Flames lick up the side of the house, and his hand is crushing in to hers, and she’s so confused—between the fire and the whispers and Pietro telling her, “Wanda, you have tocontrol it!” but she can’t, it’s too—it’s too—her first taste of what she’s capable of.

The first screw pulls loose in the house, and the mass of charred wood settles to the ground.

She can’t remember much after that. Not Pietro lifting her up, and then being handed off to someone else—and the voices (one familiar, one not), arguing over what they could do to repay him. Pietro’s trying to explain that no, they can’t, they’ve always been on their own—the only thing they know is each other, they can’t just change that, it’s impossible; they’re defeated.

He’s such a charming man, the one that scoops her up like an infant and cradles her close to his chest. “You’ll be fine,” he tells her, even though she looks like a broken down doll. “We’ll fix you up, sweetheart. And then you’ll be good as new—better, sweetheart. You’ll be better than you were before.” She believes him because she can’t see his face; she can’t see the way his eyes betray him, or the way the villagers keep staring at him, then herding themselves together like it’ll save them.

An enigma.

A mutant.

Magneto.