Synthesis

Chapter One: An Unusual Couple

A brilliant sheen of variations of silver meets him as he opens his eyes. It is rich and metallic all around, and as he focuses, he tries to make sense of it. There is a lack of something; he understands this almost immediately.

Identifying, his mind tells him. The duality of his own being comes into sharp contrast, as well, the sense that he’s always been able to do this. Record everything, program his own body, take in each ambient sound and sight and touch and smell, and that he, with a moment’s thought, can understand what is not understood. Through accessing…

Internet, offline, the knowledge comes to him. Based on terrain and signposts, three miles outside of Westview, New Jersey. His forehead strains in concentration and he clenches and unclenches his hands, which, he realizes, are suddenly on the steering wheel of a vehicle. Having the internet offline, whatever that might mean, seems like an extraordinary problem, as if he were missing an arm or another imperative appendage, but he can’t seem to recall why. He can’t remember what it is. His hands tighten reflexively on the steering wheel as his sensory input grows, and suddenly, he turns, and she’s there.

She. Already, his mind is inundated with the important information he needs. Wanda, his mind offers him. Wanda Maximoff. Human. Enhanced individual. Female. Wife. Suddenly, a wide variety of complex thoughts descend on him at once, so complex in nature his mind is replacing them with overarching emotional concepts to understand them. Admiration. Longing. Love. Feeling. A desperate sensation that he would lay down his own life to keep her out of harm’s way comes to him, and just as the thought is processed, he feels this to be true, ingrained in every synthetic fiber, inlaid in every spare organic cell he has. And then, the other details come into place. She is in a... wedding dress... his mind offers him, and she is grinning at him happily. She is beautiful. 

--

Precisely seven minutes, eighteen seconds, and five milliseconds later, he is dancing with her in the living room of their new home. They have not spoken to each other, not yet, but in those seven minutes, eighteen seconds, and five milliseconds, his feelings (Define: feeling. Internet offline. Based on previous search history:   /ˈfēliNG/ noun - an emotional state or reaction) have only intensified, as has his knowledge of who she is. She is kind, above-average intelligence, introverted, but not unwilling to be socially affable. She is originally from a place called Sokovia, although she has seemed to have lost all trace of her accent. She was orphaned at a young age. She can play both the ukulele and guitar, and has an aptitude for sounding out the notes of music. She wrinkles her nose sometimes when she smiles. She’s generally optimistic, although there is a thread of sadness that runs through her, especially when she’s lost in thought. She enjoys the occasional glass of wine, and tends to cry during films melancholic in nature. She is worried that her telepathic and telekinetic abilities set her apart from humanity. She has a dry wit, and enjoys the more intellectual side of humor. She sees something in him he is not sure he sees in himself. She does not, apparently, seem to mind that he is non-human. She calls him “Vizh” for short. 

Reflexively, he finds that he enjoys, has always enjoyed, the nickname. He understands that he has a deep, profound appreciation for life that stemmed from a nascent wonder for the world, something that, originally, that seemed somehow out of his grasp.  His intellect is seemingly boundless, but his emotional intelligence  somehow feels...lacking. She does not seem to fault him for this. He enjoys the company of others, but revels in her company the most. 

Suddenly, he feels compelled to dip her while slow dancing-- Is there music playing? He cannot be sure-- and when he lifts her up, one of her brows arches upward, and he understands it’s a small expectation and/or request playing out on her features. Without hesitating, he pulls her closer, her hand moves from his shoulder to around his neck, and the other snakes up his chest, and he clutches it tighter as he presses his lips against hers. It starts out chastely at first, but then quickly evolves with an alarming sense of passion that sends the unending noise of another part of him detachedly processing zeros and ones to a screeching halt. She sighs, and it is a first kiss, and yet it isn’t, as they must have shared countless others, even if everything before this moment is, somehow, simply not.

--

He feels her lips graze the corner of his mouth, and he opens his eyes. He hadn’t noticed she had risen. ( Why hadn’t he? The separate twin beds must have had something to do with it.) He himself had not been sleeping, couldn’t sleep, in fact, but had taken to doing what his mind told him he was supposed to do when Wanda was sleeping: close his eyes, take in less sensory input, settle for the night. 

Now, when his eyes open, a wide grin breaks out on his face as he sits up in bed, noticing his wife in hair curlers and a bathrobe, hands on her hips.

“Sweetheart, you’re going to be late for work,” she says, a trace of concern in her voice, while standing over him, and he tilts his head at her inquisitively. 

“Morning to you, too,” he tells her through a smirk, and grabs her hand reflexively to pull her to his level, and something compels him to kiss her deeply. She’s surprised at first, but quickly sighs into the kiss, her tongue even swiping over his, and if he had a pulse, it would be surging. He holds her closer, enveloping her, before she remembers herself, pulling back a little with a breathless giggle. “Uh uh. Nope! Don’t you even think about it, mister.”

She doesn’t stand, however, and she still has her alabaster hand in the darker, rich grey of his, before she looks at him with slightly furrowed brows

“Why did I get up before you? You’re always awake, aren’t you? What...were you doing?” she asks, now reaching her free hand to his face, which he leans into, practically on instinct.

“I was...I’m not quite sure, exactly. Drifting, I suppose,” he says, yawning, even though he doesn’t need to. He picked up the habit somewhere, like all of the more human-like habits he possesses. Like sighing, or rolling up his sleeves, or crossing his legs, or folding his hands together in thought. All of the non-verbal signs of communication that suggest a thousand different cultural meanings, ways to also reflect the facade of seeking comfort in one’s own body. The mimicking of the give and take between body and mind, seeking corporal comfort, as if such a dichotomy existed for him, which it doesn’t. How he picked up these habits, he couldn’t be certain, but they are all now intuitively at his disposal.

“Drifting?” Wanda says, obviously not convinced. He kisses her palm lightly, before continuing.

“I am not so certain what else to call it. Things have been quiet lately, up here,” he murmurs, lightly tapping against the vibranium at his temple. “So I simply let myself… settle. Surely I’ve done it before?” he asks her, and her frown deepens, but she doesn’t answer and instead  before turns back to the clock on the wall.

“Oh goodness! You’re really going to be late!” she says again and he blinks at her.

“Darling, it’s 7:48am. I don’t have to be there until 8am, sharp,” he says, swiping a thumb over her palm as he does so. 

“And just how do you think you’re getting there?” she asks with a coy arch of her brow. 

“I’d...well. I’d fly,” he says, understanding immediately that this is not the right answer, somehow.

“Uh uh. Remember, sweetheart, we’re trying to fit in. We can’t have you... hovering about... everywhere. That means you’ll have to take the car, or walk,” she says through a shrug of her shoulders, and now it’s his turn to frown.

“Forgive me, dear. I’d...forgotten,” he says through a sigh, and she smiles once more at him, pressing her lips to his cheek, and his skin, which is precisely twelve degrees cooler to her ninety eight degrees Fahrenheit, warms at her touch momentarily, and he gets the sense that it always has when she kisses any part of his body.

“You’re forgiven,” she whispers sweetly into his ear, and then with one last squeeze of her hand in his, she stands and saunters off into the bathroom. Vision can’t help himself from admiring her figure as she shuts the bathroom door behind her, presumably to finish getting ready. As the bathroom is a space exclusive to Wanda- he has no need of any of its various facilities-- he stands. Time. 7:54am. 

“Good grief. I am late,” he mutters to himself out loud, and, for a moment, he swears that he hears the echo of a chorus of laughter. He jerks his head to the right and the left, but only sees the generic furniture, not unlike what one would find in a hotel room. No qualifiers, really, of an intimate or personal life unique to Wanda or Vision anywhere. As he looks around, somewhat confused, the chorus of laughter once again echoes. Identify, he whispers mentally, practically a prayer from within, but the computational side of his mind offers no answers. Frowning again, he quickly phases out of the pajamas he finds himself in and phases into a suit and tie, without a conscious thought about it. Something about it feels lacking though, and as he glances around, he realizes why. Coincidentally enough, a watch and a billfold he isn’t sure he recognizes are on their shared dresser. Vision has no use for these things, but he seems compelled to slide the billfold into his pocket and pick up the watch. He pauses momentarily, gripping the metal and tilting his head in thought. Left hand? Right? He is ambidextrous, afterall, but, after another moment’s hesitation, settles on putting the timepiece on his left, Wanda’s warning of “blending in” so loud in his mind he idly wonders if even seeming left-handed would be too out of line. 

Breakfast is a bit of a blunder. They both seem confused by the date on the calendar and the significance of the heart drawn on the square that marks that particular Wednesday, although the significance of the date doesn’t bother him as much as the mere fact that he indeed must have forgotten in the first place. It gnaws at him, but he has no time to think of it, and even though it is clearly now 7:54am, Vision still takes the time to blow a kiss to Wanda, before donning a hat and touting a briefcase on the way out. It’s only after he’s stepped into the front yard does he encounter another roadblock.

A map of Westview, he requests, before the same old answer floats up to his consciousness. Internet, offline. He frowns slightly, mechanical eyes hidden under the disguise of mundane human blue ones dart left and right, until his feet instinctively take him left. As his short walk leads him into town, he realizes Computational Services, Inc. is just off the town square. Fitting, he muses to himself as the slight breeze and the comfortable temperature of seventy two degrees Farenheit warms his back. Determinedly, he makes his way across the town square, under the shadow of a looming gazebo. 

--

“I couldn’t find the lobsters, and did you want the meat tender or pulverized?” he mutters anxiously to his wife, who only breathes a nervous, “oh dear” before swiping the apron off of him and prancing into the kitchen once more. 

This whole night’s been a bloody nightmare. (Define: nightmare. Internet offline. Based on previous search history:   /ˈnītˌmer/ noun: a frightening or unpleasant dream.) He isn’t entirely sure what Wanda had been thinking was happening tonight, some romantic soirée, and he dearly wishes it had been that instead of this. But he’s quickly realizing his job is on the line and they are on thin ice masking everything they are trying to hide. ( Why were they hiding again? Had they always hidden what they could do? If so, how had they even found each other in the first place?)

“Well, I think tonight’s going swimmingly,” he lies, as Mr. and Mrs. Hart stare at him incredulously. “Anyone for Parcheesi?” 

Quickly, Mrs. Hart is feeling dizzy, Mr. Hart is doubting his ability to climb the ranks of lower-level management, and a sense of threat and danger descend upon the house until he hears his wife’s voice, announcing dinner is served, and she is his saving grace, his guardian angel, his anchor to whatever reality he has been dithering about in all day.

“Oh! Let’s have a toast!” he finds himself saying, thanking Wanda with his eyes as they move to the table.

“To my lovely and talented wife,” he says seriously, with affection, while lifting a glass of red in her direction.

“To our esteemed guests,” she says, eyes widening and glancing at the older couple.

“Yes. Cin cin,” he mutters in Italian, and they clink glasses, and he sips the wine, and the taste of bitter fermented grapes should be there, but it isn’t, because he cannot experience taste, before he surreptitiously expectorates the wine back into the glass while everyone else indulges. 

As he draws out a chair for Mrs. Hart, she is already peppering them with questions. So, where did you two move from? What brought you here? How long have you been married? And why don’t you have children yet?

Wanda lets out an exhausted laugh, which Vision mimics, before he catches her staring confusedly past his left shoulder, even as her hands fumble to lay her napkin in her lap. Another beat, and he finds himself speaking up.

“Huh. I think what my... wife…means to say is that we, w-we moved from, umm…” he drifts off, looking to her for answers.

“Yes! We moved from…” she now stares at her food with much concentration, and he feels the need to help her again, but the answers that should be there do not come.

“And we were married…” Vision begins, and yet, once more, is unable to finish the sentence. Impotent. 

“Yes, yes, we were married in…” Wanda mimics him, but then, just as he cannot quite summon the correct answers, neither can she. 

She glances at him, suddenly defenseless, panic in her eyes, and something rises within him that feels much like helplessness. (Define. Helplessness. Internet offline. Based on previous search history: /ˈhelpləsnəs/ noun : inability to defend oneself or to act effectively.)

Meanwhile, despite Mrs. Hart trying to politely temper him, Mr. Hart starts demanding answers as his frustration with their hesitancy grows, and Vision panics. Identify! Goddamnit, identify, he commands his own mind, which only answers with, no previous record or data in memory banks. See: corrupted files. 

By now, Mr. Hart is pounding on the table, until it goes barely noticed by Vision that a piece of food has been lodged in his throat. He stares at Mr. Hart, but only blinks at the choking man, as Vision’s cognitive function whirls and spins uselessly, caught in a loop, caught in a nightmare, until he hears Wanda’s words clear as day ring out across the table.

“Vision, help him.” 

Mere moments later, after phasing his hand to dislodge the food, the odd sense of dread that filled the room moments before dissipates, and Mr. and Mrs. Hart excuse themselves. It is odd, they had just barely begun to eat, but they are gone as quickly as they came, and as Wanda shuts the door, they both breathe easier. Vision leans onto the couch, steadying himself. ( Has he needed to do this before?) before phasing back to his natural dark grey and vibranium silver.

As if on cue, Wanda says, “We are an unusual couple, you know.” She has settled down onto the couch, and he mimics her once more, as if he is supposed to, as if he should.

“Oh, I don’t think that was ever in question,” he mutters, snatching the remote, and settling down next to her, an arm around her shoulders. Wanda still seems troubled by this fact, and goes on to explain that they don't have an anniversary, or a song, or even wedding rings. He pauses for a moment, desperate to provide the answers she requires, and jokes about today being their anniversary. Yakety Yak is their song. But the rings…

“Well couldn’t you make some for us?” he asks, and then a band of silver marks his ring finger, as does hers, and he finds himself compelled to say, “I do. Do you?”

And then he needs the answer. He craves it with something deep and profound within him. Please say yes. Please, let this be the constant. 

He stares at her intently as she turns to him, and says, with dewey eyes while clasping his hand, “Yes. I do.”

His expression doesn’t change, and their eyes are locked, as he murmurs, “And they lived happily ever after.”

And then, easily, precisely, naturally, she leans into him, and they kiss to the oohs and ahhs of someone, as soft music plays, as the world spins, or has stopped spinning, or was never meant to in the first place.

—

They watch The Dick Van Dyke show for twenty eight minutes, but then Wanda is yawning, leaning in closer to Vision, her head now on his chest. He runs his fingers through her hair for a moment, savoring the feeling between his fingers, before kissing the top of her head gently. He is not quite certain how she has come to love him, but, in moments like these, he is entirely grateful that she does. A human, a complex woman with a million neurons firing in ways that he would never be able to comprehend, sitting here, loving him, a machine. No, not quite , his mind corrects him. A hybrid, perhaps, an enigma, a riddle he has never been able to truly solve. So many of the human things he has learned, that he inherently knows, and yet so many he will never experience: physical discomfort, taste, and perhaps, he fears, true emotion. His systems do not dump dopamine into his brain, he has no concept of serotonin, and still...

She is here, loving him. 

“Darling...perhaps we should retire for the night,” he murmurs into her ear, and she only makes a sound of contentment in her sleep. He smiles slightly, realizing he refuses to wake her, and instead easily lifts her up in his arms. She turns inward towards his chest more, and something in him warms. It’s a short walk into their shared room, but unshared beds, and he lays her gently down on hers before sitting on the edge of the same bed. He brushes back her hair, and he doesn’t have to make a conscious effort to memorize every detail, every feature, things that were blurry before yesterday coming into a new, stark reality. And then, feeling a deep compulsion, he kisses her ever so slightly. She is smiling softly in her sleep, but then her brows furrow, and he finds himself grasping her hand for a moment, and then she once more settles. He sits with her, hands intertwined, for fifty eight more minutes, before he suspects she’s shifted into deeper slumber. He sighs in the human-like way he’s learned how to, squeezing her hand once more before letting go and standing. Without knowing exactly why, he walks to the bedroom window, the muted world around him dark for the night. There are many questions, and few answers, and he stands there in the same pose for hours, mulling every detail over and over again, realizing there is no facade of sleep in store for him tonight.