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Pietro wakes in the dark, cramped onto a sofa in an unfamiliar living room that somehow manages to still feel familiar. The sensation that sweeps over him is a little like nostalgia, but uncomfortable, more like deja vu. It’s as if he is repeating something from beyond the grasp of his memory. The sofa is covered in soft velvet, and a little too short for his height, which seems wrong. He falls asleep on the sofa all the time, a combination of late nights and long days catching up to him as he sinks into the familiar comfort of the long, tufted leather-
No.
Their mother had a velvet sofa. It was a tacky sectional thing, worn-out synthetic burgundy velvet stretched over a frame sagging after a decade of abuse by two children. It’s probably long-gone now. A relic of the seventies fallen victim to the contemporary design of the eighties, and the last time he visited her-
No.
This is Wanda’s house. It’s a tidy home with two children. Of course she has a velvet sofa just like they knew growing up, but one made of nicer materials and in a trendy shade of yellow. That had to be why it felt wrong. Not because he was used to crashing on a leather sofa. Where did that idea even come from? Pietro blinks in the murky dark and his stomach growls. He’s hungry again. That must be what woke him.
Pietro goes into the kitchen and pauses as the same, uneasy feeling of deja vu sweeps over him. Instead of the house’s dated stained-wood cabinets and Formica countertops, he instead sees a tidy white kitchen island, cabinets and tile-
No.
Pietro blinks. In the dark, Wanda’s kitchen reminds him of home, of their mother’s kitchen, of boiled hot dogs with ketchup wrapped in slices of bread, of fried bologna sandwiches and watching Sesame Street on the tiny TV in the corner while eating cereal before school. Cereal is a good idea actually, Pietro thinks as he raids the pantry and finds a sensible, sugar-laden kids brand instead of the high-protein, healthy granola stuff they have at-
No.
-home. Right. He thinks about the pantry while making his snack. Wanda’s shelves store canned goods, pasta and flour and sugar in clear, labeled canisters. The kids’ snacks and cereal boxes are up high out of reach, just like at their mother’s house. Pietro makes a bowl of cereal and wonders why that seems wrong. Why is he expecting a pantry stocked with high fat and high protein snacks, perfect for powering an insane metabolism like his-
No!
Pain so sharp it steals his breath cuts through Pietro’s thoughts. He doubles over. The cereal bowl slips from his fingers and falls through the dark in slow-motion. It shatters on the linoleum. Milk, cereal, and ceramic pieces blossom outward in a slow, miniature explosion that soaks his socks and the rug by the sink. Pietro is still staring in disbelief at a large shard of the bowl rocking on the floor when the kitchen lights switch on. Wanda stands in the doorway, wearing a housecoat over her nightgown, fuzzy slippers on her feet, and her hair neatly rolled up in curlers. Like this, doesn’t she remind Pietro of their mother? His head throbs.
“Pietro? Are you alright?”
“Sorry. I... broke your bowl,” Pietro says in a daze.
“It’s alright,” she says as she steps around the mess to comfort him.
“But... I couldn’t catch it.” That thought is oddly distressing. Cold milk seeps through his socks. Does he even have another pair to replace them? Why can’t he remember whether or not he brought a bag?
“Really, Pietro. It’s just a silly old bowl. Nothing more than spilled milk.”
“No, Wanda, you don’t get it. I should’ve been able to catch it-“
Wanda sighs, and props a fist on her hip. She looks at him fondly, as if she knows every bad habit of his and has endless patience for his quirks.
“Why don’t you go and get cleaned up. I’ll take care of this and bring you some fresh clothes.”
Pietro frowns.
“Do you have my bag?”
“Your what?”
“My bag. Didn’t I bring a bag with me?”
Confusion darkens Wanda’s face for a moment, but then the clouds break as she smiles again, having worked out the problem.
“Of course you did. I put it in the upstairs bathroom. Second door on the left.”
“Okay. Thanks, sis.”
Pietro leaves, and doesn’t see Wanda repair the bowl, and return the milk and cereal to their containers with a wave of her hand-
Pietro wakes hungry, thinking about a midnight snack. He raids Wanda’s pantry for cereal and loses a few moments staring at the mesmerizing swirl of colored loops plinking into the bowl in a slow, sugary avalanche. Pietro adds milk, and then accidentally bumps the bowl off the counter. It smacks against the floor with a loud, wet crash. He stares at the mess, empty hand outstretched as if to catch it even though it's already shattered on the floor.
“You shouldn’t be awake.”
Wanda appears in the kitchen suddenly, scowling at him, gaze cold and hard. She looks wrong. Her hair is styled in smooth waves, and she wears a long coat, not a nightgown and slippers like he expects to see in the middle of the night. She sounds different, too. Gone is the sweet, harmless all-American-girl drawl, and instead she speaks with an Eastern European accent, her consonants sharpened into hooks that drag the vowels along. Something about it seems vaguely familiar and a little threatening to Pietro, but the jagged, disjointed thoughts won’t coalesce into anything coherent.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” She asks.
“I was hungry, and… I dropped it.” Pietro stares at the mess around his feet. “I couldn’t catch it. Why wasn’t I fast enough to catch-“
“No,” Wanda says firmly, and raises her hand-
Pietro wakes in the morning, starving. Agnes the nosy neighbor flirts with him over breakfast. He knows that normally he would enjoy the attention, but something about the woman alarms him as he shovels cereal into his mouth. For one thing, he doesn’t like how she isn’t surprised to see him there on the living room floor, eating and watching cartoons with the twins. Agnes even brought a plate of warm, fresh-baked banana nut muffins for the family, as if she suspected they had a guest. He also doesn’t like how she shrugs it off when Wanda asks how she knew Pietro was visiting
“Of course I’m gonna know when some fresh young blood joins this neighborhood.” Agnes laughs and pats his cheek patronizingly when he starts eating a muffin after his second bowl of cereal. “And what an appetite! Why don’t you come over later and I’ll cook one of my special recipes for you?” Agnes winks at him.
“Agnes! What would Ralph think about that?” Wanda scolds her, and the two women share a laugh.
Pietro has no idea what’s going on, or why he instinctively distrusts Agnes. Despite that, he’s still hungry, and reaches for another muffin.
“Pietro? Would you help me for a moment?”
Vision interrupts his thoughts with the request. It’s polite, but there is something shrewd in his gaze. Maybe Agnes unsettles him, too.
“Sure, man.”
He and Vision carry breakfast dishes into the kitchen, and as they wash them Pietro manages to not break anything.
“So, what’s up?”
“Wanda seems delighted to have you visit, but I need to ask you some questions.”
“Go for it.”
“I apologize, but I’m afraid they may be upsetting to you,” Vision says as he passes a clean, wet plate to Pietro.
“Pfft, doubt it, man. I don’t have anything to hide.”
“Wanda has spent a great many years under the assumption that you were dead. If you are in fact alive, where have you been?”
“Uh, dead? Wow, that’s embarrassing,” Pietro laughs. He stacks dry dishes in messy piles on the counter. “Little sis was so embarrassed by me that she told people I was dead? Obviously she was making that one up, Vis.”
“Then, you can tell me where you’ve been?”
“Traveling,” Pietro says, even though it doesn’t feel right. “I move around. A lot.”
“And quite quickly, I don’t doubt?”
“Dude, you have no idea.” Pietro smirks as he says it, as if he’s teasing Vision with a joke that has an obvious punchline. He swears he even hears muffled laughter.
But Vision isn’t laughing. There isn’t even a smile on the man’s face as he regards his brother in law. Then, something in Vision’s gaze shifts, from uncertainty to determination. Vision raises damp fingers to Pietro’s temple and touches him lightly. It lasts only a moment, a single beat in the rhythm of time, but for Pietro everything slows down, nearly to a complete halt as the discordant and mismatched memories crowding his mind all slide sideways. Momentum gains as the pieces tumble and fall, becoming an avalanche that sweeps Pietro right over the edge of a red horizon-
“Ahh! What the-“ Peter gasps and jerks away as Vision withdraws. Panic steals his breath and an overwhelming sorrow clenches his lungs. Tears crowd into his eyes as he backs away from the red and green man-shaped machine in front of him. “Who the hell are you?!”
“Oh, Wanda,” Vision’s voice is heartbroken, heavy with betrayal, and yet there is a glimmer of interest in his eyes, a hint of curiosity. “What have you done?”
“Oh fuck! Are you a Sentinel?” Peter is ready to bolt, but the countertop digging into his back blocks an easy escape.
“No, I am Vision. I apologize for reaching into your thoughts without your permission, but our time is limited.”
As if on cue, Wanda calls out from the other room.
“Vis? Is everything alright?”
“Yes, dear, of course. We’ll only be a moment,” Vision responds with the tone of a doting husband, but his serious gaze never wavers from Peter.
“Where am I?” Peter wipes his face and looks around the unfamiliar kitchen. “It’s… someone’s in my head, dude. It hurts so much.”
“Yes. And I’m afraid I will have to return you to her control to maintain this illusion. I thought perhaps peering into your mind would give me insight into what she’s doing, but your thoughts are not what I expected. It’s… extraordinary. I had no idea Wanda was capable of such a thing.”
“Huh?”
“I’m sorry, Peter.” Vision reaches out to him, and Peter is too stricken to move away. “I promise when this is over, I will do what I can to help you-“
“Wait-“
Everything tips again, hurt and anger and sorrow rush into his mind, joining the confusion and fear, and Peter forgets.
“What are you boys doing in here?”
Pietro is at the sink washing dishes when Wanda joins them. He hands each clean dish off to Vision.
“Your brother was just telling me about his track and field days.”
“Oh?” I thought you didn’t like talking about that?” Wanda puts a soothing hand on his shoulder, and Pietro’s thoughts go soft and mushy again.
“Yeah, because of… my accident.” He recalls the blinding pain of breaking bones, but not the circumstance. Was he running on a team? Were they doing something important?
“That’s right,” Wanda’s voice soothes his chaotic thoughts. Inexplicable sorrow swells up to fill his chest and drown the confusing memories. “It’s such a shame that you weren’t able to run anymore.”
“Yeah,” Pietro’s voice shakes, and he fumbles handing off a bowl to Vision. It crashes to the floor, shatters into pieces that fly in all directions.
Pietro stares, empty hand outstretched as if to catch it. His thoughts feel scattered like the porcelain pieces on the floor.
“I… I broke your bowl.” His voice quavers, emotions he doesn’t understand nearly overflowing. “I should’ve caught it-“
“Pietro-“ Vision says.
“No.” Wanda sighs, and waves her hand.