sounds familiar?” His smile died and was replaced by the expression of concern. “Seriously, he identified you when shown a picture. He has no reason to lie, but the time-table doesn’t fit. When he was hired, you were on a whole different continent. It wasn’t you.”

“Definitely not.” Wanda nodded in affirmation. How strange. Nevermind that she wouldn’t have used those flowery descriptions of herself, who would have thought that someone would use her identity, of all things? And why would someone want to let appear as if she was in a position to hire protection for the Avengers? That made no sense, unless she was chosen at random just to hide the real woman in white. But, there was nothing she could do about it as long as she had no further intel to figure it out. “I would never wear white anyway. It makes me look paler than I am.”

Steve Rogers nodded, playing along with her flippant mood. “There are a lot of ways to copy someone’s appearance. Old-fashioned masks, biometric holoemitter …”

“Yes.” Wanda replied, her mind working on another possibility, but working started to be increasingly difficult as she started to shiver with cold. “But it must have been someone who saw me very recently.” She pointed at her head, her hair specifically. “Those have been black only for a relatively short time, and I only emerged back in public in London. This is the first time that I tried this hair colour. So, it follows, the woman impersonating me must have seen me recently.”

“... and you haven’t left the Tower save for one occasion.” Steve added, his face brightening. He took one of her wet strands between his fingers, twirling them playfully. “Who would have thought that hair dye would give us the hint that we need? What’s the natural color, by the way?”

“Brown.” Wanda couldn’t help but smile, feeling giddy like a teenager “Boring, boring medium brown. I usually dye it auburn.”

Before Steve could answer anything, he was rather rudely interrupted by a female voice in the corner of the room. “For the love of God, stop it. If you two are displaying any more, I’m going to puke right here, right now.”

Victoria Hand emerged from the shadows with the skill and poise of someone used to dramatic entries. She was a ridiculously tall woman with caustic features, dark eyes, black-rimmed glasses and auburn hair with red highlights, holding a folder in her hands. Her voice was rich, steady and icy like her demeanor, and her eyes were filled with steeled resolve that seemed to be woven in every fiber of her being. This woman didn’t take anything lightly, smiled only when she had beaten an enemy, and was above human emotions like humor or compassion. With her chin slightly raised, she shot a cold glance at Steve Rogers; and even he seemed to be taken aback. Wanda, however, had no illusions that she must have looked outright guilty.

“Captain.” She nodded to Steve Rogers respectfully, never losing her air of coldness and professionalism. “Since Romanoff and Barton are on their wild goose-chase, I am going to be the in-between until one of them can pick up their duties again.” Her voice for both of her fellow agent’s supposedly private matter contained no small amount of disapproval. She nodded towards Wanda. “Imagine my surprise when I found out that you are harboring a fugitive. You, of all people, Captain Rogers.” Her antagonism became something exhausting in Wanda’s eyes. Victoria Hand had been her supervising officer within S.H.I.E.L.D. and had made sure to make the witch’s life a living hell, wielding protocol like a weapon. On the other hand, she couldn’t be faulted, since it had been Hand who had had the serious choking fit the day Barton caught the Scarlet Witch.

“We do,” Rogers just replied, his demeanor casual. Why weren’t there any witty banters when Hand was involved? But Victoria Hand’s critique seemed to roll off like mercury and he left her simply with that answer.

“I see,” Hand said, obviously disapproving, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow your fugitive for a minute or two.”

“I just might mind.” Steve Rogers was now visibly irritated and tight-lipped.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get her back in one piece. We just have to discuss some private business.”

Steve exchanged one look with Wanda, and although she wasn’t really keen on being alone with Hand in one room, the woman was reasonable after all. So, she nodded, Steve grabbed his towel and left them both alone.

When he was gone, Victoria Hand eyed Wanda from head to toe. It was odd … there were people on this world that possessed names that were impossible to separate. Victoria Hand was not Victoria, and she wasn’t Hand in all but the rarest of cases. She was Victoria Hand with her surname, Victoria Hand with her last name.

“I must say, I’m disappointed in you,” Victoria Hand said, her expression cold and humorless. “I thought we had an agreement: You had to be observed at all times, and yet you simply left without a trace.”

“That wasn’t an agreement, it was your rule. If it had been an agreement, my opinion would have mattered,” Wanda replied, her composure restrained, but ultimately, she was disturbed by the unmasked hostility of the agent.

“True.” Hand cocked her head. “Let’s be honest here: I don’t like you. I think you and your kind are just a whim of nature. You will pass. If you want to call me a racist, go ahead. I can call you a terrorist in return and be equally right.”

That wasn’t even an insult anymore, that was a full-frontal assault in terms of offence. But Hand’s words didn’t fail in their purpose; they stung. It still hurt to be called a freak, and it still hurt to be called something different than the norm that this business-like woman before her embodied. But at the same time, she felt anger welling up inside her. This wasn’t fair. This treatment wasn’t fair for anyone. “I wanted to call you bitter instead,” she answered with a strangely hoarse voice, like she was close to tears.

To her credit, Victoria Hand was still keeping most of her poise and cool even while outright rage bled through, seething underneath. She stepped closer exactly like Steve had done it a few minutes before. She even mocked his gestures in taking one of Wanda’s hair tips between hair, twirling it, glaring all the while with an intensity that left even Wanda speechless. Victoria Hand’s anger was as tangible as any massive object, visible, audible, a strange taste on the tongue. Her voice was barely a whisper, shaking with anger. “Remember …” Her hand trailed along Wanda’s blouse, ripping it open with a sudden movement. Wanda herself was shaking, in part because of the cold, while another part was terrified and petrified with indecision and terror. With a single movement, Victoria Hand had not only revealed the undergarments, but also the little scar on Wanda’s chest, just above her heart. That was how Clint Barton had restrained her all those years ago - he had shot her in the chest and regretted later to have hurt a minor, nothing but a kid in his eyes. But before this had happened, Victoria Hand had laid before Wanda, choking and gasping for air for her dear life. “Remember that. We both should have died that day, but you live because an assassin found his conscience.” Those words were spat in disgust, and Wanda couldn’t even fault her. Receiving such a serious injury because of a cocky teenager was nothing to be trifled with. But it was worse, so much worse.

“You live because of Barton,” Victoria Hand continued, still seething with anger, still whispering. She pointed her finger at her own chest. “I live because I had a teammate. His name was George Connor. They transplanted his lung just in time to save me.”

Merciful God. Teammates, transplantation … Wanda had killed those men that were down all those years ago. It must have been organ failure. But how? Why didn’t Barton tell her? How must Hand have felt to watch over a girl that had killed her teammates and crushed her lungs? Worst of all, Wanda got away scot-free in Hand’s eyes.

The shock sat deep, and Wanda just stood there with widened eyes, unable to move, unable to speak. She had taken lives - she hadn’t done it intentionally, but that didn’t change the fact. How did that happen? How could she ever forgive herself?

Victoria Hand saw Wanda’s horror, and there was the hint of a smile on her face. It dawned on her that Hand deserved to be cruel. She deserved to be angry and she deserved to give her hell. “You didn’t know, did you?” She asked, already knowing the answer. But there was more. There was always more. “You know, I was a promising field agent at that time. My little incident with you put an end to that. What can I say?” She shoved the folder, whatever it contained, into Wanda’s hands, took a step back, turned on her heel and gave her a “thank you,” dripping with irony, only to leave her alone with her grief and her guilt.

Notes