A Lullaby For Gods Chapter 83

CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE: SO WHAT DID I MISS?

DECEMBER 6, 2013

TWO DAYS PRIOR TO THE NYC ATTACK

IN A NONDESCRIPT APARTMENT

“Are you seeing this shit?”

Natasha frowns at the screen in front of her, idly scrolling through retrieved message logs she’s read and reread hours ago, and are still reviewing now. Clint, as she’d predicted, had been given the same assignment as her, and currently has half of the logs since he’d taken half the work.

And she is, in fact, seeing this childish, cartoony shit.

Smack in the middle of the clinical, silver and black UI of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s encoded messaging system is the festive fuchsia pink of some user who doesn’t even have an ID registered with S.H.I.E.L.D. Their messages simply appear in full sentences, with no account tags, bright and out of place, the effect hammered in further with the odd typing style.

For some reason, this...mysterious benefactor insists on writing with fish puns, and having some weird emoticon thing going on with their sentences.

And it is a benefactor, as loathe as Natasha is to think it. The earliest message she’s found from this person dates back months and months before, and if she’s not mistaken, it’s in relation to one of the subjects that S.H.I.E.L.D. has apprehended, Feferi Peixes.

So this is the anonymous tipper. This anonymous tipper who somehow has found a way to break into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s security to send in tips in the first place.

There had to be someone looking into this, right? Sure, getting into message logs of the Council wasn’t in the clearance levels of anyone other than, well, the fucking Council, but there had to be someone in their inner circle who was looking into this. Someone had to be smart enough to pick up on how shady this was.

Unless they were all threatened by this anonymous tipper. Unless the anonymous tipper had done something to gain their trust, outside of these records. If it was possible for them to break into high security systems to target S.H.I.E.L.D’s highest, they might be able to get into contact with them face to face. The message logs do taper off, the closer the date tags get to the present day, eventually being one-sentence commands from their tipper to do this and that, or investigate this person of this vague description or that person of that vague description.

Natasha’s frown deepens. And with the recent spike of S.H.I.E.L.D. grabbing mutants off the streets - these descriptions included psychic abilities. Telekinesis. Elemental manipulation. Invisibility abilities. Psychic energy blasts.

Mutations aren’t common, but they’re not all that rare these days, either. Abilities like these, though used differently and coming with different conditions, were dime a dozen.

Perhaps S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn’t grabbing mutants off the streets just for the sake of it. Perhaps they were looking for specific people.

“Nat?” Clint asks through the phone.

“Yeah, I see it,” she says. “Found our rat.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a fucking weird one,” he says. “How old are they, ten?”

“It might be something to throw us off. It’s too ridiculous to be true, isn’t it?” she asks. There is a chance, but - then again, if this person wanted to be taken seriously by S.H.I.E.L.D., then a rational person’s first thought would be to talk in a way that could be perceived as ‘formal’. Either they were just confident that this way of typing was going to win people over or, well, their syntax was just like this.

“I need a fucking drink,” Clint says. “And a nap. I’ll deal with this shit later.”

Natasha chuckles, hearing his footsteps slowly recede through the phone’s speakers. She leans back in her seat, eyeing the last log of the messages.

Every suspicious tip, every drop of knowledge that seemed to come out of nowhere for S.H.I.E.L.D. - it was from this person. It’s this anonymous, mysterious helper. And while Natasha knows that there are people out there who genuinely do want to help - people like civilians who aided the Avengers in fights when they could, or people like some of the Safehouse volunteers who offered shelter during attacks - there has to be something else motivating this tipper to reach out to one of the highest defense organizations the planet has to offer.

Why give hyper specific tips in the first place, especially ones that are, in essence, baseless? Mutants existed in every corner of the world, what made these children in particular dangerous? Why them, and why not everyone else? How did this person know about these people in the first place?

If they were dangerous, therapy and rehab was always an option. That’s the growing approach to mutant teens and children who had violent tendencies these days. If the Safehouse volunteers are who this tipper wants captured, none of them have records of violent outbursts. If anything, the information on them being Safehouse volunteers paints them in a good light.

Unless, of course, it wasn’t about getting ‘threats’ off the streets. Unless, it was a long con.

Without the Safehouse, New York loses its bunker. It’s not an official building and it has no official affiliation with any government agency, but New York has the largest cases of villain attacks in the country, mainly because the Avengers Tower stands as a monument in the city, and any would-be villain trying to make a name for themself and trying to prove something always wants to aim for the icons of safety and justice first. The Safehouse has been unnaturally lucky that it’s never been targeted before, but the Avengers and everything associated with them is out there in the open, and it makes it an easy target.

One of the only reasons the city has been able to survive repeated attacks is because of the existence of a safe haven. Having a destination meant people could plan, chart routes, move closer to the building, have emergency plans in place. It helped that some of the volunteers often kept the street where the Safehouse was in clear as well, and that the braver citizens of the city often made sure others got to the destination whenever there was an attack. The Safehouse was a building, and it had volunteers, but in truth, its success was supported by citywide efforts of New York’s people.

But with the Safehouse volunteers captured, it didn’t matter if people were brave enough to help others get to the building. The building was useless if the people who ran it and made sure whatever made it indestructible weren’t there in the first place.

Natasha’s phone buzzes. She lifts it up to see that Clint has ended the call in favor of sending her a message. It’s a link.

She clicks it. She’s been busy enough the whole day digging through message logs to check for anything suspicious online.

It’s a video of some people in a cafe - it starts out innocently, nothing happens to capture her attention first, but then, it happens: the radio on the shelf suddenly turns on without anyone touching it, and it announces one statement that she knows she’s already going to be looking up after she finishes this clip.

“The Safehouse has fallen. I repeat - the Safehouse has fallen.”

-

DECEMBER 6, 2013

TWO DAYS PRIOR TO THE NYC ATTACK

S.H.I.E.L.D. CONTAINMENT

The lights flick on.

It has flicked on menacingly and made its prisoner squint for the third time that day. An agent, with his ID clipped to his shirt, a folder in hand, and with neat, slicked back hair, smiles at the current subject seated by the table. His hands - Loki’s hands - are chained to said table, and he’s barely able to lift them to shield his eyes from the onslaught of sudden light.

The agent continues to smile and sits down across him.

He introduces himself, as he had for the other two people he’d questioned before Loki. Loki, like one other person before him (Tony Stark, because Steve Rogers had listened, of course he had) tunes him out, as he explains that he’s only here because S.H.I.E.L.D. is Earth’s primary defense, and that they’re only detained for the safety of everyone else, he’s sure Loki understands.

Loki refrains from reminding him the Safehouse has done nothing to threaten that safety. This man is likely reciting from a script, anyway. It doesn’t matter. Even if he changes the minds of this agent and whoever’s watching behind the glass wall to their left, they won’t be able to do much against the bureaucracy of S.H.I.E.L.D.

No, it’s much more productive to take note of where the cameras are, where the slightly suspicious crease on the agent’s chest pocket is - surely containing a microphone, a back up for the microphones already installed in the room, out of sight - and at the man's name, printed neatly on the I.D. like some attempt at making sure Loki knows he's talking to people, an attempt at fostering connection.

The man starts asking questions. Loki settles in his seat, and prepares himself for an exhausting few hours.

“Your name is Luke Winters and you are one of the Safehouse volunteers,” the man says, flipping the folder he's got open. “Arguably the leader of the volunteer team.”

For Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, he’d asked a different question, instead probing at their friendships with people from the Safehouse. Steve had told them, in a clipped, unamused tone, that he didn’t know being friends with people was illegal these days, and Tony had just propped his feet up on the desk, as best as he could, and said, “What about it?”

Loki says, “There is no leader. The Safehouse does not have a hierarchical structure.”

“Not formally, perhaps, but there has to be someone who organizes the effort,” the man says, still smiling. “From what we’ve gathered, Elizabeth Harrison has owned the property for years and William Graham only moved earlier this year. The Palmer siblings have lived there for some time now.”

The man makes a show of flicking through the papers in the folder.

“The rest of the children are around the ages of fifteen to seventeen, which leaves you as the only suitable ringleader,” he says.

“So your evidence is mere process of elimination?”

“There’s also the fact that none of your paperwork holds up,” the man continues, “Luke Winters, 24 years old, born December 17, 1988 - we found a birth certificate, hospital records, but records on your parents came up null. Nothing on citizenship either, and nothing supports your educational record. Tax information has also been forged.”

The man looks back up at Loki. “A good cover, but S.H.I.E.L.D. digs a little deeper than most, Mr. Winters. Dave Strider, Rose Lalonde, Jade Harley and John Egbert’s records have also been found lacking; the other children have no paperwork at all. And out of all of them, you were the first to come to New York, the first one to move to the Safehouse.”

“And from that you surmise I am the ringleader,” he says.

“It leaves no one else.”

Loki snorts. “Why, because I’m taller than everyone else?”

When the agent raises an eyebrow, Loki digs his heels into the floor so he can tilt his chair back slightly.

“You’re right, my records have been falsified - I’m seventeen years old.”

The agent - blinks.

He’s not even lying, not really. He’s worked out the math for Asgardian and Human ages, and from that, he’s only about as old as the Palmers, the Pool Master and their best friend. It’s not a tidbit of information S.H.I.E.L.D. can use, but it is something that can throw them in for a loop.

Mostly because they’ll have no idea what to do with it. The agent in front of him frowns, tries to smoothen out his expression, and then frowns again.

Loki lets himself smile, just slightly.

“If all your evidence is based off of who’s older, you really ought to do more research - “ his eyes flick down to the agent’s I.D. “ - Agent Meyer.”

“It still does not negate the fact that you were the first to move in.”

“And that is relevant, how?”

“You established the Safehouse.”

“Wrong, nobody established the Safehouse. The people of New York decided amongst themselves it was a good place to hide as any and we accommodated them. If you’d have dug deeper than most, you’d know that,” he says. “I expected better research than that, I’ll admit.”

The agent quiets, settling for glaring at him. And he’s really got nothing to glean here; the Safehouse has not done anything. Whatever Loki tells him incriminates nothing and no one.

For Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, the agent had rattled off the earliest known time they’d been in contact with the Safehouse, with Steve obviously knowing the group earlier considering his personal concern over them during the hospital blackout, while Tony had presumably come into contact with them shortly before or after that. Loki, obviously, had moved in first, but if he simply admits to it, then the piece of information loses whatever fangs it had.

“That’s what you say,” the agent attempts. “We can’t trust your words, can we?”

“Whether you can or you can’t is up to you,” Loki says. “Ask the city, if you’re inclined to be unbiased.”

The man’s eye twitches at the jab. Loki refrains from glancing towards the mirror. He can feel - know, somehow, with a certainty that there are people behind there, watching. Not just from the crime procedurals he’s watched, but it’s almost an instinctual knowledge, similar to how Jade tells him she’s also hyperaware of the world around her and how it’s constructed, sometimes.

There’s at least four people behind that mirror. And they’re watching him.

“If you’re so confident, why don’t you tell us why you came to the city, then?” the agent asks.

“Moved away from family,” Loki says. “I was unhappy with my home life.”

“With falsified papers?”

“I have my reasons,” he says, smoothly. “My father and I did not get along.”

“I see,” the agent says, “And what does that have to do with taking four other teenagers under your wing?”

“They also had their reasons. I was friends with one of them,” he says. “We got along well. I helped them move.”

“And bringing in several more?”

“Now that, I have no involvement in.”

The agent leans forward, linking his own hands together and placing them on the desk, clearly thinking he’s got something.

“You and the rest of the Safehouse volunteers were found with Subjects Ampora, Lalonde, Strider, Vantas and Maryam,” he says. “I don’t see how that’s having no involvement.”

“And again, if you’ve done any research, you would know that the Safehouse opens its doors to everyone to take shelter under,” Loki says, baring his teeth as he smiles, the network of goodwill he’s created paying off now. “Those with nowhere to go. Those who needed somewhere to stay the night. Mutants, perhaps, that S.H.I.E.L.D. has been known to detain…”

He drags his gaze towards the mirror this time, before returning to face the agent.

“You know those children have abilities. Unless of course, you once again flubbed your research?” Loki tilts his head, putting on a disappointed face. “This is getting disheartening, agent.”

Tony Stark had said something along the same lines; he met some children that were obviously going to be on S.H.I.E.L.D’s shitlist and decided to help. Steve Rogers had simply not cooperated.

“You’re telling me you didn’t know those kids?” the agent asks.

“Not until that moment,” Loki says.

“I see,” the agent says.

Tony Stark had said something in reverse. He knew the other kids beforehand, but not the Safehouse volunteers. Steve had said he’d known Jade Harley and Rose Lalonde.

“So I suppose that puts them innocent of the attack at the hospital that ended with one Palmer and one Strider injured,” the agent says.

Loki raises an eyebrow. “You’re implying we aren’t innocent?”

“We’re simply looking into possibilities, Mr. Winters,” the agent says. “According to records, you brought in Palmer for stress exhaustion and a fever.”

“Correct,” Loki says. “He was also bleeding, but I’m sure even you could catch that.”

“We’ve found no discrepancies there, but we have also found that he came out injured, along with one Dave Strider after the blackout and subsequent attack,” the agent says. “Perpetrators did not target anyone else. It seems they were only after you.”

“And how does that paint us in any negative light?”

“At the surface, it doesn’t,” the agent says. “The logical conclusion would be that someone was looking to target the Safehouse, starting with the people that ran it.”

“So why am I sitting here, agent?”

“What is your affiliation to the Heir of Doom?”

Loki freezes.

Not physically, he’s better than that, of course, but his thoughts quiet to a standstill.

A single puzzle comes to his mind. A couple of conversations had about a game, about titles and their structure, about classes and aspects. An Heir, John had called himself. One of Breath.

Who’s the heir? The puzzle that the pool master had slid towards him had asked.

(“The what?” Tony Stark had raised an eyebrow when asked. “What is this, Asgard bullshit? Like how Point Break calls himself God of Lightning and Thunder?”

“Affiliation with the Heir of Doom?” Steve Rogers had asked, incredulous. “What are you talking about?”)

And Loki - Loki stops as pieces fit together in his mind. There are twelve aspects, there are twelve classes. Every single one can be paired with another for a full title. Titles can, theoretically, be repeated across sessions provided they are separate. For Rose’s session, they had a Knight of Time, a Seer of Light, an Heir of Breath and a Witch of Space.

Who’s the Heir, the puzzle had asked? It’s Sapphrel, it had answered, smeared with ink and blood.

Only, that’s impossible. These titles are preceded by a game, and according to what he knows, the world ends when this game is played. The world is very much still standing. Not to mention, the way they’d come across that knowledge had been by a vision from Cecil, one so severe it had landed him in a hospital. If Angeles is an Heir of Doom, it has not come to pass yet. And this sounds like whatever information the agent has, he’s referring an active Heir of Doom.

“The what now?” Loki asks.

“We have information regarding the Safehouse’s connection to someone, or a group of people, that call themselves Heir of Doom,” the agent says. “The name’s tacky, but it certainly can’t be anything good.”

“You think that’s who attacked us at the hospital.”

“No, I’m saying you’re affiliated,” the agent says. “If your attacker’s goal was to terrorize, why not simply bomb the hospital and ensure your whole team’s incapacitation? Why specifically target you?”

“You think whoever that was, was a vigilante,” Loki says. “I see.”

Someone’s feeding them information. Planting doubt. Planting suggestions. Someone’s trying to outwit them.

“If you can create a bunker that can contain multitudes, and can withstand onslaught, you’re capable of more, right?” the agent asks. “Like, perhaps, teleporting yourself. Or teleporting other things. Missiles, perhaps.”

Shit, the hospital. They’d been trying to escape by teleporting. And since something’s happened to Jade that’s making her act strangely subdued and cooperative with S.H.I.E.L.D., she must have told them something.

“If you’re capable of something as dangerous as that and have no qualms operating in secret - “

“You think the Safehouse is a front,” Loki says. Or they’ve been led to believe it. It’s laughably easy to make people think that someone can’t mean all that well, after all. Wariness is a survival instinct, for most people.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” the agent says.

If someone’s been feeding them information and dropping hints here and there that the people who run the Safehouse are more dangerous than they’re letting on, then that would explain how S.H.I.E.L.D. had been able to arrest them when they were all conveniently gathered in one place, even those who were outside of the Safehouse crew. This person must be keeping tabs on them and alerted S.H.I.E.L.D. that they were all together, that it was the prime opportunity to strike.

“After all.” The agent flips the folder to a page, turns it so Loki can read it properly and slides it over to him. “You were behind the attack in New Mexico, weren’t you?”

On the page, clipped to the sheet, are photos of The Destroyer, a few photos of a destroyed town, and one very grainy photo of Thor.

Loki stares at it.

How long ago had that been? It can't have been that long, only perhaps a year or so. And yet, it still feels like a lifetime has passed.

“I will ask again, Mr. Winters,” the agent says. “What is your affiliation to the Heir of Doom?”

Loki skims through the report being shown to him, the information they’ve gathered from witnesses, from the statements of people who were on ground zero at the time, involved with Thor’s arrival and departure.

Unlike everything else that he’s been asked, this is something he’s guilty of. This is his fault, catching up to him, even after all this time. And this isn't even his only sin - the murder of Laufey too, and the attack on Jotunheim, that's on him.

But, right now, he’s got people to protect. He’s got his friends to prove innocent. He can't afford to let them shake him with things he's done.

And they’re asking for the Heir of Doom, not an unconfirmed, possible inheritor of the title.

Loki looks up and smiles.

“I have no idea who that is.”

-

The cell that he returns to is white, quiet and empty. Loki glances around at it as his blindfold is taken off and the cuffs around his wrists are unlocked. The agents that have accompanied him turn away and exit without a word, the door behind them sliding shut so neatly that it disappears seamlessly into the rest of the white walls around him.

He makes his way over to the bed and sits, folding his hands together as he picks around his own thoughts.

Interesting. S.H.I.E.L.D has a rat that might have a personal vendetta against them, for whatever reason. Or perhaps it’s not even a personal vendetta, perhaps it just needs them out of the way.

He thinks about the hospital again. They’d been discussing why everyone had been there in the first place, and the other kids had said something about bloodleeches and Cecil being infected with it, the way the creatures ate someone alive from the inside out, how it was a perversion of Blood. How not long after that, Cecil had gotten repossessed again - Dave as well, bringing in a knocked-out John into the room S.H.I.E.L.D. had then conveniently stormed.

No, too much aligns for that to be coincidental. Something's up. There has to be.

“You know, if you think any harder, I’m going to hear a screw fall out of your ear.”

Loki jumps, putting as much distance between himself and the sudden voice to his left. He finds himself staring at a man with a thick, grey cape over a dark coat, the coat’s sleeves having green runes embroidered into them. He has a necklace on with an emerald pendant hanging from it.

He’s seen this man before - exactly once, in fact. He’s seen him at the hospital, when Dave had nearly been dying. And he knows it should be impossible but -

“You,” Loki says, accusingly.

The man simply smiles. “Me.”

“What are you doing here - “ Loki stands, posture already defensive. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’ve said before, exactly you who think I am, Loki,” the man says, familiar emerald green eyes shining with mirth and amusement. His smile is equally familiar, full of cunning and mischief.

Loki would know. He’s seen that exact expression in a mirror before.

His own face stares back at him as the man watches him try to reconcile what he’s seeing with reality.

“You think if I’ve figured out time travel I wouldn’t break myself out of this place?” he hisses out.

His doppelganger, or perhaps even just a shapeshifter or a glamour worker, chuckles. The man is a few inches taller than he is, dark hair also just a tad shorter, spiking up every which way from how it’s been cut.

“Nobody ever said you figured out time travel, Loki,” the stranger says, taking a few steps away to give him room to breathe, finding a spot to stand in across the room instead.

“Who are you, then?” Loki asks, still eyeing him warily.

“The Grand Archimage of Paradox Space, the Great Sorcerer of the Stars…” He waves a hand nonchalantly. “I’ve had a lot of names over the millenia. I am more commonly known as the Mage of Space.” He pauses. “But Senna works.”

Loki eyes him dubiously. “That mundane a name?”

“It’s a nickname, asshole,” the Mage of Space says.

“What the hell are you doing here, why now?” Loki asks, “Why not when we were being captured?”

“Too many people, we were busy, it was for the best,” the Mage of Space rattles off. “Which version do you like best? Take your pick.”

“Could you just answer me!” he says, and then immediately glances towards the cameras in worry. If this asshole is here -

“Relax. I’m also an illusion worker,” the Mage of Space says, wiggling his fingers, leaving trails of emerald light in its wake.

“So there’s a chance all I’m seeing right now is an illusion?” Loki asks.

The Mage of Space grins. “It is an illusion, why would I ever visit you?”

Loki debates the merits of strangling a vision of magic right there.

“But I’m not just here to make fun of you,” the Mage of Space says. “I’m here to help you prepare.”

“For what, jailbreak? Break us out of here yourself, if you’re so powerful you can take the title of Archimage.”

“Breaking out of a cell you’re in sounds like a you problem, Loki, I can’t be assed,” the Mage says, and Loki wants to deck him right there even when he’s obviously joking. “No, I’m preparing you for something else. Something far bigger.”

“Than me and my friends getting detained by Earth’s primary line of defense?”

“If getting locked in a cell sounds more important than the structure of the universe collapsing in on itself, then maybe not, but obviously, that’s up to your priorities,” the Mage of Space says, slow-blinking at him.

Loki glares at him.

Slowly, he sits back down.

“Excellent,” the Mage of Space says. “As I have said before, the structural integrity of the universe has been compromised, but you would know that if you’ve stopped to think about how several children from other universes fell into yours.” The Mage of Space gets a pinched expression on his face. “You do remember to think sometimes, don’t you?”

“I liked you much better when you were a vague threat in my head and not someone who can beam illusions into my cell.”

“The only way two universes can interact, and the only way something from one of them can fall into the other is if there is a bridge between them,” the Mage of Space continues.

He traces a circle in the air, and in the space his finger leaves, the illusion of a tube made of green light comes into being. It arcs as he traces the circle, fully connecting into the shape of a donut when he’s done. He traces another donut beside it.

“If there’s a controlled bridge, travel to and fro can be facilitated. Things can drift in and out of them.” The Mage draws a tunnel from one donut universe to another. “There is,  of course, a more dangerous option for them to interact - the walls of them can break.”

He snaps his fingers, and the ‘universes’ shatter, though they remain suspended in mid-air, dark cracks spreading across both of them.

“Obviously, damage of this extent would be deadly, but thankfully, space is vast,” the Mage says, “And we’re slowing the damage down.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Loki asks.

The Mage wipes away the illusions he’s created with a hand, leaving empty air in his wake. “Because we didn’t simply gather you all here to play house and have a good time, Loki, you have roles to play,” he says. “And you’ll have to step in very soon, so I need you to be ready.”

“But why now, of all times?”

“Because the universe is dying.”

“No, look - I know, you've said that,” Loki says, “But haven’t John and the others already been here for a long time? Why not then, why now, why - “ He pauses, as realization dawns on him.

The Mage of Space smiles.

“You can’t do it anymore,” Loki says.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” the Mage of Space says. “But we are busy people. We need you to take the mantle, you especially.”

The casual air the man has about him drops, his expression going solemn.

“You especially,” he repeats. “I need you to be ready.”

“Why should I?”

“Why shouldn’t you?” the Mage of Space asks. “You saw that file, didn’t you? New Mexico?”

Loki quiets, a guarded look settling on his face.

The Mage of Space sighs, looking away.

“You saw what you did,” the Mage of Space says. “You know what you did, what you tried to do, to Jotunheim.” He pauses for a bit, taking a moment before speaking again. “You need to be ready because everything you care about now is at stake, Loki. Because your friends are at stake. Something big is coming.”

“You say that,” Loki says, “But I can’t understand you. I don’t understand you. I have no idea what you’re talking about, I don’t know what’s happened - and the very reason for that appears to have something to do with you.”

“I know,” the Mage of Space says. “But it was for your own good.”

Loki just glares at him.

“All in good time, Loki,” the Mage of Space says.

He waves a hand, a thick book appearing in his palm in a flash of green light.

“Though, it appears now might be that good time,” he says, flashing a smile. “So, how would you like to know everything?”