It had been an unusual year for Wanda Maximoff, and she felt every bit of it in her body as she stepped out of Tracks’ blue corvette driver seat. Her strawberry‑blonde hair lifted in the warm early-autumn Los Angeles breeze, brushing lightly against the collar of her maroon leather jacket. She drew a slow breath, her chest rising beneath her cropped black T‑shirt, the familiar weight of her antique silver locket settling gently between her lightly-exposed cleavage. The past months had left her with a quiet ache along her ribs — the kind that came from bracing through long nights in Sleepy Hollow and holding her family together with steady hands and soft words. Her aged silver rings clicked lightly as she adjusted the lightly-worn strap of her brown-leather bag, a small, grounding sound she’d grown used to.
Sleepy Hollow had pulled her in twice this year, each disaster stranger than the last. And Vision’s return — his attempt to reconnect with her and their daughters after his long absence — had brought its own emotional storm and turmoil. She’d handled it all with patience, gentleness, and a kind of strength she didn’t advertise but carried everywhere. Then came the Autobots...Sideswipe’s jock-like swagger, Mirage’s dry aristocratic charm, Blaster’s music...always a little too loud for her taste, and then Tracks — protective, overly dramatic, and full of Harvard-lockjaw mannerisms — insisting she stay far, far away from Autobot City. Megatron and the Decepticons were making their big push, and the Autobots were bracing for a full‑scale battle. Tracks didn’t want her anywhere near the soon‑to‑be warzone in Oregon.
So she let him drop her off in Los Angeles. Not ideal, but she’d learned to pick her battles. As he departed a nearby Starbucks caught her eye, more approximately the advertised fall drinks on the windows. Once inside, the shift in cool temperature made her exhale. Her black leather boots tapped softly against the floor as she walked, her hips moving with that natural, unhurried sway she had when she finally allowed herself to slow down. The dark blue jeans she adored hugged her curved thighs comfortably, revealing a warm line of her lightly sun‑kissed, toned bare midriff each time her jacket shifted. She ordered a pumpkin spice latte, her fingers curling slowly around the cup, her lightly scraped black nail polish catching the light in uneven flecks that reminded her she needed a touch‑up soon. She settled into a corner seat, letting her thighs sink into the chair as she leaned back, hair falling forward in a soft wave over one shoulder. For the first time in days, she let herself simply breathe.
Getting home would be its own challenge. With the Avengers split into two teams — Sam Wilson leading one, Yelena Belova the other — the odds of getting a Quinjet were positively nonexistent. Strange and Wong came to mind, but they were still adjusting to her: a Scarlet Witch who preferred physical solutions over magic, the one who wasn’t the dark, corrupted version they’d braced themselves against. She shifted her posture, her midriff tightening subtly as she settled deeper into the chair, grounding herself the way she always did when thinking through her options. She wasn’t eager to ask for a portal unless she absolutely had to. Not to mention many of them were probably dealing with the fallout of Spidey's most recent escapades in New York. It's unlikely Liberty Mutual had customize and save Hulk-sized property insurance plans at affordable rates.
Her phone buzzed with a steady stream of animal videos from her daughters: kangaroos bouncing across a Australian neighborhood, raccoons stealing McDonald's snacks with criminal confidence, turtles moving like ninjas on a stealth mission, and one extremely furious Canadian goose chasing an unsuspecting golfer. Wanda smiled, her breasts rising with a warm exhale as she laughed softly. She brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear, her rings glinting as her fingers lingered for a moment. The normalcy of it — her girls sending her things they knew would make her laugh — grounded her more than any spell ever had.
Then her phone lit up with a name she’d heard but never met...Hal Jordan. A Green Lantern of Earth, and a known Air Force military veteran. The one with the reputation for being brave, fearless, and saving innocents, not just idiots in need. His message was quite direct: Superman and Guy Gardner’s “Justice Gang” were off‑planet, and he needed help. He was currently “babysitting” Superman’s college‑aged, over‑eager cousin Kara — Supergirl — and didn’t know who to trust with the case he’d stumbled onto. Wanda leaned forward, her hips shifting naturally, her hand tightening around the cup in a thoughtful rhythm. Her hair slipped forward again, brushing her cheek as she exhaled. She could practically hear the dry frustration in his tone.
She texted back that she’d help, sent her location, and added one request: a ride home afterward. Hal replied immediately — of course — which made her exhale in relief. She didn’t mind helping, but she wasn’t planning to spend the night stranded in Los Angeles.
So she waited, sipping her latte as the California evening settled around her. She watched people drift in and out of the café, her hair catching a soft breeze from the door each time it opened. The hum of espresso machines blended with the quiet shuffle of her thigh against the chair as she shifted to get comfortable. Her fingers tapped lightly against the cup, her posture relaxed but ready. The silver locket warmed against her skin as she leaned back, letting her chest rise with a slow, steady breath. Whatever mystery Hal Jordan was about to drop into her lap, she’d handle it...she always did. If need be she could even bring in Vision if the situation spiraled out of control too quickly.
She just hoped he wasn’t trying to pawn Kara off on her while he rushed off to save the day. She loved her daughters, but she wasn’t planning on opening a daycare for caped wonders anytime soon.
