Pietro had always thought of himself as someone who did not break easily.
He had been eight years old when his parents died. From that point he had raised Wanda, kept her fed and safe through everything the years had produced, and done it without anyone to ask for help. The hatred he had carried through adolescence, the specific focused anger at Stark that had eventually led both of them into a Hydra laboratory as underage test subjects, had cost him more than he had known how to calculate at the time.
Wanda's ability had emerged in unstable bursts tied to her emotional state, which meant the activation had come with its own kind of protection built in: the pain arrived when she chose it. Pietro had not been given that consideration. Becoming what he was had been a sustained process of his body deciding, repeatedly, whether to continue. The thing that had kept him on the right side of that decision each time was a specific image: Wanda, slight and frightened, waiting for him to come back.
He had come back. Each time.
Now he appeared to be standing at the same crossroads again, and the parameters were considerably worse.
He was one of the dozens of Wehrmacht Guards who had been confirmed exposed. The biochemical suits had failed at specific joints under sustained contact with the walker tide, and the plague had found the gaps. He had watched the others go, one by one across the first several days, watched the thing that the plague did to people he had known by name, and he had waited for his own turn with the resignation of someone who understood what the numbers meant.
The thirteenth morning arrived and Pietro opened his eyes.
The room was a quarantine cell in the isolation section of the command center: simple metal walls, a cot, no windows. Standing outside the transparent barrier was a figure in Stormtrooper armor, the chainsword at the belt visible even through the barrier material.
Pietro had been around Stormtroopers long enough to read the posture. He recognized what this visit was.
He wet his cracked lips and sat up carefully, the effort costing more than it should have.
"It is time, I understand that." His voice came out rough from two weeks of limited water. "The plague cannot be allowed to spread. I accept that." He tilted his head toward the Stormtrooper. "My pension and any medals, please ensure they go to my sister. And if there is time before we proceed, I would like to write a letter."
The Stormtrooper was quiet for a moment.
"Pietro Maximoff?"
Pietro blinked. "Pietro, messenger, First Armored Infantry Regiment of the Wehrmacht Guards."
"You are free to leave. Before you do, someone wants to speak with you."
The sentence did not process correctly the first time.
Pietro stared at the helmet for several seconds.
"I do not need to be executed."
"If you have not converted in six days, you have survived. You were held for this long for two reasons: caution, and the fact that when the Wehrmacht withdrew, your file was temporarily overlooked in the transition. You fell through the administrative process."
Pietro opened his mouth and found he did not have an immediate response to any of that. The mood sitting behind his ribs was too large and too mixed to compress into words, so he left it where it was and asked the only question that felt manageable.
"Who wants to see me?"
The Stormtrooper's helmet turned slightly toward him.
"The Primarch."
A brief pause.
"He does not like it when people kneel at him constantly. Maintain your bearing. Do not embarrass the regiment."
The temporary command center's central area was quieter than the outer zones, the quarantine barriers thinner here, the organization of the space reflecting the hierarchy of who needed to be accessible and who needed to be protected. Nolan was sitting with a collection of documents when Pietro arrived outside the door, and apparently had been aware Pietro was standing there well before Pietro had decided how to walk in.
"Come in. You have been standing there for ten minutes."
Pietro walked in stiffly, back straight, and snapped the Sky Eagle salute before his brain had consciously decided to do it.
"First messenger, First Armored Infantry Regiment, Wehrmacht Guards of the Latverian-"
"I know who you are." Nolan set the documents down. The expression on his face was level and attentive. "The regiment calls you Quicksilver?"
Pietro lowered his hand and touched the short pale hair at the side of his head with an uncertain look. "Probably because I run fast. And the hair."
"Do you know why I called for you?"
Pietro shook his head.
Nolan took a breath.
"Roughly ten hours ago, I detected a psychic signal I recognized. It was coming from the quarantine section." He looked at Pietro steadily. "Congratulations. Had you been anywhere else, in almost any other context, you would be classified as a Living Saint by now."
Pietro was faster at processing things than most people gave him credit for, the speed being a quality of mind as much as of body. He assembled what he was hearing in a few seconds and looked at Nolan with an expression that was asking the question without words.
"You may have heard stories about the Emperor. If you have not, it does not matter now, because from this point forward, the Emperor will be one of the central facts of your life."
Nolan raised one hand and snapped his fingers toward the door.
A Lamenters Chaplain entered. He was carrying an armful of books and rolled parchment scrolls, moving with the considered deliberateness of someone who had performed the opening movements of this kind of instruction many times before. He placed the stack carefully on the nearest surface and stood waiting.
"He is your instructor for the immediate term," Nolan said. "Your near-term assignment is to learn the prayers: fluently, in the original language, which means acquiring that language first. You will also learn how to lead prayer and how to preach effectively, because that is going to be part of your function." He continued without fully pausing. "We will also be running physical and ability assessments. The foundry will produce auxiliary power armor configured specifically to your speed: not simply accommodating it, but enhancing it. As for your shooting, it may not end up being a primary concern. Your future congregation will include people whose marksmanship can cover that gap."
Pietro had been tracking the words carefully. At this point he turned and looked at the Chaplain, who was standing in full black and white plate with an expression that communicated patient readiness to begin immediately.
He swallowed.
"Lord Primarch." The address came out with the involuntary weight of someone who had just decided formality was the safest register available. "Could someone explain to me, in sequence, what has actually happened? And, separately: am I permitted to return to Latveria?"
"In short: the Emperor, who had not communicated with me directly for some time, made contact again. He did it through you." Nolan's tone remained level. "You survived a plague that converted everyone around you and left no biological mechanism that accounts for it. You do not believe your own willpower was sufficient explanation for that. You are correct not to believe it."
Pietro said nothing.
"This war also confirmed something I had already suspected," Nolan continued. "Our organization cannot function without a more stable channel of faith. We have established that gods exist and that they act in this world. That requires a response that goes beyond individual piety." He looked at Pietro directly.
"Pietro. Whether or not this is what you would have chosen: our team has decided that you are now the first Pope of the local state religion."