Spreading Chaos and Mischief across Worlds

Wanda Maximoff sat alone in the ruins of Westview.

To outsiders, the town was declared a contaminated zone—fenced off with barbed wire and radioactive warning signs. But to her, it was far worse than that. It was sacred ground. A mausoleum. A crime scene.

The wind blew softly, rustling plastic sheeting clinging to broken streetlamps. Abandoned storefronts still bore faint traces of sitcom charm. The fake '50s diner, the pristine lawns, the candy-colored walls that once housed illusions—all now faded into gray. The Hex had collapsed months ago, but its memory still clung to the corners like dust no one dared sweep away.

Wanda knelt on cracked asphalt, tracing faded runes into the ground with trembling fingers. Her nails were caked with earth and dried blood. The sigils didn't glow. Not anymore. They were powerless glyphs now—wounds in the flesh of reality, etched during a time when her grief had made her a goddess.

She didn't cry. Not yet.

Then—

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

It echoed through the silence like a priest entering a funeral service late.

Her heart didn't race. Her breath didn't quicken. She had known he would return.

"You never truly left, did you?" she murmured without looking up.

"No," came the voice, warm and dry like old parchment catching fire. "Because you never truly let go."

Amon stood at the edge of the collapsed town square like a specter who'd grown tired of haunting. His silhouette was elegant as ever: tall coat, top hat, gloved hands, and that monocle—gleaming faintly even in the dim light of dusk. His cane tapped against a fractured curb. Somewhere beneath his skin, reality shifted.

Wanda didn't move. "I warned you once."

"You did," Amon said. "And I respected that. For a time."

She raised her head slowly, her eyes sunken but sharp. The air shimmered around her, warping subtly with restrained chaos. "You fed on my guilt. You wormed into my memories. What do you want this time?"

He stepped forward. "To offer a kindness."

Wanda laughed—a bitter sound. "Kindness? From a parasite in a magician's coat?"

He tilted his head. "Parasite is so rude. I prefer… opportunist."

Lightning flashed silently in the clouds above. Wanda stood now, tall and imposing. Her aura pulsed red—muted, but gathering. The ruins of Westview reacted subtly, as if the town itself feared her return.

Amon glanced around. "This place was your cathedral of denial. A monument to your heartbreak… and to your strength. You rewrote the rules here, Wanda. You tore apart the veil between mind and matter."

"Don't flatter me," she snapped.

"I don't," he replied coolly. "I mourn it. Because you chose guilt over glory."

She clenched her fists, runes flaring to life across her arms. "What do you know about guilt?"

Amon chuckled. "More than anyone alive."

His monocle shimmered, revealing countless reflections within—each a flicker of his countless lives across timelines and dimensions. In one, he was a king; in another, a shadow; in many, a deceiver.

He reached toward a collapsed wall and flicked his fingers. From the dust rose a mirage—two boys laughing, chasing each other with toy swords. Billy and Tommy. The images turned to look at Wanda, eyes wide with unspoken words.

She staggered.

"No!" She raised her hand—and the illusion burst into scarlet embers.

Amon didn't flinch.

"Cruelty," Wanda whispered, rage lacing her voice.

"No," Amon said softly. "Reminder."

She stared at him with shaking hands. "You think I need reminding of what I lost? What I did?"

"I think," Amon said, pacing slowly around her like a predator circling a lioness, "you've forgotten what you're still capable of."

She stood still as a statue, but her magic pulsed with restrained fury. "You're wasting your time."

"And you're wasting your pain," he said.

The wind picked up. From the broken houses around them, whispers began to stir—voices from the Hex, echoes of the lives she manipulated. It's okay, Wanda. Thank you for the perfect life. You're a monster. You're a god. The guilt manifested in a chorus, voices layered upon each other.

Wanda grit her teeth and snarled, "Leave my mind!"

But the voices weren't Amon's doing. Not entirely.

He turned his monocle to her. "You did this."

She lashed out—scarlet tendrils roaring from her palms like fire serpents. They struck Amon square in the chest—only for him to vanish in a shiver of light and smoke. He reappeared behind her, sitting atop the broken fountain like a storybook villain.

"I am not your enemy," he said, gently. "I'm your mirror."

"You're not me," she spat.

"No," he agreed. "But I am what you would be… unshackled."

She turned slowly. "You want me to fall."

"I want you to rise."

She stared at him for a long moment. Her heart thudded like war drums in her chest. He was clever. Dangerous. Not just because he played games with minds and souls—but because he understood grief. He wore it like a crown.

"What's your end game?" she asked.

"Chaos," Amon replied, tipping his hat. "Not destruction. Not power. Just... the art of the twist."

Wanda shook her head. "You think this world is your theater?"

"I think it's a script that's become painfully predictable," Amon said, standing again. "And you, my dear Scarlet Witch, are the only one still capable of improvisation."

She considered his words. Beneath the horror, the fury, there was a sliver of resonance. A temptation.

But then—

A voice echoed across the ruins. "Wanda!"

She turned.

Wong stood at the edge of the broken road, flanked by two mystic sentinels of Kamar-Taj. Their hands glowed with defensive sigils. His face was tired, but firm.

"Step away from him!" Wong called out.

Amon turned toward the newcomers with a faint grin. "Ah. Reinforcements."

Wanda didn't move.

Wong took a cautious step closer. "He's feeding on your pain. That's how he manipulates."

"I'm aware," she said, eyes still locked on Amon.

"Then let us banish him."

"No," Wanda said flatly. "Not yet."

Wong hesitated. "Why?"

She looked back at Amon, who stood silently, waiting for her decision.

"Because I want to know what he thinks I'm still capable of," she said.

Wong's expression darkened. "You can't trust him."

"I don't," she said. "But I need to understand him."

Amon's smile widened. "You always did have a taste for forbidden books."

She turned toward him fully. "This doesn't mean I accept you. It means I'm going to learn your tricks—and then unmake you with them."

"Good," Amon said, stepping backward into the shadows. "Lessons are always more meaningful when you plan to kill the teacher."

And then he was gone.

Only Wanda remained, standing between the old wreckage of her past and the new war building on the horizon.