Role reversal
On a steep hillside, Vision waters his plants. He focuses on the flowers: hyacinth, blue star, and lungwort. He doesn’t tend to the trees often, knowing that it doesn’t bode well to interfere too much with nature that precedes him. Those trees have roots older than any living mortal. He knows he’s not going to nurture them any better than the earth will.
The garden, though, is finicky—a passion project of sorts, painstakingly kept and color-coded blues and purples that bloom beautifully against the slate gray walls of his stone house. He keeps control where he can.
As the sun rises, Vision makes his way back up the jagged steps to his front door. It’s a small home. The kitchen is at the very front of the first floor, with the door practically opening right into the oven. A small breakfast nook sits in the sunlit corner opposite the modest kitchen, full of various potted herbs. Just beyond that, a couch and coffee table face his favorite window, halfway hidden behind a steep wooden staircase.
Vision sets the kettle to boil and goes upstairs to wash up. The second floor is about half the size of the first, with a dark green tiled bathroom directly above the kitchen (to consolidate plumbing lines) adjoined to an L-shaped bedroom. His desk is a mess because he was up late reading, but he goes to wash his face instead of tidying up. He has a big day today and doesn’t care much about whether or not his desk is neat.
Vision surveys his house in great detail because somebody is coming to kill him today, and he’d like to say goodbye to the home that he built.
He whistles as he washes his hands. Faintly, he hears the tea kettle join his song and jogs down the stairs. He uses his good mint leaves because, again, he’s going to die today.
Vision sensed a change in the balance of the land about three months ago. Deep in his isolation, he took a few spells from his past to look into the disturbance, which led him to a limited view of the future, where somebody assassinated him. A glimpse of the calendar gave him the date: August 23, 2023. Today.
In all his years of sorcery, Vision is confident that he’s mastered the art of precognition. He uses it sparingly, and really only when his promise to protect the sources of earthly magic is threatened. As the sworn keeper of the old growth forest at the base of this mountain range, he thought it reasonable to use the spells to anticipate the disturbance.
It was a good call, since he needed to write and enchant some instructions for Kamar-Taj to appoint his replacement. But the letter is written and set to deliver upon his magic disappearing from the mortal realm, so his final task is simply to wait for the end.
Vision amuses himself with theatrics at this point. He drinks his mint tea, eats his eggs and toast, and picks out his best outfit. With no living family left to mourn him, he’s content with his life. At peace, even. So, as death inevitably comes to all living things, Vision accepts his fate. It’s been a decent life.
Either fortunately or unfortunately, Vision finishes his morning routine with lots of time to spare. He shrugs to himself and decides to organize his desk.
The day passes rather pleasantly, all things considered. He leaves a fresh cut bouquet in the vase on his coffee table, makes sure to lift the little enchantments he made for his own quirks and preferences in the home, like the constant white noise of a running river and the little creak in the floorboards to make it feel more human. He might as well make it inhabitable for whoever stumbles upon it next.
Vision’s final plan for the day makes him laugh. It’s an absurd choice, but he is technically expecting company, so he cooks dinner for two. He lights some candles, plays some music, and even breaks out the fancy wine because, hey, why not? Maybe he’ll make someone laugh one final time.
She arrives right on time, just as the horizon swallows the sun. It’s a beautiful time of day, really. The door swings open with a loud bang and he stares with raised eyebrows at his killer in the doorway. She has long brown hair bound in a braid, with flecks of red where the sun hits it just right. She’s wearing a dark red and black suit of sorts, with intricate ribbing and ample places to hide weapons, he presumes. Her posture is eerily good.
“I left it unlocked,” Vision says, gesturing at the heavy door now pulling away from the hinges. “No need to waste your energy on busting the door down.”
His killer’s head tilts to the side, her face obscured in shadow enough that he can’t make out her expression.
“Care to join me for my last meal?”
The woman takes half a step towards him, pausing just as the candlelight brings her face into view. Her brow is furrowed and her jaw is sharp, but she has a softness in her green eyes that makes Vision curious about how she became an assassin.
“Before you make some grand declaration or whatnot, I know you’ve come to kill me,” he adds, punctuating with a smile. “That’s alright, but at least do me the courtesy of some conversation first.”
“You’re trying to stall,” her eyes narrow.
“Yes! For, hm, an hour? I’ll be no trouble at all. Quite an easy kill, truthfully.”
His killer’s arms cross, but she takes another tentative step toward him.
“You can even keep your gun pointed at me,” he says. “Presuming that’s your preferred method, anyway.”
“No need.”
She opens her palm and her skin turns to a metallic gray color with black fingertips. The barrel of a gun lifts from a compartment in her wrist, aimed directly at Vision’s head.
“Advanced prosthetic,” he hums. “Very impressive.”
“It’s not a prosthetic.”
“Oh! Are you one of those mechanical people? What have they named them… synthezoids, yes?”
Her head cocks to the side again, and she finally takes the seat across from him, though her gun-arm remains trained on his head.
“Thank you for joining me. May I have your name?”
“Wanda,” she replies. A golden light becomes apparent on her forehead, under what Vision presumes is her synthetic human skinsuit.
“Well, Wanda, my name is Vision, though I’m sure you know that. I’ve made a delightful pasta, if you’d like some. I figured that I needn’t bother with vegetables on my final night alive, and if I’m being honest in my last moments, I never cared much for greens. Cream-based sauces, on the other hand… wait. Do you eat?”
“No,” she replies.
“Hm. Alright. Would you please humor me while I eat, then, and tell me why you’ve been sent to kill me?”
“That’s classified.”
“And you’re going to kill me tonight, so I think you can share some secrets,” he raises an eyebrow.
“My creator is eliminating eldritch magicians.”
“Why?”
“Your kind has caused unspeakable horrors to take root in the areas of the world drained of magic,” she glares. “There is only finite magic in the mortal realm, and my creator believes it should be returned to the earth.”
“Interesting,” Vision hums. “I’m not sure I agree with the methodology, but I respect the gall it takes to kill hundreds of magic users.”
“Why are you so… calm?”
“I’m almost 200 years old, for one. That’s reason enough to welcome death, especially given that I’ve lost my whole family to the relentless passage of time. And, I suppose I’m as mortal as they were, but I’m sure you know that warlocks have a longer lifespan. I’m tired, though.”
Wanda stares at him wordlessly.
“And, as for my reaction to your mission to eliminate eldritch magicians, I suppose I understand the problems with our power,” he sighs. “I tried to establish a system of rules some time ago, but far too many people think that they can wield all sorts of immense magic without any consequences. But everything in the natural world exists to change hands—seasons, life stages, power distribution. I, too, must change hands, from here to wherever I return to after my death. It’s the cycle of things.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?”
“I am not going to resist the locus of magical power shifting from Kamar-Taj to wherever your creator seeks to hold it. You seem like you may be willing to carry this message to him, if you care about the wellbeing of the world. His methods are still destructive, though they are different from ours.”
Her shoulders slump a little bit, which Vision wasn’t expecting. Her face softens into a far more contemplative frown.
“Tell me,” Vision says quietly. “How did you end up a killer?”
“I was made to be one.”
“And yet you believe my warnings,” he raises an eyebrow. “So you clearly have more agency than you’re giving yourself credit for.”
“You don’t seem to be lying,” Wanda replies slowly. “And, if you’re telling the truth, then that means you’re not willing to murder in defense of your power.”
“Absolutely not! I’m not interested in keeping any power that I need to maintain with an iron fist.”
His mouth twitches into a smile as he adds: “Or… vibranium fist. Pardon my exclusion.”
“You fascinate me.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
“Have you ever killed anybody?”
“Nope,” Vision replies over a bite of pasta. “I’m disinterested in playing god.”
“And your kind… have they killed?”
“Probably.”
“Intentionally?”
“Probably,” he repeats. “Some of them are proper bastards. But, if you’re asking what I think you’re asking—no, there hasn’t been any sort of magic supremacy strategy coming out of Kamar-Taj. That’s not to say I particularly trust all of them, but…”
“But my mission is predicated on a lie.”
“Sounds like it.”
Wanda’s hand slowly falls to the table, though the gun stays out. She looks down at her arm as if examining it for the first time, looking closely at the seams of vibranium weaved between what appears to be soft flesh. Vision’s gaze follows.
“You seem lovely,” Vision says in a voice so soft it teeters on a whisper.
“I don’t know when I became this… monster.”
“You don’t seem like a monster; you seem like a kind person who was given incomplete information.”
“Kind?” Wanda’s head lifts to meet his gaze, and he swears he sees some sort of glistening in her eyes, swimming in a deep sadness. He didn’t know that was possible. Then again, he didn’t know lots of things until tonight, including the apparent plan to topple Kamar-Taj by way of a synthetic army.
“You paused long enough to give me a last meal,” he smiles. “That’s incredibly kind.”
Wanda is quiet as she looks around the room, eyes darting between the floral arrangements and herbs and frames. Vision tentatively places his own hand on the table beside hers, palm facing upward.
“I’m not dead yet, if you’d like to talk more about this plan.”
She reaches tentatively toward his outstretched hand before pulling away in a sharp movement, tucking both of her hands in her lap. No gun, though.
“Thank you,” Wanda nods. “But I think I’ve derailed your evening enough. I’ll sort this out on my own.”
“Nonsense. I have no plans. I thought I was going to die, remember?”
Wanda’s smile flickers and she lets out an exhale that feels almost like the ghost of a laugh.
“Where would you go, anyway?”
“Somewhere,” she says.
“Do you have a family?”
“Just my creator.”
“Stay here,” Vision gestures around the house. “It’s been ages since I’ve had a visitor.”
Wanda tilts her head again, a sure signal of her fascination, but she doesn’t run away—a good sign, if there are any to be found in this ordeal.
“I mean it.”
Slowly and silently, Wanda nods.