Chapter Text
She thinks this will be her new life now — it's as close to her regretting hours prior that she banded with Steve Rogers.
Cameras are on her ceaselessly, as if afraid the straight jacket and shock collar does little to suppress and neutralize the threats of the Scarlet Witch. She's also sedated, for safety measures. Again, re-emphasizing she is less than unsuited in taking down the very small, very empty cell. Save for the table and bed — her predicament limits the full value of either object. Her isolation is another of their ploy. Away from the associates of very experienced individuals more than likely to bring one hell of a fight if the opportunity comes to light, except, maybe the man that grew an additional 60 feet. She can't say for him — his gadgets confiscated and he's more or less unfitting in battle.
At least he's funny — Wanda finds him amusing, comedy relief, and criminally innocent.
She regrets that maybe her decision in choosing to side along with the Star-spangled hero was rather narrow and not well-thought-out. Her runaway with Barton was rushed, as was blasting Vision 20 feet under Stark's property in an attempt to release the helpless archer. A cognitive mind would perhaps land her in somewhere less tight and in less constraining outfit — her hands are immobilized that it itches for the littlest movement, as its purpose.
Wanda thinks again. She takes back her regret.
She looks again at the camera and smiles — unaware if it's the effective sedation or just her mock at the man on the other side. Almost looking deranged. And it's as close to describing what a man Thaddeus Ross is, the obsessiveness of power and control to which is his undoubted motive.
Whereas she has that power — only missing the other aspect.
The limitations of her room would allow her to only think. Like a child that did wrong, not given the time of day to justify and present a rational explanation for their actions, sent to their very rooms to think of what went wrong and what they did wrong. She's only allowed to think. And that's already scary in itself.
Because her mind leads to places — some to the memories she internally suppresses from the anguish of it all. Others to guilt-filled horrors, like seeing the dead of eyes from his speedster of a brother, bullet holes littered in every inch of his chest. He says it's her fault.
Wanda hates it. Hates the nightmares.
Nevertheless, she succumbs to the fears.
Swallowed whole by the darkness.
There's little she can do — little she wants to do. Stemming from the control loss. And only havoc is the path to which she wanders aimlessly; absolute chaos, if you will.
Simply, she's a bad omen. From which those accursed powers contribute to her becoming a representation of a walking disaster. With luck and chaos like that, why else did her brother die?
No more. No more deaths on her. No more from her hands.
To win, there comes a loss; No more powers.
The Scarlet Witch is no more.
~~~~~~~~~~
"We're free."
The word itself is deceitful, false and a mock to her vocabulary. Nothing is ever free; and if so, the inevitability of consequences is only stalled and halted for the remainder of whatever time Wanda hopes she has in her moment of desperate runaway. She once believed it — in the unshackle of control. Sokovia Accords happened. The rift in the Avengers happened. The isolation and imprisonment happened. Wanda doesn't know anymore.
Nonetheless, the word is the closest to what she's feeling right now. In an aircraft, stolen no less, Wanda relaxes her aching muscles.
Natasha leans into her shoulder. "In a sense. Believe it or not, vigilante doesn't sound all that great."
Wanda is happy to let her. The inconvenience of the other woman in her opposing side of the war buries a hole in the already established bond she shares with the Black Widow. In her days, those glorious before Lagos, it'd been the redhead she would gravitate towards for the single reason that she is another of the same sex in an otherwise whole male team. Majority of her years were attempting to befriend Natasha, albeit through the punches she hurls in the Monday to Friday afternoon training session. Dinner was on her on Saturday and Sunday. Unjust was it that she was pitted against her.
"What's out there for us?" Wanda inquires. Near hopeful there was a rather solid fix to what is already an in-too-deep wound. She's aware and knows too much now; nothing will stay the same as it was just days ago. Still, doesn't hurt to be told wrong and not try at it.
Time flies fast, thinking now.
"I don't know," Natasha admits, her sorrow discernible uncharacteristically. "Wanted the family to remain intact. But Barton wants to return to his own. So does Lang."
Wanda hears family. The only one Natasha has, she realizes.
"And what about him?"
She means the captain, of the plane and of the one branded to have America in the alias. Steve steers the vehicle, Sam remains his wingman in the many senses of the word — be it in piloting, in duties and obligations, or in life and friendship. Out of those captured, the expectation of their extraction from the imprisonment of the highly-maximum security penitentiary was the highest from the Falcon. The archer was the close second, now slumbering with Scott across the women.
Coming across the understanding of Steve Rogers in his morals and way of life is easy for Sam. It's the easiest for Natasha — and between the two, it's not considered to be a contest anymore. So when she pulls a smile, one seemingly sad but whole in a way, Wanda hunches that their story is not concluding at its finale. Far from such a tale.
"He's still insistent on doing good. Just not with the shield." Natasha says so — Wanda misses the details that he came in lacking the iconic cover. It's a wonder whatever happened to the signature that makes Captain America so Captain America.
"And not with the team." Wanda reminds her.
"I'm with him." She admits. "Wilson too. We're still in this — whatever it is." Her hand gestures towards them in loops.
The almost silent offering of another member in their secret unit of justice nearly passes by Wanda, given away by the pleading and hopeful look of her comrade when she tilts to look beside. It's as close to a heart-to-heart request coming from Natasha, and not many get the opportunity to experience one out of her. She's closed off, even those of her close circle.
Wanda admits the offer lacks the temptation her friend puts highly in regard. That maybe Romanoff was a tad late in asking her to join them and continue what it is they stand for, where if Wanda was appealed the same wordless offer, in which it was before her naivety washed away, she might have said yes. She might have complied. Instead, in that little girl's place, is a matured woman of understanding that nowhere was it considered her inborn powers to be that of a blessing neither miracle. Coming to life out of the passionate nature of resentment — Wanda recalls it from her hatred of Stark. Nothing born out of the negativity can be seen as good-natured as intended.
Perhaps, in another life, her cluelessness would have matched like that of before.
"Not me," Wanda confesses. "People see what I do with my hands and they start bolting the other direction."
"It doesn't matter what they think." Her friend tells her.
"It matters what they fear." Wanda corrects.
Natasha refutes the accusation, yet fails — opens her mouth for the preparation of contradiction before it shuts slowly upon sinking in Wanda's word. There's hardly a say that defines how wrong Wanda is; not after the airport, not after Lagos, and certainly not after Ultron. Though time heals wounds, it's the scars planted by a girl that unknowingly was a crucial role in a genocide act. Not as easily erased as the papers then. Articles spread of Wanda — of the controversial invitation to put her inside the team, so soon after too. It was Clint's idea. Back then that seemed to be the only problem.
Now, she juggles between her own ordeal of self-despair whilst escaping from the reality of detainment. The origin of fear incarnation becomes victim to her own source. It's a tragedy at its finest.
"Where will you go?" Natasha redirects, disappointment not yet cast away.
Wanda ignores it; humming innocently in the thick accent for minutes, she weighs her options — of which she crosses in mind where the obvious no-entry territory should be. And of which she thinks she could live life in normalcy, or how much she could try to make it that way.
"I’ve always wanted to go to the UK. Scotland sounds nice."
"And how will you survive? Financially."
"I have you to support me monetarily," she said simply — sounding like it's the most obvious shit in the world.
"I'm not your sugar mommy," Natasha objects. Odds are, it's almost certain Natasha becomes exactly that. "Alone?"
Wanda has no one; maybe for the better that there are lesser with the uncontrollable, psychotic super-mutant as the papers say. She can't help but agree — Wanda ignores the question again. "Thinking of dyeing my hair."
Natasha grins, distracted. "Trying to remain hidden? Go for blond. Always wanted that colour."
She shakes her head, chuckling. "Maybe amber."