Disclaimer: The Scarlet Witch, Magneto, Quicksilver, Mastermind, and the Toad belong to Marvel -- for now. If they keep forgetting that Magnus has a daughter who has as many issues with him as Pietro does, I may attempt hostile takeover. Continuity: This is set roughly six weeks before X-Men, volume 1, #1. God bless the Silver Age. The Silence I Keep by Larissa James I had never been able to sleep well in strange places. True, I had spent my entire life as a wanderer, keeping to the back roads, never knowing where I would be resting my head the next night -- but where I came from, it was all the same. Each village the same as the next, each type of building looking as if it had been built from the exact same plan from one village to the next. Even the people never varied: constable, shopkeeper, butcher, holy man . . . different faces disguising the same basic personality, the same doctrine of trade. While I would never feel entirely comfortable among those people, the people that I knew to be *normal*, they were what I knew, and they never changed. The home of Magneto, however, was a stone fortress of complete unfamiliarity like none I had ever seen before. Everything was bigger, and conversely emptier, every creak and footstep echoing into something unknown, something frightening. Many nights, I couldn't sleep -- nothing was ever as I had learned that it should be, and the thought of what *might* be out there, *in* there, was enough to keep my eyes open long after Pietro had seen me securely to bed behind my locked bedroom door. I tried to convince myself, that night, that it was the drumming of the rain on the heavy metal shutters that kept me lying there, blanket pulled up tightly to my chin, rather than just shadows created by my own mind to make me jump at every little sound, but I should have known better; the source of my troubles, though, was only just beginning to make itself known to me. Outside, the wind howled, the rain beating mercilessly against the old stone and recently-added metal of the castle as if some great beast were trying desperately to claw its way inside. The comparison made me shiver even beneath the layers of blankets; it was impossible to get properly warm in the damp, drafty castle that Magneto had chosen as his home base. But no, I realized, it may just have been me: warmth is too closely associated with contentment, and I never felt properly warm in a strange place. Too much movement. Too many uncertainties. In the forest, it was different: every plant, every tree was like a familiar face; Pietro's arm, forever draped across me as he slept, a familiar feeling. My room alone was the largest place I had ever stayed in in my short lifetime; I had never slept so far from Pietro's reassuring warmth. The situation both frightened and heartened me; if my brother were nearby, I'd feel safe . . . but I'd also never be able to move without him waking and checking up on me. He was a light sleeper naturally, but he had learned to stay on his guard even as he slept. I wondered if he was asleep yet, or if the storm outside was keeping him awake, too. It wasn't precisely the storm that was keeping me awake, though, I knew. Ever since Pietro and I had first left the wilds of eastern Europe, encased in Magneto's protective bubble, holding tightly to one another as we drifted high above the trees, I had been seized with a sort of restlessness, a disquiet deep inside of me that wouldn't release its hold. Never before had I been given the chance to get to know the world outside of the small cultural circle in which I had roamed my entire life, never given the opportunity to work closely with other people, to get to know someone besides my own brother. A strange new place with strange new people, and, more importantly one man -- one man who I was both frightened and fascinated by, one man to whom I owed my life. It had all combined at some point, melding into a sense of discontent with both myself and my situation that I could neither quiet nor quell, a sense that disturbed all of my waking hours and kept me awake when otherwise, I would be asleep and free of it. Constantly, it urged me up and out; I didn't know where I was going, which was nothing new -- for the first time, however, I was feeling compelled to find out . . . and decide on a course of action for *myself*. Quietly (though who I was frightened of waking, I wasn't sure), I stood and padded across the floor to the press where I kept all my earthly possessions. It had come with the room, but didn't seem to have been there much longer than I had; it was fashioned entirely of metal, and contained no seams or bolts, or even proper hinges that I could detect, yet somehow, it opened easily and with no unwanted squeaks. The key that opened it was of such a peculiar shape that I doubted that anyone could open the thing without it, though Pietro had noted that it would present no barrier to Magneto, if our benefactor wished to open it. I couldn't think of a reason that the man would want to do such a thing, but Pietro seemed to consider it perfectly natural that every man on the planet would want to rifle through my underthings. I had declined to point out to him that, since he had a press that was, for all intents and purposes, identical to mine, then his theory suggested that *his* underwear might be in danger, too. As tempting as the thought of seeing his reddened face was, I reminded myself that I knew better. If our home had been inhabited differently, it would have been easy enough to justify being out in the hallway in my robe, but I had rapidly learned that Toad and Mastermind were not to be trifled with. How simple it was to read the naked lust in a man's eyes, and it had occurred to me that each thought his feelings to be unique, when I had seen the look on the faces of dozens of them before, and learned to steer clear of a man who wasn't thinking with an organ above the waistline. Healthy young men my own age, gawking adolescent boys who at least had the decency to blush, oldsters who must have been at least old enough to be my grandfather . . . and the middle-aged, married men, who worked in the fields and went home every night to a wife and children. They all forgot their families when they looked at me. I was starting to wonder if there was more to any of them than what they so unwittingly revealed every time I looked into a pair of eyes, hoping for some glimmer of human acknowledgment . . . and discovered that they weren't even looking at my *face*. All but Magneto, who always looked me squarely in the eye when he spoke to me, which, oddly enough, frightened more than relieved me, and Pietro, who was . . . well, just Pietro. My brother. My brother who . . . didn't always look me in the face, either. Sometimes the loneliness got to him, I think. He would be furious if he came in and found me getting dressed in the middle of the night. Sometimes, I would be awakened from a deep sleep, comforted by his sudden presence beside me, only to awaken in the morning and find no trace that he had ever been there. Maybe it was my imagination. I don't think so. He just checked in on me sometimes, too; if he checked on this night and discovered me gone, would it ever cross his mind that I had left of my own volition? I doubted it. I shuddered to think of Magneto's wrath if mybrother's mad dash through the castle were to awaken him (as it no doubt would, most likely by Pietro grabbing him right out of bed and demanding to know where I was). He had never actually caused me any real pain before, but it was different with the others. Though I didn't think he would kill someone he had trained so hard when the time of attack was so close at hand, somehow I knew, with sick certainty, that he wouldn't hesitate to seriously injure. It wouldn't be the first time. The many and varied scars borne by the Toad were only a small indication of what he could do when his anger was roused. But as I slipped out into the hall, clothed in an old sweater and skirt, it wasn't Magneto, but Pietro that I expected to suddenly appear before me, demanding to know where I was going and just what I thought I was doing. If he caught me this time, I would never be able to manage such a thing again. I felt both guilty and exhilarated by what I was doing -- a naughty child sneaking out in the middle of the night to pilfer cookies, ashamed of going behind Pietro's back, but thrilled by the prospect of doing something daring. It was odd, in a way, how I was both comforted and frustrated by my brother's attempts to "protect" me. There had been a time when I would have gladly hidden myself beneath his sheltering wing, but the outside world had begun to call to me, and, nervous though I was, there was a part of me that was determined to answer. And, I had to acknowledge shamefully, there was even a part of me that, sometimes, wanted to respond to those lustful looks. Pietro would have been appalled. I was merely . . . restless. I should have been paying attention as I slowly felt my way down the darkened hallway. How many times had Pietro told me to be on my guard on those back halls? I hadn't expected that anyone else would be up and about in the wee hours of the morning . . . but I had also forgotten exactly who I was dealing with. He had me neatly pinioned before I could think to react, one arm tight about my waist and around my arms, the other hand clamped over my mouth, abruptly stopping my sharp, surprised intake of breath. "Hello, Wanda," said a soft baritone less than an inch from my ear. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my neck, and worse: the thick stench of tobacco that accompanied it every time he exhaled heavily (too heavily, I realized disgustedly). Mastermind. I struggled briefly, but it was no use; Jason Wynegard was by no means a strong man, but he had the advantage of advance preparation: he had braced himself well, while I, caught off-guard, was in no real position for putting up a fight. I tried to remember what, if anything, Magneto had taught us to do in such a situation, but then I realized: he had never covered what to do if the enemy trapped *you* (although we were all quite versed in what to do in the opposite situation). He tightened his hold, sensing my feeling of helplessness. "Oh, come now. You *were* coming to see me anyway, yes?" I could move my hands. That meant that I could use my powers, maybe not on him, but on something, *anything* . . . But I also knew what my powers could do. What was to stop me from triggering the unfortunate (if unwelcome) fellow to spontaneously combust? Or the castle to fall down around our ears? A thousand little things, a thousand *bad* things, and I could affect them all with a single gesture. A thought. It was as natural -- no, even more so -- than breathing to me, for sometimes, things changed even when I didn't mean for them to . . . but I couldn't make myself use it. The possible outcome was far too likely to be far more than I felt I was willing to bear at the time, at least until he forced my hand. *His* hands, however, had begun to wander, and so I had to content myself with improvising: I kicked my heel back as hard as I could, and was satisfied to hear him inhale sharply, biting back a cry as the sudden pain in his shin flared. The momentary loosening of his hold was all I needed; grabbing his arm, I yanked forward, wrenching the surprised man past me and into the wall. Not a hard hit, by any means, but enough for my purposes. Before he could even look up and shake his head, I was halfway down the hall. The library door was easy enough to find: it was the only double-door on the hallway, as well as the only one with any decoration at all to it. It made me wonder exactly how this place had been decorated before Magneto came to own it (if it had existed at all, which I had decided it must have), and what, if any, alterations had been made to it. Apparently, either Magneto himself or whoever owned it before him had considered the library to be quite an important place. Nowhere in all of the castle was a door carved so ornately so as to have the eye not only drawn, but practically *forced* to look upon it as it was at the library; this, in fact, had been how I had discovered the place, although I hadn't had nearly the opportunity to explore it as much as I would have liked. Pietro didn't like for me to wander around the grounds alone, and he had very little patience for books of any sort -- he never understood my attraction to them, or my insistence on browsing for hours before choosing just the right one. So the library was not a place where I was able to spend a lot of time. In the wee hours of the morning, though, there would be no one there to rush me or harass me. Wynegard, I knew, may have been a lecher, but he was far from stupid: he would not follow me now that he had lost the element of surprise. The Toad was unlikely to be up and about so late, anyway, unless he had conceived a new idea for spying on us in the middle of the night in order to curry favor with Magneto. I used to wonder what our benefactor must have done for him (or to him) in order to receive such earnest, if pathetic, attempts at fealty; in whatever case, I felt more pity for the little man than anything else. His constant attentions repulsed me, but I, along with everyone else back then, completely underestimated the Toad: fear was *not* something he inspired in me. Indeed, I realized as I opened the door, there were only two people in the group that I felt I couldn't handle: my brother, whom I simultaneously loved and resented for his stranglehold on my life, and the one man in the castle whom I only then realized that I was staring right at: Magneto himself. It took me a moment to recognize him, for I had seldom seen him with his helmet off, and I had come to associate my mental image of him so strongly with the steel framing his face that I sometimes forgot that there was even a flesh-and-blood man underneath at all. The silvery-white hair on his head was the same color as Pietro's, something I had often wondered about (I had also wondered, on many a night as I lay in bed, unable to sleep, if it was as unusually soft as Pietro's), though it was slightly wavier, and, to my eyes, made him look quite distinguished, whereas on Pietro it simply looked . . . odd. The eyes were what I knew, though: even with the helmet on, you could feel his eyes burning themselves into you, whether he was obviously angry or merely casually observing; something I have always been certain of is Magneto's inability to watch someone undetected, for, even when your back was turned, it had always seemed to me that you could feel his gaze boring through the back of your neck. If anything, he seemed to be as surprised by me as I was by him, which did nothing to suppress the fear that rose within me; should I ever disturb a lion in his den, I would imagine that I would feel much the same way as I did then. It had never occurred to me that anyone else might crave knowledge in the middle of the night, and certainly not *him* . . . although, when I thought about it, I couldn't imagine anyone in the castle *but* him actually picking up a book at all. All I could do was stand there and stare, trying to will myself to move, wishing desperately that my heart would stop its frantic beating lest he somehow manage to hear it. I wasn't sure if disturbing the master at his studies was a capital offense or not, but I had never run into him in such a situation before in order to test it. Nor did I wish to test it then. "I'm sorry, sir," I managed finally, unconsciously taking a step back. "I didn't know you were . . ." Awake? Here? *Literate*? Unsure even of my own meaning, I trailed off, unable to articulate the half-formed ideas in my head under the steady gaze of those steel-and-ice blue eyes. Perhaps, if he was feeling generous, I might get by with only a stern word . . . but if he was truly angry, angry over *anything*, whether I had anything to do with it or not . . . I shivered. I had seen him drive the Toad through a wall once. Instead, he held up the book that he had been holding, marking his place between the pages with one finger. "Have you read War and Peace?" The question took me aback. Literary discussion wasn't something I had ever expected to share with him; any discussion about anything outside of training and mutant politics, in fact, seemed strange. "No . . ." I managed to stammer finally. "Don't. It's over-rated." He placed a long yellow bookmark in between the pages and set it down on the table in front of him, folding his hands up in his lap and looking back at me, his face as close to expressionless as I had ever seen it. What now? I wasn't sure what he expected of me; did he want me to stay, as the very fact of his conversation implied, or was he merely waiting for me to leave, annoyed that I was still standing in the doorway gawking? Would it be rude if I were to simply turn right back around and slam the door behind me, as I felt strongly inclined to do? What if-- "Are you coming in?" he asked, his voice quiet but carrying a hint of command that I was far too frightened to ignore. He seemed almost amused, one eyebrow quirking ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching once as I stepped inside hurriedly, the door shutting of its own accord -- either by its own mechanism or, more frighteningly, by Magneto's silent intervention, I couldn't tell. And in an instant, we were alone: me, a young, nervous woman who very suddenly found herself wishing that she had listened to her brother and stayed in bed, and Magneto, whom I thought must surely be the most powerful man in the world. He sighed heavily after a moment of watching me stand there, shaking his head in a small, thoughtful gesture. "It was not my intention to make you stay when you would rather go. I was under the impression, however, that a person walking into a library would be in search of literature." He held the book up again, arching that same eyebrow and inclining his head invitingly. "Nor do I presume to tell you what you can or cannot read. You *do* read, of course?" The question came dangerously close to offending me, though it was a perfectly reasonable thing to ask, given my background, I supposed. More than once, in our wanderings, I had been one of the only folks around who read well enough to be of any real use. "Certainly I do," I informed him, taking a small, challenging step forward. Magneto smiled briefly, opening his book up again and looking back to it, before his face fell back into the hard lines I knew so well. "How fortunate. I have only recently realized that that part of your training is something I may have neglected. Soldiers you may be, but I will not have *my* soldiers perceived as anything less than what I wish them to be: fit to rule." I wasn't so sure that he had ever had ruling anything in mind for those of us relegated to the position of lackey, but I held my tongue, instead taking a deep breath and turning my attentions towards the massive bookshelves. There were more shelves than I could possibly look through in one night, which had been the delightful task that I had so been looking forward to ever since the idea to leave my room had first seized me, a sweet anticipation that I so rarely had the chance to experience. Pietro wouldn't have understood at all, a fact which, inexplicably, caused a sudden spark of irritation to flare within me then. Despite all of his love for me, there were so many parts, so many aspects of me that he would never understand, or even realize that I possessed, and the realization both hurt and angered me -- who *did* know Wanda but Wanda? I didn't even have a last name, or a real address, or even an ethnic group to identify myself with anymore, save the only four other mutants that I had ever met, a sick and unsavory lot that I was ashamed to associate myself with. All the identity I possessed was contained in a single vessel of mind, soul, and body -- and of all the people in the world, few knew that it even existed, and of those that did, only Pietro realized that there was more to it than just the body, although he had only the vaguest idea of what was actually *in* the mind and soul. Who knew what I was capable of, save myself? Certainly not those two cretins we called teammates, who seemed to see me as something brought in solely for their physical benefit. Not Magneto, to whom I was little more than a mutant power with a small modicum of intelligence attached. And Pietro? What was I to him? Something to be protected and sheltered forever, just so that he could feel needed . . . because no one else wanted him? Suddenly becoming aware of eyes upon me, I looked up from the books that I only then realized that I had been pulling down, looking at, and replacing with angry, forceful motions to discover that Magneto had again closed his book and was watching me with thoughtful (concerned?) blue eyes. "If you have an issue with my books," he said finally, "I suggest you walk away and calm yourself down before you do something drastic, as they most assuredly are not going to be able to fight back." I opened my mouth to voice an automatic apology, but then stopped myself abruptly. I was through with apologies. All of my short life, I had deferred to others out of fear or a simple desire to keep the peace. Well, I was tired of being afraid. Tired of being what others wanted me to be rather than what I really was. I stood silently and stared back at him unflinchingly, forgetting, in my anger, exactly how much of my life he held in those powerful hands. He didn't seem at all surprised by my reaction, though he frowned thoughtfully as if unsure whether or not he was actually displeased. "Your brother would not be pleased to find you here at this hour." "Pietro would not be pleased to find me here at all, no matter the hour. What I really want to do *rarely* pleases him." His frown deepened, though his eyes did not betray the raw anger that I had seen in them so often. "Come," he told me, nodding towards the chair across from him. "Sit." The words, usually perceived as polite invitation, carried no threat in their tone, though my sensitive ears caught the hint of command inherent in them. I was disgusted to find my newly rebellious self reacting instantly to his words, my feet already in motion before I had even made a conscious decision as to whether to obey or not. I slowed my pace deliberately, both to give myself a few seconds to think it over and to create the illusion that I felt I did not *have* to obey him, though I knew that, in all truth, I did and would. Did he order people around like that on purpose, I wondered, or was it just in his nature and he simply didn't realize that he did it? Or perhaps it was merely my fear of him that made me imagine that everything he said was either threat or command, if not both. I didn't want to fear him, but I did . . . and, looking into his eyes, I could see that he knew it, too. Magneto remained silent for some minutes even after I was seated, studying my face in a distant way that I found distinctly uncomfortable. I had never actually caught him at it before, though I had the distinct feeling that, occasionally, when I turned around to find his eyes on me, only my motion had distracted him from his musings. I didn't like the feeling of his eyes on me, especially not in the way they were then, as if he wasn't seeing *me* at all. "Magneto . . . sir . . ." I began, when it had made me so nervous that I couldn't stand it anymore. Abruptly, something in his eyes changed, as if a light were being adjusted from fuzzy and unfocused to a sharper, brighter beam. "Wanda." He offered no explanation, though I was certain he could read the unspoken question in my eyes. Instead, he sat back, folding his hands in his lap once more, looking at me with a serious expression more like that which he usually wore. "Now what am I going to do with you?" I blinked, trying to decipher exactly what that question was supposed to mean. It didn't sound like he was contemplating punishment, and I wasn't aware of anything special in mind that he had ever had for me. "I . . . would really rather not have anything done to me, if you don't mind," I told him finally, when he had been silent again for quite awhile. "Don't be so certain." He took the book and sat it back on the table, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. "Tell me, Wanda . . . did you honestly come here for books?" My hesitation at the odd question was noted; he seemed to take it, though, to be a moment of careful consideration, as he looked up at me expectantly. "Of course I did, sir. What other reason would I have to be in here?" He waved a hand in dismissal. "Several that I could think of, but never mind that. You read often?" This, he said in such a way that I just barely realized that he was asking me a question. Apparently, it was more of a statement to him, as well, but I obliged him with my answer. "Whenever I can." "How many languages do you speak?" he asked, and it took my mind a moment to process the sudden shift in language from English to German. He spoke it like a native; if it wasn't his first language, then it would have to be a close second. I filed the small fact away in my mind for later thought. "I . . I don't know," I answered truthfully in German. "We have wandered for a long time. I pick up what I can, what I must, here and there. Very basic. Conversational." He "hmphed" emphatically. "A good deal more than conversational, if your German is any indication. 'Conversational,' indeed. And Pietro? He learns these things, too?" I shrugged, but, seeing that he expected more of an explanation, added, "He learns enough." "But not as much as you." He paused, but I couldn't answer that. "No, when I brought you here, his English was atrocious. He speaks it quite well now, of course . . ." "Pietro learns very fast." Magneto nodded. "Yes, quite. But you have no such accelerated thought processes, and you learn, anyway. In training, too, you understand long before he does. Before any of them do. Why do you learn, Wanda?" Once again, I was stumped. None of this made any sense whatsoever, and I was curious as to what his motives were -- why speak to me so familiarly? Since when did he care about any of this? Finally, I took a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts even as I began to articulate them. "I learn because . . . I want to. I have always wanted to . . . to understand, and to *know*. I cannot ask if I cannot speak to a person, and the challenge and joy of learning language is, in itself, another way of *knowing*. I speak because it allows me to ask. I read because books, unlike people, do not discriminate about whom they deign to share their knowledge with, or how much of the truth they wish to tell. Pietro, though . . . Pietro does not wish to know anything. He says that all that is important is what is real and tangible, what is right in front of us and affects us today. He says that we should deal with these things as they come along, lest we be crushed under it all at once." I swallowed hard, leaning forward, feeling the familiar burning urge to speak my mind, to make my thoughts known, take hold of me. "But sometimes I think that perhaps Pietro believes that because all he can understand *is* what is right in front of him. He must see something in order to believe in it, in order to control it . . . so that everything he finds out that he didn't previously know is something very big and frightening, because there is nothing he can do to change it if he feels he must." Magneto rocked back in his chair, scratching his chin and nodding slowly, thoughtfully, taking it all in. "You . . . are a very intelligent young woman," he said finally. I felt like I should thank him, but wasn't certain whether or not he expected me to speak anymore, so I kept silent. "You could be more than you are now. Much more." "Is what I am now so . . . pathetic?" I tried to sound sarcastic rather than genuinely worried about his opinion, but I could tell from the way he cocked his head at me that I had failed. With a weary sigh, he leaned his head back, looking up at the ceiling and bringing one leg up to rest across his other knee. Then, he looked back down at me, straight into my eyes, and took a deep breath. "Wanda, you disappoint me." " . . ." "No, I am not finished. You disappoint me, perhaps even more than those other three poor excuses for mutants. You do what I ask, and you do it well." He gave something akin to an almost dignified half-sneer. "As well as one so young and raw can be expected to do, anyway. I take into account the fact that your abilities are inherently unpredictable . . . but that is not what I meant. You disappoint me because you have more potential in your little finger than the other three combined . . . and you use even less of it than they do." "I do not know what it is you wish of me." Magneto shook his head quickly, and I recoiled slightly from his visible annoyance. "Do you not? Do you not understand what it is that is so wrong with you now? When I saw you here tonight, I was encouraged. This is the first thing I have ever seen you do without Pietro hanging on your arm, and I have been watching you for some time. I would have expected you to try something like this much sooner." "You want me to wander this horrid place alone?" "Why shouldn't you? You've more than enough power and wits to care for yourself." One corner of his mouth twitched again, very nearly becoming a wry smile once more. "Do you truly find this place so 'horrid'?" I hesitated. "Well . . ." How aware was he of my troubles with Toad and Mastermind? Surely, he was far too intelligent not to have noticed, or at least have some idea . . . but then again, he was a busy man . . . Before I could form a proper answer, he shook his head again. "Never mind that. I have more important things to worry about than living arrangements." Again, he leaned forward, intense blue eyes seeing right into and through my own. "My point is this, Wanda: I am saving this world. Creating a new empire, for that is essentially what it will be when our people have taken their rightful place above those who would do us harm. And in this empire, I will have need of intelligent, perceptive people . . . like you. Until, however, you rid yourself of this ridiculous complex of submissiveness that you have wrapped yourself in -- starting with your idiot brother -- you are of even less use to me than you are to yourself." "Get rid of Pietro?" The idea was preposterous, frightening; I had to admit, though, to the tight ball of worry and resentment in my chest that abruptly unknotted itself at the thought of a life all my own. He dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. "Not literally, of course. Pietro, too, has his own potential: he is fearless and defiant, and there is something to be said for that. I have my own uses for him. Too much defiance, however, and he becomes more trouble than he is worth." Magneto's brows drew downward, his eyes glinting dangerously, and I understood that the threat behind the words was meant as much for me as for Pietro. "No, your brother has much maturing to do before he will be the man I see him becoming. I am content to wait . . . for now. All you have to do, however, is shed these unnecessary inhibitions. You could be effective now, Wanda. And when your debt to me has been paid in full, you will be no one's woman but your own." "Am I . . . am I *your* woman now, then? Is that what you see me as?" "Until such a time as I release you, you are my soldier." He nodded once, his jaw set. "You *could* be my general." It didn't answer my question at all, but I wasn't certain that pressing the point would be a good idea. Instead, I sat quietly, uncertain of what to say, immersed in my own roil of thoughts and emotions. All he had said rang true, and I despised the fact that he had seen it all so clearly, had read me with such little trouble, when I hadn't even been sure about the exact problem, myself. How could a veritable stranger know me better than my own brother knew me? Better than I knew myself? And how terrible was it of me to want to say yes, to take all of his advice and free my ungrateful self, even knowing all that Pietro had done for me? Didn't I owe my brother, too, when it really came down to it? Abruptly, Magneto stood and reached for his book all in one smooth, graceful motion that I would never have believed such a large man capable of. It reminded me of the way Pietro moved, though with more power and less hurry to it. "The hour grows late, and I weary of this conversation. It is time I slept, and I suggest that you do the same." "Yes, sir." "You are all to report to me out on the point tomorrow at 0700, remember." I nodded solemnly. "Yes, I remember." "Good." He stepped around the table, and though I didn't turn to watch him go, I listened to his heavy retreating footsteps until I heard them stop in the doorway. "And Wanda?" "Sir?" "Remember that the choice is yours. I have ways of making you into what I want you to be. I could force you into a more assertive role, make you hate me as Pietro does and curse me with your every breath. But both you and I would benefit more in the long run if you made the decision on your own . . . don't you think?" He stood in the doorway for a moment more before I heard him pull away, the door closing softly behind him. I looked down at my hands, my accursed hands that betrayed me whenever I moved them too quickly, helping make my life a hell of uncertainties. Magneto was right about one thing: I had a choice to make. Who was I going to be? The gypsy girl Wanda, sister of Pietro, forever cursed with the unintentional ability to hurt innocent people? The Scarlet Witch, first among the mutants of Magneto's brave new world? I didn't want to take over the world, but neither did I want to be taken over by *it* . . . though a part of each appealed to me greatly. All I knew was that I had to be something different from what I was; I had to change before I lost not only what I already had, but everything that I could have in the future. Pietro would never understand, not in a million years . . . But Magneto had called it as *my* choice, and that much, at least, I was keeping for myself, no matter what my brother thought of it. No matter what Magneto himself thought of it. He could try to change me, to force me, if my decision was unsatisfactory to him, but he wasn't going to be using me, not this time. It was bad enough that he had me under his control already, my debt of life binding me to wasting my young life there, in a dark, dank castle full of criminals, preparing to make war on people for whom I carried no personal malice. Bad enough that he had made *me* into a criminal. I knew better. Next time he tried to manipulate me, I would fight him tooth and nail if I had to, rather than submit to his impossible wishes and schemes. Next time . . . I trailed off, burying my face in my hands, the realization of the truth revealed by my own words stinging me abruptly like a slap in the face. I knew that next time, I would fight. My decision had already been made; partially because of his words to me that night, I was already on my way to becoming the type of person he wanted me to be . . . what I am now. Magneto, it seemed, had won the battle. But I'm not his yet. I'm still fighting the war.