"Welcome to my world, I grew up with him," she murmured, fighting the sheen of tears that rose in her eyes at Wicked's tragic desperation. Wanda understood it well, she'd spent two decades tortured by the man, having everything she'd held dear destroyed by the same man who was now living Wicked's life a living hell. Wanda squeezed Wicked's fingers, trying to offer what little comfort she could.
"I know it's hard, I know, but Wicked you have to keep going. That's how you win. You have to carry on despite him. Be strong, despite him. Thrive and live, despite him, even when you're hurting and afraid. If you can't do it for you, then do it for your children. That's the best revenge. Survive him, don't throw it all away. I know you, Wicked, and you're not a murderer. I am-" she said this unflinchingly, her gaze fixed on Wicked's. She'd had her entire adult life to come to terms with what she was, what her father had made her, and maybe someday she'd even be able to live with herself. Killing was a choice that came with terrible shame and guilt, whether you killed a stranger, an enemy, or someone you cared for. Wanda knew firsthand, and the aftermath wasn't something she'd wish on anyone.
"And it's not a road you want to go down. No matter how angry, how vengeful you feel, Wicked please. Be better than him. Be better than me." If Wanda could help it, Magneto wouldn't make another monster. There was still hope for Wicked. "Tell me how you felt after you almost killed those people."