Previously On

Salem Massachusetts, 1693

The two women lead me forward on the path through the dark forest, their hands gripping my arms with the kind of force that leaves bruises. The one holding the torch walks just ahead, casting long, distorted shadows among the trees. But they aren't just leading me anymore—they're dragging me. My legs grow heavier with each step, my body resisting every inch, because I know what's waiting for me at the clearing.

"No, no, no." I shudder, my voice barely a whisper as I drop to my knees, desperation clawing at my chest. I don't want to go.

But they pick me up without hesitation, hauling me forward as if my pleas mean nothing. My feet barely skim the ground as we continue the walk, their hands like iron shackles around my arms.

"Please, no." The fear in my voice is unmistakable now, and I don't even try to hide it.

That's when I see it—the post, tall and ominous, standing like a cruel monument in the clearing. Hooded figures surround it, their faces hidden in shadow, waiting. My heart pounds in my chest.

"No. No, please." The words escape me in a frantic whisper, but I know they fall on deaf ears.

They drag me up the steps leading to the post and my breath comes out in ragged gasps. A sharp grunt escapes me as they wrench my arms behind my back, the sudden pain shooting up my shoulders.

With a flick of their hands, they cast a binding spell. I feel the magic coil around me, locking my arms in place, stripping me of any chance to fight back. The realization hits me like a blow—I am powerless now.

I look ahead and see Evanora standing before me, her gaze fixed on me with an emotionless expression. My mother.

"Agatha Harkness, are you a witch?" Her voice is cold, distant.

I take a moment before answering, my heart pounding in my chest. I am completely surrounded by the hooded women, and I can feel their piercing gazes on me.

"Yes. I am a witch."

"Yet you have betrayed your coven." Evanora pulls back her hood, and the other women follow suit. I know them—I know all of them. I grew up with them, played with them, and now they stand here, ready to watch me burn.

"I have not!" I call out, my voice breaking through the tension. In no world would I ever betray my coven. Yes, I was a loner, and I preferred to live by the belief that it was unhealthy to depend on anyone else—but these were still my sisters. Betraying them was not in my dictionary.

 "You stole knowledge above your age and station. You practiced the darkest of magic."

That's what this was about? Me wanting to increase my magical knowledge? Me dipping my toes into the dark arts? What was so wrong with wanting to be powerful.

I decide to play dumb for now. "I know… I know nothing of these crimes." My voice is high and trembling. "I… I swear it."

"Enough deception!" Evanora yells.

I compose my face and look at her calmly, gone is the panicking girl from just a moment ago.

"I did not break your rules. They simply bent to my power." A little smirk creeps across my lips, and I don't bother hiding it.

My mother looks at me for a moment before nodding to the other witches, who immediately start chanting in Latin. Blue energy crackles at their fingertips, and I feel the fear clawing its way back into me.

"Wait. No. I can't control it. I…" I look around frantically, panic rising in my chest. I'm not lying. There's this power inside me—a power I wasn't capable of controlling. But I wanted to. I would be unstoppable once I had it under my control.

 "If only you would teach me!" I cry out.

They don't understand. I want the power, yes—but I don't want to lose myself. I never wanted to go this far. If they had just guided me, taught me how to control it… maybe I wouldn't have fallen so deep into the darkness. But now… now I'm not sure I can come back.

"Help me! Please!" I scream, begging for help in more ways than one.

I look at the woman who gave birth to me. "Mother, please. Please! Mother!"

But the only response is her voice joining the other witches in the chant. I stare at her. I knew she had hated me my entire life, but to go this far…

I hear their voices rising to a crescendo, their chanting reaching its peak, and with a sinking feeling, I realize I'm done for.

"No!" I scream, the word tearing from my throat just as I'm hit with multiple beams of blue light.

The blue energy surges toward me, crackling like a storm as it strikes my chest. The impact is brutal, and it feels as though my entire body has been set ablaze. Fire licks at my skin, spreading from the point of impact, and though I know I'm not standing on a pyre, the pain makes it feel like I might as well be. Every inch of me is burning, searing from the inside out. I close my eyes, as if that will make the pain any less.

My wrists throb, bound tightly by the spell, and the heat intensifies there, as if the very bindings are branding my skin. I try to move my arms, to shield myself, but they remain locked in place, immovable. The helplessness only makes the agony worse, and all I can do is writhe as the energy pulses through me.

I can feel my life's energy being pulled from deep inside me, rising up my throat as if it's being ripped out, forcefully dragged from my very core.

But then the sensation changes. It's subtle at first—the burning no longer feels like I'm standing in the middle of a raging fire. Instead, it softens, transforming into something more like a comfortable warmth. Confusion flickers through me as the searing pain begins to fade, and before I can process it, the agony disappears entirely.

The screams that tore from my throat moments ago fade into a soft moan, replaced by a calm I can't quite comprehend. It's as if the energy that was tearing me apart is now cradling me, soothing the agony that once overwhelmed me.

Then, I sense the change. Instead of draining my life force, I feel something flowing back into me—their energy. It rushes in, filling the space where my own strength had been stolen. I open my eyes to see the blue beams have transformed into a deep purple—my color.

I hear the witches around me start to gasp for breath, their vitality visibly draining from their bodies. It's all coming to me. With every passing second, I grow stronger, more powerful. God, does this feel good. This is the power that had been dormant inside me all along, and now that it's awakened, it hungers for more. I hunger for more.

My mother flies into the sky, shouting words in Latin, and hurls another shot of blue energy into my chest. But I can feel how much stronger I am now. The binding spell no longer controls me. I move my right hand and shatter it effortlessly.

With a swift, sweeping motion of my hands, I unleash a blast of raw power that surges outward, striking down the witches in an instant. Their bodies crumple as the last of their energy is ripped away.

Magic flows around my hands as I look up at my mother. I have to try. "Please, I can be good." I plead, though deep down, I know the truth—the good and innocent Agatha Harkness had just vanished for good.

But Evanora shakes her head. "No you cannot."

A blue crown forms on her head as she summons every ounce of power she has and strikes me in the chest again.

I stumble back, slamming into the wooden post, and scream. The pain is excruciating. But it doesn't take long before my body's defense mechanism kicks in, and slowly, I watch as the purple energy begins to overtake the blue.

Her energy flows into me, and it feels so, so good. I close my eyes, savoring the rush of power. When I open them again, it's just in time to see my mother collapse to the floor. Dead.

For a moment, I stand still, taking in the scene. Then, slowly, I walk over to her. I look down at the woman who had made my childhood a living nightmare. The endless hours of abuse, both emotional and physical, all because I wasn't the daughter she had hoped for.

I reach down and pluck the brooch she wore to hold her cape together. This was mine now.

With my new possession in hand, and the surge of power coursing through me, I take to the sky, leaving this nightmare of a place far behind.

Westview, present day

"Hmm? Hmm? What?" I ask, holding Señor Scratchy against my ear, as if that'll help me hear him better.

"No, I know," I chuckle. "She does look shocked to meet the real us, doesn't she?" My familiar starts to purr, giving away the truth—that the rabbit appearance is only just that: a look.

Wanda's gaze hardens, her expression a mix of anger and control, and I catch the red glow in her eyes. That's when I feel it—she's trying to get into my head. But just like with Billy, my mind is closed off to her.

"Oh. That's adorable." I laugh. "My thoughts aren't available to you, toots. They never were. So don't go givin' yourself a migraine."

I set Señor Scratchy down, freeing both hands—he deserves to stay out of the drama, though it's exactly what he loves. "We've got work to do."

"Where are my children?" Wanda demands, her Sokovian accent slipping through. Ah, so it was still there after all.

"Where are my children?" I repeat mockingly, letting out a scoff. "Oof! That accent really comes and goes, doesn't it?"

"Where are they?!" She thrusts her hands forward, clearly intending to hurl an energy blast at me. But thanks to my careful planning beforehand, it's impossible for her to do so.

Confused, she looks at her hands, clearly not understanding what's happening.

I stand there, unmoving, arms crossed, fully in control.

"Oh, your magic's no good here." I part my hands, and as I do, my magic coils around her wrists and ankles, binding her in place.

She grunts, and when I make her fly forward, a yelp escapes her lips. She gasps for air, clearly in pain. It nearly breaks me. It takes every ounce of self-control to stick to my script, forcing myself to stay on course with the plan.

"Didn't you notice? Basic protection spell, one on each wall?" My voice drips with mockery, and with a flick of my hand, the runes glow purple. "No? Nothing?" I scoff. "These are runes, Wanda. In a given space, only the witch who cast them can use her magic. How do you not know the fundamentals?"

The last question slips out more seriously, a genuine curiosity cutting through. How could she wield such immense power and still be ignorant of something so basic?

"Who are you?" Wanda asks.

"Who are you?" I ask in return, the emphasis on you. It's the question I've been wanting—no, needing—to ask all this time. Who is Wanda Maximoff? Who did she become, and why did she become that person?

"All those costumes and hairstyles." I sigh. "I was so patient, waiting for you to reveal your true self. I got close with fake Pietro—'Fietro,' if you will—but no dice."

"That was you…" Wanda murmurs, her voice laced with sadness.

"No, it wasn't literally me. Just my eyes and ears. A crystalline possession. Necromancy was a non-starter since your real brother's body is on another continent. Not to mention, full of holes."

I had done my research. I knew exactly how Pietro had died. And using it against Wanda now? That was one of the cruelest things I could do to her.

"But you're so crippled by your own self-doubt that you believed it."

I let a moment pass, studying her closely. Of course, I notice her shallow breathing, the way her chest rises and falls unevenly. It's clear what talking about her brother does to her.

"Oh, Wanda," I say softly, with mock sympathy. "When I sensed this place—the afterglow of so many spells cast all at once—I couldn't make heads or tails of it."

My attention shifts as the faint buzzing of a cicada catches my ear. With two fingers, I pluck it from the air and place it on my outstretched hand, my fingers slightly curled like a claw. With my other hand, I make slow, deliberate movements above it, and Latin chants spill from my lips. A purple glow begins to seep into the creature, wrapping it in my magic.

"Mind control. A classic," I say with a smirk. "Quick incantation, a feeble psyche, and you're good to go." With a flick of my powers, I send the insect flying toward Wanda's face, watching it land on her.

Her expression twists into one of disgust as the creature crawls across her skin.

"With thousands of people under your thumb, all interacting with each other according to complex storylines," I continue, the insect now scurrying across her mouth, "well, that's something special, baby."

I step forward, plucking the insect from her face, holding it lightly in my hand. "And of course, there's transmutation."

Another Latin chant escapes my lips, another wave of my hand, and in an instant, the cicada is gone, replaced by a bird fluttering through the dungeon.

"Years of study to achieve even the smallest convincing illusion. But Westview through your lens, Wanda…" I reach up, snatching the bird mid-flight. It lets out a shrill cry, but I don't even flinch.

"Every little detail in place, down to the crown molding," I say, squeezing it just a bit harder. "You're even running illusions miles away at the edge of town! Magic, on autopilot." I inhale sharply. "What's your secret, sister?"

Wanda stares back at me with a blank expression, giving nothing away. I hurl the bird toward Señor Scratchy, and mid-flight, it shifts back into an insect. My familiar opens his mouth and devours it in an instant.

Wanda's face twists in shock.

"Listen, I need you…" I take a step closer, my voice lowering. "Hey, Wanda. I need you to tell me how you did this."

The lie slips from my lips effortlessly—wanting to know her secret fits so perfectly with the real me, it's hard to tell where the truth ends and the manipulation begins.

"I didn't do anything. I'm not…" Wanda begins, but I'm not about to let her spew such bullshit. Villain Agatha wouldn't stand for that.

With a sharp wave of my hand, she's flung from one wall to the other, the impact forcing a grunt of pain from her.

"I tried to be gentle, to nudge you awake from this ridiculous fantasy, but you'd rather fall apart than face your truth. You left me no choice."

I make a movement with my finger, as if calling her closer. "What was it you said to your not-brother? Hmm? All you could recall was the feeling. You felt empty. Alone. Endless nothingness."

I pause, locking eyes with her, letting the weight of my words sink in. "Let's start there."

I offer her a soft smile, then glance to the left, where an old, weathered door has appeared, bathed in a purple glow—clearly a creation of my magic.

"It's been fun, playing pretend for a while, hasn't it, Wanda?" I ask, my tone almost playful. As her attention shifts to the door, she doesn't notice when I pluck a strand of her hair until it's too late.

I chant a few words in Latin once again, and the strand of hair floats from my hand toward the entrance. The moment it touches the surface, the wood transforms into a simple white doorway, unassuming and ordinary.

"But it's time to look at some real reruns." I take a step back, releasing her binds.

Wanda crumples to the floor, gasping for air.

"All right, let's go," I say, walking towards the doorway.

But my daughter isn't planning on following me blindly. "No," she says, her voice thick with anger and defiance.

I didn't want to have to play this card but I really need to get her to walk through that door. It's the only way I will get the answers as to what happened to her, why she lost her memory, why she can't remember me. Why she is so broken and fragile.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you forget who's got your children stashed away in her bewitched basement?"

With a flick of magic, I conjure the desperate voices of fake Billy and Tommy.

"Mom! Mom! Help, please, Mom!"

"Mom, help us!"

I exaggerate a sad, mocking face, my expression practically saying, boohoo.

Wanda gasps and quickly gets up.

"That's right." I say, and with a flick of my wrist the door opens itself.

Slowly Wanda walks towards the door, and as she passes me, I say: "After you, superstar."

"Oh," I say as we step into a modest household, clearly set somewhere in the 90s. The signs of poverty are unmistakable—the kitchen, living area, and bed crammed into a single room.

"Charming. Love the Cold War aesthetic," I quip, glancing around with mild disdain. "Why are we here?"

A woman finishes doing the dishes, and Wanda's eyes light up as soon as she sees her. "Mama…"

A wave of sadness washes over me as the realization hits—she remembers her biological parents, but not me. How? Why? The questions claws at me, a painful reminder of everything I've lost.

"Irina?" A male voice calls out, and a man enters the small apartment, carrying a suitcase.

"Papa…" A smile crosses Wanda's face.

The woman opens the suitcase, revealing it's filled with movies. "Oleg…" He walks toward her, speaking softly in Sokovian before they embrace.

"In English, papa!" A little boy comes running into the room, and I immediately recognize him—Pietro. I'd almost forgotten how loud the boy was. I instinctively grab my ear, wincing.

"Pietro…" Wanda whispers.

"Oh, he's loud, isn't he?" I remark, still rubbing my ear.

"You said the only rule of TV night is we try to practice our English."

"Yes, yes. He is right," their mother agrees with a smile. "We were just getting rid of the last little bit of Sokovian."

Oleg hands Pietro his coat and asks, "Where is your sister?"

"Wanda?!" Pietro shouts.

"I mean, we're right here," I whisper, feeling half-deaf from his loud voice.

"Wanda?!"

"That's your cue, lady, you're on." I give her a gentle push in the back, and as she stumbles forward, she transforms into 10-year-old Wanda Maximoff, fitting perfectly into the memory's setting.

She embraces her father with a soft chuckle.

"Now, we can begin. Wanda, you pick," Oleg says.

"My pick isn't here." It's strange hearing young Wanda's voice again, especially at the age when I first found the twins.

"I forgot. I put it in the special place for extra safekeeping," Oleg says, moving toward the wall with Pietro following close behind.

Their mother covers Wanda's eyes playfully with her hand. "Don't look."

From outside, the distant sound of gunfire drifts in, faint but ominous.

"This is your pick, yes?" Oleg asks, holding a special box set of The Dick Van Dyke Show.

"Season 2, episode 21," Wanda says, her Sokovian accent thick, a nostalgic sweetness in her tone.

But Pietro groans, clearly displeased with the choice. "Dick Van Dyke again? Always sitcom, sitcom, sitcom…"

After a brief exchange, they slide the disc into the DVD player and start the episode.

Wanda's eyes are glued to the screen, a wide smile on her face. She looks so happy, so carefree. So burden less.

And that's when the explosion happens. I'm not sure what hits first—the sound or the impact. But it's powerful enough to rattle even me.

When the smoke settles, I see Wanda sitting in the middle of the ruined room, her eyes wide, frantically looking around. Panic is written all over her face. There's nothing left of their home—everything is blown to pieces.

"Wanda!" Pietro comes running towards her, grabbing her arm. Together, they scramble under the bed, which, somehow, survived the blast.

That's when a second bomb crashes into the building, embedding itself in the floor right in front of the twins.

I knew their story, of course, but living it—seeing it unfold like this—was something else entirely. I wanted to reach out, to protect her, but I had to remind myself that this was just a memory. Nothing I did here would change a thing.

The twins speak to each other in Sokovian, a language that, despite my vast knowledge, is not one I speak and every few seconds, the bomb emits a soft, ominous beep.

At the same moment as Wanda, I notice the TV is still playing, though its screen flickers in and out. She looks at is as if will make all of her problems go away.

"At the end of the episode, you realize it was all a bad dream. None of it was real," she murmurs, her voice distant, almost hopeful.

She reaches out toward the bomb, and I immediately realize what she's doing—even if she doesn't.

Pietro shouts her name, yanking her back.

Adult Wanda rises from beneath the bed, looking disoriented and confused.

"Did you stop that bomb?" I ask, unable to hide the hint of admiration in my voice.

"What?" She's breathing heavily, her gaze distant.

I decide to spell it out for her, even if she might not believe me. "You used a probability hex."

"No, I…" She's panting. "It just never went off. It was… It was defective. We didn't know that." Her breathing begins to steady. "We were… we were trapped."

"For how long?" I ask. She never shared this part with me before.

"Two days."

My mouth falls open slightly. The thought of how much she must have suffered, the fear she must have felt…

"Huh."

I snap myself back into character before she can notice the shift in my exterior.

"So much trauma… and yet, you were safe as kittens the whole time. What I see here is a baby witch, obsessed with sitcoms, and years of therapy ahead of her." We both know she's never going to get that.

"Doesn't explain your recent hijinks. Where did you get the big guns, Wanda?"

Another door materializes, this time bearing the unmistakable Hydra logo. For the first time, I see fear flash across her face.

"I don't wanna go back there."

I don't want to take her back either, but I have no choice. It's likely the memory that holds the answers I need.

"I know you don't, but its good medicine, angel. The only way forward, is back."

When we step through the door, we're inside one of Hydra's facilities. Even though I've never physically been here, I know exactly which one this is—the one in Sokovia.

And suddenly, everything clicks into place. This is why the twins vanished, why I couldn't trace them. It makes sense now—after being against the Avengers for so long, of course they'd be drawn to an organization that promised to bring them down.

But there's a darker side to it. I know enough about Hydra to understand how they really operate. The torture. The experiments. If Wanda had endured that… it would explain the memory loss, the gaps in her mind.

And that realization makes my heart sink. Because I know there's no way of getting them back.

"Ah, Wanda," I say, sounding as nonchalant as possible. "The rebellious years. Quick question: your reaction to the bombing of your civilian apartment building and the murder of your parents was to join an anti-freedom terrorist organization?"

"We wanted to change the world." Her voice is defensive.

I don't doubt that. Idealism born from trauma—how often it leads people down dark paths. As she takes a few slow steps forward, I whisper softly, "Don't be scared. You've already lived through it once."

Her posture shifts slightly as the memory takes over, her adult form fading into that of her younger self—17 years old, a mere girl standing on the precipice of a nightmare. Barefoot, dressed in a grimy, tattered dress, her hair greasy and plastered to her face, she looks every bit the part of a guinea pig.

She hesitates at the threshold, then slowly enters the room, staring at Loki's scepter as if sensing something no one else can feel. Her eyes widen, filled with a silent, unspoken understanding—moments before she collapses to the floor.

The Hydra doctors rush toward her, panic lacing their movements, and I follow them.

"She's still alive," one of them says, urgency clear in his voice. "Get her to isolation, now!"

So this was it—the moment her already existing powers were amplified by Loki's scepter, a conduit for the Mind Stone. My eyes narrow slightly as I observe, intrigued by the sheer potential this artifact unlocked in her. The power it gave her...

But this is also the place that stole her from me. The place that took my daughter away.

Yet, the power I know it will awake in her, it's undeniable. The connection to the stone... it explains so much. But power always comes at a cost, doesn't it? Wanda became stronger, but she lost part of herself in the process. Lost so many memories—including me.

As the doctors drag her limp body away, I don't move, but I can feel the anger bubbling beneath the surface. Hydra may have amplified her abilities, but it was also here that they erased the Wanda I knew. The Wanda who, for a time, was mine.

I swallow hard, burying my emotions deep within me.

Wanda sits on a cold metal bench—her cell's poor excuse for a bed. Her eyes are fixed on the TV playing yet another sitcom, but there's nothing behind them. They're empty, void of the fire I know she once had.

She steps toward the TV, and as if sensing her movement, the screen flickers off. In its reflection, I see not the 17-year-old girl, but adult Wanda—broken, lost, and standing beside me.

"So, little orphan Wanda got up close and personal with an Infinity Stone, amplifying what, otherwise, would have died on the vine," I say, my voice calm but with an edge. "The broken pieces of you are adding up, buttercup."

For a moment, I just stand there, watching her. Watching the broken expression etched across her face. And it takes every ounce of control not to reach out and pull her close to me. I want to tell her it's okay, that she doesn't need to suffer any longer. But I can't.

"I have a theory," I say, forcing my voice to remain neutral. "But I need more."

With a simple wave of my hand, the door appears again. This time, she doesn't hesitate—no pause, no resistance. She just walks through it, and I follow, my heart heavy with the weight of all I've seen.

We step into a beautifully modern room, every detail carefully curated. It's clear that whoever decorated it spared no expense.

Wanda sits on the edge of the bed, her gaze distant as another sitcom plays on the TV. Her legs are crossed, a pillow resting on top of them, but her expression is sad, lost—completely disconnected from the luxury that surrounds her.

"Oh, Wanda. Movin' on up." I say, referring to the expensive, high-end room.

"So, where are we now?"

"The Avengers Compound." Ah, so this is where the famous Avengers used to live and breathe.

Wanda's voice softens as she adds: "It was the first home Vision and I ever shared." A soft pause follows before she continues, her voice tinged with sadness. "Pietro was dead and I was in a new country. I was all alone."

Our attention shifts to the Wanda sitting on the bed. In a very calm voice, she says, "Vision," without taking her eyes off the TV screen.

She glances to the left as the android steps through the wall, entering the room in the rather unusual way. "I apologize, I don't mean to intrude." he says in that soft, understanding voice of his. It's so gentle, so perfectly considerate, it makes me want to throw up.

"You don't?" Wanda asks, her Sokovian accent thick.

He looks caught, like a boy with his hand stuck in the cookie jar. "Well, I suppose, yes, I did intend to come in here."

"And now?"

Vision looks as if he doesn't quite know what to say or do. "And… well, whatever is your preference," he offers, throwing her a sweet smile.

Wanda pats the open spot on the bed beside her, inviting him to sit. He eagerly accepts, and for a few moments, they sit together, watching the TV in comfortable silence.

The character on the TV has a comical accident, and the wooden gazebo collapses on him. Vision looks puzzled. "Is it funny because of the grievous injury the man just suffered?" he asks, clearly confused by the laughter coming from the TV's laugh track.

"No, he's not really injured." Wanda explains.

"Ah. How can you be so certain?"

"It's not that kind of show," Wanda replies, her voice hollow, distant, as if she's not truly present in the moment.

"Wanda, I don't presume to know what you're feeling, but I would like to know. Should you wish to tell me. Should that be of some comfort to you."

Wanda's head snaps to the side and I can see that he's touched a nerve. "What makes you think that talking about it would bring me comfort?"

"Oh, see, I read that the…" Oh Vision, shut up.

"The only thing that would bring me comfort is seeing him again." Her voice cracks slightly as the words escape.

Vision stares ahead, the silence between them thick and awkward.

"Sorry." She whispers, her voice barely audible. "I'm… I'm so tired." She bites her lip and inhales sharply. "It's just like this wave washing over me, again and again. It knocks me down, and when I try to stand up, it just comes for me again. And I… It's just gonna drown me."

My heart shatters into a million pieces as I hear her say those words. My precious girl. If only I had known what she was going through, I could have been there for her. She wouldn't have remembered me, but I could have been her friend. Someone she could confide in. Someone who would have been there, no matter what.

"No. No it won't." Vision says.

"Yeah." She chuckles. "How do you know?"

Vision takes a moment to think, and then says: "Well, because it can't all be sorrow, can it?"

Wanda looks at him, waiting for him to continue.

"I've always been alone, so I don't feel the lack. It's all I've ever known. I've never experienced loss because I have never had a loved one to lose. But what is grief, if not love persevering?"

Normally, I'd laugh at this kind of sweet bullshit—my classic cackling witch laugh. But thinking about losing Wanda... it hits home.

A few seconds pass in complete silence and then Vision laughs with something that happened on the TV. "Sorry. Pardon."

Wanda chuckles. "No, it was funny."

"Yes, it was very funny, wasn't it?"

"Mm."

A single tear escapes before I can stop it, and I quickly wipe it away with a mocking gesture, pretending like it was all part of an act. Nothing more.

The room is now empty, and present Wanda steps forward, her movements hesitant, her expression distant. I let out a heavy sigh.

"So, to recap," I say, my voice sharp, "Parents dead, brother dead, Vision dead."

Wanda gasps for air, and quietly, tears start to spill from her eyes.

"What happened when he wasn't there to pull you back from the darkness, Wanda?" I press, leaning in, my words relentless.

"I can't do this anymore." She turns toward me, her voice shaky, breaking.

"Come on, Wanda!" I push, stepping closer, eyes locked on her. "You're on the precipice! You are right there! Tell me how you did it." My voice rises with urgency. "Vision was gone." I stand in front of her, looking her in the eyes. "But you wanted him back."

The look on her face changes into one of determination. "I wanted him back." She turns towards the door that has appeared. "I wanted him back."

We enter a huge, sterile building. In the center stands a statue of a sword, looming like a silent reminder of the power housed here. Wanda strides forward, full of determination, her eyes locked ahead as she approaches the counter.

"I know you have him." Her voice is hard, leaving no room for discussion.

"I'm sorry, but like I said…"

"Please…" she interrupts the man talking and scoffs. For a moment, her fingers toy with the hem of her t-shirt. "Please. When I came back, he was gone. His body. And I know he's here." The last words are filled with venom.

"He deserves a funeral, at least. I deserve it." I can hear how much she needs it in her voice.

That's when the phone rings, breaking the tension. The man behind the counter picks it up, his eyes never leaving Wanda.

"Yes, sir. Yeah, she's still here." He pauses, listening to the other end of the line. "Are you sure?" Another pause, his gaze flickers just slightly. "Of course."

He places the phone down with a slight click, his expression shifting ever so slightly as he turns back to face her.

"Through the doors. Down the hall. Two lefts and a right," the man instructs.

Without missing a beat, Wanda turns and begins walking, determination radiating from every step.

"One moment," the man says, standing as he reaches for the controls. "I have to buzz you in."

"I got it! Thanks." Her voice drips with impatience as she blasts the door open with a burst of red energy, striding confidently into the hallway and following his directions without looking back.

She enters a room marked "Director" and is greeted by a man in his early 40s with short, dark brown hair, seated behind a large desk. He gets up as soon as he sees her enter. "Wanda Maximoff? It's an honor to meet you. Truly."

"Who are you?" she asks, as if he's nothing more than someone of no importance.

"Director Tyler Hayward. I understand you're here to see the Vision, to recover the body, that is, is that right?" His voice is professional but carries an edge, as if he's already preparing for resistance.

Wanda's tone softens slightly, but her determination remains clear. "Well, I'm his next of kin."

 "I understand. I'd like to show you something."

"And then you'll give him to me?"

Hayward's face shifts, giving away nothing good. "Please, just come with me."

He leads her to a glass door in his office, and together they step through it. Beyond the door is a small lookout, enclosed only by a glass wall that offers a clear view of the room below. Wanda's gaze falls on the scene—wires, tools, and workers busy sawing into something.

"What is this? Why are you showing me this?" she asks as she turns back to Hayward.

Hayward looks confused for a moment. "Because you asked to see it."

Wanda shifts her attention back to the pieces scattered in front of her, her mind racing to piece it together. And then it hits her—there, among the chaos, she sees his face. Vision. Staring up at the ceiling with empty, lifeless eyes.

Wanda places her hands against the glass and starts to shudder. "Stop… Stop… Stop it!"

Once again, my heart breaks for my beautiful daughter. I knew this journey through her memories would be painful, but this—this was beyond anything I could have anticipated. She didn't deserve any of this. The weight of the loss, the cruelty life had dealt her, was unbearable to witness. She was strong, but even the strongest shouldn't have to endure so much.

"What… What are you doing to him?" She turns around to face Hayward, tears in her eyes.

"We're dismantling the most sophisticated, sentient weapon ever made."

Wanda shakes her head. "But Vision's not a weapon. You can't do this."

"In fact, it is our legal and ethical obligation." Every word that man said was pure bullshit, and I knew it. I could see it in his eyes, in the way he stood—there was no ethical obligation whatsoever. He didn't care about Vision or any so-called responsibility. He just wanted to use him for his own purposes.

"I just wanna bury him. That's all I want." The desperation is clear in her voice.

"Are you sure?"

Wanda's eyes narrow, her voice dropping to a dangerous edge. "Excuse me?"

"Not everyone has the kind of power that could bring their soul-mate back online."

Wanda stares at him, and I can practically feel the shift in the air. He just made a grave mistake.

Hayward realizes it too, quickly backpedaling. "Forgive me. Back to life."

"No, I can't do that. It's… That's not why I'm here." Her voice is steady but filled with pain, and I know she's telling the truth. I had seen it with Sparky. No matter how much she might want to, Wanda couldn't bring the dead back to life.

"Okay. But I cannot allow you to take three-billion dollars' worth of vibranium just to put it in the ground." Hayward continues, his tone dismissive, as if Vision is nothing more than a piece of equipment.

How I wish I could put a spell on that smug bastard. Or just give him a good old-fashioned punch in the face. The audacity.

Wanda turns back to look at Vision, lost for words.

"So, the best I can do is let you say goodbye to him here." Hayward says, his voice cold.

Wanda places both hands against the glass, as if trying to be just a little closer to the love of her life. "He's all I have." She whispers, her voice thick with emotion.

"Well, that's just it, Wanda. He isn't yours." Hayward responds flatly.

A single tear glides down her cheek, and before she can stop it, her scarlet powers flare up, shattering the glass into a million pieces. Slowly, she levitates down toward the remains of Vision.

Immediately, men armed with guns appear, but the director signals them to stand down. "Fall back. It's fine. Let her see for herself."

Wanda steps forward, her movements soft, tentative. I can see the tears in her eyes as she gazes down at Vision's lifeless form. She reaches out, her hand hovering above his forehead, and a red thread of magic flickers to life, connecting them for a brief moment.

But then her face contorts in a grimace of pain, her voice breaking in a barely audible whisper. "I can't feel you."

Her words are like a knife through my heart.

Wanda drives into Westview, her car slowly moving through streets that look nothing like the vibrant, lively town I've gotten to know over the past few days. This version of Westview feels empty, forgotten—on the verge of dying out. The swimming pool is murky and neglected, and the people she passes seem weighed down by their own unhappiness. There's no life here, no joy. Nothing special.

She parks her car on the driveway of what looks like an unfinished lot, where only the base of a house has been laid. The ground is bare, a stark contrast to the homes around it. She steps out, her movements slow and heavy, as if each step takes effort.

She stops in front of the foundation, staring down at it for a long moment before pulling out the folded letter in her hand. Slowly, she opens it. It's a construction plan. Her gaze lands on the red heart in the center, inside of which are the words: "To grow old in. V."

Paper in hand, she walks inside the unfinished structure, tears clearly visible in her eyes.

Everything becoming too much for her to handle, she slowly drops to her knees, crying out loud. The paper falls from her hand.

And that's the moment when she can't take it anymore. The pain, the exhaustion, the loneliness—all of it becomes unbearable. A wave of red power bursts from her, lifting her into the air. Around her, the house begins to form, rising up from the ground, brick by brick, until it's complete.

But the magic doesn't stop there. Another surge of energy pulses outward, expanding through the entire town of Westview, trapping its inhabitants inside her new reality.

But it doesn't stop there. A surge of energy flows out of her, crimson red turning into a bright yellow glow. On the other side of the yellow, Vision's body begins to take form. She lets out a scream, and then—suddenly—it's over.

Everything around them shifts to black and white, and there he is, in all his glory: Vision. Well, as much glory as a robot dressed in 1950s clothing can have.

"Wanda," Vision says with that soft, soothing voice of his. "Welcome home. Shall we stay in tonight?"

Present-day Wanda gazes at herself and the love of her life sitting together on the couch, wrapped in the warmth of their shared moments. But that's when the setting changes.

Gone are the cherished moments. Suddenly, the set is bare, illuminated by bright studio lights and surrounded by the stark presence of directors' equipment. Because that's exactly where they are—a constructed set, a reflection of her fragile memories.

I clap my hands, perched on one of the many chairs that overlook the stage, my feet resting casually on the back of the one in front of me. Somehow, I manage to make my clapping sound almost sarcastic.

I place my arms on the seats next to me, looking completely relaxed. "Bravo!"

With a snap of my fingers, I vanish into a swirling purple cloud, ready to move on to the next phase of my plan. Now that I understand what happened to my daughter, I must do everything in my power to strip her of her hers, ensuring she never becomes the Scarlet Witch. That path will only lead to her own doom.

I pull the twins from their cell, binding shimmering purple restraints around their throats. With a calculated grip, I drag them outside, playing the role of the villain to perfection.

"Mom! Mom! Mom, help us!" Tommy cries out, his voice desperate, and his brother quickly joins in.

"Mom! Help!"

It doesn't take long for Wanda to burst out of my house, rushing towards us. She halts abruptly when she sees me hovering in the air, each hand gripping one of the restraints, effortlessly controlling the boys.

I have given up the ridiculous disguises I used to wear, even though I had to admit I looked rather smashing in some of them. Now, I embrace my true self. A deep purple cloak flows around me, billowing dramatically in the air—my signature color, of course.

My hair cascades freely down my back, wild and untamed, while the dark hue of my fingers has reemerged, a clear sign of the dark magic I wield.

"I know what you are," I say, my voice dripping with conviction. Perhaps revealing this knowledge to her will help steer her away from her doomed destiny.

"Mom!" Billy yells, panic lacing his tone. In response, I tighten the restraints, successfully pulling the boys back, their struggles futile against the magic that binds them.

Wanda's hands glow a vibrant red, her magic surging back now that we're no longer in my dungeon. "It's okay, baby. It's okay." She says while panting.

"You have no idea how dangerous you are," I say, my tone steady and unyielding. I'm not lying about this. "You're supposed to be a myth—a being capable of spontaneous creation—and here you are, using that power to make breakfast for dinner." My voice drips with disgust.

"Let go of my children!" Wanda's voice begins to rise, and I can hear the anger simmering beneath her surface.

 "Oh, yes, your children. And Vision, and this whole little life you've made, this is Chaos Magic, Wanda."

She looks at me intently, every word I utter hanging in the air between us.

 "And that makes you the Scarlet Witch."

You think I don't see who you really are?

I got news coming:

I've seen it all from the start

I know all your secrets

I know all your lies