Training days are somehow more stressful than actual crime-fighting.
There's something about the controlled environment that makes everything feel higher-stakes. Maybe it's because in real combat, you're reacting—instinct takes over, adrenaline kicks in, and you just move. But in training? You're being watched. Evaluated. Judged on every decision, every hesitation, every mistake that doesn't have the excuse of life-or-death pressure to hide behind.
Or maybe it's just me overthinking things again.
The Young Avengers gather in Training Chamber Seven, one of the larger facilities with reinforced walls, adjustable gravity, and environmental controls that can simulate everything from arctic blizzards to urban warfare. Today it's set to neutral—clean white floors, good lighting, plenty of space to maneuver.
Nick Fury watches from the observation deck above, arms crossed, face unreadable. He hasn't said a word since we started, which somehow makes his presence more intimidating.
Taskmaster, on the other hand, is having the time of his life.
He's down here with us, circling like a predator, that skull mask making it impossible to read his expression but his body language broadcasting pure amusement. He's been contracted to help evaluate and train the team, which means watching him dissect our fighting styles with surgical precision while offering commentary that ranges from legitimately helpful to actively demoralizing.
"Alright, people," I call out, clapping my hands together. "Today we're running power-control drills. The goal isn't to hit hard—it's to hit *precisely*. We're focusing on restraint, accuracy, and not accidentally destroying things we didn't mean to destroy."
"Story of my life," Patriot mutters.
Constrictor laughs from his position near the wall, coils retracted, looking relaxed and ready. "You got this, boss."
I ignore the flutter of unease that comment triggers and turn my attention to Wiccan.
Billy Kaplan stands near the center of the room, hands at his sides, looking pale. His fingers twitch occasionally, sparks of blue energy flickering and dying before they fully manifest. He's wearing his costume—the red cloak, the silver circlet—but somehow he looks smaller than usual. Diminished.
I've seen that look before. In mirrors, mostly.
"Billy," I say, keeping my voice light. "You're up first. Just some basic defensive work. Wards, barriers, nothing fancy."
He nods, swallowing hard. "Yeah. Okay. I got this."
"You absolutely do," I say with more confidence than I feel.
Taskmaster tosses a training drone into the air—a small spherical device that hovers at chest height, projecting harmless but measurable energy pulses. "Standard drill," he announces. "Block the pulses. Don't let them touch you. Easy mode to start."
The drone fires.
Blue light erupts from Wiccan's hands, forming a shimmering hexagonal barrier that absorbs the impact perfectly. The energy dissipates harmlessly, leaving only a faint afterglow.
"Good!" I call out. "Again."
The drone fires twice in quick succession. Wiccan's barriers snap into place both times, overlapping like scales, deflecting the shots with precision.
He's breathing hard, but he's holding steady.
"That's what I'm talking about!" Constrictor shouts from the sidelines. "You're killing it, Wiccan!"
Patriot watches silently, arms crossed, jaw tight. He doesn't look angry—just focused. Worried, maybe.
I know that look too.
"Alright," I say after the fifth successful block. "Let's step it up. Taskmaster, add some movement."
The drone zips left, then right, firing from unpredictable angles. Wiccan tracks it, barriers forming and reforming, but I can see the strain building in his shoulders, the way his hands shake slightly between casts.
"You're doing great," I call out. "Stay focused. Don't overthink it."
The drone fires three times in rapid succession from different positions.
Wiccan blocks two.
The third pulse clips his shoulder—not enough to hurt, just enough to register as a miss. He flinches, curses under his breath, and the barrier he's forming flickers unstably.
"Reset," I say quickly. "Shake it off. One miss doesn't—"
"I'm fine," Wiccan interrupts, voice tight. "Keep going."
I hesitate. Something in his tone sets off alarm bells, but before I can call a pause, he's already gesturing for the next drill.
Taskmaster shrugs and activates the advanced sequence.
Three drones this time, moving in coordinated patterns, firing synchronized bursts.
Wiccan raises both hands, energy swirling between his palms. The barriers form—larger, more complex, interlocking in geometric patterns that shimmer with barely-contained power.
It's working. For five seconds, it's working.
Then the floor warps.
Not dramatically. Just a ripple, like reality hiccupping, a brief moment where the white tiles seem to fold in on themselves before snapping back. Gravity stutters—I feel my stomach drop as my weight shifts, then returns.
The alarms chirp once, then fall silent.
Taskmaster stops moving, head tilted. "Interesting."
"Billy," I say carefully. "Take a breath. You're pushing too hard."
"I'm fine," he repeats, but his voice cracks. The barriers are still up, but they're flickering now, edges fraying like cloth coming apart at the seams.
"Kid's magic sneezed," Taskmaster observes, not unkindly. "Happens. Power down, reset, try again."
Wiccan doesn't power down.
Instead, he pushes forward, hands glowing brighter, trying to stabilize the barriers through sheer force of will.
"Billy, stop—" I start.
The next spell overcorrects.
One of the training drones suddenly duplicates itself—not cleanly, but like a bad photocopy, edges blurred and colors inverted. Both versions fire simultaneously, pulses intersecting mid-air and creating a feedback loop that screams through the chamber.
Energy spikes erupt from the point of collision, arcing outward like lightning, scorching the floor and walls.
"Everyone back!" I shout.
Patriot moves instantly, grabbing Constrictor and pulling him toward the exit. Taskmaster is already retreating, but his attention stays locked on Wiccan.
I web-zip toward Billy, but I'm too slow.
Another spell detonates mid-cast.
The shockwave hits like a physical force, rippling outward in concentric circles of distorted space. Patriot gets caught at the edge and goes flying backward, hitting the wall hard enough to crack the reinforced concrete. Constrictor barely gets his coils up in time, metallic bands absorbing the impact but still sending him skidding across the floor.
I web Patriot before he can fall, yanking him away from the impact zone, and then I'm tackling Wiccan, arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him down and away from the cascading magic that's spiraling out of his control.
We hit the ground hard.
The magic dissipates.
Silence crashes down like a physical weight.
Smoke drifts lazily through the chamber. The training drones are scattered across the floor, some sparking, others just dead. There are scorch marks on the walls, cracks in the floor, and the smell of ozone so thick it makes my eyes water.
Beneath me, Wiccan is shaking.
Not from exertion. From horror.
"Oh God," he whispers. "Oh God, I didn't—I didn't mean—"
"I know," I say quickly, still holding him. "I know you didn't. It's okay."
"It's not okay!" His voice breaks. "I could've killed someone! I could've—Eli, is Eli okay?"
I look over my shoulder. Patriot is on his feet, held upright by Constrictor, rubbing the back of his head but otherwise intact. His expression is complicated—anger, fear, something else I can't quite name.
"He's fine," I say. "Everyone's fine."
"This time," Patriot says quietly.
The words hang in the air.
Wiccan makes a sound that might be a sob or a laugh or both. His hands are still glowing faintly, residual magic crackling between his fingers like static electricity.
I help him sit up, keeping one hand on his shoulder. "Billy. Look at me."
He doesn't.
"Billy."
Finally, reluctantly, he meets my eyes. His are red-rimmed, wet, filled with the kind of self-loathing I recognize instantly because I've worn it myself more times than I can count.
"I'm a liability," he says flatly. "You should bench me. Permanently."
"No."
"I almost killed—"
"You didn't. And you won't. Because we're going to figure this out."
"You don't know that."
"I do," I say firmly. "Because power isn't the scary part. It's losing control that kills people. And control? Control can be learned."
Taskmaster approaches, mask tilted slightly as he studies Wiccan. When he speaks, his voice has lost all trace of mockery.
"Kid's got raw power," he says. "More than most magic-users I've seen. But he's running it wide open, no governor, no safety valve. That's not a training problem. That's a fundamental approach problem."
"Thanks for the analysis," I say, more sharply than intended.
"I'm being serious." Taskmaster crouches down to our level. "Magic's not like strength or speed. You can't just push harder and expect better results. It's more like... surgery. You need precision first, power second."
Wiccan wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "So what do I do?"
"You slow down," I say before Taskmaster can answer. "You take a step back. You practice the basics until they're automatic, until you could do them in your sleep."
"But the team needs—"
"The team needs you alive and sane more than it needs you throwing reality-warping spells you can't control," I interrupt. "Trust me on this."
Patriot walks over slowly, favoring his left side slightly. He stands there for a moment, looking down at Wiccan, and I can see the internal debate playing out on his face.
Then he extends his hand.
"You good?" he asks.
Wiccan stares at the offered hand like it's a lifeline. "I almost put you through a wall."
"You did put me through a wall. But you didn't mean to." Patriot's expression softens slightly. "We all screw up sometimes. What matters is what you do after."
Wiccan takes the hand and lets Patriot pull him to his feet.
From the observation deck, Fury's voice crackles through the intercom, flat and measured: "Session's over. Parker, debrief in my office in thirty minutes."
The connection cuts.
I stand, brushing dust off my suit, and address the room. "Alright. Everyone take the rest of the day. Get checked by medical, file your incident reports, and we'll reconvene tomorrow."
"What about Wiccan?" Constrictor asks. "Is he—"
"He's fine," I say firmly, cutting off whatever question was coming. "He just needs some time."
Taskmaster straightens, rolling his shoulders. "For the record, that was the most interesting training session I've had in years. Usually it's just punching and kicking. This had *pizzazz*."
"Glad we could entertain you," I mutter.
He actually laughs at that, a short bark of amusement, and heads for the exit.
Patriot and Constrictor follow, leaving me alone with Wiccan in the smoke-filled chamber.
Billy stands there, staring at his hands like they belong to someone else.
"I meant what I said," I tell him. "You're not benched forever. But control has to come before strength. Every time. No exceptions."
"What if I can't control it?" he asks quietly. "What if this is just... who I am? Someone who breaks things?"
I've asked myself that question a thousand times. Usually at three in the morning, staring at the ceiling, replaying every mistake and wondering if I'm fundamentally too dangerous to be trusted.
"Then we figure it out together," I say. "That's what teams do."
He doesn't look convinced, but he nods.
I squeeze his shoulder once, then head for the exit, leaving him alone in the quiet.
Except he's not alone for long.
Thirty minutes later, after the debrief with Fury (who said surprisingly little except "Handle it") and after checking on Patriot (who's bruised but fine) and after filing my own incident report, I'm heading back through the facility when I pass Training Chamber Seven.
The door is open.
Inside, Wiccan sits cross-legged on the scorched floor, hands resting palm-up on his knees. Blue light flickers around him—faint, controlled, rhythmic. He's practicing grounding spells, the absolute basics of magical control, repeating the same gesture over and over with monastic patience.
I stop in the doorway, watching.
He doesn't notice me. Too focused on the work.
Good intentions don't stop accidents. I learned that the hard way. But patience? Discipline? Recognizing your limits and working within them until you're ready to push further?
That might.
I turn away, letting him work, and head back to my quarters.
Tomorrow we'll try again. Slower this time. Safer.
Because that's what leadership means—not pushing people to break, but helping them build themselves back stronger.
Even when it's hard. Even when it's scary.
Especially then.