break my nose
When the fist connects with his jaw, I have a million instantaneous regrets.
I’ve thrown punches before, but nothing quite like this. In the past, my blows were a last resort in order to escape danger. My form was never proper, and I almost always ended up with an injury of my own.
But I’ve been training for six hours a day for the past seven days straight, and I’m a fast learner. My strikes have gained confidence, and when I look in the mirror, I can see muscle definition that never used to be there. Maybe it’s because I’m finally getting the nutrition required to form muscle mass, but I think the non-stop combat training might play a bigger role in my newly discovered biceps.
Even though Stark made my training part of his ultimatum, I’ve been the one insisting on the lengthy sessions. I realized quickly that physical exertion helped clear my mind and let go of some of the aggression I seem to always be holding on to.
Learning about my powers is almost always done by Wanda, but there have been a few occasions when Dr. Strange has stepped in to take her place. I think he would make a good teacher if I was an easier student. Wanda possesses unlimited patience for my outbursts and shenanigans. Strange has a lower tolerance for my attitude.
Combat training is done by a scheduled rotation of Avengers who each take an hour with me. While not all of the heroes have supernatural abilities, they’re all quite affluent in hand-to-hand fighting. There are different aspects about training with each of them that I find refreshing. Natasha is calm. Clint is informative. Thor is strong, but he’s gentle with me. Steve is particular, which is sometimes annoying.
I haven’t seen Stark since he sentenced me to fourteen days of training. I don’t imagine he has as much knowledge as the others when it comes to physical combat, so maybe that’s why he hasn’t shown his face. I’d like to believe that he’s just hard at work trying to figure out my history, but maybe he just doesn’t want to see me. I get it. I don’t really want to see him either.
And then there’s Bucky, who has to be my favorite trainer of them all. He doesn’t waste time with idle chit chat, but he has a sense of humor that reflects my own. I’m not an expert on his past, but I know enough to figure he probably knows what it’s like to have to do things you’re not proud of to survive. It makes him feel relatable, in a way that I can’t find with many others.
He’s also a giant pain in the ass, and takes every chance to taunt or pester me in some way. In fact, the way he teased me by telling me I hit like a girl was what made me swing towards his face in the first place. I really thought he was going to dodge it. But then my fingers were cracking against his skull, and he was grunting in surprise.
He stumbles backwards with his face turned away, and the immediate guilt that I feel overrides the pain in my knuckles. “Shit.” I lower my hands. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
For a moment, I worry that he’s going to scold me or walk out, or maybe even come back with a strike of his own. But then I notice his shoulders shaking, and a genuine laugh emerges from his lips.
I punch him in the shoulder, not nearly as hard as before, but enough to make him feel it. “You’re laughing?” I scowl. “I thought I hurt you.”
“You did,” he confesses. When he turns back towards me, there’s already a red mark forming on his cheek where my fist connected.
“Then why are you laughing?”
“I’m just surprised,” he chuckles. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
I scoff. “You’re a jerk. I wish I hit you harder.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He brushes me off. “In all seriousness though, you’re getting pretty good. People don’t usually pick up combat this quickly. It’s not very often that someone lands a hit on me.”
Normally, I would feel the need to blush at that sort of compliment. But it’s Bucky, and he’s felt more like a friend than a trainer for as long as I’ve known him. Which, to be fair, is only six days. “Don’t flatter me,” I say. “It’ll go straight to my head.”
“Oh, I know.” He looks up at the clock. “I think that’s good for today, don’t you?”
I want to keep going. As much as I love taking out my anger in the form of fake fighting, I love learning about it even more. Learning proper form and how to be a more skilled fighter lets me sleep better at night, knowing that even if I get kicked out of the compound after these two weeks are up, I’ll know how to defend myself for the rest of my life. There are few teachers in the world more qualified than Earth’s mightiest heroes.
But I still have a week left before my deal with Stark expires and I get to help them figure out who I was. There will be many more hours of training in my future, and I don’t want to burn out my favorite trainer.
I nod, starting towards the doors. “You should hit the showers, Barnes. You’re stinking up the whole compound.”
“Get out of here,” he jokes. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
We go our separate ways down the halls. The exercise endorphins are flowing, and I have to resist the urge to sprint to my room. It’s almost funny how much I’ve come to love being active. Before, the only times I ran were when I had to. When I was running for my life with no time to think. There wasn’t much joy in that. But now, I know I’m safe here, and training just makes me feel even more prepared for the outside world. And at the end of all this, I might even know my real name. If everything goes right, there might not be any running in my future, unless it’s for pleasure.
I push open the door to my room, still smelling the remnants of the juniper candle I lit this morning. The bed against the wall to my right is made as if this is a military base— corners tucked and creases smoothed out— thanks to the compound attendants. The sheets are sage green, thanks to Natasha, who gave me the chance to pick everything out for my quarters. At first, I thought it was a little ridiculous, considering the fact that I won’t be staying long, but she insisted. After a little deliberation, I figured I would never again have access to this kind of luxury. So I took my chance to make the bedroom I always wished I had while I was out on the streets.
Natasha also gave me the option of painting the room, but I liked the eggshell color it already was. There’s a window overlooking the compound grounds above my bed that fills almost the entire wall, bringing a brightness to the room that I adore. There’s a desk pushed against the wall opposite me and a matching chair. I don’t use it much, but it’s a nice touch. Beside the desk is a dresser filled with clothes that Natasha let me pick out. I pull open the drawers, building myself a post-shower outfit that I carry into my ensuite to the left.
The bathroom is spacious, with a massive mirror and an extravagant shower. It takes up a third of the space, completely composed of dark gray tiles. A glass door closes it off from the rest of the room.
I undress, tossing my sweaty clothes into the laundry hamper in the corner. At some point tonight, an attendant will come in to collect my dirty clothes. Even if I stayed here for the rest of my life, I don’t think I’d ever get used to that. Having someone else at my beck and call to do anything I want seems…strange, to say the least.
The shower controls are another thing I would need a lifetime to understand. There’s a silver panel on the wall with dozens of buttons and a touch screen, capable of performing upwards of a hundred different functions. I’ve learned that the basic setting of just hot water and soap is activated by pressing the top left button. I don’t tamper with any of the other controls. I did that once, and it ended with an involuntarily back massage from mechanical arms that descended from the ceiling.
Warm water is something I’ll never take for granted. I’ve had too many showers using a stranger’s backyard hose in the middle of the night to not appreciate the luxury of hot water.
Once I’ve washed off my training, I press the same button to turn off the shower. A stack of fresh towels are folded in a stack on the counter, and I pull one around myself. The fabric is soft and warm, as if they just emerged from the dryer.
I pull on the baggy blue jeans and dark red hoodie I chose from my dresser, sliding a pair of thermal socks on to keep my feet warm. I use the brush from the bathroom drawer to detangle my wet hair. It’s grown out past my shoulders now, and it looks a few shades darker than its normal chocolatey hue with water on its strands.
I hear a knock at the door. At first, I think it might be an attendant. But then it comes again, more awkward and loud than before, and I smirk. I know exactly who it is.
I pull open the door, and Peter’s raised hand drops quickly. “Hey,” he squeaks.
“What’s up, Peter?” I greet him. I look over at my alarm clock on the dresser. It reads 2:32pm. “You’re early.”
Peter’s been tutoring me all week. It wasn’t a part of Stark’s arrangement, but it’s something that I wanted. After all, I would’ve been in college by this point in my life, but I have no form of education whatsoever. Stark has the biggest brain and would’ve been the most obvious choice, but he’s hiding somewhere in the compound, probably avoiding me. Banner is too busy with his work, or I would’ve asked him.
So that left me with Peter. It hasn’t been too bad, really. We meet every afternoon after my training at three o’clock sharp. He’s been teaching me everything from American history to organic chemistry and calculus, and I’m already up to a tenth grade level. He always tells me the same thing as the others: I’m a fast learner. Peter’s working on a doctorate degree in some sort of physics at M.I.T, so he’s qualified enough. Plus, he’s a kind teacher, even when I make repetitive mistakes. And something about his awkward personality is entertaining to me.
“I know,” he says. “Class ended early. I thought you might be able to help me with something before we start.” There’s a devious look in his eyes that frightens me somewhat.
“Me?” I ask. “What do you want me to help you with?”
He smirks. “Pepper’s making blueberry muffins for her baking class. Help me steal a couple?”
***
The library is my favorite place in the compound.
Despite never being an avid reader, I always dreamed of having a bookshelf in my room, lined with novels for me to pick and choose from, depending on my mood.
A mystery on a rainy autumn evening, or perhaps a thriller. Devouring a romance in an afternoon on a bench in the park. Sci-fi on those days when I need a break from reality.
The compound’s library is expansive and beautiful. The room is large and round, with a domed ceiling. The architecture and decor in here is more weathered and vintage, as if to provide a mystical ambience. The walls are shelves, completely covered in thousands of books. A rolling ladder provides easy access to even the rows thirty feet above our heads. The roof is glass, and as the sun streams into the room, I can see dusty particles floating through the air. That, paired with the persistent smell of old pages, pretty much makes this room something out of my dreams.
“An interaction between two different organisms that is beneficial to both is an example of…”
“Mutualism.” I finish.
“Nice,” Peter comments. “And if the relationship is beneficial to one, but harmful to the other?”
“Parasitism.”
“What about if the relationship is beneficial to one, and the other is not affected?”
I consider this for a moment. “Commensalism?”
“Correct,” Peter affirms. He takes a bite of his blueberry muffin. “Well, that pretty much wraps up sophomore biology.”
“What’s next?” I ask.
“Shakespeare?” he suggests.
“Um, no. I think we can go ahead and cross that one off the syllabus.”
“Okay, what about history?”
I wrinkle my nose. “On second thought, let’s stick with Shakespeare.”
“Wait.” Peter’s eyes light up. “I have an idea.” He jumps up from his chair and starts skimming through the hundreds of books on the shelf. He skips through sections, mumbling quietly to himself as he searches for something. “Here it is,” he murmurs, pulling a weathered book from the shelf. He sets it on the table in front of me, and I study the cover. It’s slightly torn in places, and the pages are yellowed with age. The title reads Pride and Prejudice.
“Really?” I ask, not thrilled by the sound of it.
“It’s a classic,” he says. “It’s either this, or Hamlet.”
“Okay, fine.” I pick up the book, half expecting it to crumble to dust. I flip to the first page, taking in the very first line.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
It already sounds horrible.
“Read the first five chapters by tomorrow,” Peter instructs.
“Do I have to?”
He chuckles. “Don’t worry. You’ll love it.”
“Have you read it?”
“Once,” he answers. “Third grade. Changed my life.” His eyes sparkle with sarcasm.
“Well, now I’ve got high hopes. This better be good, Parker, or I’m telling Pepper about the muffins.”
He chuckles, and I can’t help but join in. There’s something about Peter that makes me feel balanced. Whole. Like I’m not just some hopeless street thief who landed in the wrong compound. Peter makes me feel like I could actually belong here, in another life.
He checks his watch. “Oh. Dinner time,” he informs. We stand from the table together, gathering the notes and readings into my book bag. I sling the strap over my shoulder, and we make our way towards the dining room.
He tosses our muffin wrappers in the trash on the way out of the library, hiding the evidence.
“Who made dinner?” I ask as we move through the halls. The Avenger’s take turns cooking for each other— something I found quite odd upon arrival at the compound. It seems as though their lives would be much too busy to do something as mundane as make dinner, but nevertheless, one of the heroes is always preparing a home cooked meal at the end of the day. Wanda told me once that it was Steve’s idea. Something about bringing the team closer by sharing a meal everyday.
And for the most part, everyone attends. Except Stark, who hasn’t been spotted in days. At least, not by me.
“Natasha,” Peter answers, and I say a silent thank-you. Nat’s food is always something amazing.
I can smell dinner before we even open the door. My mouth begins watering at the garlicky scent, and when I push open the door, the delectable smell intensifies. The sight of the food on the table makes me want to cry. Homemade spaghetti and meatballs with caesar salad and garlic bread creates an overwhelming feeling of joy in my stomach.
The dining room is mostly just a big table, long enough to fit thirty people, and a large kitchen through a door off to the side. Bucky, Sam, Wanda, Steve, Clint, and Bruce are already seated, making idle chit chat while waiting to eat. Peter and I settle into chairs beside each other, and the others greet us casually.
Scott Lang comes sauntering through the doors. “Woah,” he gasps, gazing at the food. “I am so glad that dinner is included in the super-hero package.” He sits beside me, holding out his fist for a bump. “Violet,” he acknowledges as we pound knuckles. “How’s the training going?”
A smile immediately creeps onto my face. Scott is infectiously funny, which is always a refreshing change. Some of the others, like Nat, Bruce, and Steve, live at the compound full-time, but Scott lives with his daughter in San Francisco. Still, he somehow manages to stop by a few times a week for the free food. I shrug. “It’s alright.”
He draws his brow. “Just alright?”
“I punched Bucky in the face today.”
At this, everyone else at the table looks over at me, all conversation immediately dying out. Sam pushes Bucky’s shoulder. “You told me that bruise was from running into a door.”
“Busted,” Peter mumbles, grinning with amusement.
Bucky shoves Sam away, some colour creeping into his cheeks. “Okay, I may have embellished a little.”
“What’s the matter?” I ask. “Embarrassed?”
He crosses his arms, defensive. “Not at all. Especially since I let you hit me.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night,” I fire back.
There’s a round of oohs from the table. Bucky sits forward. “Listen here, you little—”
“Alright, enough.” Natasha emerges from the kitchen, clad in a baby blue apron that’s marked with tomato sauce. “Dig in,” she says, giving us permission to delve into the wonderful food.
I scoop myself generous portions of spaghetti and salad, grabbing one of the bigger pieces of garlic bread. I haven’t eaten anything besides a blueberry muffin all day, and I’m starving.
While we’re serving ourselves and taking the first bites, Strange, Rhodes, and Carol make their way to the table. Carol gives me a bright smile, and I smile back. I haven’t spoken to her much, other than our initial greeting last week, but I already know that I like her. She’s confident and fearless, and pretty much everything I’ve ever wanted to be.
Scott cracks a joke, something about the food being better than Sam’s, and the table erupts into laughter. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to savor the feeling of food in my belly and a smile on my face. We’ll all have dinner again tomorrow night, and I’m sure the food will be just as good and the company will be just as nice. But even so, I don’t ever want to forget these moments.
Even if I never get to experience this again, I don’t ever want to forget how it felt to be a part of a team.
***
“Come on,” Wanda urges. “Try again. You can do this.”
I huff. “No, I can’t. Just like I couldn't do it the last twenty times.”
“Not with that attitude,” she remarks.
I cross my arms, frustrated. “Wanda, I’m tired. Can we just be done for the day?”
“You’re tired? Since when did you get tired of training?”
I’ll admit, it is a little out of character. But at some point in the last few days, I feel like I hit a wall. Everything was easy to learn the first week. But now, no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to make any more progress. It’s like I’ve peaked, and there’s no more room for me to grow. She’s been launching the same fifty pound weights at my head for the past hour, hoping that I’ll be able to form a shield against them and protect myself. And every time, even if I manage to blast one of them away with a surge of energy, I have to duck before the other two crash into my head.
“It’s too much to focus on,” I explain. “If I only had to worry about one of them, I could do it. But with three…” I shake my head, sitting on the floor with defeat. “It’s too much. I can’t.”
She paces forward, kneeling on the ground in front of me. “That’s because you’re trying to divert your energy towards three separate targets in three different directions. You have to imagine your power like a single, cohesive shield around you.”
“You’ve said that a dozen times,” I complain. “But I don’t know how to do that. It’s not easy for me like it is for you.”
She tilts her head sympathetically. “It wasn’t easy for me at first, either. It took practice. Years of practice.”
I groan. “Years? We only have one day.”
“You can’t think of it that way.”
“I have to.” I almost cringe at the amount of ferocity in my voice. “If I can’t show Stark that I’m capable of controlling my powers tomorrow, then these past two weeks will have been for nothing.”
“Not nothing,” she assures me. “Even if you’re not perfect tomorrow, Stark will see that you’ve improved. And if he doesn’t, then that’s his ego getting in the way.”
“He has to see,” I insist. “I have to help them uncover my past.” I hold my head in my hands, my words dropped to a mumble. “It’s all I have.”
There’s a gentle touch on my shoulder. “No, it’s not. You might not have full control, but you’re so much more confident than when you walked in that door two weeks ago. You’re powerful, Violet. You have a good heart and a brave soul. And no matter what happens tomorrow, you’ll still have me.”
I look up, met by her warm, brown eyes. “Really?”
She nods. “Even if Stark doesn’t see how far you’ve come, I’m proud of you.”
Something stirs in my chest, an even mix of nerves and gratitude. I’m not used to receiving that type of kindness. “Thanks,” I mutter, fidgeting with my shoelaces. “I wish you were the one evaluating me tomorrow.”
“I’ll put in a good word,” she promises.
“I hope it’s enough,” I say. “I hope I’m enough.”
“You will be.”
“And if I’m not?”
She scooches closer, our knees touching. “It won’t matter. I’ve known Stark for a long time. He might seem like an emotionless jerk, but he’s a softie. He’ll let you help them, even if you’re not perfect tomorrow.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t trust me. I’m just another problem for him to solve.”
“What makes you think that?”
I pick at a small tear in the fabric of my sneaker. “He doesn’t care about me. He just wants to discover my past so he can control everything. I’m a mystery to him, and if he can’t figure out how this happened to me, then he won’t know everything.”
Wanda nods. “Stark does love to be all-knowing,” she says with a smile.
“I’m serious, Wanda.” Nerves make my fumbling fingers pull the tear into a full blown hole. I sigh. “He’s not trying to help me. He’s trying to help himself.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Then why hasn’t he talked to me in two weeks? We’re living under the same roof, and I haven’t seen him at all since he handed me over to you.” She watches me, her brown eyes darkened with sympathy. It frustrates me. I never wanted their pity. I just wanted to know my real name. I wrap my arms around my knees. “He thinks I’m just a dangerous criminal.”
She places her hand over mine comfortingly. “Then you’ll just have to prove him wrong.” The empathy in her irises has hardened into determination. “Are you ready to try again?” she asks.
I hear a rattling noise from the racks to our left, and my head whips up. Five weights come hurtling towards us where we sit on the floor. I see them approaching, their forms growing in size as they get closer. My heart races violently, but I know there’s no time to overthink or move out of the way. I let my eyes fall closed, and picture an impenetrable wall of energy around us, surrounding our bodies like a shield.
Prove him wrong.
The moment of charged reaction passes, and I let my eyes open. I look first to Wanda, who stares ahead with a bewildered expression on her face. I follow her gaze, seeing the weights hovering in mid-air, inches from our faces.
My first thought is of pure joy. I did it. I stopped the weights, all of them, by doing what she told me to do.
But then the image in front of me begins to register as wrong. Tiny details that are missable at first glance begin to stand out. Normally, when I block a projectile, the energy comes out like a defensive, opposite force that knocks the object away. But these weights are locked in space, dangling in the air with a level of control I’ve never seen my power possess.
And the weights are drenched in scarlet light.
I look back to Wanda. “Why did you stop them?”
She shakes her head, her eyes puzzled. “I didn’t.”
“Then how…” And then I feel it— the sensation I now know all too well. That ache in my chest and that burn across my skin. The reaction my frail, human form has to the use of my limitless powers.
I draw the feeling back, reigning in the energy. As I release my hold, the weights drop.
It was me controlling them. I stopped them and held them there. The red light was mine.
But it’s hers, isn’t it?
The fiery glow of the Scarlet Witch’s power is unmistakable. It’s worlds apart from my messy lilac blasts.
“You stopped them,” I insist. “That had to be you.”
She shakes her head, genuine confusion clouding her features. “I didn’t.”
“How is that possible?”
“I don’t know,” she mutters, her eyebrows knit in concentration.
I swallow the unsettling feeling that makes the hair of my arms stand on end. “I felt it. It was mine.”
Her eyes drop down to our joined hands. Her fingers are trembling slightly, but they’re still pressed to mine. She breathes out lightly. “Yes, it was.” She curls her fingers around mine, strengthening her grip. When she looks back up, her expression has changed from confusion to apprehension. “Put the weights back on the rack,” she tells me.
I hesitate. “You know I can’t. I don’t have that much control.”
“Do it,” she coaxes, squeezing my fingers.
I don’t know what she’s playing at, but I trust her. Maybe more than I trust myself. I let out a shaky breath, focusing on the cluster of weights where they fell to the ground. I’ve tried to access telekinesis before with no success. My power is more raw and untamed. It doesn’t possess that type of focus.
But I try anyway, because I trust her. I let my eyes trace along the objects, taking in their forms and memorizing their shapes. I imagine them fluttering into the air, coasting gently back onto the racks, moved by nothing more than my thoughts.
My image comes to life. I feel that tugging beneath my ribs, and then they’re lifting slowly, flecks of crimson swirling across their surfaces. The weights glide through space, settling carefully into their places on the rack. I release my hold, and the scarlet light snuffs out.
I can’t begin to comprehend it, but Wanda seems to have a theory. She’s been watching my display carefully, and now her head is nodding with surety. She releases my fingers, and her hands come up to cup my face gently. “What am I thinking about?” she asks suddenly.
“What?” I ask, still in some form of shock over what I’ve done.
“Don’t think.” Her tone is demanding, urgent. “Just say it.”
My face squishes with confusion. I feel a whispering in the corners of my brain, an unfamiliar sensation that doesn’t quite feel out of place. It speaks of tomato sauce and dough, pepperoni and cheese. “Pizza?” I suggest, feeling silly.
A smile tugs at her lips. She drops her hands. “Okay. What am I thinking about now?”
“Wanda, what are you—”
“Tell me,” she commands.
I huff, feeling frustrated that she clearly knows something that I don’t. I try to come up with an answer, but as I feel around in my mind for that tiny voice, I realize that it’s gone. My brain is quiet, just as it always has been. “I don’t know,” I admit.
Her smile widens. “Oh, Violet,” she muses. “I think you’re much more than just a dangerous criminal.”
***
Stark looks bored.
I know it shouldn’t bother me, considering the way he’s treated me, but something about it strikes a nerve. This pretentious billionaire held my past above my head like some kind of reward, forcing me to jump through his hoops to earn it. And now he’s standing in front of me, waiting to judge my skills and decide whether or not I deserve it.
If only he knew how hard I’ve worked to deserve it.
“Don’t worry,” Wanda whispers. She’s standing beside me, her fiery hair braided over her shoulder, a supportive gleam in her eyes. “When he sees what you can do, he’ll have no choice but to be impressed.”
I hope you’re right, I think, knowing she can hear it. She squeezes my shoulder reassuringly.
“Alright,” Stark calls. “Let’s get this show on the road.” Natasha, Steve, and Peter stand beside him. I’m sure some of the others would have wanted to come, but I’m also sure they had more important things to do than watch me probably make a fool out of myself.
You can’t think that way. Wanda’s voice appears in my mind. You’ll do great.
She’s easily the most supportive, kind, and forgiving person I’ve ever met. I really don’t deserve her care.
“Show me what you’ve got,” Stark prompts.
I let out a slow breath, trying to expel some of the nerves. I can’t focus on trying to impress him. I just have to focus on staying in control. All he wants is to know that I’m not going to accidentally detonate again.
Wanda takes a few steps backwards, facing me. She dips her chin, watching me closely. “Ready?”
I spare a glance towards Stark and the others. I immediately regret it, knowing it probably won’t be good for my anxiety. But then Peter gives me a wide grin and a thumbs up, and something in me settles. I turn back to Wanda. “Ready.”
Her arms extend outwards, hovering in the air. Her fingers curl in that odd way, drawing shapes in the air as her arms start to swim with maroon power. Her irises shift, and I recognize the rattling noise as a fifty pound weight lifts off of the rack. She nods once, and then the weight is soaring towards my head.
I tune out the background noises— the slight gasp from Peter, the pounding of my heart in my ears— and tune my attention into that pit in the center of my chest. That part that holds my power, and tethers it to my will. I’m in control.
Differing from my usual, I keep my eyes open, watching as the weight gets blasted away by purple energy. The burst is bright and violent, and punctuated by the familiar ache I’ve come to know. The weight clatters to the ground, tumbling and rolling to a stop on the cement floor.
Wanda smirks proudly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Steve, Natasha, and Peter murmuring and shuffling with impressment. And Stark looks…
Happy?
I can’t be sure, and I don’t want to turn to make sure, but I swear there’s a hint of a smile on his face. He looks relieved, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked proud. Almost as proud as Wanda.
But I do know better. He’s just here to judge me and determine whether or not I deserve to be a prisoner again. I’m just a gap in his knowledge that he wants to fill, nothing more.
“Violet.” Wanda calls my attention back to her. She raises her arms again, and then there’s three weights launched towards me. I center myself again, bringing my mind to the task at hand. Not three separate projectiles for me to split my attention between. No, I need to make a barrier around myself, blocking all three targets with the same movement.
And once again, my image comes to life. The weights are blown away by a sheet of power that pushes them back in their respective directions. One of them is thrust so powerfully that Wanda has to use her own power to deflect it from hitting her.
I wince. “Sorry,” I call. But she only laughs in response, jogging up to me.
“Alright,” she breathes. “This is the big one. Ready?”
I nod, even though I feel as ready to do this as I would to jump out of a plane with no parachute.
I feel her hand in mine, entwining her fingers firmly. “Just breathe,” she mutters. “You can do this.”
I watch as Stark and the others mumble their confusions. They have no idea what they’re about to witness, and something about that fills me with a sense of glee. Right now, Stark probably just thinks my power is limited to messy blasts of energy. And for the most part, that’s true. But Wanda and I made a discovery yesterday, and I know that even the stoic Tony Stark is going to be shocked.
“Put the weights back on the rack,” Wanda directs.
I follow her direction, keeping her hand locked in mine while I take in the sight of my targets on the ground. I let my eyes sweep over every detail—the way the mats pucker under their mass, the disheveled order in which they fell all over the space— and remind myself that I’m in control.
I blow out a slow breath, and then all at once, the weights are flickering with a red glow. They’re floating into the air, coasting softly back to their places on the shelves. Their movement is clean and controlled, something I wouldn’t possess without her hand in mine. Once they’ve all settled back into place, I draw back my hold on them, and the scarlet light dies.
Stark scoffs. “Wanda, we’re not here to evaluate you.” He doesn’t sound impressed.
I hear the smile in Wanda's response. “That wasn’t me.”
His face twists with cynicism. “What do you mean? We all watched you put those dumbbells back.”
She pulls me forward, keeping her hand in mine, dragging us in front of Stark. “Think of anything,” she tells him.
“What are you playing at?”
“Just do it,” she commands.
He sighs, looking annoyed, his eyes rolling with boredom. “Okay, fine. I’m thinking of something.”
Wanda nudges me gently. I purse my lips, searching for the mutterings of my mind. They speak of peaches, honey, cloves, and pine. Woody notes and a fruity fragrance. The burn of alcohol that overpowers them all.
“Whiskey.” My voice sounds more sure than I feel. “Winston Canadian Supreme, I think.”
Stark’s face goes slack in a picture of shock that I’m positive I won’t ever forget. It makes my heart flutter, because I instantly know that I’ve guessed correctly. His eyes linger on me before flicking over to Wanda. “You did that,” he accuses. “You read my mind and put that thought in her head.”
She ignores him, pulling us in front of Steve. “Think of something,” she tells him.
He looks startled, and slightly unsettled. “Alright,” he mutters. “I’ve got it.”
I watch how his blue eyes study me as I listen to the clues the voices give me. Explosions of color and light that sparkle against a darkened sky. Loud bangs that accompany, and a crowd’s cheers. Blue, white, and red bursts between the stars.
I watch as his eyes grow, and I know he sees my own glowing with red.
“Fireworks on the Fourth of July,” I reveal. “Wow, you really are a patriot.”
His mouth drops open with surprise, his eyes twinkling with intrigue.
“Me next!” Peter volunteers. “What am I thinking about, Violet?”
Mutterings of spaceships and forces flutter through my mind. Flickers of giant glow sticks and robotic faces. I wrinkle my nose, putting the pieces together with distaste. “Star Wars?”
Peter gasps. “No way! That is so cool. Okay, what am I thinking about—”
“Parker,” Stark clips, cutting off the excited boy. He studies her hand in mine, his dark eyes calculating. “What is this, Wanda?” he asks her, keeping our joined hands in his gaze. “What are you doing?”
“I’m not doing anything,” she insists. She nudges me forward, and I know what she wants me to do next. We planned everything out yesterday, but I’m still scared to go through with it. Part of me thinks that it won’t work, and I’ll look like an idiot.
But I step forward and grab Steve’s hand, because we’ve already come this far. If Wanda’s theory is true, then I have to show Stark. I have to prove to him that I’m more than just a bomb that might go off.
Steve stutters as I pull him away from the group, going over to the racks of weights. “Violet, what are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I mumble, mostly to myself. I keep hold of his hand, wrapping my other hand around the handle of a two-hundred pound weight. I used to wonder why we had such ridiculously heavy dumbbells, but then I remembered that this is a training center for superhumans.
The metal handle is cool against my fingers. It’s soothing in a way, but it doesn’t calm the nervous fluttering of my heart. I pull in a slow breath. This is it, I tell myself. Prove him wrong.
I try to lift the weight, expecting to strain against its mass and ultimately fail. But my muscles seem to have adopted new strength. The weight is lifted into the air as easily as if I was lifting something a tenth of the size. I extend my arm above my head, and the round of shocked murmurs I hear ignites me.
I did it.
Steve stammers something in surprise, but I hold tight to him. As if to prove my point even more, I toss the weight into the air, catching it again with ease. I spin it in circles as if it’s nothing more than a textbook.
The feeling is euphoric. I’m the strongest human alive. I’m the peak of our species’ evolution, the best we’ll ever be. By touching his hand, the super soldier serum runs through my veins.
My eyes find Wanda, and her smile makes the whole nerve wracking process worth it. Even if I’m still not good enough for Stark, I’ve made her proud. She gestures towards me and the impossible act I’m performing. “See?” she gleams.
“I see a whole bunch of stuff that doesn’t make any sense,” Stark answers. “What’s happening?”
“The power stone,” Wanda explains. “That’s where she got her abilities from. On her own, all she has is raw power that can hardly be controlled. But when she’s touching another person…” She trails off, nodding me towards Peter.
I’m tempted to let go of Steve and make my way over to Peter, but I’m reminded that this strength is not entirely my own. I place the weight down carefully, and only then do I let my fingers slip away from his.
I grab Peter and drag him with me over to the wall. “This is so cool,” he breathes. Acting on impulse and newfound confidence, I stand on my tiptoes, reaching as high onto the wall as I can. I flatten my palm against the surface, feeling the immediate adhesion. A smile tugs at my lips. When I pull my feet off of the ground, I’m dangling from the wall, thanks to Peter’s spider abilities.
“Awesome!” he remarks, astounded.
Suddenly, there’s mumblings in my mind. Not like Wanda’s— something more urgent and warning. Watch out. Don’t fall. Be careful. My face squishes with confusion as I try to make sense of the outbursts in my brain.
Peter must notice my expression and the faraway look in my eyes. “Don’t worry,” he assures me. “It gets easier to tune out. Eventually.”
“What does?” I ask.
“The spider sense.”
I try my best to focus on the various alerts in my head, but there are too many to count. I can’t keep track of any of the signals among the thousands of others. It’s as if my instincts have been heightened, and materialized into words. Feelings that I can’t deny. Predictions and guidance that notify me of every possible threat.
It’s both exhilarating and overwhelming.
I can’t see the others’ reactions with my face turned into the wall, but I can hear their impressed murmurs. I try to let go, but my hand remains as sticky as superglue.
“Uh, Peter,” I start. “How do I get this off?”
He chuckles. “It takes practice. Here,” he says, releasing my hand. Immediately, my grip falls away and I drop to the ground. The whispers fade, and so does the strength in my muscles that Peter’s supernatural body lent me.
I turn back to the others, waiting for their response. Wanda looks as content as ever. Natasha wears a similar expression, but painted with a little more awe. Steve is staring at his hand, as if wondering how he gave me his powers.
Stark is looking at everything except me, his face pinched with deliberation. “She takes on their traits,” he articulates, finishing Wanda’s earlier thought.
“Their powers,” Wanda corrects.
“How did you figure that out?” he asks.
“Accidentally,” she admits.
His fingers tap against his thighs as if performing imaginary calculations. The estimations continue in his eyes as they dance around the room in thought. Nobody else speaks. Maybe it’s a mixture of shock and thought, or maybe everyone just needs a moment to swallow the pill I’ve given them.
If I only need to touch someone in order to embody their supernatural abilities, my capabilities, in theory, would be endless. I imagine that makes me just as much of a threat as it does an asset.
Finally, Stark locks eyes with me, and I can’t help but realize that it’s the first time he’s really looked at me in weeks. “Come with me.” He starts towards the door.
I follow like a little puppy on a leash. “Where are we going?”
“To my lab.”
“Why?”
“To show you your past.”