In the Avengers' Mansion sat Wanda Maximoff, at her bedroom desk. The gypsy mutant wore a plain lavendar dress that was form fitting around her upper body, and less binding below her tiny waist. Her auburn hair lie nestled around her shoulders, and had been straightened earlier in the morning. She wore her favorite piece of jewelry, a small golden necklace with a black cross talisman, and a pair of sapphire studded earrings. A simple pair of heels covered her small feet, which drummed softly against the tan carpet of the floor.

In her hand was a pen, frantically writing on a stationary, square in the middle of the desk. It was supposed to have been a simple letter to her father. But as soon a she started, she recalled that nothing was simple when it came to the self pro-claimed savior of Mutantkind. The deceased savior. Wanda felt a sadness when she had heard the news. Not because her father was dead, just because she feared his eternal unrest due to the decisions he had made in his lifetime. She also felt a loss of her heritage, for now her only family was Pietro, Crystal, and Luna. She decided this letter was just a way to get some things off of her chest, and clear her conscience. Maybe somehow he would be able to read the letter, and know it was how she sincerely felt.

The news had been hard to swallow. An entire nation of mutants, mutates, and humans, gone. Gone. A horrendous loss of life by any person's standards. The reason? An insane woman's desire to destroy mutantkind. Wanda shook her head at the thoughts which welled up inside her again. Cassandra Nova had been the epitome of racism, in her mind. Every major villian, even Onslaught, had been defeated, but at a cost. But none near as gut wrenching at Nova's. Genosha had basically been wiped off the face of the Earth, it's ruler, her father, along with it.

As she eyed what she had written so far, Wanda shook away the thoughts. Right now, she wanted to get to writing her letter. 'No more tears,' she mouthed, echoing Marya Maximoff's soothing words she had once heard as a little girl. Pietro too often comforted her with those words. Reviewing the current writing crucialy, she decided to discard it and start anew. Pressing the pen against the stationary, Wanda began again.:

Dear Father,

It has been a good while since we have talked. Many months in fact. Every since your ascension to the ruling head of Genosha, and let's not forget our confrontation when you used Lorna Dane and your subsequent "re-charging". But I didnt write you to discuss that. Just the other day, I was walking in the park by myself, just enjoying the beautiful weather, and not having to worry about throwing my life on the line to save the world or the universe again. I saw the strangest thing. A family. A father, a mother, and their two children. I remember wanting one of those A real family. As much as I loved the Maximoffs, it just wasnt the same once Pietro and I found out the truth. About Mother, and Anya. And you. Our father.

Unlike Pietro, I wanted more than anything to be your daughter. To be loved by you, and be proud of my father. But I couldn't then, and I can't now. Why couldnt you give us that? Maybe our lives would have turned out differently. Instead, it seems like all you ever did was let that dream of yours drive you. What about your obligations to your family? Do you even care about your granddaughter? Or is being a human too big of a disgrace in your grand scheme of things? Yes, I am angry. How could you be so narrow minded? So much like the person you claimed to despise, who made you what you are.

Wanda set down the pen, and now was aware that her other hand was clenched. Normally, Wanda was very calm and level headed, but at the same time, she could be very emotional. Those emotions at times got the better of her, and she had always vowed to take better control of them. Thus far, she hadnt had a lot of success when it came to her lineage. She forcefully released her balled fist, and just frowned for what seemed like minutes at the page before her. Maybe it wasnt the best way to start. No, it was something she had to do. She had to confront it, and let him know how she felt. The Scarlet Witch and Wanda Maximoff at times were two separate people, she thought. As a super heroine, the young mutant had faced many life threatening dangers and survived. But this wasnt something she could battle her way out of, and it was something she, Wanda, had to face alone.

She hesitantly picked up the pen again, and inhaled. Taking a deep breath, her throughts shifted to her youth. Even as a young girl, Pietro was always there, everywhere he could possibly be with her. Although she appreciate her brother's attention, at times she just wanted to be alone. But there was never a time. It was as though her twin brother was trying to be her father. Maybe to replace her father and somehow make things right She never had understood it, and felt it would be too embarassing to question him over it. Not long ago, the Scarlet Witch had shown her brother that she could take care of herself. It seemed like from that point on, things went downward for him. Crystal, Luna, his run-in with Magneto, and their own relationship seemed strained.

Speaking of Pietro, as much as he's tried, I truely can see how the two of you can act alike. Brash, unyielding, so driven. Unlike you, however, Pietro tries. He tries to be a father, a husband, a brother. A real man, not a dreamer. Maybe that's where we're different from you. It's probably the reason we've never honestly connected. You are a dreamer, and Pietro and I are realists. It always seemed like you were so much more concerned with destroying humankind that you neglected everything connected to yourself. In my eyes, it seems like Xavier would be in the same position, if not for his students. Just think Father, Pietro and I even tried to support you, but you just intimidated us and used us. What kind of parent were you?

And me? Well, I dont know what I believe in. When you first rescued us, I just decided I couldnt really comprehend that revered philosophy of yours. After we parted ways, and I had an oppurtunity to talk to Charles Xavier, I decided his way was intriguing, but again, I was unsure of where I would fit in. I am an Avenger, and while we fight any threat we consider evil, we chose to remain neutral unless outsiders are endangered. Well Father, you were always the one to strike out at "flatscans". Despite it, I still felt as though Xavier's approach wasnt something I could wholeheartedly embrace. So I think of myself as a realist. I believe that the loss of any life is a loss for our souls. And yet, I still wonder. Perhaps I'm agnostic. I do what I believe is right.

As far as your dream, I question it. People have bad incidents happen, but we continue to live our lives, and not let it haunt us. I can feel your pain Father, because of what's happend to you has shaped you into what you are. However, you're a man, and you could have let that

indonimitable willpower, that I know you have, let you open your eyes and see that not every human is so wrong, and not every mutant is such a saint as you claim to be. Damn it. This isnt a dream. It is real life. Wake up and face the reality. You're Erik Lensherr, a man. Oh I'm sorry, you're not Erik Lensher, you're whatever your true name is, that you're too involved in your little mutant savior game to acknowledge. Not Magneto, a god. Why couldnt you ever come to the realization that you're just as human as any other person?

I just wonder, Father. Do you even acknowledge your mistakes? I know I have made mistakes myself. I know noone's perfect. But I admit my wrong doings. Maybe letting you know how I feel is wrong. But I do know that someone needs to. It's not too late Father. If you would drop the facade, and let us inside, maybe we could at least have some resemblance of a relationship. Just think on it, that's all I ask. Despite it all, I dont hate you Father. I never have. I just pity you.

Your daughter,


Her emerald faceted eyes were now tear filled from the anger she had unleashed from within. Her soft hands brushed the salty droplets away. Wanda shook her head, as a visible means of trying to clear her thoughts, or bring forth clarity. The pen now rested on her desk, a few inches away from the letter. She picked it up, slipping it into an tan envelope. The young woman then stood up from her desk, and opened her dresser drawer, a gift from Agatha Harkness, her mentor. The dresser was rosewood, and obviously had seen many decades of life. There was something about this particular piece of furniture that she enjoyed, and she kept her most intimate things inside. She opened a silver box closed by a teal ribbon, and slipped the letter inside. If he was truly dead, Wanda felt her father would know anyways. If not, it would remain there until the right time.