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        When Steve and Barnes were safely away, Wanda let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding. She felt their presence, even in this weakened state that she was in currently, she felt them go. Into the jet, then away to... somewhere. Siberia, she thinks. They were good, sure there would be a price to pay, but nothing they couldn't handle. They were the Avengers after all. Or they should be. When guards had arrived to the airport, she had come quietly. She knew what would happen if she struggled, even called the faintest, most harmless wisp of scarlet to the surface. Thankfully, the guys were silent as well. As they were marched over to the waiting truck, bound and silent, Clint looked at her, and gave her a strained smile. She smiled back, equally as strained. She knew that they would pull through this, together. Shoved into the truck, locked in , sitting shoulder to shoulder with guards, Wanda kept telling herself that it would be okay, not to panic. Panic would lead to fear. Fear would lead to an attack. She didn't want to think about what the guards would do if that happened. When the truck stopped, they were marched swiftly over to a waiting helicopter. There was no room for anyone but them, and even then they were all squished together, knees and elbows poking into each other awkwardly. It was Scott who awknowledged the elephant in the room. (Well, one of them) "Did they make it out?" He asked, looking around. Sam nodded his head, then looked out the tiny window. "You, uh, know where we're going, by chance?" He stammered. No answer this time.


"State your name"

"Wanda Maximoff," she answered, the gleaming barrels of guns barely visible out of the corner of her eye.

Like they didn't already know what it was. Like it  hadn't been plastered all over the new for the last who-knows-how-long.


"The Scarlet Witch," she replied, clenching her fists.

She had been proud of that name, once. When she had joined the Avengers, picked out a "code name" for field work. The Scarlet Witch was someone she could be. A hero. Someone to be admired.

Now it was a name people spat. A name referred to with derision. The name of a criminal.

There was something poking into her side, herding her out of the room. Clint, Sam, and Scott were finishing up "Processing" in the other rooms. A few minutes later, they were marched in, glaring at everyone. She couldn't help but notice that the amount of guards they had between them was less than what she had to herself. A man walked out of a side room with a piece of paper, reading the rules to them. She didn't pay attention, and she's assuming the others weren't either, judging by the bored expressions they wore. The guards stepped away from her, and came back with... A straitjacket and a collar. "These," the man drawled, "are your 'safe guards,' Miss Maximoff," he sneered. Clint's head snapped up, and Sam's eyes narrowed. Wanda couldn't breathe. The blood drained from her face and she started panting. Dimly she saw the guards having to restrain Clint, who looked furious. "Come on, guys, she's just a kid" Scott groaned. "A kid who killed 11 people in Lagos and God knows how many more." One of the guard snarled, forcing her arms into the jacket, clipping the collar around her neck, and leading her away, down one, two, three flights of stairs. Shoving her into a cell. Leaving her alone with her thoughts and her nightmares. And no scarlet to keep them at bay.


        Doing nothing but staring at walls every day gave one plenty of time to think. And think she did. Looking back, Wanda reflected that fear was the basis of so many desicions. The Accords were brought into being because the government was afraid. Afraid of things they couldn't control. "Weapons" walking around doing whatever they please. Ultron, born out of Stark's fear of aliens invading, of another New York. The Avengers themselves, in a way. Fear that S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't keep away the bigger threats anymore. Fear was a deadly weapon, a powerful tool. And try as she might, she couldn't get her conversation with Vision out of her head. "I cannot control their fear, only my own," she had said. But they used their own fear, her own fear, to control her. And that was where she went down. She had gone into the Avenger's heads, back when they were still enemies. She had used their fear as her own weapon, and it made a sick kind of sense that this is where she ended up. The product of the collective terror of the world. Terror of her. So she cowered in a corner, not even trying to escape.

She could, if she wanted to. If she really did, she would rip of these restraints and burn this place down to the ground. But this was what she deserved. Her punishment for all the destruction she had wrought. 

So she stayed put.


       The nightmares were bad, almost worse than they had ever been. Trapped inside her own head, the collar restricting her powers from getting out, delivering a shock whenever she moved, so often she couldn't even feel it anymore. She half-wondered if she was still alive. The jacket restricted her movement, the fluid twists and turns of her finger that made the scarlet dance to and fro, tightened to the point where she could barely breath. She hadn't had a meal in who-knows-how-long. She wonders (not for the first time) what has happened to the rest of her "Team." If Steve made it out okay, if he was even alive, if Clint, Sam, and Scott are being put through this same torture, or if they got new ones. A few hours later, she hears footsteps. Heavy footsteps. Curling in on herself slowly, as to not trigger the collar, she waits with wide eyes and bated breath as the silhouette of a large man comes toward her cell. The shadow is Steve, and she's crying, and she sees anger, no, rage in his eyes, and it scares her, a little bit.

But his voice is gentle, and the anger is not at her (she thinks), telling her that it's going to be okay, and that he's going to get "it" off of her. She thinks "it" is referring to her restraints, but at this point she's too overwhelmed to care. Then she can breathe and he's gently, oh so gently, picking her up and quickly walking out of the room and up the stairs. Lights, voices, what feels like wind, then a metallic inside of… something. She thinks it's a jet?  But it can't be a jet, how could it be a jet?

And Steve pats her on the shoulder, then goes out of the back hatch. He returns in a few minutes with the guys, who all immediately strap themselves down as the plane (she sees now that there is a blonde woman at the controls) lifts off smoothly. Leaning her head on Clint's shoulder, his arm around her in a little side-hug. She thinks it is all a dream. That she will wake up and back with the restraints and the cell. That this is just another illusion her powers have given her.

It isn't.