#pietroxreaderxwanda

As if an invisible force encourages your quickened feet, you flee the workshop that played witness to the incident just transpired. You’re feeling ashamed and shaken, ‘And rightly so,’ you think bitterly. A confrontation hadn’t been your intention – the complete opposite in fact, yet that is where the root of the problem had flowered. Emotional compromise, from all involved. You were guilty of avoiding problems instead of confronting them. Instead, they bubbled and manifested into resentment and ignorant irritation. From what those negative feelings feed off were the altering changes of your shackled arrangement.

The ailments, being the grandeur opening act; the unsightly tattoos that now permanently marked both arms; The Maximoff's behaviour; their voices whispered in the darkened hours of night, rendering less-than favourable accumulated hours of sleep; the fluctuations of your own moods; the supposed temporary re-homing; that incessant pull that you wish you could physically yank in retaliation; the backlash of emotion (but that was only a recent addition as exampled by Pietro's display this morning).

While the Maximoff's, too, suffered with these annoyances, they weren't entirely innocent in the matter. Pietro's possessive behaviour – as it could be described after an analysis of the event – was ridiculous but confusing. Most of his behaviour was unbecoming; his frowned expressions, snarky attitude and fierce eyes. No wonder you preferred Wanda of the two. Yet despite his flaws – their flaws - your selfish intentions and provoking remarks had instigated a reaction from Pietro, fraying at his turbulent emotions, waning restraint and resulting in his own emotional compromise. To make matters worse, Rogers had unveiled the severity that was a secret history between the Maximoff’s and Tony Stark that you had unknowingly, yet naively, used to your advantage, and thus ignited the commotion down stairs. That had been it's own fuck fest of ricocheting emotions.

You needed – craved - a source of exhaust, a task to release the built tension coursing through your body. Jarvis is asked for the nearest gym, preferably deserted, if that was possible in this god-forsaken place, and with haste, you make for it's solitude. The following hours, you work yourself to exhaustion; alternating between running the treadmill, weights and other activities of a grueling workout. It has been over a week since you had attempted physical exercise, which you aimed to maintain a regular routine considering the physical requirements expected of all S.H.I.E.L.D personnel. The strain is brutal but serving as both a distraction and punishment you think you so rightly deserve. You reflect on your interactions - and lack of - with the Maximoff’s and cringe at what an asshole you’ve been. Yes, the situation - soulmates - was a shitty deal but subject to interpretation. But how did they interpret it?

Panting hard, you sit with your head bowed, clothes soaked with sweat, feeling a drop trickle as it travels to hang on the tip of your nose. You would love to say that at this point you're too tired to feel anything, but it was completely the opposite. The emotional conflict easily more severe than it was before. For all but a brief moment, you are distracted; that prominent pull that you have all but accustomed to, causing you look up quickly to behold the figure standing but a meter from you.

Your breath hitches, the sudden fright stalling your outburst. Cautiously, you gauge the silent, imposing form of Wanda Maximoff, observing for a hint of hostility. You know, just know, that Wanda is already privy to what transpired, in no doubt that Pietro shared his experience with his sister. And now you’re to be subjected to the verbal backlash from the protective sibling - and you hope it’s only verbal.

“I know of the conflict concerning, Pietro,” her voice soft and eery. Well that confirmed it. Now was your chance: accuse her of her brother's brash behaviour, demand why they had been following you this past week, vent your anger as you had with Pietro. But the anger and irritation withers away as you stare at her, leaving all but your guilt. All that you muster is pathetic in comparison of what could have been said, but it's contrasts true to your state.

“I’m sorry,” you say, a tremor hinted in your voice. “I...I didn't mean...” Unable to complete the sentence and looking away, guilt emanating from you. Wanda looks on at your ashamed manner, neither angry or hostile as she knows you expect of her.

“While the actions of all were unfavorable, had you been privy to particular information, I know you would not had conducted yourself in the manner you did.” It was a subtle slap on the wrist, but in a most genteel way; her accented voice, hypnotic.

“You can’t know that,” you mutter glumly, wallowing in self pity. Still you refuse to meet her eye, but at heart, you know Wanda speaks the truth. If only you had known.

“But I do. At heart, you are a good person, the well-being of others a treasured gift; at times, at the expense of your own.” The insightful comment drawing your attention back to her. “It is rarely found in others.” A smile graces her lips, delicate in nature. It is but one of few expressions - beside her regular neutral one - that she has displayed in the short time you have known her. You are in awe, closing your mouth when you realise your fish impersonation. There was just something about her.

“I think it long overdue that we discuss what remains unsaid.” You stiffen at the implication of her meaning, forebode due to the direction of the conversation. “However...you may ask the questions, and I will answer to the best of my ability.” You remain silent, contemplating the offer she has extended. The offer had always been there, Wanda and Pietro had been patient, hands extended in offer of an explanation and provided support through what they were experiencing...in their weird, stalker-ish way. Yet, through ignorance, fear and denial of the circumstances, you had refused their gesture.

You lick your lips, the heated breath of your vigorous exercise having parched them but also in nervousness. Considering Wanda's offer, you come to the conclusion that you had to face the future – however brief – that existed between yourselves. Instead of voicing one of many questions that had formed since the bonded moment, you intended to rectify your involvement in a certain incident, but first, you required information to know what exactly you had done.

“What is the history between yourselves and Tony Stark?” you ask with caution. Wanda makes no immediate action to answer, instead considering the question and how she will explain – or so you think she is doing.

“It is not complex yet nor is it a simple matter. It was, it is, a life altering moment that has shaped who Pietro and I have come to be. But, this explanation is for Pietro to share, should he want to. You must ask him. Only then might you mend the fissure that parts you both,” Wanda responds. No persistent questioning would sway her to reveal their personal history. You can't help but cringe at the thought of approaching Pietro and asking him, not expecting the calm or reasonable reply that Wanda had returned. You nod in understanding and make the task a priority to fulfill. So, that left your sole question to be asked and it stirs excitement and dread within you.

“Ok,” you start, prompting the next question, “Thor...Thor spoke of bonds, like our own, to be predestined, but he said nothing of the immortals to be the ones who crafted them. There has to be an origin, the cause for why it was created,” your voice is steady despite the underlining nerves. There was relief in verbalising the theory that you have formed during the past week. “Do you know how the bond was created?”

As you voiced your question, you watch as the once neutral but calculative expression of Wanda's face morphs. It is subtle but not unnoticed by yourself as you watch her intently for a sign that may prelude the answer to your question. The forming crease of her brows, widening eyes, and the bare part of her lips. Fear. She is fearful and tragically, what hope you held, clutched to for dear life, withers away. Because despite all that has happened, you trusted her, just a bare hint for the strange woman. Instinctively you know what she will say will not to be your liking.

Wanda gathers herself, no physical movement, it was of the mind, preparing herself of what she knows is to come. Your dread is emanating from your being and she feels it; wave after wave, both desperately seeking your answer and yet repelling the secret untold.

“Yes.” Her reply is firm and stare unwavering. Silence follows as you look on, heart pounding most violently. She won't elaborate, not without your insistence.

Again, you lick your lips. You open your mouth with a question prepped on the tip of your tongue, but pause. No. 'What was it?', was what you were going to ask but your gut – o' reliable – tells you otherwise. That was not the right question.

“Who was it?” your voice trembles. That brief display of fear has since been wiped from her face, now steeled and without emotion.

“It would be best if I showed you,” she says in her approach. You make to stand but she extends a hand, halting your movement. “I advise you to remain seated.” And her extended hand draws close to your face, fingers twitching in a spasmodic dance and you watch with trepidation.

“Wha-”

“Please, allow me to give you the answer you deserve.”

As it had happened before, she gauges you for an answer yet you neither refuse nor accept. Just sitting there in stunned, wary silence. But inside, whirling about your mind is the repetitive, 'Just tell me!', and Wanda hears it loud and clear. Again, her fingers dance and a red, glittering swirl is conjured, the beauty reflecting upon your face. Enraptured by the sight, Wanda weaves her spell and with the flick of a finger, all is dark.

It's hard to describe what happens next...next...it was timeless. There is a nudge, another presence occupies your mind and although frightened by the experience, you know it's Wanda. Then an image appears about you, no, no mere picture but a true visual of an environment, as if you were there seeing it yourself.

A city. Snow capped mountains. A bordering forest of pine trees.

'I recognise this place.'

 Home.

It was a different sight to behold without a crater hollowing its center. The sensation is odd, floating above the capital city of Sokovia. It is a brief but tranquil moment until the instantaneous drop, the ground colliding towards you. There is no abrupt stop, no pain, only a new sight to observe; a ground level preview of the city.

You stand among the opposition of the rioters, on the front line of the armed force who oppose them, weapons at a ready. Looking about, nobody sees you, just an invisible by-stander in someones memory. Wanda's memory. The collective shouting of the rioters forms an imposing roar of a deranged animal. Snarling. Starved. Intimidating. Their banners are punched firmly towards the sky, intent unmistakable in every action. Swiftly, you flicker a seeking gaze from left to right, scanning for who you know awaits to be found in the crowd. And you see them: not much younger than they were now. Pushing and shoving, sandwiched between the other rioters.

Pietro was almost unrecognisable; earthy brown, disheveled hair, before his now signature white. Beside him is Wanda, her face twisted in furious anger, jeering at the imposing opposition. Much changed to her commonplace composed manner.

Despite the incoherent ramble and chanting, the intent of the civilians is made abundantly clear. The American flag lays burning within no-mans land; a fabric sown mannequin adorned with the world recognised Captain America outfit too, burns, a barrier between the opposing sides. Their message is unmistakable. But why would the advocate against the Avengers? The question is added to the growing mound before living memory changes like the click of a remote.

Your mind lurches, a most unsettling feeling. You are walking yet not, for it's not your body. It's dusk, the traveled street dilapidated; spray painted graffiti, crumbling walls, littered rubbish. However, Pietro walking beside you – beside Wanda – walks with ease, unfazde by the state of the area, comfortable familiarity on his home turf. They continue in silence for a length of time, reaching a desolate intersection. You – Wanda - continues forward but with only a few steps, she pauses, noticing the stalled footsteps of her brothers. She address him, observing the frowned expression as he gazes down the street.

“We will go this way,” he says, and turns away from Wanda's forward path, choosing the street to his left.

“You ignore what we discussed?” Wanda asks, pressing Pietro for his avoidance.

Pietro tsks, “You speak of closure, but there is but one way we will find peace, and it's not there.”

“But it is a reminder-”

“We are the reminder! You and I are the example of what we have lost and that is what fuels me, what fuels you, sister.” Wanda doesn't reply, only gauges him for a moment before crossing the short distance between them and reaches for his hand. Together, they walk, discarding Wanda's original direction in favour of Pietro's.

 What have you lost?

The lurching sensation of your mind being displaced is short, thankfully. However, when the feeling ceases, it's dark and you can't see anything. At first you think that perhaps another memory is being stalled but it's when the shiver of cold wrack Wanda's body, you know then that the memory is in play. It's odd, that within her memory, that you too, feel the physical sensations should you possess your own body in these moments. As you well know, all sensation are calculated and translated by the brain, even without a physical body, the neuro-receptors can still be stimulated to provide the illusion. This memory is odd and displaced. Somehow you are in three places at once: the third party witnessing, the second sharing Wanda's personal experience, and the superficial but tangible reception of Pietro's. You can smell stagnant water, the damp odor of moister polluting the air.

“Wanda?” Pietro whispers, voice hoarse from the strain of screaming.

“Yes, Pietro?” Wanda answers back. They lie facing each other on the cold cement floor, hands clasping the others in desperate consolidation. Their bodies are wrought with exhaustion and pain, every micro fiber of their being having suffered from the hours of experimentation. You can feel it, that pain recreated in your own mind.

“Will this have been worth it?” he asks. There is fear in his voice, like that of a child, seeking comfort and reassurement from their parent. The room is dark and silent besides the audible dripping of water for an unknown source. Wanda can only just perceive the silhouette of Pietro's form, the minor shivering of his body vibrating through their connected hands. One might suspect that the chill were effecting his body, any other time Wanda would assume that. However, it is not the cold; Pietro is undergoing a change, they both are, but what kind, she is uncertain and it terrifies her.

With desperation, anger, and vigilante justice fueling their naive acceptance of Struckers offer; the prospect of obtaining a power to rid their country of oppression had dominated their every thought and action. Lying there, Wanda realises, gritting her teeth through her own torment, that yes, they wanted to save their country, like they hadn't been able to save their parents.

 Parents?

Pietro and Wanda, at the source of all their turmoil, just wanted to save each other, to exist with only each other, never parted – happy.

As would any parental figure, Wanda lies. Her lie, honey sweet,“In time, yes it will. In time.” For time is the unknown factor dominating their world. How much longer will they suffer like this? How much longer will the experimentation continue? How much longer until they posses the power to save each other?

“Will there only ever be us?” he croaks, and Wanda frowns at the question, her confusion blinded by the darkness. “Without the love of a parent, friend, or lover. Will we only ever find this in ourselves? Will that be enough?” Wanda considers his words. If that were to be, her brothers love and her love for him, would sustain each other through life. But there would be that unfulfillment; were they not good enough for someone else?

Wanda, with what remains of her will, hope and concentration, wishes and projects into the unknown, to a force she knows does not exist - but might exist for this purpose - that someone might be out there, somewhere, waiting for them. Someone who would tell them it's ok. Someone whose love was unconditional. That would love Pietro, see beneath his shielding brash and arrogant nature, and discover a person self-sacrificing, loyal and burning with all desires that he wished to share with another. For herself, Wanda only wants her brother to be happy, through his happiness she was happy. But just a flicker of a thought, yes, the idea of another love, who would love her as they would her brother, is a tempting and desirable thought.

“Perhaps, brother. If I could will it into existence, I would. But we will be enough...for now,” she consoles, but her words true.

From the side lines, you watch the Twins in action, their powers on full display for you to observe.

They are training, practicing the use of their abilities while cliche, white garbed scientists rapidly note details, watching the progression of their biological weapons.

To one side, Pietro demonstrates with inhuman speed, gaining stamina and increased acceleration. Wanda displays her telekinetic abilities; her fingers a masterful commander of strings as they magically levitate knives in the air, twirling with dangerous fluidity. The scientists soon grow tired of mere child's play, ceasing her efforts. Someone barks an order and a nervous participant enter the room, under guard. They are shoved, roughly, causing them to stumble forward nearing her. She is prompted, a scientist asking – no – commanding her to invade their mind. The ability, this power is still new to Wanda, having only accidentally discovered it recently. They had been thrilled (HYDRA, that is )that she possessed fear manipulation and greedily they had her practice on live subjects.

They stand there quivering, fearful of her.

'They know not of fear,' she thinks briefly, no sympathy for the subject, for their continued efforts were for the greater good. Sacrifices were consequential. She raises her hands before them, the signature red lights warping around her fingers. She toys with the light show, gauging the enraptured attention of her onlookers. Strucker, who stands beside you, watches on from the side lines, observing his miracle at work. With one final moment of prolonged play, Wanda's mind plunges forward.

The individuals mind is defenseless and ready for the taking, like an intruder before an unlocked door. Before she can make first contact, her intentions are halted. Both a feeling and sound, something calls to her, a whisper incoherent. Her presence remains before the doorway to subjects mind but with another lull of the beckoning call, she turns away, her focus and attention redirected. She reaches out into the void, following the trace and leaving the only familiar plain that she knew – that being human consciousnesses.

The further she reaches out, the further into uncertainty she proceeds and before its too late, she realises she being sucked in. Wanda scrambles, frantic to ground herself again to the mind of the person she know stands but an arms length from her, but the physical and mental plain are two, completely different fields. But this, this was something else. No longer was she in the realm of the mind, of cognition. It was indescribable. Realities, other minds of human and unknown origins, flash by her, swirling past in a confusing roller-coaster. It's all to fast and astronomical for her to grasp, yet she does just that. She reaches out in desperation to grab hold of something, to prevent her continued directionless journey into the unknown. She explodes forth to behold a magnificent sight; all manner of colours, light and more.

The universe – but one of many – surrounds her in its purest form and she can't believe all that she sees and feels. Witnessed before her – but around her – resemble a grand form: it's root at the base, collide together to form a trunk that extends upward to branch up and away, forming an overshadowing umbrella. The answers to all generated questions before her. Yet, despite the magnitude of this revelation, she does nothing but bask in the sensation. Doorways, paths and possibilities surround her, more than mathematics can number, but there it is again, the whisper that she had followed. She follows, her consciousness floats to the center of the tree-like formation and it's there that the anonymous call now hums, thrives before her. It pulsates with heat and blinding light, beckoning her and she does so willingly. Wanda tentatively extends out towards it, should she have a physical body at this time, it would be her hand. She's in awe and she closes the gap and but lightly touches the source of her navigator. Wanda is thrown not a millisecond after the contact, an explosion as she is sent hurtling backwards, the universe and all realities accelerating away from her, the void of darkness encompassing, and BAM!

Wanda is one with her body, breathing heavily upon the floor. The familiar palpation of the minds within the training room confirm she is back and the confronting presence of Pietro at her side. She can discern that he asks after her well-being but his speech is rapid, still trying to master the control of his abilities. She hushes him and says she is alright. The tsks and enthused chattering of the scientist can be heard. Someone address Wanda, asking her what she experienced but why she didn't manipulate the subjects mind as was asked of her. Wanda, still reeling from her cosmic adventure wants nothing more than the solitude of her room to think of what transpired. She musters a withering look as she stares down her onlookers. Despite her vulnerable position on the floor, Wanda succeeds for some grow nervous and flinch away. Of everyone, none have the courage to ask again for Wanda's failed attempt, save for Strucker, who steps forward from his concealed side-lined position.

“What excuse have you, Wanda?” He is not frightened of her; to be frightened would lose him all form of control, and The Twins required an adamantium clasp.

“I grew distracted.” Is all she responds. Strucker observes her, knowing that the younger Twin hides something from him. No matter. In due time, he would know and The Twins would continue to grow more powerful.

“Perhaps you have overexerted yourself for today. Return to your rooms.” And swiftly he swivels on one foot and makes for the exit.

From the corner of the bedroom - prison - the scene plays.

Pietro pesters Wanda, wanting to know what happened, because of the both of them, Wanda didn't make mistakes. She remains quiet for the longest time, eyes closed, brows knotted in concentration. Pietro paces back and forth about their shared room, the act restrained for walking at 'normal speeds' is agonisingly slow for him, he has come to realise. With unsettling concern, his attention strays from Wanda for no more than a few seconds at a time, calculating her expression and disposition. Slowly though, as time passes, her expression softens to bliss contentment. When her eyes open at last, Pietro freezes, ceasing all movement as he stares at her. She meets his stare, hearing the concern projected loudly from his mind.

“There is hope for us, brother,” she says with whispered trepidation, as if the very words would undo all that await them. And Wanda proceeds to inform Pietro of her experience, of carelessly passing beyond the realm of human consciousness, following the beckoning call of a source unknown. Breaching universal barriers to behold all that existed and more, more than possible human comprehension. But there, cradled by the universe she knew, all possibilities and powers within reach for her to master and mold, the call was unrelenting, drawing her attention again. It wanted her, wanted to be found. With just a caresses of her mind, all had been revealed, the monumental and world altering impact of the information rescinding her presence, throwing her back to her mortal body. The recollection is lost to Pietro, as Wanda had thought, beyond human comprehension and her words not doing the experience justice. Despite having been the one who experienced it, even she is at a loss of how to describe it.

“Wanda, what you speak makes no sense,” Pietro says. Still he is worried her his sister, her ramblings of interdimensional travel quite unusual of her.

“I was shown something, Pietro. Something...miraculous,” she grabs his hands as she stares intently at him, wide-eyed.

“There are no such things as miracles,” he replies solemnly. Her expression turns sad at his words. This world had treated him – treated them – unfairly, like so many others. Kind intent, hope, and miracles no longer exist within their world.

“Are we not an example?” she questions, diverted from the original topic.

“We are freaks. A science experiment.” His voice and face harden. “But I would not change this. It is what we wanted, but it is no miracle, Wanda.”

“Neither would I, brother,” she replies. Wanda does not disregard Pietro feelings, for they were once her own, but now, now things had shifted, and shifted for the better – she hopes. “Neither would I,” she repeats, “but hear me,” her voice insistent.

“I heard you,” he sighs, “you received a premonition?” And Wanda freezes, for it was an precise description.

“Yes, yes it was.”

“You fail to tell me what this miraculous premonition is?”

“For you keep interrupting me, brother.” Chastising him with a look. “Would you believe me if I were to tell you that, somewhere upon this Earth, exists someone; someone who would be all that we need and yearn for. Can you not feel it?” And she presses a hand against his chest, emphasising her point. “Have you not felt it? As if the laws of the world have been rewritten to allow subtle redirection?”

Wanda gauges Pietro response, watching as his skepticism transforms into that which she has rarely seen herself. He is staring across the room, nothing but the cemented four-walled boundary for view, but Pietro's concentration is focused on the startling revelation of Wanda's news. His mind races with thought and recollections, minuscule pieces forming to complete the puzzle. He returns his attention to his sister, face furrowed with shock but Wanda reads his belief.

“But how?” he utters. Wanda shakes her head, still in her own state of disbelief.

“I...” And she remembers. A second yet lasting longer than time itself, she had felt Pietro's pain, her sorrow, his silent cry, her unrelenting desire to guarantee their happiness. A wish, a single thought, made a reality. She fixates Pietro with her wide eyes, expression apologetic. “I did not..I had no control-” she chokes, and Pietro cups her face, the gesture comforting. He hushes and leans his forehead against hers, a shaky sigh escaping her parted lips.

“Why apologies...for a miracle,” he consoles.

The following months, HYDRA aims to perfect the abilities of The Twins, as they have now been dubbed, and they too, focus on honing their skills. Pietro pushes his limits, becoming increasingly faster and improving his endurance, for such accelerated speeds is naturally taxing on his body. They title him: Quicksilver. The signature silvery wisps which are all that his enemies will see as they fall.

Wanda, since her experience into the beyond, has unveiled more abilities besides telekinesis and fear manipulation. No premonition has visited her since but discovered her talent for telepathy and energy projection...and her powers continue to grow in strength. She is coded: Scarlet Witch. Like her brother, named for the otherworldly talents she possesses and the red light when she casts.

They haven't forgotten Wanda's discovery, now an additional motive and priority; to better the world so that they may coexist with their special other and find them when they had succeeded in doing such. When they find themselves alone, cuddled upon the shared bed, they whisper to each other fantastical thoughts of whom they have yet to meet. Who Wanda had bound to, for they can feel it, a hollowed section of themselves that remained blank and gaping, and how they craved to fill it and secure who was theirs.

Soon comes the birth of Ultron and his promise to the Maximoff's; to aid them in ridding the world of the Avengers and fulfilling their revenge against Tony Stark and all that America represents. The Avengers are defeated in battle but the war not won; the Hulk aided in that. Thereafter, Ultron priorities the goal of constructing an artificial body with the forced assistance of a scientist who had been specifically chosen for the task. It is not long before Ultron's conscience is uploaded into his new body, The Vision of himself.

Wanda knows fear, her own and that of her enemies, but she does not understand why, before the creation of Ultron, that fear plagues her, radiating from the body within the casket. She lays a hand upon the confined body and the experience is all too familiar. Her mind is torn from her body, suspended and whirling about her is their future; Earth's future and it's inhabitants. Ultron's ulterior motive: the annihilation of the human race, and Sokovia, their home, would be the detonation button. Wanda is one again and she throws herself backwards, repelled by the cocooned being and it's not so secrete, secrets. It's not what they wanted, what Wanda and Pietro wanted.

They sought justice, for the injustice they had endured.

They sought peace, for all they knew was war.

They sought love, for they had been deprived so young.

They sought revenge, for revenge was only fitting.

But they didn't want this. The death of their country men, the death of all life. And so they fled but with the intention of stopping Ultron, even if it meant siding with those they had originally opposed. For a world where no life breathed, was a love lost. Their unidentified other, who waited them. Pietro and Wanda, would fight, with everything they had, to retain, desperately so, for a chance of happiness.

The war was fought and worn were it's Avengers. Pietro, believed to be a casualty of Ultron's warped ideology, had fallen, and so did Wanda; crashing to her knees in a soul splitting scream as her powers obliterated all about her in agonising sorrow. As her fury rained down on her enemies, Wanda disregarded her position besides the drop button, and took the battle to Ultron, who had personalised this far beyond what she could have imagined.

And so Ultron fell, like she believed her brother to have done, and so did the air-born land mass of Novi Grad. She had resolved she too would follow her brother but The Vision, opposite of all that Ultron had envisioned, swooped her from her plummeting demise.

Witness to the scene and aboard the civilian transporter, Wanda was ushered to the body of her brother, where he lay on the ground beside the wounded, Clint Barton. Taking to her brothers side, she pressed her face against his chest in sorrow, her silent grieving only decipherable by the shaking of her body and white knuckled hands. She hears Clint mention how Pietro sacrificed his life for himself and a boy. Said her brother was brave and selfless in that moment. Despite Clint's effort to detail the heroics of her brothers actions, it didn't change the undeniable fact. Her brother was dead.

Or so they thought.

Wanda's sobbing ceases, her face tear stained. She presses her ear to Pietro's chest, yet nothing she hears. It's what she felt. With waning energy, she concentrates, focusing all attention on the body of her fallen half. Her mind reaches out, scanning his perceived, lifeless form. And there it is. A flicker, oh so small. She releases a choked gasp. There is life, her brother lives! But barely. His abilities are kick-starting a frantic healing process, his body having shut down in order to commence the formidable task. A laugh interlaced with a sob escapes her mouth and she caresses Pietro's face, brushing the tangled fringe from his forehead.

Pietro, now conscience and healing, is seen once aboard the herculaneum aircraft, hovering above what remains of Novi Grad. But despite the property damage, casualties were minimal. The Avengers had succeeded. Medical staff see to his injuries which miraculously – to them that is – are near healed. But scabbing and tenderised skin a reminder of the near fatal bullet wounds that had decorated his body. Wanda too, is seen, though her injuries minor, but scraps and bruising.

Wanda and Pietro sit beside one another, the brief tragedy of believed loss of one another still as fresh and tenderised as Pietro's injuries. The emotional distraught would take time to heal. However, something has captured their attention. They had felt it, Wanda had as they had drawn near to the S.H.I.E.L.D aircraft known as the Helicarrier. The pull, gravity redefined. On his waking, Pietro too, was quick to notice the change. They sat, hands clashed, staring in the direction of the pull. They were aboard the aircraft. The one whom Wanda envisioned, the one whom would complete their lives.

Hours later, the Twins are on the verge of becoming hysterical. Pietro paces with heated steps, intermittently dashing about the waiting room in unrestrained frustration. Wanda, who is more aware than Pietro or the unidentified other, and the prolonged event is straining her mental capacity. She grows lethargic with each passing hour, becoming almost sickly. When finally they are ushered into an examination room under the escort of Steve Rogers and armed guard. Wanda is too tired to protest and as such, Pietro makes up for her lack of response, scowling at the masked guard and demanding why security is required. The stress of the situation has taken it's toll on Pietro as well. Becoming more brash and rude than he normally would be. Despite his manner, Steve Rogers calmly but with commanding authority, explains the necessity considering that they had, until very recently, been vigilantes on the opposing side whom had wanted human extinction. On S.H.I.E.L.D's part, it was a precaution that couldn't be wavered.

With a huff and another scowl, Pietro has relented, choosing his sisters side whose strength evaporated. With passing minutes as they awaited the doctor who could conduct an examination of them both, Wanda turns frantic. She clutches at her head, the building pain that pierces her mental capacity.

“They are here, Pietro!” her whisper hushed and agonised. Pietro fixates her with undivided attention and encompasses her hands in his. “So close, so close. How long we have waited,” Wanda chants through gritted teeth. Her breath comes in shaky gasps, eye clenched. Pietro maneuvers her to the bed in the room, aware that the stress of the situation is taxing on her body.

“Hush, sister,” Pietro consoles, “Soon now. I feel them too.” Steve watches the exchange with frowning worry. While they have quietene, no longer bestowing himself and the guard with withering looks, Steve does not like the progression of this new development. He hears the door open and into the room steps Dr. Bamu whom he nods a greeting. She approaches him, stern as usual and eyes the individuals who occupy the bed.

“Rogers,” she greets, “what is the situation?” And she nods to the hushed Sokovian conversation between the Maximoff's whom she identified via having seen their photos in the intelligence file.

“You''ll have your hands full with that one,” nodding to Pietro. Rogers and Bamu eye the pair critically while Pietro continues to calm Wanda.

“Is this something I should be concerned about?” Bamu's questions in relation to the exhibited distressing behaviour of the Sokovian twins.

“From my experience...caution would be the most tactful approach.” His attention focused on them. “Rest assure, that's why I'm here,” he claims, but his voice lacking reassurement, tired from battle.

Bamu huffs, “That does little for comfort.” She eyes the guard stationed at the door disapprovingly. “You and 'Shoot First', are but catalysts in this concoction.” Rogers doesn't respond to the comment, fixated. Oh how little they knew of the incoming catalyst.

The door sounds and the rattling of a trolley drowns out the murmured conversation of Wanda and Peitro. The trolley pauses and all is silent. They can feel it, so clear and powerful now, the thrumming and undeniable pull. It pulses in their veins, unmistakable of who has set foot into the room.

“Um, Dr.Bamu, is everything alright?”

Their breathing hitches. That sweet but commanding sound. They stare at each other, processing what is happening, then Wanda hears it; the need of her brother. She hastens to to grab him, stall his brash thought. True to his codename, he is too quick. Pietro is before them, but allowing her first glimpse of the preson, of the woman. She can hear their internal dialog, feel their palpable fear due Pietro's intimidating behaviour. Truly, his actions were innocent but fueled with emotion and need.

She hears the hitch of breath, “Ours, you are ours.”

Oh, brother. It wasn't the meeting they had intended. Wanda remains upon the bed, the sickness fading. The bond was near complete.

“Excuse me?!”

The separation is painful, a gasp escaping your mouth. It takes a few seconds to ground yourself back to reality – your reality. All awareness of time is distorted; had it been minutes, hours or seconds? Pressing a hand to your head to where a dull throb lulls, you're thankful to be sitting, Wanda's suggestion having not been unfounded.

Wanda.

That singular word sparks an incalculable process of puzzling together all that had been revealed to you, to narrow down to a singular but monumental fact.

“It was you!” you accuse through gritted teeth. Once the ache has subsided, you divert all focus on Wanda, pinning her in-place with a glare. “Why didn't you tell me from the beginning?” Wanda is the embodiment of 'calm and collected' despite your fierce accusation. She has since stepped back, allowing space between you.

“This transition has been hard enough for you. I knew that acceptance would not come easy so my intention was to minimise the stress of the experience. It was unnecessary to burden you with that knowledge until you were ready and still now I think it premature,” Wanda explains.

“Burden?!” you hiss in retaliation. “The burden of knowing that all this, has been your doing all along?” You rise to your feet, steady and grounded in preparation for a verbal confrontation.

“Your well-being was our sole concern-” Wanda tries to mediate but is interrupted.

“Don't try to sugar coat your actions!” Your heart rate has once again accelerated, breathing quicken with angry puffs warming your lips. Wanda delays a reply, calculating the best response to resolve her actions.

“Please, (Y/N), allow me to explain.” Your name strikes an invisible cord, the sound and manner in which Wanda says it is unnerving, and it only serves to rile you more.

“Why?” you exclaim, “why should I trust you when you haven't trusted me with the truth from the beginning?” How could you trust her or believe her? She had successfully shattered what regard you had held.

“I have withheld the truth from you, that I admit, but what I have shown you, that is no lie. Those chosen memories have been orchestrated to create a mere glimpse of the foreshadowing events that have consequently resulted in our union.” You scoff at her continued effort to minimise the damage done.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“But you do.” Anger prickles in response to the audacity of the comment and she gauges your response critically. Before you can retaliate, Wanda continues. “My memories are the foundations from what you accuse me - and rightly so - yet does that not confirm that you see truth in them?”

Game set and match.

The concluding comment to the trivial argument is a slap to the face, earning a wide-eye expression. You bite down on a lashing retort, knowing it to be a pointless and childish to further your argument when you knew her to be right, and how you hated that. She always seemed to know. As the adult that you are, Wanda's undeniable truth is acknowledged by adverting your attention from her to stare begrudgingly at a random inanimate object.

 We will help you too. Together.

What bullshit.

No matter the truth of your feelings that Wanda had acutely stated, it didn't absolve her poor decision for it hadn't been her's to make. The authenticity of her shared memories wasn't what concerned you, merely used as a conduit for what truly mattered. She had been dishonest. Yes, you believed what she had shown – despite your trivial argument – but at the root of it all, Wanda had lost your trust, and that's was mattered most.

“Your distrust is not unfounded, that I acknowledge. In time, I would hope I can earn it again.” A huff of suppressed, bitter laughter sounds in the silenced room. Yea, that would be a long time coming...or never.

So where did this now leave things? Quickly, you seek another argumentative topic that might sway something in your favour, might make Wanda see reason and logic. You reflect on the memories so willingly shared, sorting through the turmoil, angst and devastation. It seems rude, to be privy to such private and personal possessions and you would gladly have them erased, if it didn't required Wanda's intervention. Yet buried beneath all those chaotic events and desperation, was the moment that ignited your intertwining futures.

At the root of your turmoils was this bond, and Wanda it's creator. Wanda has only been guilty of withholding information but it's creation beyond her control – as she so claimed. Despite how much you want to, you couldn't hold that against her. That, however, eludes to the question of how much power the Sokovian woman possessed? That reality could be so easily and unconsciously woven to her will and desires. It's a terrifying thought that you dare not voice...not now at least.

The foreboding thought is cast side to be reconsidered later. You muster an illusion of self control, betraying nothing of the daunting thought, for at this stage, you know, deep down that the control you scramble to grasp will remain beyond reach.

“If your offer still stands,” you say, enunciating each word with sarcasm, “I'll ask this: why did you not try to undo what you did?” Yet your mind whispers in reply that you knew the answer to that question, you has seen it after all.

“Because it is what we wanted.” There is no hesitation in Wanda's reply. Firm and unyielding, just like her manner and her need. “You saw...did you not, what we want?” You shudder at the implication. The conversation has taken a turn onto dangerous territory. “While it's no conventional method, it was an unconscious act of my doing but at it's core; our desire, our hope, our future. We want this. We need this.”

 Mind, body and soul.

“You...you can't impose that kind of responsibility! For the sole happiness of yourself and Pietro to rest with me!” Whatever control you had hoped to gain is now lost as Wanda confirms the fate that awaits you.

“Of the billions of human souls on this Earth, the universe, by some divine proclamation through the power of my abilities has singled you.”

“But you don't know me?! How can you not fight this? All three of us have had no say, yet the two of you have just blindly accepted it. Is that not opposite of the control you seek?” You had hoped to have made a point. Wanda and Pietro sought the power to wield control of their lives and thereby ensuring their happiness, but this situation opposed those ideals. “I'm not the right person for you. I won't make you happy or give you what you want. I wont be your failure.”

They deserved happiness, from all you had witnessed, they of all people. But why couldn't they understand that your happiness, your rights, too mattered.

“While Pietro and I would never force you against your will – as hypocritical as that is - but as it stands, this is our situation. I knew not what I created in that moment. There was no malicious intent, nor desire to hurt another. Please believe this. I know not how to undo what is done, my powers still beyond my understanding.” It is the ultimatum you knew was coming. There was no escape or negotiating. Your shoulders, tight and stiff from the ping-pong like interaction, slumped in defeat with emotional exhaustion. “All I ask is this: don't fight it. For whatever evolves, it would benefit us all. Please, take the chance to know my brother and I,” Wanda's words are weighted and again, you feel that instinctual pull, mind and body drawn to her. Your emotions are disordered, a mixture of your own and theirs: longing, curiosity, jealousy, fear. They are far beyond blended that you can't ascertain which are yours and which are theirs.

I am deserving. Never parted. Why me/why them? I want to know you. What happens now? This doesn't make sense/This is pointless.

You shake your head, forced concentration in aim to reclaim clarity; the intruding thoughts fading. You're confused, at odds with yourself, with Wanda, with the world! Now what will you do? You could scream and curse, continue to accuse Wanda and continue a frivolous argument, but what would that achieve? You sigh, as if releasing the remaining pent-up anger, distress, and disbelief. You haven't forgotten Rogers stern and not-so-subtle command to improve upon your interactions with the Maximoff's. You want to laugh; If only he could have witnessed this.

“It's amazing,” your voice quiet, “despite all this, I believe you.” Looking pointedly at Wanda. While maintaining her neutral composure, there is a slip of emotion; you see the spark of hope - feel it. Ironically, there is some remorse, knowing that you will dissolve what hope she had. “But this doesn't change anything. We will go on our lives, preferably with mutual understanding that I can't give you and Pietro what you want.” And that's all you will elaborate on their unspoken details of desire. “I'll rely on you to convey my wishes.” And Wanda nods in understanding. “But...” And the sentence trails, leaving it open to interpretation of what will be said next. “I'm sure the three of us can come to some arrangement as we will still be living together. There's no reason why we can't...coexist with some civility.” Recalling the behaviours of all parties from the past week.

There is silence as Wanda digests your proposal and you gauge her, albeit, unable to deduce her thoughts and feelings in this moment. Typical.

“It is only right to respect your wishes. I can speak for Pietro and say we would both be glad to..."

While it remained a priority to apologise to Pietro, you have formulated that it might be best that interactions between yourselves is limited and that they would respect your boundaries. You would be courteous in hope that they too would be; in no doubt of Wanda but holding little hope for Pietro's conduct. You got an inkling that he was like that with all but her. At this point, the bond seemed unbreakable, but by Gods, you were persistent. There had to be a way, and you would endeavour to find it.

All the while as you're thinking, Wanda, indulges in your intentions. She will not press herself, nor allow Pietro to do such. It would take time for all partied to heal from today's events. However, despite you incessant nature to rebuff the connection that now binds the three of you, she knows that that too, will only take time. You just required some prompts along the way.

Waking is like a light being switched on. There is nothingness; no conscious concept of self or the world around. Then comes the surge of electricity, just like a florescent lights stalled flickering with that rattly buzz they make before popping on. What once was a void is now illuminated to reveal…everything - in a slow, groggier way. Waking is just like that.

Consciousness alert, you lie there, eyelids weighted with sleep. Allowing a minute to orientate yourself, memories of the past day recycle, reminding you of recent events; S.H.I.E.L.D, Ultron. Sokovia. War. Casualties. Aid. The Maximoff’s.

Eyes open, you stare at the metal wall, that final thought repeating; The Maximoff’s. The Maximoff’s. The enigma that they were. Rolling over and emitting a groan, you discard the thought as you push yourself up, sliding your feet to the cold floor. Groggy, furry mouthed, and still fatigued, you’re at least pleased to note that the nausea has subsided entirely. Sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, a few seconds are needed to accustom the soles of your naked feet to the chilling cold of the floor. Pushing from the bed and padding across the room to the intercom system, the communication code for the main medical bay is keyed in, the glow of the screen illuminating your face in a blue hue. The intercom beeps at the confirmation of the connection.

“Med. Atkins speaking,” the familiar monotone voice emits through the speaker, having selected the voice only option, disabling the video setting.

“Hey, Pat, it’s me,” your voice croaks.

“Oi, (Y/N). Recovered?” Atkins tone heightening in interest, no doubt privy to your condition.

“Better,” honest in your reply; for no longer being plagued with nausea, you still felt off, but unable to specify exactly how. “Can you give me an update?”

“Well, we’ll be home bound in two hours, thirteen minutes. There are three inpatients in surg-med. It’s pretty routine at the moment. We’re all itching to get back,” you hum in acknowledgment of the information. “What’s your plan?” There is a pause before your reply, mulling over your answer.

“I’ll shower and then come down, assist with prepping for disembarkment.” Feeling better, there was no reason for you to not return to work.

“Well, I’m starved. Goin’ grab some grub, want something?”

“Yea, sure. But one of those protein drinks. Don’t think I can stomach anything else,” physically grimacing at the thought of heavy flavoured food.

“Right. See you soon then.” And the intercom beeps, signalling the end of the call.

The shower, although quick, is exactly what you needed, the effect revitalising. Grabbing a towel, it is encompasses your wet locks and it twisted to sit atop your head. Another is used to dry your body, limb by limb, then wrapping the towel in the usual fashion around your torso. Absent minded, moisturiser is lathered on, peace of mind as the task is continued; a hand slides up and down your left forearm, massaging in the cream. During the conduct, odd colouring captures your attention. Your arm is brought to eye level, examining the skin of the inner arm. Peering closely, strikes of silvery coloured marks pattern across the length of the forearm. The patterns appeared as if they were a white tattoo but with a silvery tint. Within seconds, you ascertain that the pattern is in fact script, words expanding the length of the limb.

“Ours. You are ours.”

Brows crinkled at the odd sentence before your mind flashes with a vivid recollection; the sudden appearance of the white haired Sokovian before you, eye glowering as he utters those exact four words; your heart speeds up, hammering internally.

“Ours. You are ours.”

How? How have those words come to be imprinted on your person? Racking your mind for an explanation, it’s a pointless endeavour. You rub the area profusely only to irritate the skin to the point manifesting a red rash. With an alternative attempt using your nail, you pick the lettering only to earn pain. However it got there, it’s apparently skin deep.

“This is some Umbridge bullshit!” you curse.

Perhaps he was responsible? The thought is ridiculous and illogical in all possible sense but how else would it explain the words now imprinted into your flesh. Gripping the sink, steadying your wavering stance as vertigo distorts your balance; your eyes scrunch closed, white specks appearing sporadically due to the intensity. With deep even breaths, you aim to induce some sort of equilibrium and calm yourself. The best solution you settle on – for the moment - is ignorance, because history and human example has proved a guaranteed success rate, had it not?

Resorting to severe actions, you adopt a wrist length, long sleeved shirt to wear beneath your nursing tunic, despite the reluctance at the prospect of being too hot. However, you wouldn’t be tempted to stare at your uncovered arm, contemplating the source of its unexpected appearance, nor would it entice unwanted questioning from others. You grimace, gut instinct telling you that somehow, life was about to reach a new level complicated.

The medical bay is like the calm after the storm; debris and damage everywhere. Paper littered bench tops, equipment requiring sterilisation and tidying, bins needing emptying, stock forms to be completed, review of civilian treatment cares, and that listed what you could only see.

“Oi,” the voice capturing your attention. Turning, you smile on seeing Patricia Atkins, known as Pat; 6”2 with broad shoulders and an athletic build hidden beneath her scrubs; often drawing similarities to a basket or netball player from new acquaintances. “My damsel in distress,” she greets teasingly, arms full of glorious sustenance.

“Far from it,” grabbing hold of the drink extended.

“Besides avoiding another world-wide crisis; the addition of freaky sibling duo and your encounter is the next hot topic,” Pat comments casually. “There’s word something happened. Something involving medical staff. Not too hard for someone to figure out it was you.” You listen whilst eagerly sipping on the straw, appreciative of the drinks cooling sensation as it travels down your oesophagus to pool in your stomach.

“Well you’ll be disappointed to know that it wasn’t anything exciting,” and Pat eyes you critically at your attempt to rebuff the explanation.

“Were you hurt?” Pat’s hardened tone drawing your attention.

“Jesus, is that what people think?!” almost choking on your reply.

“You were relived from duty due to medical technicalities, and have been locked away in your quarters for the past five hours. What did you expect people to think?” Her reasoning was logical, you admit.

“Ok, yes, I wasn’t feeling well, but that was pure coincidence,” and the unsaid ‘however’ lingers, drawing out the silence.

“What were they like?” Pat was sharp and easily deduced from your answers that despite no physical harm to your person, something had transpired between yourself and the Sokovian siblings to have instigated the circling gossip.

“They were…intense, to put it mildly. More so the brother, but I haven’t the faintest clue why,” you admit solemnly and that is as truthful as you would allow yourself to be.

“Did they say anything to you?” Pat prompts. You feel yourself tense at her question, mind narrowing to the hidden markings on your arm.

“No,” the reply croaking and you clear your throat in haste, “no nothing. Tight-lipped.”

“You are being particularly vague, though I can’t fathom why,” she presses.

'Just trying to protect myself,’ you think. Pat was kind but prone to protective tendencies, which were unnecessary but you found it comforting all the same. “Just trying to put it behind me,” your tone indicating your need to cease the topic. And persist, Pat did not. She was observant like that, which you appreciated and admired, however that observative nature could be a double edge sword. With one last critical stare, she takes a bite of her food and you continue to sip the drink. You hear her gag.

“How do you drink that shit?” not disguising her disgust. You return the comment by gurgling a mouthful, eyes alight with laughter. A snort escapes Pat’s throat as she shoves you playfully.

The following hour continues in anticipation of returning to base; mundane duties procrastinated by the banter between yourselves. However, those silent moments when the both of you actually concentration to complete work allow your mind to drift back to the haunting fact recently discovered, and to forget it is proving harder each time. It has exceeded to the point of trying to rationalise how the script has appeared. No scientific explanation can logically account for the miraculous phenomenon – scratch that, miraculous it was not, a curse more adequately described it. Tempted you were to examine your skin under a microscope or shave a skin sample for testing, but to secretly conduct such was near impossible and would eventually gain the attention of someone, which would then lead to undoubtedly explaining your predicament, then becoming a science experience and being locked away.

'Ok, that’s an overreaction,’ you muse, but it wasn’t improbable.

But if science could not explain the source, then what was left to consider? A large percentage of your profession was founded by science - science was everything; more than a thousand years of systematic study that had advance the technique of health care. If not science, then what? Then a thought, as if a match is lit, triggers – what you to believe to most illogical idea and a succession of theories, if they could be called such.

The parallels linking the Maximoff’s, their odd behaviour, and the period of time between being tattoo free to having unknowingly visited a tattoo parlor and having an unseemly script imprinted on your person, was now becoming suspect. Abilities! They had abilities! And for the life of you, you can’t remember what they were. Perhaps that was the explanation. But in order to confirm your theory, you needed to see that classified files that Dr. Bamu had, which would mean requesting permission to view them. Which would undoubtedly require you to provide the reasoning for such a request, and lying wasn’t exactly your strongest trait - in the case of lying to Bamu, that is.

The turbulent thought process is disorientating, oblivious to your activity, body on auto-pilot, a box of medicated ampoules is knocked to the floor, the force shattering the glass and spilling the liquid in a hazardous mess. Stunned for a moment, mind processing what just happened, you kneel to floor, however unceremoniously falling to your bottom as a wave of vertigo disorientates your balance. A shout sounds from across the room, and you hear the hasty footsteps as Pat rushes to your side. Clutching your head, eyes squeezed tight, you wait as the spinning sensation eases.

“Hey, hey! Are you alright?” the concern woven inquiry comes, her hand is placed on the middle of your back in a concerned gesture. Pat receives only a strained hum in reply, and her brows furrow at your state. “Give me something here, (Y/N),” her voice urgent.

“Just…just some vertigo,” you manage. The effect is lessening but now you’re feeling hot, the heat creeping along the back of your neck and upwards.

“You’re flushed,” she notes, proceeding to place the back of her hand against your forehead. At this, your eyes open only to amplify the spinning effect. “You have a temp. For starters, that long sleeved shirt isn’t helping,” plucking at the material of your arm.

“I’m fine,” forcing your voice to be calm, “It might be the stress of it all. You know. Ultron has been my debut in the field after all,” smiling meekly at her. Pat visibly clenches her teeth, the muscles of her jaw flexing at the action.

“Come,” she prompts, and with her aid, she assists you from the ground and escorts you to a seat. Leaving you here with water in hand, she proceeds to clean the mess made. Pat, although quiet, is resisting the urge to grill you regarding your current condition, as it is not without suspicion. Only hours previous were you ill, although no specific details divulged by yourself or Dr. Bamu, it could be speculated that it was minor. However, seemingly recovered on your presentation to med, only an hour later to befall another ailment. Pat was not oblivious at your reluctance to detail the transgression with the Sokovian siblings, but in relation to your health, she saw no connection. Despite this, something regarding your interaction with the siblings was off, but as a matter of priority, your current state was more concerning.

Simultaneously, you are mulling over thoughts of your own. Staring at nothing in-particular, you sip the water, mind again focused on the matter before your clumsy mistake. You needed access to Bamu’s files, the need so achingly bad because they might just hold the key for what you need to know. The desire to relieve yourself of the extra layering of clothing is tortuously tempting, feeling the heated flush of your cheeks, but for what that would be worth would only prove to complicate the situation, and so far, only yourself involved, with the likely addition of another two. If it proved that the siblings - more so, Pietro - were in fact responsible, you would willing confront him about it, despite your reluctance to see them again.

“Where is Dr. Bamu?” Drawing Pat’s attention from her task. She stares curiously, calculating your reasoning for wanting to see the doctor.

“No doubt making Fury’s ears bleed,” she replies, almost too casually. You remain seated, waiting the Pat’s inquisitive question as to why you want to know the whereabouts of said doctor. But nothing comes and you watch her, suspicion spiking; for Pat, although intuitive, asked questions first then went Sherlock on your arse.

“If you plan to stick around, make yourself useful by finalising the care plans,” she suggests. She has played you and you know it, purposefully tasking you with a job so that you remain seated and not stumbling about which you suspect would happen, a liability to yourself and the work-place. Pat knows you’re too stubborn to leave, so keeping you busy with minor work and under her watchful eye is what she intended. Another hour passes, staff coming and going, Pat’s continued but poorly disguised spying, your continued typing and reading of reports, all the while battling sporadic waves of vertigo. While no longer feeling sick, with the room continuing to spin as it does, you might be revisiting the feeling.

Fifteen minute notice is given for the approaching disembarkment and the need anxiously swells to be off the 'flying monstrosity’ as you have heard it described. Protocols completed, staff file off the Helicarrier stationed in the underground hanger bay, which on first sighting, the magnitude of the area had literally dropped your jaw, the technological sophistication being science fiction-esque. The newly established S.H.I.E.L.D base, situated undisclosed in upper state, New York. S.H.I.E.L.D had accommodated for staff wanting to live on base, residential quarters available; mostly international or interstate staff without the means to buy or rent locally. The rent was significantly cheaper, the base itself practically a miniaturised, underground metropolis. With the remainder of the day free, you fail to locate Dr. Bamu, mind targeted on achieving your priority. In the end, you settle on an early retirement, and if by some cursed fate, the mark remains, you will continue the next day.

On awakening, immediately you throw back the covers to reveal your arm, but disappointed is met on inspection, begrudgingly noting the defined script still present. Grumbling inwardly, you ready for a 0730 start; clothed and fed, hastily walking through the corridors in eager rush to locate with Dr. Bamu. Asking her permission was your first step. If that didn’t succeed, you would resort to a more 'illegal’ form of acquirement. Over the past year, you had befriended a guy in operations; more than computer savvy, access grants exceeding most, and desirable hacking skills should that be required. Taking a turbo lift to a lower level, you exit, spring in step and just a little rushed. Admittedly, you feel happier today, albeit determined to have your crisis resolved. There was no intention of continuing the remainder of your life with stupid words scripted on your skin – especially without your intention.

Destination but fifty meters ahead, nothing prepares you for the explosion of pain that expands across your temples. The sudden attack has you back-peddling, clutching the either side of your head. Folding in on yourself, head lowered, you’re blind to your surroundings, forcing the heels of your hands in a compressive manner against the indent of the temporal region. If the pressure of your hands is painful, it’s not noticeably with the splitting agony befalling you. Dropping to the ground, fetal in position, screams are heard, but if they’re your own, you wouldn’t the know, but the sound puncturing every fiber of your being. Tears run free, and you feel like your head will implode on itself, the pressure and pain surpassing the threshold. Voices far and near, incoherent and indistinguishable, and pain, so much; it’s the last recollection before you pass out.

'Gah, why am I in bed?’ The cushioned surface evident against your back. Slowly, eyes open and peering, you absorb the surrounding environment, noting the familiar med bay. You don’t recall having actually reached it, although recollecting the eagerness of your journey. Pushing against your elbows, upper-body forced upwards as your predicament is analysed. A dull throb radiates across your head and it serves as the reminder to what happened. Instinctively, a hand is brought to your head and you massage a temple, reflecting on the stressing but clouded memory.

'What is happening to me?! Nausea, vertigo and now this!’ Licking your lips, you flinch when you feel a throb of pain. Touching your bottom lip, you note it’s swollen. Testing your tongue also you note the tender sensation, theorising you bitten both it and your lip, a linger of iron still present. A frustrated sigh is released.

“Officer (Y/L/N), you’re awake,” the nurse states the obvious. You recognised them but can’t recall their name.

“Dually noted,” unable to resist the sarcastic remark. The nurse looks at you, unimpressed.

“I was hoping that you might be exempted from the stereotype that health care professionals make the worst patients,” he replies evenly, “How silly of me,” throwing the sarcasm back full-force. “I’m Officer Thurston, your nurse. Can you tell me how you’re feeling?” The following ten minutes consisted of routine health question, only that you were used to being the one asking them, not being subjected. With any imminent danger to your health dismissed, Thurston concludes.

“You have a visitor waiting. Do you feel well enough to see them,” he questions. You nod, suspecting it was Pat and you cringe at her predicted reaction. “I’ll let them know,” and he departs. You twiddle your fingers in anticipation, both for seeing your awaited guest, and to continue on with your goal before this unforeseeable event.

“Officer (Y/L/N),” the deep set voice greets. Steve Rogers stands at the foot of the bed, arms parallel, posture stiff and straight, consequential of a long time serving military officer. You’re shocked. Of all people, who would expect to be visited by Steve Rogers, American hero and world saver. In the span of twelve hours, no less.

“Captain Rogers.” The formality is returned, and all you can do is remain as you are, awaiting his eventual reasoning for his visitation.

“I hope you are recovered,” he’s slightly awkward in his address, small talk obviously not an easy trait for him. While the courteous effort is appreciated, it is but belaying what you want to hear.

“Much so. It was only a migraine.” His sudden change from awkward school boy to calculative strategist is instantaneous, eyes critical in their assessment of your reply. You remain neutral of expression, intent to not portray the uncomfortability of the critique.

“You have not been well of late,” the statement prompting an elaborative response on your part.

“A little under the weather you might say, but nothing serious.” Simplistic and feeding Rogers informative curiosity.

“For how long?”

You mull over the question, estimating the sudden onset of sickness that had struck the day before, “Yesterday, early afternoon.” You watch as he nods, absorbing the information.

“And the onset of your migraine?” he persists; your narrowed eyes gauge him, trying to determine his aim.

“I was on my way to work, estimate oh-seven-twenty hours.”

“Would you class that incident as nothing serious?” emphasising the point with your exact words.

“Like I said, it was a migraine,” your reply only a little hesitant but you’re not sure if he noticed.

“A migraine that had you screaming bloody murder, collapsed upon the floor trying to crack open your skull?” his tone is accusing but it sheds some light on what happened. You had suspected you had been screaming but it had sounded like it was overheard. “Underplayed, don’t you think?”

“I don’t quiet recall…not all of it” forcing an even reply.

“Well that’s the account I’ve been given-”

And you cut him off, formalities be damned, “Then why bother asking?”

“Because it would indicate if you had something to hide,” his tone steady but the words weighted. You shrink, wishing the bed would swallow you.

“Officer (Y/L/N), has something happened as of yesterday?” the question is pressed.

“I’ve been ill, on and off, that’s all,” your voice quiet. Rogers exhales in a frustration but does not prompt further. The silence stretches before Rogers speaks again.

“I have been forceful in my address, I apologies. But there might be something at work here, and it’s not just you at risk. Any information could help,” if ever Rogers were going to plead, that was it just now. You don’t know what else to tell him. But that was a lie in itself. If you were to ever get the answers you were seeking, now might be the time. You hadn’t considered until that your cursed mark and your illness may be related. The thought baffling, but if there were anyone who dealt – on a daily basis – with baffling and strange occurrences, it was Steve Rogers, and he could attest to that himself. With a moment’s hesitance, you hope you won’t regret this. Sliding back the sleeve of your arm, the secret is revealed extended towards Rogers, presentation of his answer. He inspects brows drawn together, confusion evident.

“It appeared yesterday, I’m not sure when,” however suspecting the particular time, “It’s what he said to me,” you explain, voice hushed. Rogers looks to you then, still at a loss to your meaning. “Pietro Maximoff.” At last voicing your suspected source of your unrequited mark. Rogers’ expression hardens further at your revelation, straightening from his bent position from the inspection. He looks between you and the mark before looking off into the distance; mind evidently spiraling.

“Thank you,” he announces before making a hasty departure. Immediately you regret your actions, shielding your eyes with your arm. Slamming the other arm against the bed in frustration, miserably you question why all of this is happening. Of all things, you don’t want to jeopardize your job but you dismally foresee a discharge coming your way.

“(Y/N)! God, are you ok,” you jumped at the sudden exclamation, looking to your bedside.

“Pat?” you acknowledge weakly, too tired to fake it.

“What the hell is goin’ on?“ she accuses, the question forceful. You stare numbly away from her. Honestly, you had no answers, only questions of your own. "What aren’t you telling me?” playing down the accusing tone, pleading.

“It’s classified,” too tired to fake positivity. It wasn’t a lie, not entirely. Rogers hadn’t needed to say anything for you to know that the situation wasn’t to be discussed openly, nor did you want to. The fewer who knew the better - especially her.

"That’s bullshit!” she retorts but you remain mute, no intention to give in. Stubbornness, while not favourable, was one of your mastered attributes. Pat stands by, observing your solemn form and concludes that she won’t succeed. After a few minutes, Pat speaks, “There is more to your condition, I know that much. But if you ever need help, count on me to be there. Always,” the offer although serious, is genuine in nature and your expression softens.

“Always,” you confirm.

“Do you know what happens now?”

“...I wait.” And how true that was, you chuckle despondently.

Time passes, how much, you’re unsure; an hour or two perhaps. Pat has since left, having urged her to leave and return to her duties. Though reluctant, she complies before promising to check on you later. You’re torn between missing her presence and the mixture of loathing the solitude and finding peace in it. Having received explicit instructions from Officer Thurston to remain in bed, you wouldn’t be surprised if the order had in-fact been passed down the chain of command. You wonder how Rogers is utilising the information you gave him, had he been successful where you had not? You receive your third and final visitor for the day; a S.H.I.E.L.D officer approaches your bed and gauge her with caution. Considering the uniform, you guess she is a tactical officer, mindful of the handgun strapped to her thigh which you consider to be overkill for little ol’ you. She announces your required presence and details nothing else besides that she will escort you to your destination. While thankful to be up and moving, dread courses through you as you’re lead to your unspecified fate.

With trepidation, you approach the room with the escort in step behind you. Pausing at the doorway, you muster what courage and calm that’s available, although minimal. Taking hold the door-handle, it is pulled open and into the room you step. It’s but an average board room, minimalistic in design, only a large table and chairs circling around. You had formulated that Captain Roger’s would be present but noting all else who are, is a startling reveal. Natasha Romanov - your access to her medical file one particular occasion, allowing you a glimpse to her civilian name - stands shoulder to shoulder with Rogers, eyes narrowed as she measures you; assassin through and through. Nick Fury, current director and co-founder - with the assistance of Dr. Selvig and Dr. Cho - of the recently established base of operations since the events concerning HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D’s exposure. Fury is stern, clearly not happy with the turn of events - well that made the two of you. Dr. Selvig stands nearby, probably the only person expressing some positivity. You gape slightly seeing the intimidating form of Thor: Norse Thunderer, arms folded as he too, surveys the scene with frowning curiosity. The Maximoff’s - surprise, surprise - are also here, huddled together in the corner of the room, eyes intent on you - wearily you notice - yet you feel an instinctual pull towards them but shrug of the feeling, blaming the recent series of illnesses to be cause. You distinguish Wanda’s attire, having been too distracted the last time. Her clothes could be described as being influenced by the modern punk trend; worn boots with intentionally ripped, knee length, black socks; a black dress and red jacket adding colour; necklaces and rings adorning her fingers and neck; long, brunette hair, frames her face and heavy eye-lined eyes - penetrative. Pietro’s attire has not changed except for an added jacket - his expression grim, weary yet not lacking their unforgettable intensity.

“All right, everyone is accounted for then,” Rogers voice draws your attention from your observations. “If everyone would take a seat. We might need it.” The ambiguous meaning foreboding. Dr. Selvig, Romanov, Fury, Rogers, the Maximoff’s, and Thor, are seated in a semi-circle and yourself positioned at the foot of the table, separated from them. You suspect the positioning is intentional but for what purpose, you’re unsure. You can’t help but feel like you’re on trial, but punishable for crime or playing witness, it’s uncertain. Regret blooms again, wishing that you hadn’t shown Rogers the mysterious mark.

“I’ll get to the point; at oh-seven-twenty hours this morning, both Officer (Y/L/N) and the Maximoff’s simultaneously suffered from what has been described as a sudden and severe migraine, rendering (Y/L/N) unconscious and aborting the Maximoff’s departure from base,” Rogers tone is all serious and he pauses, allowing the information to be comprehended before continuing. For yourself, it’s a mixture of intrigue and confusion, the coincidence that at the same time - low and behold, the Maximoff’s of all people - had endured the same attack.

“This, of course led to the question of how three strangers - although briefly acquainted yesterday - could be connected. In the past twenty-four hours, the Maximoff’s have exhibited strange behaviour and it has been brought to my attention that Officer (Y/L/N), has suffered from randomised aliments. For a healthy woman of her early twenties, that proves questionable. I approached her this morning while recovering in med, and she provided additional information that alluded to Pietro’s involvement,” you want to shrink into your seat, feeling like a child having snitched on someone to the teacher.

“I approached Pietro regarding the gathered intelligence, but it was Wanda, who eventually illuminated to what was happening. She revealed that both herself and her brother-” and you frown at the details confirming both their involvement, “-were too, suffering from similar ailments but of a lesser degree-”

“Spare me the drawn out details, Rogers. Can someone just tell me what is going on here,” Fury’s exasperated interruption comes. You couldn’t agree more, on the verge of nail biting due to the drawn out suspense.

“It’s a delicate situation, sir-” Rogers efforts to mediate are interrupted.

“And none of your business!” comes the harsh retort of Pietro Maximoff. His eyes are ablaze, furious, and body intense. Wanda consoles her brother, laying a hand upon him.

“Brother,” she soothes, “We have discussed this…this is the best choice. For everyone. They will help,” her voice is barely audible, intent for only her brother to hear. He grits his teeth, clearly agitated, but with a forceful exhale, he calms, albeit slightly. Regarding Pietro with a disapproving look, Rogers observes him for a moment before continuing.

“There is no other way to explain this but...Pietro, Wanda, and Officer (Y/L/N) are bonded,” he says seriously and silence follows the reveal. Fury shoots Rogers an irritated look which he counters by holding up his hand. “Wanda, could you elaborate, please,” prompting her involvement. She glaces quickly in your direction to find your attention fixated on her. Your thought process is too quick, even for you to make sense.

'A bond? The hell does that mean? Is this seriously the best intelligence gathering that S.H.I.E.L.D’s has to offer?’ rapid questions fire one after another and Wanda tilts her slightly, gauging your perplexed expression before speaking.

“As identified, it is a bond; singularly it is not physical, molecular, lawful or emotional, but encompassing all forms of representations. It is a universal connection, comparable to the magnitudinal force that binds the planets; we are drawn and bound to the other in all manner of being,” Wanda’s voice haunting yet vocabulary poetic. “In a simplistic sense, we are drawn to her and her to us, our bond ready to take form of whatever we so desire.” Silence follows her explanation, only the hum of the centralised air-conditioner can be heard, keeping the white noise at bay. You analyse Wanda’s words but it’s a futile endeavour to make sense of what she said. Of all those present, it is surprising when from the brilliant mind, Dr. Selvig speaks, breaking the silence and thought process of all.

“What you speak of exceeds the parameters that science can explain,” Dr. Selvig replies, calm and calculative. “None the less, from what you describe, the most accurate term befitting such a connection, is a soulmate.”

“Yes. It is comparable to that,” Wanda acknowledges Dr. Selvig constructive addition. It’s at that moment you exceed your threshold, the ridiculousness of the topic and the unbelieved calm manner of those before you incomprehensible.

“Are we seriously discussing the probability of being supernaturally connected to another person? And not just one person, but two? Those two?!” rudely pointing at the siblings. Your voice is a trembling calm, the proposition unfathomable. You stare from one person to next, expression incredulous, yet you specifically avoid the attention of Wanda and Pietro, whom you can feel eyeballing you. You note that in comparison to your first meeting, they have taken heed to not stare at you as often - nor as intensely - however the effort is strained. Pietro’s eyes flickering back and forth too frequently; Wanda allowing side glances when she suspects your attention is elsewhere.

“She has a point,” Romanov comments, evidently skeptical as well.

“Just, hear this out,” and Rogers redirects his attention, “Thor, I asked you here today, hoping that you might bestow some enlightenment considering your mythological origins. We are limited to knowledge of our own world, perhaps from your universal experience, you might have something to share.” Thor, armour clad and all muscle, his form overshadows Wanda seated beside him. His expression is pensive and has spoken naught a word since the commencement of the meeting.

“I will say now that what knowledge I hold are but of stories spoken by the All-Mother – may she rest – nonetheless, I will speak of what I know. From the well that births the fate of gods, men and all manner of beings home to Yggradsil, from this source, the Norns weave urðr – destiny – our individual destinies and of the cosmos. While rare, there are those whom are fated to meet, the threads of urðr woven with meticulous care spanning years before their birth. On their meeting, it is said that an instantaneous binding takes place, a binding of mind, body and soul. Of Asgard, we have not a translatable word for the Migardian term, soulmate, for it does not exist. Such...complexity can not be compressed into a singularity.” Thor’s words are weighted and the illustration of the world beyond Earth is awe-inspiring.

“Thor, is there proof which might represent such a bond in a physical sense?” Rogers prompts and it’s a daunting moment for you suspect what this is leading to. Thor is thoughtful once more, a moment of furrowed concentration before he speaks again.

“A common characteristic attributed to fated pairs is an exchange, commonly a mark, a symbol of their match to identify one to another and to those around.” At Thor’s description, your gut sinks. Hopelessly you stare at Rogers, awaiting his attention on you that you instinctively know will come.

“(Y/L/N), may you show us please,” and he signals at you. Swallowing nervously, you stand and draw back the sleeve revealing the mark and extend it for all to see. Besides the siblings and Rogers, everyone leans forward to study the mark. The compiling evidence of this 'bond’ are starting to pave through your doubt, only to manifest apprehension and confusion.

“Wanda. Pietro.” And Rogers nods and signals at them, who too stand to draw back their sleeves to reveal a mark of similar likeliness. Imprinted on both their arms is: 'Excuse me.’ You cringe, despite the situation, you would not wish your in-eloquent remark tattooed on anyone. Funny enough, you’re surprised, considering everything, you’re handling it quiet well; you’re calm, and confused, but calm. But what did it all mean? How did this happen? Why you? Why them? Could it be undone? So far, the only people to have any insight where the Maximoff’s, particularly Wanda.

Intentionally, you turn your attention to her; fear, hope, wary, and confused, playing across your face. “I don’t understand.” Directing the statement at her, optimistic that she might hold more answers.

“We will help you to. Together,” Wanda’s tone soft and sympathetic. You admit to yourself - just the barest hint of a whisper - that her words are comforting. A prickling sensation is felt on your right arm; pulling back the sleeve, what once was unmarked is now in-scripted, just as you had found your left. Wanda’s first words to you. They too have observed the development, noting the appearance of: 'I don’t understand’, on their other arm.

Thor hums in interest, “First word binding. I have seen this before,” he notes more to himself. There is a mixture of fascination, awe and disbelief for those observing.

“Without the magic mumbo jumbo, can someone explain this to me in relative terms?” Fury irritably calls out. Rogers suppresses a sigh with great difficulty.

“The three of them are - by forces beyond our comprehension - bonded, sir, and it has proven already that they can’t be separated, this mornings incident an example. As Wanda has explained to me, physical and mental distress is consequential should it happen again,” Wanda nods in confirmation at Rogers summary.

Fury sighs - considering recent events, this is last thing he wants to deal with. “What would you propose then?”

“For the moment, I suggest accommodating to what is required. Officer (Y/L/N) quarters will be relocated to Avengers Tower where-”

“Wait, you haven’t asked m-” directing Rogers with an inscrutable look, but he cuts you off.

“The Maximoff’s are to reside at Avengers Tower considering their affiliation. You will live there also. It is but a temporary solution, Officer (Y/L/N),” begrudgingly, you nod in acceptance. If it meant not undergoing another of those mind splitting migraines again, then why argue. Rogers had said it was temporary and you trusted his word, having not been given a reason not to. Besides, Stark – no – Avengers Tower might prove interesting. But so many questions were left unanswered. As you had already thought previously; this was the beginning of something complicated…and apparently, beyond your control.

To be continued.

It was post the apparent destruction of Ultron. S.H.I.E.L.D medical personnel were seeing to the injured civilians of Sokovia brought aboard the Helicarrier, stationary above the desolation below that once resembled a city. The crater like fissure where a large portion of the city was once situated, now barren - an eye-sore upon the face of the Earth. The outer parameter, being what remained of the city, was wreckage, little escaping the destruction of Ultron’s robotic drones and the fighting that had ensued to end his reign of terror and protect the people unjustly caught in the cross-fire. With teetering eotioins, all awaited the incoming relief efforts from neighbouring countries and the Earth’s super-power nations to assist with search parties and beginning the restoration of the flattened city. Miraculously, most injuries consisted of scrapes, bruises, energy related burns, and the odd broken bone or laceration. However, dust inhalation was predominately becoming a common factor.

Knowing the impending battle would require more than tactical efforts from S.H.I.E.L.D, Nick Fury had assembled a majority of S.H.I.E.L.D's (remaining) medical division to be on stand-by and waiting for the incoming casualties of both military and civilian individuals. With each arrival of civilians from the transportation carriers, unloaded onto the awaiting Helicarrier, medical staff were quick to commence triage; determining who required urgent attention and sorting individuals by categorising them via the severity of their condition. Certain rooms had been designated as part of a filtering system; holding bays and staff communal areas elected to retain waiting and seen persons and the medical rooms for all those where were currently seeking aid.

The medical division had been divided; three quarters handling civilians, and the remaining quarter seeing to the aid of S.H.I.E.L.D personnel, and that was just the division aboard the Helicarrier. A separate team had been deployed to the surface along with numerous tactical teams, seeing to those who remained in the war-torn city. You had been stationed in triage, determining the critical urgency of each individual presented by a basic triage assessment that outlined the severity of the patient and filtering them in relation to the information gathered.

Now several hours since the conclusion of the battle, patience and energy was frayed by the hour; at least thirty bodies to one nurse, the language barrier made difficult even with the assistance of a newly developed translation device equipped by each medical staff member, but it was far from perfect, frequently misinterpreting or mistranslating English to Sokovian and vice versa.

Factoring in the source for why these people currently occupied an American, militarised aircraft, added to the difficulty. Sokovian’s were proving to be a mixture of obnoxious and wary of the foreign aid. But who could blame them? For centuries their country had been a puppet to foreign power, stunting any possibility of economical growth and once again, and not for the first time, Sokovia had been powerless at the hands of America, indirectly, one of Tony Stark’s inventions. Despite the temporary Sokovian refugees aware of the aid that S.H.I.E.L.D was providing them, approaching families came with some trepidation; it was a lucky draw of either fear evoked anger and apprehension, but on few occasions, gratitude, making those moments all the more worth it.

“(Y/N)!”

Your name echoed across the room to where you currently seeing to the cares of the citizens gathered. Each family was provided with blankets, food packets and bottled water. From one individual to the next, each individual need was attended to, whether it is someone requiring more water, assisting them to the bathroom, or clinical cares. Pardoning yourself, you make your way to the male nurse who didn’t bother to meet you at least half way.

“Dr. Bamu awaits your assistance in treatment room three. I am to relieve you.” Douglas Blair, his name was. A born and bred Scotts-man through and through and an experienced field nurse who had served in Afghanistan as well as other various militarised operations. Everyone had stories before their recruitment to S.H.I.E.L.D. The late thirty year old nurse’s expression was gruff, clearly put out at the order. There was no point inquiring about the reassignment, for Douglas would halt your questioning and chastise you for questioning the order of a superior.

“Oh ok. I’ll give you handover of the situation here then.”

“What else would you do?” the sarcasm evident in his voice. Your brow twitches at the comment.

“Those here have been treated and are currently waiting to be relocated to the surface; ETA one hour from now. All were triaged and categorised no higher than category four. There are nine families in total, the remaining are those separated or either single. The Tkachenko family there-” and you point to the family with whom you were previously with, “- no known allergies for all members. The daughter however, nine years of age, is asthmatic and dust inhalation has aggravated it. She presented with laboured breathing and chest pain. She has since been treated, experiencing no tightness of her chest and is settled and calm. We are continuing observations before her departure,” holding a tablet in-hand, you scroll through the information documented, listing all the individuals in the room; their aliment and all necessary information.

“I’m in the process of finalising documentation and seeing to their general needs.” Handing the tablet to Douglas, he scans through the data with a critical eye. With no further word, he walks off in the direction of the Tkachenko family, continuing to read the information. With one last look about the room, you exit.

No more than ten minutes later, bypassing many, nods and greetings here and there, you arrive that the medical bay, probably the busiest section of the entire aircraft. Weaving through, you make your way to treatment room where your presence is expected. Dr. Bamu is found scrutinising a tablet, brows furrowed with concentration.

“Hi Doc.” The greeting casual as you approach Dr. Bamu, Chief Medical Officer. The Zimbabwean born doctor was of a short stature but a hell of an attitude to company it. She was stern and critical, but calm and collect among chaos. On first acquaintance, she had made you nervous, her strict 'no nonsense’ attitude had you second guessing and tripping over yourself. As time had worn on, you had discovered that despite the blunt attitude, she was nurturing; no question left unanswered and encouraging the best of all. Now on more familiar basis, you knew what beahviour would go un-reprimanded.

It wasn’t until you were at her side that she acknowledged your presence, in her usual way.

“Do you see what I have had to put up with?” The question rhetorical and it wasn’t hard to deduce what she was referring to. “I have the medical staff scattered from one end of this flying monstrosity to other, tending to patients in lounges, not befitting the required care!”

“Considering the situation, everyone is lucky that only minor care was required,” you say, aiming to mediate the situation. “It was only a temporary solution.”

“And this Helicarrie is not equipped to handle such a high patient influx! And not only that, the dangers of staff being stretched too thin; accidents will happen,” she continues, your comment ignored in her ranting. “Fury will be hearing from me!” she declares with a huff. “Do you have an update for me, (Y/L/N)?”

“All boarded Sokovian civilians have received their required treatment at the hands of Dr Uvivie and Dr Edison’s team and those remaining are being monitored in the designated communal rooms. I have received confirmation that within the hour, the last of the citizens will be relocated to the surface below where our away team is currently situated. Aid from the UK, Switzerland and Ukraine has arrived and are commencing humanitarian services. Incoming forces from the USA are expected,” you summarise the information that had been sent via message not long prior to you reassignment. Dr. Bamu nods in understanding.

“I trust all went well with you, Doc?” you inquire. Dr. Bamu was in charge of S.H.I.E.L.D personal brought back injured or at the conclusion of their mission.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before” she replies curtly. At last, she glances at you, her expression stern; lips pursed and brows furrowed. The tablet in hand is passed to you and it’s taken without question. Looking to the screen, it was a digitalised, classified file. Dr. Bamu’s authorisation has already granted permission for viewing and you peer at the screen curiously. The file comprises of scientific data: reports, exerts on genetic manipulation, and the utilisation of alien power sources.

‘Human experimentation?’

“We have some Grade 'A' meat on the slab,” she states but with an air of apprehension. 'Grade A meat' was a satirical code used among the medical division. It stemmed from evaluation system used to grade the quality of beef, numerous factors determining it’s value. The most desirable, expensive and top tier was 'prime', also known as grade 'A', and 'A' is for Avenger; among other similarities. Staff had adopted this code to signal that they would be attending to an Avengers member. So it couldn't be said that D. Bamu wasn't without a sense of humour considering she advocated the trend.

You look to Dr. Bamu, surprised, “I thought you would have seen all them all by now?” Dr. Bamu was the personal physician to each Avengers member – even the charismatic Tony Stark. She liaises with Dr. Cho and other specialists due to health complexities of several members e.g. Bruce Banner's gamma infused DNA and Steve Rogers 'Super Soldier Serum' physiology. Funny enough, the stress and effort lied in rounding them up, all being childishly adverse.

“I have,” she counters, “even that feathered brain fool, Barton. Bullet wounds! Bullet wounds he had, yet there he was, waltzing around as if he had mosquito bites! The negligence of his welfare astounds me,” she huffs in irritation. You purse your lips in an effort to suppress your smile at Bamu's exaggeration.

“There are two new additions.” And she nodds to the tablet you hold. With a flicker of excitement at the revelation, eagerly you swipe through the classified information until stopping at a S.H.I.E.L.D intelligence report.

Name: Wanda Maximoff

Species: Human

Gender: Female

Citizenship: Sokovian

Affiliation: HYDRA (formerly), Ultron (formerly)

Powers: Neuro-electric interfacing, telekinesis, mental manipulation. Please see expanded report.

Name: Pietro Maximoff

Species: Human

Gender: Male

Citizenship: Sokovia

Affiliations: HYDRA (formerly), Ultron (formerly)

Powers: Increased metabolism and improved homeostasis. Please see expanded report.

The brief summary proves intriguing and somewhat startling. The first of these startling facts being that they (the Maximoff siblings?) were citizens of Sokovia. The second, that they were formerly affiliated with the likes of HYRDA and Ultron, both being responsible to the devastation of their country. Had they joined these terrorists with the knowledge of what awaited their country? Had they sought personal gain? What caused them to renounce their affiliation? Had S.H.I.E.L.D found them too dangerous to be left unmonitored? And third, that they both had powers, somewhat like Steve Rogers and Bruce Banner, though were they biological born or acquired, as they had acquired theirs? The multitude of forming questions and perusal of the file is halted as Dr. Bamu draws your attention again.

“As temporary Avengers members and associates of S.H.I.E.L.D, a comprehensive medical examination and all accompanying assessments are required effective immediately.” You nod in understanding. “You will assist me, Nurse (Y/L/N).”

“Why not, Douglas?” asking the question that had been on your mind since your reassignment as the former was more than qualified and more experienced.

“The situation is-” and Dr. Bamu pauses, “- delicate,” emphasis made apparent, “as I was so informed. It was suggested that my accompanying nurse be of a civil manner. That Douglas is uncouth,” she ‘tsks’.

“And you chose me?” you snort.

“It’s an improvement, yes. You have an air about you, some finesse,” she motions with her hand.

Pulling a face at the description, “If you say so.”

“I say so.”

The dismissive comment prompts you to start gathering the necessary equipment that will be required during the examination. Walking about the treatment room, all items are neatly stacked – mess being an untolerated pet peeve of Bamu's – atop a trolley that you pull along as you walk about.

“I will commence the introductions. Enter when ready.” You watch as Dr. Bamu exits into the adjourning examination room, note book and pen in-hand. Despite the advance technology, Dr. Bamu still utilised 'old fashioned' utensils, often heard complaining about digitalised nuisance that computers were and the reliability that would always be a pen and paper. You smile at the thought, gathering the last of the equipment. Looking at the tablet again, you exit the classified files, hoping to read them post the examination, curiosity peaked at the information.

The automated doors slide open and the trolley is pushed ahead into the adjourning room to reveal a commotion. The air is tense, your human sixth sense prickling at the feeling. Standing at the second entry to the examination room is a S.H.I.E.L.D officer; suited with a gun evidently at a ready, stance ridged and eyes intent on the scene. It's startling to note the presence of Captain America, Steve Rogers; geared still, post battle markings still evident on his uniform. His hands are clenched at his sides as he stands two meters from the examination bed, attention glued to the two unknown individuals there. Dr. Bamu is by his side, also fixated on the two individuals.

‘The Maximoff’s,’ you note.

A young woman, Wanda, is perched on the edge of the bed, with the male, Pietro, leaning down at eye level, cupping either side of her face with his hands. Their faces are indistinguishable due to your positioning but their fierce whispers in Sokovian identify the nature of the situation; urgency is evident in the male’s voice, his tone consoling. The women’s are few but pained.

Abandoning the trolley, hesitantly you approach, unconsciously clearing your throat. Addressing Dr. Bamu, softly you question, “Um, is everything alright, Dr. Bamu?”

The reaction to your voice is instantaneous; the back of the one you have deduced to be Pietro Maximoff, straightens from his leaned position over the woman, his head whipping around to stare at you. Unexpectedly, a nauseating sensation engulfs your body and you falter at the feeling. Pietro, eyes blue and piercing, stare at you, his expression wild. Breaking the contact, averting from the intensity, you look to the woman, who too, is staring. She is pale and looks sickly, but her eyes are alight and unwavering. You can't fathom the reasoning for their reaction; had you interrupted their moment?

'Shit, I think I'm going to puke.’ You wrangle all self-control, willing your body to cease and desist. You had felt fine, no, one-hundred percent all day. Scrunching your eyes shut for moment, trying to orientate yourself, you open them to find the brother before you. Yelping at the sudden shock and stumbling backwards, you gauge him, expression frightful.

The room explodes into action; the guard step forward, gun raised and Steve Rogers strides forward, hand extended to grab at the white-haired man. Dr. Bamu looks on, expression harden but a note of fear in her eyes. Wanda continues to sit upon the edge of the bed, gaze never leaving your form.

The man who had sided with the likes of HYDRA and Ultron is before you and his manner wild; oddly coloured hair whip-lashed, darkened circled eyes emphasising the blue irises, the manic expression more than unsettling, especially at such a close proximity. All form of tactical and self-defence training is non-existent in that moment, the situation paralysing any coherent thought but: ‘What the fuck?!’ Taking a step forward, his body taunt, and hands clenched at his sides, he closes the gap again and you stare on, body numb but the nauseating feeling pumping through your being. Leaning forward, marginally, the next moment breaks the tension.

“Ours. You are ours,” the four lettered sentence is gritted out, the Sokovian accent thick all too familiar. His meaning is unfathomable and but you frown, fear evaporating from your being as the presumptuous words rekindle some defiance and elicit a retort.

“Excuse me?!” expression incredulous, countering his glare with one of your own. By now Steve Rogers has reached him, apprehending Pietro by the upper-arm, jerking him backwards.

“Maximoff! What hell has gotten into you?” The authoritative tone asks accusingly, Steve Rogers was gone, before everyone now was Captain America. The Maximoff sibling redirects his attention to him.

“Release me,” comes the biting reply as he pulls futility at the iron clad grip. They continue to squander and with the white-haired Maximoff distracted, you make for the safety of Dr. Bamu’s company.

“Are you alright?” she asks, her concern reassuring. You nod, however feeling shaken from what transpired. Pietro Maximoff's heated glare flickers between you and Captain America while rebuffing questions. Willing to relinquishing some professionalism, you glare back, crossing your arms across your chest, simultaneously finding the act comforting. Looking to the other sibling still situated on the bed, she scrutinises from her held position and you find her eyes more unnerving than that of her brothers; as if she saw through you, if your body were a plain of glass and so effortlessly observed was the circling cogs that was your mind. The metaphorical thought is disconcerting, more than you had anticipated. Squaring your shoulders, you muster an expression of irritability, aiming to expression you disapproval for her unwarrented attention.

'The fuck is their problem?!' you think, frustration mounting, and the woman flinches, dramatically so and you find the reaction odd. She clasps her head, evidently pained, and your concern piques. Admittedly, you want to demand her for an explanation but before the thought can be translation into action, the brother is at his sisters side in an instant; too quick as per human standards.

'Super-speed?'

Protectively, he places a hand upon her head, evidently concerned and she mutters a reply a question he never verbalised. They share a look, meaningless to others and a whole conversation to them and unabashed, they openly stare at you and you blanch, the sickening sensation churning in your stomach, radiating throughout your body. Slowly, the sister stands, interlacing her fingers with her brothers.

'Perhaps they're afflicted? Delirium? Post traumatic stress?’ You look on, puzzled, still a little frightened, and ill. All feelings not a good combination. She takes a step forward, mouth opening but the moment is broken when Captain Rogers steps between, separating the siblings from yourself, extending an arm to halt her movement. Funny enough, you were curious with what you might have had to say.

He looks accusingly between each party before saying, “Alright, I don't know what is going on here, but you two,” and he points to the Maximoff's, expression stern, “Take a seat and I will deal with you in a minute.” Looking back to yourself and then at Dr. Bamu he continues, “Doctor, I think it best if you reassign your nurse,” and with a forced expression of sympathy he glances at you briefly and adds, “no offense.”

But offense was taken and you bristle at the implication that you're at fault, shooting Captain Rogers an irritated look. You hadn't done anything! And why did you feel so sick?! Dr. Bamu frowns at the recommendation but signals for you to leave. Relief swells at the yearning need to distance yourself from everyone and you make for the exit only to be halted by a sound of protest. Looking back in the direction of the siblings, the brother has tried to step forward only to be held back back the sister, their hands still intertwined and another hand clutching at his elbow. Their faces a mixture of intensities, but oddly now, pained.

With a final frown directed to them, you continue forward with Bamu's voice fading behind.

“If you would give me a moment, but I expect on my return there to be no repeat of what just transpired nor any future threat towards my staff, for I will not tolerate it, Captain Rogers,” and Dr. Bamu looks pointedly at him and Maximoff's before striding off. He might be Captain, but she was the current Chief Medical Officer (CMO), and within in her division, what she said was followed to the 'T'.

You have since swiped your key-card, unlocking the door to the treatment room. Exhaustion plagues your body, walking sluggishly to a near-by stool; you sit down, resting your head in your hands, elbows atop your thighs. Following behind, Dr. Bamu rounds on you, hands on her hips, chest puffed out and gaining an extra inch or two as she aims to.

“What in the seven depths of hell was that?” the shrieking accusation comes and you cringe at her voice, all manner of sounds and light aggravating your current deposition.

“You're asking me?” you reply back tiredly, looking up to meet Bamu who personifies a stern parent awaiting the confession of a child caught. Sighing, “I swear, until just now, I have never seen those two before.” pained sincerity evident in your voice. “I have no explanation for their actions.” Bamu relaxes, albeit slightly and tsks as she does frequently.

“You have lost some colour.” The comment blunt as she notes your sickly demeanor.

“Honestly, I've felt better,” you mutter, feeling the effect as another wave of nausea rips across your body; teeth gritted, eyes scrunched, and toes curling. Bamu watches on, critical in her observation.

“You are relieved of duty.” And none would argue with her tone. “Rest and should you still be ill in a couple hours time, notify me,” that motherly concern present for a mere moment.

“What of a replacement-” but she cuts you off.

“I will handle that. Go now.” Motioning in your direction, shooing you from the room. Dr. Bamu can be heard calling in a replacement as you step from the room. Trudging back to the shared staff quarters, people bustling past, no doubt readying for the department of the last, temporary Sokovian residents. The bedroom to yourself, there is not hesitation stripping off your uniform to your underwear, crawling under the sheets, the sickly feeling having not diminished. With a final thought, you're honest when you hope to not encounter the Sokovian siblings for at least an extended period of time; for working on the same team, it was inevitable that your paths would cross again but, and you hope, under different circumstances.

To be continued.

Edited: 07/01/2016

Continued in Chapter 2.

07/01/2016 Edits