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Chapter Text

The hardest part about trying to infiltrate a criminal syndicate isn’t the fact that it’s filled with mostly convicted felons and some unconvicted, or that there are even a few occasionally intelligent people amidst the rest that can outsmart you and blow your ruse. It isn’t the actual cover or maintaining it in stressful situations, or trying to build trust with the underlings and eventually working your way up the ranks. It isn’t even the consequences of getting caught or the threat of death should exposure be imminent.

No, it’s the amount of time it takes to succeed.

Time. A fickle master, that one. At least if Ravonna’s constant bitching is to be believed. Good lord, the amount of times Mobius has been subjected to late night rants or furious tangents over black coffee way too early in the morning can’t even be counted on both hands. Sometimes, he just wanted to take his chipped Employee of the Fucking Month mug he got years ago and just—

Anyways, time. Any hunter worth his salt would know that time makes or breaks an operation. Too little time and the act is forced and desperate and likely to fall apart. Too much time and the hunter starts to lose their purpose and the act still falls apart. Or they defect, which Mobius just can’t understand because why would someone willingly join a criminal organization? Now they have to get hunted down and eliminated before they reveal TVA government secrets and still don’t get to live the life they defected for and waste everyone else’s time. His time, specifically.

Analysts don’t just analyze the criminals, after all.

Mobius takes another sip of his cold black coffee, the dregs adding a grainy taste to his mouth. It cooled over an hour ago but he didn’t want to go to the coffee machine for a new cup and get waylaid by the six thousand new recruits the TVA saw fit to hire every other month as if 90% of them weren’t going to drop out and the other 5% wouldn’t fail the final testing. There was a reason the TVA was so high on the clearance list even SHIELD had trouble sticking their grimy fingers in it, much less the well known federal agencies.

Okay, so the six thousand may be more like sixty but still. Way too many people trying to get his attention to be worth another cup of shit coffee that could strip the paint off a car.

The phone on the corner of his desk begins to ring. Mobius sighs, waiting till it gets to the last ring before hitting the speaker and leaning back in his rickety office chair. “Mobius.”

“I need you up here, Agent.” Ravonna’s tinny voice sounds through the speaker. “Got a new mission for you. And no, you won’t like it.”

“C’mon Rav, really? You’ve gotta have other favorite lapdogs. It’s hard carrying all this weight on my old shoulders.”

“For the last time, Mobius, you aren’t old. Get up here so we can get started. You won’t like the mission but you know all about the target and you’re the only one I trust with high priority stuff. And this order is coming straight from Time himself so goddamnit Mobius if you don’t get your a—”

“Alright, alright, relax,” Mobius winces as he tosses the last of his coffee dregs back. “I’ll be up in five.”

“Make it two.” Ravonna hangs up the call with a decisive click. Mobius wanted to be annoyed, but when Ravonna gets stressed she always has to have the last word so he lets the dramatics slide.

He pushes back from his chair and grabs his suit jacket as he leaves his office, weaving around the new recruits with polite smiles and professional nods.

When he steps out of the elevator and into her office three minutes later, Ravonna is waiting for him with a controlled urgency leaking out of every pore she has, her heel tapping the floor beneath the desk.

“Hit me with it,” Mobius sighs as he slides onto the plush couch.

“Highly classified, highly dangerous.” Ravonna runs a hand over the files spread haphazardly across the mahogany wood. “Rumors are that AESIR has manufactured a new drug. You know who I’m talking about, right?”

Mobius’s eyes narrow, his attention sufficiently caught. “AESIR. You mean the faces behind Yggdrasil?”

“Faces?” Ravonna levels him with a Seriously? look. “We both know they are the leaders of the criminal syndicate hiding behind that false company.”

She’s right. Mobius spent years investigating them, after all.

A criminal empire with nine supposed branches spread out through the underworld of North America. Of the nine branches, the Asgardian one is most important, believed to hide under the public name Yggdrasil, a household name in healthcare.

As far as the rest of the world is aware, Yggdrasil operates as a medicinal company recommended by doctors nationwide.

The TVA has long known what they are beneath the surface, however. The TVA just never bothered to do more than monitor AESIR, more focused on cutting off Hydra’s never-ending heads and dealing with more active threats than one of the world’s most prominent drug trafficking syndicates. Not a great idea, in Mobius’s humble opinion, which was why he spent so many years hunting and studying them.

An opinion he is beginning to realize the significance of as Ravonna continues.

“Anyways, rumors are surfacing of their new drug. Idunn’s Apples, something along those lines. A drug that hypothetically makes you immortal. Are you starting to see the problem here?”

Mobius grimaces. “Yeah, I can see how that could go wrong in about a million different ways.”

“Glad we are on the same page. Your mission is to infiltrate the Asgardian branch in Colorado and get us a sample of that drug. Without being caught by AESIR, obviously, and in addition to destroying all other evidence of the Apples.”

Whistling, Mobius sits back on the couch and folds his hands over his chest. “That’s a tall order, boss. Messy, too.”

Ravonna hums. “And time sensitive. You have six weeks max before we have to prune half the state, and that’s a lot of paperwork. Time is adamant that drug cannot be allowed to reach the markets.”

“Six weeks? Cmon, cut me some slack. Eight weeks and done. It’s been awhile since I’ve been on the field.”

Her manicured eyebrow raises. “Cut the crap, Mobius. You may be an analyst now for reasons I can’t even begin to understand, but you were a hunter first. You are the best agent we have and you know it.”

Yeah, and wasn’t that a fact Ravonna would never let him forget. She never did really approve of his demotion from hunter to analyst, but Mobius had his reasons and he supposed they were sort of half friends so he could live with her ribbing as long as he got what he wanted.

“I appreciate the compliments, Rav, but I’m serious. Eight weeks or bust.” Mobius stands, stretching his back with a couple satisfying pops. “I’m not as young as I used to be and this is high prio. You know I always get the job done.”

“You’re only 36,” he thinks he hears her mutter before she rolls her eyes. “Fine. Anything else?”

Mobius thinks for a moment. “And this is my last infil mission. For real this time.”

“Get out of my office, Mobius.”

A grin creases his face as he makes his way out of the office, his mind whirling. Perhaps it’s time to revisit his favorite Yggdrasil file, one about a particularly fascinating AESIR man.

Mobius likes the ocean. Cool water, refreshing salt spray and hypnotic waves. Lots of beautiful underwater ecosystems and a great place to jet ski.

Mobius does not like mountains. Or the extreme cold and harsh temperatures that come with such abominations of nature. Why would anyone go on vacations to see giant hunks of rock instead of the amazing ocean? Not that his mission was a vacation or anything, but still. It’s about the principle.

Gurgling noises from his stomach sees him kneeling over the trash can again for the fifth time in as many minutes as he unloads the contents of his stomach acid into the white bucket. He knew about altitude sickness, but he had never gotten it on any of his previous missions to higher altitude states. Granted, the air in Colorado Springs was also stale with the smell of cheap drugs so that may not have been helping either.

It had been two days since his mission started, and almost half of that time had been spent acclimating to the terrible place that was America’s Olympic City. It should be an olympic sport just to breathe in the city at this point.

On the bright side, he did secure himself a job in the Asgardian branch. A couple of harried phone calls, cashed in favors and six cups of black acid coffee later landed him as a bartender in one of the grunt clubs AESIR owns. Even though Mobius now owes Ourobouros another tech setup since the one he used had to be destroyed before AESIR’s defense malware could get far. It could not be said AESIR didn’t have intensive cyber security, though of course the TVA’s resident genius could still outsmart it.

His first shift as an undercover agent/bartender was scheduled to start in six hours, and Mobius hasn’t slept in sixteen. After a few more moments of hanging his head in the trash, Mobius forces himself to stand, methodically stripping and stepping into the small shower.

The apartment the TVA set him up with was technically owned by a meager company by the name Miss Minutes. It was part of a complex in a seedier part of the city that helped to sell his ‘nobody’ cover, and the cheap one bedroom was equipped to be his new home for the next eight weeks. At least there were no roaches or rats in the flaking walls. Small victories.

Mobius finishes showering quickly, scrubbing his silvery hair with the honey shampoo Ravonna got him last Christmas before rinsing and stepping out. His head is throbbing though the nausea has subsided, and with a groan he downs some Advil with a bottle of water he swiped from the airport and collapses onto the lumpy mattress, barely lucid enough to set a timer before he conks out.

“You’re late.”

Mobius gives a sheepish grin that's more like a grimace. “Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

The bald man looks him up and down. Dark tattoos line his scalp, and those combined with a bushy goatee and tactical gear make him an intimidating sight. “It won’t,” he agrees, and Mobius mentally kicks himself.

He had overslept entirely by accident, but figured it wouldn’t harm his worthless ‘nobody’ act too bad. Mobius had overestimated the leniency his slip-up would be allowed, however. Who knew AESIR had such sticklers for punctuality in the bottom of their barrel?

After the bald man introduces himself as Skurge—creative, certainly—Mobius gets a courtesy pat down before finally being allowed past the bouncer, whose gaze sweeps over him in disinterest before returning to stare at the bleary walls of the alley. A brief twinge of pity fills Mobius as he follows a few steps behind Skurge. At least he didn’t land the boring job of bouncing this little club like the unfortunate fellow outside.

Contrary to the outside of the dilapidated building, the inside of the club is surprisingly well kept. Neon yellows and pinks cast dim glows over the interior, while leather couches and wide chairs are interspersed in ways that make the space seem larger than it actually is. A single stage with a shining pole is in the center of the club, and the bar isn’t far behind it, the counter extending into an L curve and lined with green vines. The name Enchantress shines a deep green in cursive on the wall beyond the bar, false certifications perched on the glass shelves above it.

Mobius frowns, rubbing one of the leaves as he passes by the counter. It was soft and fresh, qualities of a real plant. Glancing around, Mobius notices several other flora dotted throughout the club– flowers hanging from the ceiling, vines curling around the backs of couches, small trees in the corners. How odd; he had never seen a club with such an extensive taste for plants.

“How long are you gonna stand there gawking?”

Mobius’s attention snaps forward, and he sees Skurge scowling at him from behind the counter. “Nice aesthetic. The plants, I mean.”

Skurge grunts and tosses a black apron at Mobius, the strings whirling around and whipping him in the face as he attempts to catch it. “Put that on and quit dawdling. You weren’t hired to be a damn florist.”

Stepping around the curve of the counter, Mobius quickly ties the apron on even as his gaze catches on a peculiar plant potted in the corner a few feet away. It’s tall, purple and white flowers extending up in a tube shaped design, and something about the perennial herb is familiar to him. Within a moment, Mobius suddenly recognizes it from the old reports he had read about AESIR.

Salvia divinorum. A type of psychedelic drug used to induce hallucinations by ingesting the leaves. A drug growing in the corner of a club belonging to a criminal syndicate that dealt in drug trafficking. A bit on the nose, no?

Mobius almost wants to applaud their cockiness. Unless someone was well-versed in drugs, they wouldn’t have known what the unassuming flowers in the corner were used for. How many other drugs were growing around the establishment that no one would think twice about? Could Idunn’s Apples be produced in the same way?

No, even AESIR wouldn’t be that rash. Growing chemically tampered apples that could supposedly grant immortality in plain sight would just be foolish.

“You say you’ve had experience bartending before?” Skurge interrupts Mobius’s scattered thoughts, throwing a towel over his shoulder. He looked out of place with the bar towel and the apron tied over his tactical gear.

“A bit,” Mobius affirms, though the reality is quite the opposite. Ourobouros must have bullshitted his resume and claimed Mobius had bartending experience. Mixing together frozen premade margarita mixes from the local grocery store on occasion could hardly be classified as experience.

Fortunately, Mobius is a fast learner– a mandatory trait in his volatile line of work.

Skurge shuffles around the bar, pulling out a stack of laminated cards held together by a silver ring and plopping it on the counter. “This here is the drinks we serve and how to make them in case your dumb ass forgot. Supplies are restocked every Thursday but if you run out of something before then, make a note and the Boss will handle it. We rarely run out of anything besides the fruits though so don’t be getting any ideas about stealing shit, especially since inventory is done every other night.”

Gesturing towards the wine glasses dangling above them, Skurge continues. “These need to be cleaned and polished before they are returned up here. The Boss is very picky about cleanliness so you need to be too. We have a dishwasher but they only work in the morning for a couple hours so you will be expected to wash your own shit.”

“So keep the place spotless, got it,” Mobius says, and Skurge gives him a look before turning to the refrigerated doors on either side of the Enchantress sign.

“All the cold beers and wines are kept in these and the room temp ones will be in the back. We don’t sell Yuengling and we just ran out of Modelo for the month so you’ll probably get complaints. Oh, and if anyone asks for Chardonnay, kick them out. The Boss hates Chardonnay lovers.”

Skurge drones on about the rules of the bar and continues on his tangent for the next 45 minutes until Mobius feels like he would rather take a bite out of the salvia divinorum plant than listen to him say another word. Who would have thought that the tough looking tattooed man could yap forever like a neglected housewife whose husband just came home from work?

“Alright, alright, I think I got it.” Mobius finally speaks up, interrupting Skurge before he could continue complaining about why the club hasn’t been receiving as many customers since the last lady quit and Skurge had to be bartender for a couple weeks. No wonder the club had been losing activity if the harsh looking man who couldn’t shut up was manning the bar!

A glare settles on Skurge’s features, and Mobius quickly speaks before he can open his mouth. “Don’t you know a good bartender’s secret is confidence? I’ll get this place back to full capacity in no time. Believe in me.” Utter bullshit, Mobius thinks as he flashes a crooked smile. Skurge scoffs before untying his apron, opening the door to the back and tossing it into the laundry bin.

“Get to work, then.” He strides over to the entrance, and Mobius sees him exchange words with the bouncer, pulling out a cigar before the door swings closed.

With a sigh, Mobius rolls up the sleeves of his button down as he starts to clean. At least it wouldn’t be busy for his first day on the job.

The first night went by fairly slowly. Not too surprising as it was the middle of the week, but Mobius was feeling the consequences of minimal sleep catching up. He’s not as young as he used to be, able to travel around the country and complete missions in a single day. Damn Ravonna. She owes me that brand new jet ski as a retirement gift for this shit.

He is now rather confident in his ability to make amaretto sours, however. That seems to be a favorite among the few customers lingering around the bar, and none had complained about the taste yet. See? Maybe confidence really is the mark of a good bartender!

Mobius is halfway through drying the last row of highball glasses when the club suddenly shifts.

Not in any visible way, of course. The lighting doesn’t change, and the speaker continues to play the 90s pop song, but the vast room seems to almost get colder. Tension thrums in the air–tight, prickling, electric. Like all the air in the room is being sucked towards one man.

Even Skurge, who stands imposingly at the end of the bar to observe Mobius, stiffens imperceptibly.

Mobius doesn’t look immediately though his heart quickens in his chest, all traces of his previous exhaustion wiped away. Looking would be too eager, too obvious. The game has just begun, and now he needs to settle into his role as both bartender and agent.

He places the glass he just finished drying on the beer glass shelf, adjusting it enough to see behind him through the reflection.

And there is the man of the hour.

Tailored black coat, green scarf styled loosely around his neck, dark hair swept back in a casual manner calculated for that exact purpose–really, no one has a natural slick back like that.

He moves throughout the club like someone who assumes the world owes him an apology and he isn’t afraid to collect. Stragglers quickly step out of his way, clearing a path straight to the bar and Mobius by extension.

Loki Laufeyson. The file photos Mobius studied for years did the stunning man behind him minimal justice. A crime, truly.

This club was specifically picked out simply because it’s a club Loki reportedly frequents despite its cheap appearance, but Mobius never thought he’d be lucky enough to see the man his first week, much less his first night.

Mobius smoothly slings the drying towel over his shoulder like he’s done it for years, putting on the smile he’d practiced in the clouded mirror of his shitty TVA-funded apartment. Easy. Open. Relaxed.

“Welcome in,” he greets as he turns, sliding a coaster across the bar with a wink. “First round’s half-off if you promise not to yell at me.”

Loki stops at the edge of the bar, prompting the others sitting around to get up and move away. His piercing emerald eyes look him up and down, like Mobius is some bug he’d just found on his silk rug.

“You’re new.”

A statement, not a question. Mobius chuckles. “I am. Unless I’ve worked here before and just conveniently forgot, which–hey, wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to happen to me.”

Loki doesn’t smile. The silence stretches on just a little too long, but Mobius maintains steady eye contact. If he cracks under this bit of pressure, he wouldn’t deserve to be called the TVA’s best hunter.

“What happened to the last bartender?” Mobius asks, disturbing the silent tension. “They get promoted, or eaten?”

“They quit.” Loki’s voice is smooth and disinterested, but his gaze gives away his suspicion, no doubt cataloging everything–Mobius’s posture, his accent, his movements. “Something about the clientele being insufferable.”

Mobius gives a faux-wince. “Tough crowd, huh? I’ll try not to take it personally.”

Another beat of silence falls, this one slightly less charged compared to before.

Unexpectedly, Loki is the one to break this quiet. “What’s your name?”

Mobius doesn’t blink. “Jet.”

Jet? As in, jet ski? Really? He is definitely getting too old for this, his cover naming skills are seriously declining.

Loki’s eyes narrow slightly. He doesn’t believe him, obviously, but he doesn’t address it. Small victories.

“Well, Jet,” Loki drawls, “Why don’t you make me something you think I’ll hate?”

A slow grin spreads across Mobius’s features. “Sounds like a challenge. I like those.”

As he turns to mix the drink, he lets the grin fade slightly. He can see Loki watching him through the reflections of the glasses, and he can feel Skurge’s heavy gaze boring into the side of his head from the end of the bar. They’re like hawks scrutinizing a mouse, searching for weaknesses. Tells. Secrets.

Mobius has to give Loki credit, at least.

He’d barely said a dozen words yet, and Mobius could already tell he’d be carrying out the most dangerous mission of his life.

Chapter Text

Mobius takes his time with the drink.

Not because it’s complicated—he’s not actually a seasoned bartender for goodness sake—but because Loki Laufeyson is staring at him so intensely he’s surprised there isn’t a hole burned through his skull. So Mobius decides to slow his movements, making them clear and concise to his audience. And perhaps to make the man raised with the silver spoon in his mouth wait for once in his life, though Mobius would deny the thought if asked.

He pours gin, absinthe, and a dash of dry vermouth in a glass. Adds a couple drops of the citrus oils he discovered earlier in the night. Garnishes with a single twist of grapefruit zest as an afterthought. Stirs the cocktail instead of shaking it as he doesn’t trust himself not to make a mess with the shakers, much to his beginner’s chagrin.

Seconds later, the finished product slides across the polished bar, bumping into Loki’s coaster with a gentle tap. “And voila,” Mobius declares as he dries his hands, smooth and unruffled.

Loki doesn’t touch it at first, examining it closely. Mobius’s lips twitch. Loki’s obvious suspicion seems more endearing than threatening in this precise scenario, like a cat presented with an odd toy it can’t understand.

“Does this science experiment have a name?”

Mobius considers for a moment, weighing his options before deciding to take the gamble. “Ah! Let’s call it the Silver Tongue.”

He did tell me to make him something he would hate.

Mobius can practically tell the exact moment the name registers as the air around the bar seems to drop a few degrees. Got ya, he thinks smugly. Drop just a crumb to fuel Loki’s wariness but not enough to convict Mobius of anything truly nefarious. After all, how could a grunt bartender actually do anything to a syndicate as large as AESIR?

“Not good enough?” Mobius sighs, scratching the back of his head. “Knew I should have taken more creative writing classes in school.”

Loki’s eyes rake over his features, searching for some sign of malice, some crack in his facade, but Mobius’s expression appears genuine. Of course it does.

He may be the intelligent son of a crime lord, but Mobius has been a hunter for years. Experience almost always trumps smarts in his line of work.

“No,” Loki says at last, and Mobius knows he’s won the battle but not the war. “It seems fitting. Clever.” Too clever remains unsaid, but Mobius can still hear it.

A small smile spreads across Mobius’s face. “Thank you.”

Strained silence falls as Loki resumes his detached scrutiny, and Mobius takes the opportunity to clean up his mess. Skurge watches as he returns the gin to the shelf, and after making sure Mobius is cleaning sufficiently he finally moves from his counterside vigil, taking slow strides to the door and leaving Mobius alone with Loki.

Only after Mobius resumes drying the highball glasses does Loki choose to speak up.

“You know,” he starts, resting his fingertips on the rim of his drink, “Amora has… particular taste.”

Amora. Mobius wondered when Loki would bring her up.

Skurge only refers to her as Boss, which he supposes makes sense in a brainless oaf kind of way. What, were they all in some old 50’s gangster film featuring Al Capone and other mindless mafia?

Mobius cuts him a tiny bit of slack, though. His Boss quite literally named the club after herself and grows drugs inside the place. What else could one expect from AESIR’s Enchantress?

Despite having investigated the various branches of AESIR for years, Amora’s file was never one he truly enjoyed reading. It didn’t fascinate him like Loki’s did, or unnerve him like Odin’s.

But for some reason, Amora is Loki’s best and possibly only friend. No surprise then that Loki frequents her club.

“Amora? You must mean my employer.” Mobius allows his gaze to sweep over the club. “She strikes me as someone who appreciates the dramatic.” She does get along with Loki, of all people.

“She doesn’t appreciate strangers.”

Amora? Or you? “Then I’ll try not to stay one.”

Loki’s mouth curls in a small smirk devoid of warmth.

Finally, he lifts the glass for a sip, letting the silence hang between them. Mobius tries not to stare at Loki’s pale lips, his eyes dropping to the man’s slender throat as he swallows before Mobius catches himself.

He must be more exhausted than he thought if his focus had slipped so easily. Mobius faintly hopes Loki didn’t notice.

“Acceptable.”

Mobius leans against the counter with a practiced ease, settling back into control. “I’ll try not to let that go to my head.”

Loki sets the glass back upon the coaster with a deliberate softness. “Where did you bartend before this?”

“Little place off the Gulf. Dead town, dead tips but amazing sunsets.”

“Name of the bar?” Mobius doesn’t miss the way Loki’s eyes sharpen a fraction at the nugget of information.

“Old Continental.”

Quiet follows his response, just long enough for Mobius to register the detail being filed away for later. It’s a good thing he went over his cover story again before coming in to work.

“What brings you up here, then? I can’t imagine one would give up the beautiful oceanside sunsets for the midwest so easily.” Loki’s cool tone is almost mocking.

Placing another dried glass on the shelf, Mobius shrugs. “Oh, you know. The bar shut its doors and life continued on. I figured if I was gonna start over, it might as well be somewhere that makes me earn every breath.” He pauses, then adds wryly, “And hey—I hear suspicious stares are the welcome mat.”

Loki fixes him with a shrewd look, but he doesn’t refute Mobius’s statement. Mobius meets Loki’s stare, and they remain like that for another charged breath, one stiff and the other relaxed.

At last, Loki taps a manicured finger against the side of his glass. “Do you believe in loyalty, Jet?”

What a loaded question.

Turning, Mobius picks up the last highball glass and swipes the towel over its clear surface. He almost wants to chuckle at the absurdity of it all. “I believe in knowing when not to lie about it.”

Loki studies him. Not like a man interested in answers, but like a man assessing the edge of a blade.

“I’ll be watching you.”

This time, Mobius doesn’t have to fake a smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

If only we had met under different circumstances.

Loki leaves without finishing his drink.

Mobius doesn’t drive straight back to the apartment after his shift ends.

Firstly, he’s starving. With his stomach emptied before sleeping and rushing to the club after waking up, he’s had nothing to eat since the flight. The club doesn’t offer much in the way of solid food, either.

Secondly, he has a tail. Mobius can’t even be annoyed; he would have done the same thing had he been in Loki’s position. In fact, he would be disappointed if Loki hadn’t sent someone to follow him.

He discerned the tail two blocks from the club—a tinted sedan that stayed no more than two cars behind him, changing lanes and remaining one turn behind. Nothing aggressive or obvious, just steady. A watcher, not a hunter.

Mobius cruises a little longer, taking the long way to a 24-hour gas station fifteen minutes away from his apartment. Not ridiculously far away, but not close enough that his tail could find his residence easily.

Pulling into a free spot to the side of the building, Mobius parks the honda accord he was rented, watching as his tail lingers by a pump. The rental is old and the radio system is busted, but he didn’t have many options since he needed a car registered to one of the TVA’s holding companies. At least if the tail runs his tag, it will just return to Paradox Holding.

Careful to avoid looking at the tinted sedan, Mobius heads inside the station. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, and he cracks his neck with a sigh as he grabs a basket from a corner stand.

He takes his time wandering through the narrow aisles like a man too tired to care, which isn’t far from the truth. A long, hot bath and his bed back at his TVA place sound heavenly right about now. Why did he agree to do this high priority mission again?

Chips. A couple pre-made salads. A six pack of water and an old pack of spearmint gum that probably tastes more like cardboard than mint.

Mobius waits a few minutes longer. The sedan remains by the pump, but after realizing that Mobius isn’t coming out any time soon, it finally drives off, disappearing around the corner of the street ahead.

His spine subtly loosens, and he lets out the longest sigh of the night. Mobius doesn’t even care about the security camera glinting above, recording his temporary break in character. He had forgotten how exhausting being undercover was.

He pays in cash and leaves without glancing at the clerk.

The apartment is as shabby as Mobius remembers it, which is almost comforting. Peeling linoleum, creaky floorboards and dust particles seem to hang in the air, but he doesn’t have the energy to care as he plops his bags on the counter.

Grabbing the device resting on the wobbly table, Mobius moves to the bedroom. Perching on the edge of the musty bed, he peels off his jacket and kicks off his shoes while he boots up the encrypted laptop OB rigged for the mission.

The screen flickers as a chime resounds. After a few seconds, OB’s perpetually tired but cheerful face suddenly appears.

“Mobius,” he greets. “You’re not dead. That’s nice.”

“Can’t die. Haven’t earned my pension and I still need a jet ski.”

OB grins, his smile lines visible behind his glasses. “So? Did you meet the prince?”

The prince. If Odin Borson is the Allfather, the King of AESIR, then Loki Laufeyson is indeed a half prince. Not full like Odin’s blood children Hela and Thor, but close enough as far as syndicate rankings go.

Mobius doesn’t answer right away, minimizing OB’s camera to the bottom left corner of his screen. Opening the report file, he begins typing steadily despite his warring mind.

No leads on the Apples yet.

“He clocked me in about thirty seconds.”

“Did he say anything incriminating?”

“Just that he’d be watching me—not that I’m complaining. Also asked about loyalty.”

OB winces. “Ooh, the classic trap question.”

“Yeah, he couldn't be more obvious.”

Mobius types: Subject sharp. Observing. Untrusting. No immediate hostility. Defer judgement.

He pauses as he thinks for a moment, then adds a line.

Not easily impressed. Possibly disappointed by what he expected to find.

“And Amora?” OB tilts his head.

“Haven’t seen her yet.”

“Are you sure this guy isn’t here to vet you on her behalf?”

Oh, I would bet on it, Mobius thinks. “Doesn’t matter. I passed. Barely, but still.”

OB studies Mobius for a long moment, then gives a small nod. “Just be careful. You tend to like people more than you should and get attached easily.”

“What? I don’t like him,” Mobius defends quickly. He doesn’t like the man, he is fascinated by Loki’s story. There’s a difference.

Even if Loki is an unreasonably attractive man who would have totally been Mobius’s type had he not been part of a drug trafficking syndicate.

“I didn’t say you like him, I said you like people. He’s still a person, last I checked.”

Mobius ends the call, running a hand through his silver hair. It was far too late in the night to be worrying himself over OB’s astute observations.

By day five—the end of his first week on the mission—Mobius has learned the rhythm of the club.

He knows which lightbulbs flicker when they’ve been on for too long and which customers tip without looking. He knows which regulars like to sit in silence and which ones like to have mundane chats, and all of their preferred drinks. One of them, an elderly lady by the name Skadi has even taken to calling him a “silver fox”, which he finds amusing.

Mobius also knows that the club apparently smells earthy and floral due to the plants, though he lost his sense of smell years ago after his broken nose healed before it could be set correctly. He knows that Skurge likes to take frequent smoke breaks with the bouncer when Amora isn’t around, and that the second keg on the left drips.

And he knows that Karnilla likes her cocktails extra dry, but only if she is in a good mood.

Tonight, she isn’t.

“Loki is watching you.”

Mobius pours the dancer her drink without looking up. “He seems like the type to enjoy watching people.”

“He doesn’t enjoy new hires. Especially not ones he doesn’t know about beforehand.”

Mobius can see how the suspicious man would have an issue with that. Good thing his employer was Amora, else he might not have made it in. “I thought this place was beneath him.”

“It is.” Karnilla sips, her purple lipstick staining the rim of the glass. “That’s why he comes here.”

Leaning forward on the bar, Mobius focuses his attention on the black haired woman. “Solace in the unimpressive? This place is probably a far cry from the splendor he’s used to.”

“No, actually. It’s all about control with Loki.” She gestures around them with a gloved hand. “No one expects the prince to show up at a run-down club playing at being a greenhouse.”

Mobius glances at the salvia divinorum plant in the corner. “I don’t know, I personally find the aesthetic charming.”

Karnilla raises a brow, her violet eye shadow and thick eyeliner making her dark eyes pop. “He comes here for Amora. She’s gone right now, but when she’s here, he’s usually with her.”

Nodding slowly, Mobius files that detail away. He knows that Loki frequents this club, but not how often.

Which then brings the question: why did Loki show up on Mobius’s first day if Amora wasn’t there? Surely he wasn’t special enough to warrant the prince vetting him personally?

Either Amora means a lot to Loki, or there is something else that Mobius isn’t understanding quite yet.

“And what does Amora think of me?” Mobius asks, deciding not to dwell on it too long.

Karnilla lifts a shoulder in a sort of shrug. “Don’t know, I haven’t seen her in a while. So she’s either not worried, or she’s planning something.”

“Sounds comforting.”

“Good luck.” Karnilla finishes her drink, pulling out some lipstick to touch up her lips as she leaves to get back on stage. “Thanks for the drink, Jet.”

The bar quiets, and Mobius is left with his thoughts as he washes her glass. Fortunately—or unfortunately—Skurge passes by the counter before he can get too lost in them.

“Karnilla actually finished her drink?” Skurge’s permanent scowl lightens in begrudging acknowledgement. “That’s a damned first.”

Mobius looks up at the imposing man. “Thanks, I think?”

Skurge grunts, continuing on towards the back. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, silver fox. I’m still waiting for the full capacity you promised.”

Loki makes an unexpected return at closing hour.

Mobius had just locked the side door when the front creaks open, startling him slightly. Green light from the sign outside haloes Loki’s figure, accenting his sharp lines and dark clothes.

Without a word, Mobius moves back to the bar and sets the keyring down. He fills a tall glass with water and places it in the center of the counter. Then he waits with a calm patience.

When Mobius is finished, Loki doesn’t speak, just steps inside and lets the door swing shut behind him. He walks slowly but not hesitatingly, like he owns the silence and wants Mobius aware of it.

“No drink tonight?” Loki can own the silence all he wants, but he doesn’t own Mobius’s voice.

“I’m not in the mood to be surprised.” His response is low, tired. The tone doesn’t have the arrogant snap to it like it did a few days ago.

Mobius nods slightly, allowing the silence to prompt Loki into speaking when he is ready.

Loki sits down on one of the stools, adjusting the glass so the coaster is perfectly centered on the counter. He doesn’t drink.

“Amora’s still away,” he starts after a few moments. “Strange how this place runs without her.”

Mobius crosses his ankles, adopting a relaxed pose against the counter behind him. “Good systems usually do.”

“And you?” For the first time that night, Loki looks up and meets Mobius’s gaze. “Are you part of the system, or just passing through?”

Loki’s deep green eyes are like magnets. Mobius feels his heart pounding, though he’s careful not to show his reaction, masking it with a smile. “Depends on who’s asking.”

Loki smiles back, thin and unreadable. “You’re not afraid of me.”

“Should I be?”

“Most people are.”

Mobius shrugs, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “I’ve met scarier.”

Finally, Loki picks up the glass of water and takes a sip. His face doesn’t change, but Mobius almost thinks he sees the man’s shoulders loosen just a bit.

Returning the glass to the coaster, Loki stands, his gaze lingering on Mobius’s.

“You don’t belong here. I know it. But… I suppose that’s what makes you interesting.”

Mobius watches him leave, a strange feeling in his chest.

He doesn’t add Loki’s visit to his report that night.

Chapter Text

There is something different about the bar, and Mobius notices it the moment steps in for the shift.

More people fill the club, lounging on the chairs and occupying the select few booths along the walls. Easy chatter carries in the air, and a few of the patrons smile at Mobius when he passes. Skadi waves at him from one of the couches around the stage, her ivory hair tied up in several braids instead of the loose waves Mobius usually sees her with.

Mobius waves back, weaving around the wide chairs and stopping by her side, careful to avoid knocking her carved wooden cane. “You look beautiful today.”

Skadi snorts into her clay mug of her favorite honey mead, processed and hidden in the back for her specifically. “You saying I don’t look beautiful any other day?”

He leans closer with a mock-serious tone. “I’m saying it’s criminal how people keep underestimating you—especially this time of day.”

“Flattery after sundown,” she drawls, punctuating her statement with an eye roll. “Men only do that when they want something.”

“Just your good opinion. Maybe a little luck if you’re feeling particularly kind.”

“Well, luck’s in short supply but you’ve got my opinion. Try not to turn it poor.”

Mobius gives her a half-smile. “So generous. Does that mean your opinion of me is good already?”

“You’re fortunate I like the sound of your voice. Otherwise I would have demanded Amora replace you with a jukebox.”

Mobius’s thoughts snag on her words. The casual way Skadi speaks of Amora gives the impression they are close. At least, close enough for Amora to fulfill Skadi’s wishes.

It would also explain why Amora keeps honey mead in the back even though only Skadi seems to know if it, much less drink it.

Internally, Mobius congratulates himself. First Loki’s reluctant acceptance, now Skadi’s good graces. Now if he can just make a solid impression on Amora, he might be able to find out more about the Apples.

Okay, so maybe it’s a stretch to think he can uncover the secrets of the immortality drug as a grunt bartender with some tentative inner relations, but Mobius has always been an optimist.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve lost a gig to something that plays the classics,” Mobius remarks drily.

Skadi’s chuckles are raspy, and he can detect the warmth within. “Don’t get clever. I’m old, not deaf.”

“Though still sharp enough to bully the new guy, I see.”

She winks. “Keep your head down today, silver fox. But not too low. I like seeing that ridiculous hair of yours moving about.”

“Noted.” Mobius has a prickling feeling he knows the reason for the club’s change in atmosphere, but he doesn’t ask, simply making his way to the bar where Skurge covers till Mobius takes over for the night shift.

Hanging up his suit jacket above the laundry bin in the back, Mobius rolls up the sleeves of his button down, adjusting the bow at his neck as he observes Skurge wiping down the bar. There’s something missing about the scene, and it isn’t until Holding Out For A Hero ends on the speakers above that Mobius realizes what it is.

Skurge isn’t grumbling or talking, remaining silent and focused as he prepares for shift change. Usually when Mobius arrives, Skurge will complain about the customers for the day and how no woman ever wants to talk to him because of how intimidating he looks. Now that he isn’t, Mobius finds himself surprised at the change in routine.

He couldn’t really have gotten used to Skurge’s rants, could he? It’s only been nine days since he’s started working as the bartender!

Now that he looks around, Mobius can see the difference throughout the entire club. The typical haze of boredom that accompanies the early shift is non-existent, replaced with something almost electric among the many occupants of the club. Even the plants throughout the place seem more vibrant, thriving under the colored lights.

Tying on his apron, Mobius steps behind the counter as his gaze catches on something new. A bottle sits nestled between the bourbon and vermouth—frosted glass with no apparent label.

Briefly, he entertains the idea of opening and scenting it, but without a sense of smell that endeavor would be useless. Mobius silently curses the man who broke his nose a decade ago.

Skurge finishes his task, untying his apron as he turns to Mobius. “She’s back.”

There’s an aura of professionalism surrounding him that wasn’t there before. Mobius doesn’t even have to ask to know the reason why, or who he’s referring to.

“When?”

“After closing time yesterday. No calls or anything, just walked in and headed straight for the office.”

Mobius tilts his head, noting the slight disappointment coloring Skurge’s voice. “Good to have her back?”

Skurge gives a noncommittal grunt. Not quite yes, but not a definite no either.

A few seconds later, Karnilla leans over the bar, placing her tray of empty glasses by the sink. She isn’t wearing her usual dancing outfit, having switched to a more revealing get-up with a lower cut neckline and taller stilettos. Glitter now lines her eye make-up and her dark hair is painstakingly done into soft waves.

She clearly put immense effort into her appearance—more than one would expect for just the return of a boss. Mobius wonders for a moment, but brushes the thought away. It isn’t his business.

Karnilla’s eyes are bright as she speaks. “She’s been gone for two months. Left with three suitcases and didn’t say a word.”

Two months? Mobius’s brows shot up. “Is that her style?” What could she possibly be doing for two whole months?

Karnilla and Skurge share a glance; one fond and the other helpless. “Amora doesn’t answer to anyone. Not to Loki, not to Thor, and not even to,” Karnilla lowers her voice, “the Allfather.”

Loki and Thor make sense. But even the Allfather can’t command her?

“But she makes things work,” Skurge continues. “When she’s here, things run smoother.”

Mobius nods. That, he can understand.

What he can’t understand is what the owner of a low-level bar would be doing for months at a time that would allow her such power over even the leader of AESIR.

Perhaps it’s time Mobius takes a more hands-on approach to his mission.

When Loki appears at the bar before the lights have even dimmed for the evening rush, Mobius finds himself mesmerized by the prince.

Or rather, princess.

Her wild hair curls loosely down to her back, and winged eyeliner frames her hooded eyes, matching the sheen of her dark lip gloss. A deep green diamond scale dress hugs her curved form closely, though it’s partially covered by her long furred coat.

If Mobius was actually the easygoing bartender he pretended to be, he wouldn’t have known that the gorgeous woman standing before him was the same man he’d seen only a few days ago.

Or, maybe he would’ve. Maybe he would have recognized the way Loki carries herself, and the cold fire that burns in her gaze no matter what form she takes. Maybe he would recognize the arrogant demeanor and gravitational authority that bleeds from her pores.

Even if she wasn’t a man or woman and was actually an alligator, Mobius would probably still recognize Loki.

Loki’s file only briefly mentions her gender fluidity, an unexpected ability the TVA only recently uncovered. Not much is known about it, seeming to happen at random with no apparent side effects, but it doesn’t change Mobius’s fascination with Loki.

If anything, it deepens it.

Loki walks over to sit on the same stool she had the other night, her movements flowing with a controlled grace. The tension within her shoulders seems to have dissipated significantly, no doubt due to the return of Amora.

When Loki’s eyes finally settle on Mobius, he catches a flash of surprise before they narrow dangerously. The cynical expression that follows is even more frightening in Loki’s female form than her male one.

Tearing his gaze away, Mobius quickly makes the silver tongue drink, pouring it into a glass before Loki can open her mouth. Calmly, he slides the drink over to her.

She eyes the glass for a moment, familiarity sparking as she recognizes the drink within. Her head snaps up as she stares at Mobius with clear suspicion.

“You know who I am?”

Oh shit. Mobius had made the drink without even thinking about the implications. Of course Loki would be highly suspicious if the new bartender suddenly made the same drink for a random woman that he made for the male Loki. Mobius shouldn’t have known they were the same person as he had never met the female Loki before.

Now, he has two options. He can play the dumb card and claim she looks like she would like the drink, or he can turn up the charm and tell the truth.

Somehow, the thought of playing dumb and lying to Loki makes a part of his chest ache.

“It’s the eyes,” Mobius answers at last, tapping the corner of his eye for emphasis. “I would recognize yours anywhere.”

Loki holds his gaze for a long moment, a faint hint of wonder swirling within the emerald irises. Then, she slowly picks up the drink and sips.

The silence stretches, Loki not pushing and Mobius not explaining, but it’s a thoughtful quiet, unlike the previous antagonistic pauses.

“She’s back.” Skurge’s words echo back at him in Loki’s voice.

Mobius nods simply. “So I’ve heard.”

“Try not to bore her.”

“Is that why you brought her back?”

Loki looks amused, an expression Mobius had yet to see on her face in either form. “Please. She doesn’t come back for anyone.”

Finishing her drink, she stands, leaving the empty glass on the counter. “But she always knows when she’s needed.”

For a Thursday night, the rush feels busier, reminiscent of the crowd on the weekends.

After Loki leaves, Mobius finds himself too distracted by the non-stop orders to linger too much on her continued appearances. Even though Karnilla said Loki frequents the bar when Amora is around, Loki has come and shown herself to Mobius three times in barely over a week, without Amora’s presence.

If she’s trying to catch Mobius in a heinous act, she’s going to find herself sincerely disappointed.

By the end of the rush, Mobius has to swap out his apron after spilling some grenadine over the center pocket. Skurge casts him an annoyed look, and Mobius grins sheepishly. He knows Skurge hates to do the laundry, but there isn’t much the tattooed man actually likes that isn’t cute puppies or beautiful women so Mobius doesn’t feel too bad.

Before either of them can speak, however, the hum of the club suddenly rises. Heads turn with a sort of reverent interest towards the entrance, and the reason makes herself clear as Skurge self-consciously straightens next Mobius.

Amora strolls in like she never left, pausing just inside the doorway and scanning the club like it is a story only she understands. Her strapless green dress ripples in the dim lights, the short skirt flaring over thigh-high heels embroidered with circular designs.

After a moment, she flashes a brilliant smile, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder in a smooth move that has Karnilla gulping where she's pouring water for one of the booths. Amora’s gaze sweeps over her and lands on Mobius, and he watches as she crosses the club to the bar.

She steps behind the counter with an air of authority, observing Mobius keenly as she approaches. Unlike Loki’s deep green eyes that draw Mobius in like a moth to a flame, Amora’s are an unnerving green so pale they are almost gray.

“You must be the new hire,” she says, her brilliant smile now sharp enough to cut glass.

“Unless there is someone hiding under the sink,” Mobius replies lightly. “I haven’t checked today.”

Amora hums, circling him slowly. “I’m Amora, but I’m sure you know that already.”

Mobius glances briefly at the glowing Enchantress sign. “Might have been mentioned once or twice.”

Her smile widens. “A sense of humor and easy on the eyes. You pass those tests, at least.”

“I didn’t know I was being tested.”

“Everything is a test in AESIR, Mr. Agent.” Amora drops her voice, turning to scan the shelves of alcohol. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. You didn’t think I would hire just anyone to be my bartender, did you?”

Mobius’s heart races as he fights to get his shock under control, relaxing his face. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” No one is around the bar, all the patrons blissfully unaware of their conversation as they lounge throughout the club.

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you. I would recognize one of Ravonna’s rats from the TVA in an instant. What was that you said to Loki?” She taps the corner of her eye in a mirror display of his motion only a few hours before. “It’s the eyes.”

A bead of sweat trails down Mobius’s spine. Questions swarm his mind, tangling his otherwise smooth tongue. He feels like he is missing something important and he doesn’t have enough puzzle pieces to put it all together.

“Why did you hire me, then?” That’s the biggest question bothering him.

Clearly, Amora knows of his true identity and even knows the TVA well enough to name Ravonna. She’s also been watching him and has some way of monitoring his conversations in the bar, though it’s too soon to confirm if she is the one who sent the tail after him a few days ago.

Amora reaches for the frosted bottle, wiping the non-existent dust from it onto her satin green fingerless sleeves. “Why are you infiltrating AESIR? I have my reasons just like you have yours. Maybe one day we will find out if they align, but as for right now I won’t expose you.”

Mobius studies her for several moments. She appears to be telling the truth, but he is wary of her motives. Why would a member of a criminal syndicate willingly hire an undercover agent? That seems counterproductive.

Unless… that’s the point.

Perhaps she wants to use him to out AESIR for something. The Apples of Idunn, maybe? Or even something more personal, like a simple vendetta case or rooting out a rival.

And yet, simple doesn’t seem like it would be a word in Amora’s vocabulary.

“And Loki?” Mobius asks at last. “Does she know?”

“Do you think you would still be alive if she did?” Amora scoffs. “Loki may be more feared than revered like her family, but don’t underestimate her loyalty and ruthlessness. Especially after—”

Amora cuts herself, frowning at Mobius like he had forced her to almost say more than she planned. “Anyways, she doesn’t and I’m not telling her. Not for you, but for her. She has more than enough on her plate as it is. Besides, she’s interested in you for some reason I can’t fathom.”

“Interested?” Mobius repeats, scrutinizing Amora from the corner of his eye. “Not sure that’s the word I’d use.”

“Interest is rarely comfortable,” she points out, returning the frosted bottle to its spot, “especially from her. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Loki intrigued by anything, so if you hurt her in any way, I will kill you.”

Amora’s threat sounds oddly like what a parent would say to their child’s boyfriend, and Mobius’s face twists into a complicated expression. “I think you are misunderstanding something, but noted anyways.”

A patron approaches the counter for a refill of beer, and Mobius settles back into his role with an easy smile. Amora watches Mobius until the patron leaves, then heads to the back, pausing when she reaches the door.

“You have good posture and excellent eye contact. Dangerous habits to have in AESIR. They might slide here, but don’t expect to get away with them anywhere else.”

Then she’s gone, the quiet buzz of the club doing little to temper Mobius’s scattered thoughts as a plan begins forming in his mind.

Mobius waits until after close to make his move.

Amora leaves first to the masked disappointment of Karnilla. Skurge is next, grumbling as he takes the laundry bin with him, and Karnilla lingers last to finish up some receipts. Finally, she disappears out the side door with a yawn and a wave, letting the club fall into stillness.

After taking out the trash and wiping down the counters one last time, Mobius casually slips into the back hallway, his footsteps silent against the tiled floor.

The hallway isn’t long, ending in a back exit rarely used and two doors lining either side. The left one leads to the storage room, and the right leads to Amora’s office.

Surprisingly enough, the office door stands slightly ajar. Or maybe it’s not so surprising, considering what he now knows of Amora and her unclear motives.

Mobius pushes the door open, the wood giving way without a creak. A warm light shines dimly perched on the corner of the desk, the only free spot Mobius can see. Papers, folders and small journals litter the expanse around a computer monitor. Another salvia divinorum plant sits in the corner, next to a file cabinet and small safe.

A folded piece of sage green stationary lays atop the clutter on the desk, written with looping gold ink that distinguishes the card from the rest.

Mobius doesn’t move towards it immediately, listening carefully for the low hum of a camera or the blinking light of a microphone.

Silence.

He wouldn’t put it past Amora to have either in her office, though he supposes at this point she already knows he’s an Agent. What more does he have to hide?

Picking up the card, Mobius reads the top. The letter E is penned in golden cursive. For Enchantress, most likely.

Flipping it over, he scans the contents quickly.

Shipment confirmed. Quantity remains stable despite transit issues. Will need to accelerate transfer to Valhalla before weeks’ end. I don’t trust anyone from the Thiazi site anymore.

The root batches are stronger this time. Color is closer to amber. Almost a perfect copy of the first orchard. Will need to watch for soft-rot.

Mobius stares at the card, committing it to memory. He finally found proof of the Apple’s existence, but it looks like there isn’t much else. Amora is also involved with the Apples somehow, which doesn’t surprise him.

The card does mention Valhalla, though, which Mobius has read about several times in the AESIR files.

Valhalla, the extravagant hotel and casino owned by the Allfather personally in Las Vegas. The TVA believes it to be the center of AESIR’s operations, though they have never been able to get close enough to verify.

Mobius places the card back on the pile, leaving no trace of his presence as he makes his way back to lock up for the night.

He doesn’t know who sent the card to Amora, or where the Thiazi site is.

But he does know he needs to get to Valhalla.

Chapter Text

“You’re late,” OB says from the screen, casually drinking from his Trust The System mug. “Everything okay?”

“Define ‘okay’.” Mobius finishes drying his hair, slinging the damp towel around the back of his neck with a wet smack. The hot water must have run out for the night since he was forced to take a cold shower, and it was not doing wonders for his aging body. His knee had been sore after he knocked it into the corner of the counter on Tuesday, and only now was the bruise finally starting to fade.

“You look tired.”

“That’s because I am.” Pretty soon I’ll end up looking like OB with a permanently tired expression all the time if this mission keeps stressing me out like this. When he gets back to the TVA, he’ll have to ask Ravonna what facial masks she uses to keep her skin youthful.

OB peers closer, his grainy face reflected against the humming backdrop of his lab. “Did you make contact with Amora?”

“Yeah. She’s…” Mobius trails off, searching for the right words. He is coming to learn the TVA’s files on the AESIR do little justice when it comes to describing the syndicate’s eccentric members. “Intense. Commanding. A force to be reckoned with. Nothing like the meek, simple club owner the files made her out to be.”

“She sounds dangerous.”

“Almost as dangerous as Loki, if not more at this point.” Mobius slid out the plastic chair to his folding table, sitting down heavily. “She knows I’m an Agent, OB.”

“What?!” OB frowns behind his thick frames. “That’s not possible. It took me six hours to infiltrate their system and I don’t leave traces. My setup had to be completely dismantled afterwards so their malware couldn’t track anything and your cover story is sound.”

“I trust you, OB. You take pride in your work, you wouldn’t do a half-assed job. But even so, she somehow knows and even named Ravonna personally. She claims she can sniff out Agents in an instant.” Mobius braces the palms of his hands on the table, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. “Do you see the problem? She knows the TVA. Amora knows the TVA so well she even knows who Ravonna is. People don’t just know the TVA; we are supposed to be the nameless guardians at the end of time. And people from criminal empires like AESIR should hate us, but she hired me knowing what I am.”

OB is silent for a long moment, fiddling with something offscreen. It’s a nervous habit of his when he thinks super hard about something. “This is very suspicious.”

Mobius snorts. “You think? I—”

“No, I mean like this is very suspicious, Mobius. It’s not just dangerous anymore, this mission is practically lethal. Having someone who knows your true identity on the opposing side is essentially a death warrant regardless if they seem friendly or not.” The screen flickers as OB briefly leans out of sight. “You should tell Ravonna the mission is a bust and get out now.”

“You know I can’t do that, OB. When have I ever not completed a mission? Besides, I’ve spent years studying the AESIR files. I can handle this.”

“Being the best hunter the TVA has doesn’t make you any less human, Mobius. A bullet can still kill you like any other man.”

OB’s usual cheerful demeanor has sobered, and immediately Mobius feels bad. The genius is only expressing his concern for one of his oldest friends like any reasonable person would.

“I’m sorry, I know. I won’t back out, but I will be careful. Amora may think she has the upper hand on me now, but she underestimates how resourceful we hunters can be.”

Exhaling slowly, OB changes the subject. “Has she mentioned anything about the Apples?”

Mobius welcomes the subject shift with a small amount of relief. “Not directly, no. But I found a note in her office after close.” He lowers his voice. “It mentions some kind of transfer to Valhalla. Names suspicions about a Thiazi site and root batches getting stronger. Comparisons are made to a first orchard as well, and last I checked apples are the only kind of fruit AESIR should be tampering with right now.”

“Valhalla… Ah!” OB snaps his fingers, suddenly straightening. “That’s the hotel, correct? The one we couldn’t enter.”

“That’s the one. If I can get close enough to Loki, I might be able to weasel her into bringing me along somehow.”

OB doesn’t even blink at Loki’s differing pronouns. “There is a lot riding on that highly unlikely possibility. From what you’ve shared, Loki has been waiting for you to mess up, and now you want to convince her to take you to their main base?” He’s shaking his head before he even finishes speaking. “If she suspects you—”

It doesn’t sound very reliable when OB spells it out, but Mobius has faith in his own abilities. If he can’t be the optimist, who will? “Loki already suspects something, I just don’t know what. What would be the worst to happen? I prove her right?”

OB simply stares at him for a long time. “Then tread lighter. Valhalla isn’t just AESIR’s core; it’s their crucible.”

Mobius flashes a wry grin. “Relax, OB. I won’t go down so easily.”

With a final wave, Mobius ends the call, unwinding the towel from his neck as he heads to bed.

It happens two days after the call with OB.

The shift starts like any other. Skurge runs inventory with a pen tucked behind his ear and ink smudged on his thick fingers, a focused furrow creasing his brow as he weaves around the early crowd, easily towering over most of the patrons. Karnilla’s sultry laughter echoes from the stage as she finishes a dance, commanding the attention of the rapt men and women seated on the encircling couches. Leo—the dishwasher who also doubles as a dancer on the weekends—is chatting away at a booth, their hands moving in grand gestures.

Mobius is three drinks into a smooth rhythm, the tips already flowing with the cocktails. He doesn’t need the money; the TVA pays him more than enough for retirement as it is. But the feeling of satisfying the customers to the point of loosening their wallets is still a compliment to his rookie bartender skills.

When the first guy walks in, Mobius notices but doesn’t think much of it. His grin is a little too wide, and his jacket a little too uniform, but the club gets new customers every so often. Enchantress is tucked away in the downtown alleys of the city, but it isn’t hidden.

The second comes two minutes later, sliding into a booth without even glancing at Karnilla or anyone else. Another follows soon after, with a flipped up hood and a slouching posture, his arms tucked into his sleeves.

By now, Mobius is alert, eyes flicking between the new men. They aren’t regulars and they aren’t locals since Mobius has never seen them around the club before. He wants to ask Skurge about them, but the man is off on the other side of the club scribbling something on the clipboard.

It’s when the fourth guy saunters in and makes a beeline for the bar that Mobius’s instincts send alarm bells ringing through his mind, his grip on the cocktail shaker tightening. It’s not a coincidence; it’s a small gang.

He senses when Karnilla nudges around him, reaching for the glass of water she keeps under the lip of the counter. “Did you see—”

A sudden crash cuts her off, the table from the booth with the second and third guys flipping onto the floor. The one in the hood pulls out a gun from his sweatshirt, firing a few rounds into the room as the screams start, the club bursting into terrified movement.

Mobius slips into his agent persona with a veteran ease, already moving before the man even lowers the gun. Grabbing Karnilla by the arm, he pulls her to the ground as the first punch lands somewhere near the stage. She drops her glass in the abrupt maneuver, but Mobius barely hears it shatter at their feet, the sound melding with the cacophony of the chaos around them.

“Stay down and don’t move,” he says urgently. Karnilla’s eyes are wide with shock, and Mobius has to tap her cheeks until she blinks, her gaze clearing slowly. “Okay? Nod if you understand.”

After a few seconds, she gives a jerky nod. Mobius nods back, adopting a firm and unperturbed expression. Even though the staff may know they work for a criminal syndicate, Mobius doubts any of them have been in an actual gang fight before, except maybe Skurge. Karnilla’s reaction is reasonable compared to Mobius’s oddly seasoned response.

Gunfire rings out, followed by the dull sound of bullets hitting flesh and resounding screams. No weapons should have made it past the bouncer, who gives everyone a cursory pat-down before they are allowed to enter the club, even the staff.

Which means the bouncer must be dead. Of course this happens on a day Amora leaves early, he thinks bitterly. I’m gonna be so pissed if this makes me blow my cover.

Straightening, Mobius peers over the bar counter as Skurge bellows, lunging at the first gang member who is now armed with a knife. A few corpses are scattered between broken tables and chairs, Leo among them, and Mobius quickly averts his gaze. No matter how many bodies he’s seen, it never gets easier.

Movement catches Mobius’s attention—the fourth member is still heading for the bar, the eyes above his mask locked onto the register. He spots Mobius at the same time, and he shouts, raising his gun and aiming it.

Mobius ducks as bullets hit the shelf behind him, raining glass down in crystal fragments. He shields Karnilla from the worst of it, feeling cuts slice through his clothes on his arm and back. The pain barely registers. What is some glass compared to the countless other wounds he received on other missions over the years?

The gang member reaches the counter before Mobius can confirm Karnilla is alright, pointing the gun at his head. Mobius moves without thinking, grabbing a particularly large bottle shard from the ground and stabbing it into the hand that holds the gun.

He screams, the gun dropping deftly into Mobius’s grasp. Standing, Mobius empties the cartridge and tosses it, stepping out of the gang member’s swing radius and whipping him in the head with the metal firearm.

The man crumples to the ground, and Mobius quickly checks his pulse, relieved when he feels a heartbeat. It’s been a long time since he’s pistol-whipped someone, and he didn’t want to kill the guy by accident.

Glancing at Karnilla to make sure she’s safe, he’s met with her wide-eyed stare. Mobius holds back a sigh. I blew my cover, didn’t I?

More shouts echo in the club, but before Mobius can assess the scene the front door slams open. The roar of heavy boots fills the air, dozens of people dressed in black tactical gear like Skurge flooding into the room with their automatic weapons raised. AESIR security, if Mobius has to guess.

His guess is confirmed moments later as Loki steps in last, dark hair swept back in his signature style and black trench coat swaying imposingly with his calm gait. The eye of the storm of armed soldiers.

The fight is over thirty seconds after the arrival of AESIR.

Mobius stands amid the wreckage, watching as the survivors are assisted by the security detail. Karnilla is led away, her eyes finally tearing away from Mobius as she’s corralled with Skurge and the remaining patrons outside the building.

A masked soldier approaches him, but Mobius waves them off. Their head tilts toward the hollow pistol still tight in his grip, then towards the unconscious man behind him, and Mobius drops the gun, raising his hands placatingly and clearing the path so they could grab the gang member. Shit, he had forgotten to let go of the gun, practically informing everyone around that he had downed the attacker personally.

Mobius looks up just in time to catch Loki’s watchful gaze, boring into Mobius like a needle into flesh. His heart thuds against his ribcage as Loki turns his attention towards the apprehended gang members, lined up on their knees in the center of the club by the littered stage. Mobius releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding—at least the prince didn’t shoot him on sight. Small victories.

Loki observes the four men, circling them like a shark in bloody water. Yet he does not speak, radiating an expectant silence like he is waiting for something. Mobius scans the club for some sign of what the prince could possibly be waiting for.

Then he sees him.

The last person to be dragged in is older than the other four, a man in his prime only a couple of years younger than Mobius. He is more well-kept than the others, not as scrawny and thin, with a buzzed head and that permanent five o’clock shadow he could never seem to get rid of.

Mobius blinks, his lips parting in barely restrained shock.

Hunter D-90. Derek.

They’d trained together for months during TVA initiation years ago, went on occasional missions together before Mobius demoted to analyst. He wouldn’t consider Derek a friend, but he likes the man well enough. Derek may be blunt and loyal to a fault, but his accountability was always a refreshing change from the others Mobius had worked with in the past.

But none of their history explains why Derek is here now. He shouldn’t be. Ravonna specifically gave this mission to Mobius because of its high risk and high priority. She wouldn’t disrespect his capabilities by sending in another hunter; and even if she did, she would have told Mobius first.

Derek is relatively clean compared to the gang members, with only a few bruises decorating his face and a smear of blood from his split lip. He clearly wasn’t involved in the attack, so where did he come from?

Mobius could tell the exact moment Derek saw him. Very few would have been able to notice how his pupils widened a fraction, but unfortunately, Loki is one of those few.

His stomach drops as Loki steps closer to Derek, sweeping his gaze over the rest of the prisoners dismissively before settling his piercing eyes on Mobius.

“Do you know this man?” His sculptured face gives nothing away.

Mobius’s pulse spikes, and he nonsensically wonders if Loki can hear it. “No.”

Loki turns his attention to Derek, and Mobius’s heart clenches with guilt. He knows what Derek will say, and he wishes he could close his ears so he won’t have to hear it.

“No.” Derek’s response is appropriately confused. Hunters are trained to live by the honor code; if one is discovered while another is undercover, under no circumstances are they to expose their comrade.

The silence stretches, broken only by the uneven pants of the wounded gang affiliates and the shattered glass beneath their shifting knees.

At last, Loki gives a single nod. “Kill them.” His voice is calm, like he is simply stating the weather and not condemning one of Mobius’s fellow agents to death.

Mobius doesn’t flinch when the guns raise and the shots ring out, but that fragment of humanity buried deep within shrivels just a little more.

“Jet.”

Loki’s call intercepts Mobius in the back hallway as he struggles to keep his surge of emotions under control. This is the absolute last place he should break down in, surrounded by hostiles on all sides.

He knows the dangers that come with every mission. Hell, he’s lived through half of them and has the scars to prove it.

And even though this is the second time he has watched an agent die in front of him, it still hits just as hard as the first time.

Mobius glances up at the taller man as Loki steps into his path, his arms crossed and expression unreadable. Behind them, AESIR security works to clean up the aftermath, soldiers moving with military efficiency.

“You move fast for a bartender,” he remarks in a neutral tone. “Faster than some bodyguards, too.”

Mobius keeps his voice even. “I didn’t like the idea of a stray bullet in Karnilla’s skull.”

Loki’s gaze narrows. “Is that what they taught you down in the Gulf? Because I’m starting to think that little bar of yours had more body bags than beer.”

“You’d be surprised how often you have to break up a fight over cheap whiskey.”

“Right.” Loki steps closer—not enough to threaten, but to press. “You disarmed a man in seconds and knocked him out with one hand. No bartender I know has such an ease with guns.”

“And you know so many bartenders?” Mobius’s counter comes out more cutting than he intended, and he smoothes the tension with a dry smile. “I’m a quick study. Several bartenders know some form of self defense. I’m just more experienced when it comes to handling firearms.”

Loki tilts his head with a frown. “Or you aren’t a bartender.”

“What sounds more believable? A shady man skilled in firearms who defends a place he just started at, or a bartender who knows self defense?”

“It’s not about what sounds more believable, it’s about what I see and what I think. For all I know, you could be a very practiced liar.”

“If you really suspected that, you wouldn’t be standing here talking to me right now.”

“What?” Loki retreats slightly, looking like he had been caught doing something distasteful. “What possibly gave you that idea?”

Mobius gives a half shrug, not quite able to stop the flinch as his scrapes from the glass stretched. He had forgotten about those. “I would have been rounded up with the other men and shot if you had. You don’t seem like the kind of person to tolerate traitors.”

A beat of silence passes between them as Loki appraises him, his eyes lingering on Mobius’s blood soaked arm and shoulder.

“You protected Amora’s people, which make them mine as well,” he says, his brow softening. “That matters.”

“And I would do it again,” Mobius states, the truth flowing easily from his lips. Despite having only known the staff at Enchantress for eleven days and using a cover story, he rather likes his temporary coworkers.

Loki seems to wrestle with himself for a long moment, his mouth twisting and his spine tensing before he finally turns to walk away, apparently having come to a decision as he mutters something Mobius can’t hear.

“What was that?”

“Come on! You need to get those wounds treated. I won’t repeat myself a third time.”

Bewildered, Mobius stares after Loki, and it isn’t until Loki snaps his head towards him with a commanding glare from the doorway of Amora’s office that Mobius follows, that strange warmth in his chest briefly chasing away the looming memory of Derek.

Chapter Text

Amora’s office looks the same as it had when Mobius snooped around a couple days ago, with papers still scattered across the desk in organized disarray. He sneaks a glance at the piles as he steps in after Loki, but there’s no sign of the green card. Briefly, Mobius wonders if Amora purposely left the card in plain view as another test, but he quickly dismisses the thought. There’s no point in dwelling on it now.

Loki pulls out one of the desk drawers, rummaging inside with the ease of someone who had done it several times before. Within moments, he balances a pair of tweezers, antiseptic and cotton rounds on the corner by the lamp, slamming the drawer shut with a roll of gauze clenched in his fist.

In a move Mobius shouldn’t find nearly as attractive as he does, Loki hooks his foot around the leg of the rolling chair and tugs it out from the desk, pinning Mobius with an expectant look. Swallowing, Mobius maintains eye contact as he gingerly sits, half expecting Loki to yank the chair out from under him at the last second.

To his relief, Loki simply shifts his attention to Mobius’s torn button down, carefully peeling it away from the blood crusted along his wounds. The glass mostly fell onto his upper arm and shoulder, and thankfully only a few pieces stuck in his skin, which Loki makes quick work of. Mobius doesn’t ask how Loki knows what he’s doing, letting him work efficiently.

Mobius glances at Loki’s face, but his expression remains unreadable. The silence between them is heavy, not hostile, and Mobius looks away, catching his reflection in the black screen of the monitor out of the corner of his eye.

A few seconds later, the silence is broken as Mobius sucks a harsh breath through his teeth. He can’t stop the wince as the alcohol hits his raw skin in a firebrand of pain.

“Is this your way of torturing people?” Mobius mutters softly. Loki scoffs.

“Don’t be ridiculous. If I was torturing you, I wouldn’t use something as banal as hydrogen peroxide.”

If Mobius didn’t know Loki’s true identity, he might have chuckled and assumed he was making a joke. Unfortunately, the files boast a few rather vivid photos of the remains of some of Loki’s victims, and Mobius has become intimately familiar with the torture methods Loki prefers to use.

Loki moves to disinfect his arm, and Mobius fidgets at the sting of the antiseptic.

“Hold still,” he snaps, and Mobius does, watching as Loki’s elegant fingers work surely and gently with the cotton rounds.

The same sure and gentle hands that have taken the lives of dozens of people, stained with the invisible blood of the innocent and guilty alike. The Loki that hovers over him and bandages his wounds so attentively is the same ruthless child of the Allfather the underground whispers about in fear.

It’s the same man who ordered the death of Derek without even blinking. A remorseless execution of a hunter Mobius had personally trained beside.

Mobius should hate him. His fascination with Loki should twist into a righteous loathing that drives Mobius away and fuels his need to fulfill his mission. He should get close to Amora and use her as his ticket into Valhalla instead of the volatile prince.

He should do all of those things, but Mobius knows he can’t.

Loki may have given the order to execute Derek, but it was Mobius who lied first. He may as well have pulled the trigger himself. Hunter’s code? Please. He can point fingers and place the blame on everyone else, but in the end it’s Mobius’s own diminishing humanity that condemned Derek to death.

Now, the man he should hate is caring for his wounds, and Mobius is letting him.

Loki’s voice draws him out of the depths of his inner guilt. “Old scars,” he murmurs, his fingertips lightly brushing over a faded mark near Mobius’s exposed collarbone. “Not from tonight.”

Mobius represses a shiver at the unexpected touch. “You should see the other guys.”

He doesn’t respond to that, but Loki does wrap the gauze more mindfully around his shoulder.

Finally, Loki finishes, tying the ends off. “Don’t make a habit of this. We hire security for a reason, not bartenders who like to play the hero.”

Mobius cracks a small grin. “Is that concern I hear?”

Loki scowls. “Getting cocky, bartender? You don’t need a tongue to serve drinks.”

But you might miss it is bitten off before it leaves Mobius’s mouth, and he tenses in shock. Was he just about to start flirting with the enemy?! When Derek’s corpse is still cooling down the hall?

Mobius stands abruptly, the chair rolling back and hitting the desk with a thud. “You’re right, of course. Don’t mind me.”

Loki’s scowl deepens as he observes Mobius’s sudden change in demeanor, but thankfully he doesn’t question it, stepping back and cleaning Mobius’s blood from his hands. “You’ll need to change the dressing tomorrow.”

Nodding, Mobius is unable to meet Loki’s intense gaze as he slips his arm back into his ruined sleeve. “Thank you.”

For the first time since they met, Mobius walks out before Loki, leaving the man mildly confused in his wake.

The inside of his apartment is dark, with only the neon signs from the smoke shop across the street shining through his dusty blinds. Blues and greens wash the room with color, reflecting over Mobius’s face as he sits alone at the table.

His drive home had seemed faster than usual, though that may have been influenced by the fact he didn’t have a tail anymore. After the first week, the sedan had disappeared, no longer attempting to follow him home. Whoever ordered the tail must have given up.

Mobius hadn’t bothered to turn any lights on; simply toed off his boots and dropped wearily into his chair fifteen minutes before. His shoulder is now starting to throb, the slightest movements pulling at the wounds, but Mobius doesn’t feel like getting up to pop some Advil. He needs to make his report and check in with OB, too, but he can’t make himself reach across the table to power on the laptop.

It’s like he’s stuck, his limbs weighed down with wet sand and unable to move. His body won’t cooperate, trapping his awareness inside a statue-like prison.

Ravonna used to call these episodes a form of tonic immobility, a PTSD response some of the hunters would get after a long time on the field. After certain traumatic incidents, the hunters would become paralyzed for varying amounts of time until they were able to regulate their nervous system again.

Until now, Mobius has only had two of these episodes. The first happened after hunter C-20 was killed a few years ago, and the second was right before Mobius demanded to be demoted to analyst after he froze during a mission.

The episode he’s trapped in now was probably triggered because of Derek’s death. Mobius wants to sigh. Of course his PTSD flares up again now that he’s back on a mission. At least he was able to make it to the safety of his apartment before it hit.

Blinking steadily, Mobius begins the breathing exercise Ravonna made him do the last time he was paralyzed, clearing his mind and focusing on wiggling his toes.

Breathe in. Hold. Exhale completely.

After several minutes, he finally manages to move his big toes, and he gradually works his way up his body. The weighted feeling slowly lifts from his limbs until Mobius is able to move freely again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and let his head drop in relief, closing his eyes.

Derek’s face haunts him then, mocking him in the darkness. Cozying up to the enemy, Mobius? What did I die for, then? His mouth seems to twist with the words, his sightless gaze searing into Mobius’s soul. Guilt floods Mobius as he clenches his fists, shaking his head.

Mobius should never have let his guard down, especially not around Loki. So what if the handsome man wanted to treat his wounds? Mobius should have declined.

It was only to get Loki to trust him more.

Was it? Or was it because deep down, Mobius is drawn to Loki like a fly to a spider’s web, and he longs to get closer to the man? To know the man personally?

A dangerous train of thought, one Mobius doesn’t dare to entertain for a moment longer, shoving it deep down and locking it away. Those kinds of thoughts only serve to get hunters killed, and Mobius has tracked too many defective deserters to want to become one himself.

Mobius stands, exhaling slowly as he moves over to the window. Instead of dwelling on his feelings about Loki, he should be more worried about why Derek was even at the club in the first place.

That thought had been gnawing at him since Derek was dragged inside, festering in his mind like rot. D-90 was a hunter, and he wasn’t inside when the gang members attacked. The soldiers dragged him in from outside with seemingly minimal struggle judging by his lack of wounds, which meant he was probably hiding until he was suddenly discovered and surrendered quickly.

But why was he hiding outside Enchantress? No hunters are allowed anywhere near the perimeter of a high priority mission without the clearance of everyone involved, which usually includes Ravonna and the senior hunters in charge. As far as Mobius is aware, he’s supposed to be the only agent on the Apple’s case, and neither Ravonna nor OB had informed him of another hunter assigned for surveillance.

Mobius frowns. He doesn’t need surveillance; he’s already infiltrated the club and is working on the inside. What could Derek have possibly—

The answer hits him like a ton of bricks. It’s been glaring at him from the start, neglected because Mobius didn’t want to consider the possibility, but he’s been an analyst for long enough to see the truth in the idea.

Every hunter has to be cleared by Ravonna when they are sent on a mission. Which means she sent Derek to the club knowing how dangerous it was and how likely it was one or both of them would be caught or exposed. Without telling Mobius, and he knows her well enough to tell if she hasn’t told him it’s because she doesn’t want him to know.

Derek was sent to spy on Mobius.

Mobius watches the smoke shop sign flicker for a long moment, suddenly wishing he had a cigarette. It’s been years since he quit smoking, but the thought of a good puff sounds really good right about now.

“Oh, Ravonna.” Resigned chuckles fall from Mobius’s lips, morphing into a sigh. “Still can’t trust anyone after all these years.”

He understands her, to some extent. He’s seen agents sent to watch other agents before—hell, Ravonna’s even sent Mobius to watch other hunters a few times. Loose cannons, flight risks, defectors.

But never did he think he would one day be on the other side. Clearly, Mobius has gotten too lax. Plans for retirement dulled his senses.

Ravonna never makes decisions lightly. If she thinks he’s a loose end, willing to send agents to their deaths just to make sure he completes his mission, there must be something Mobius is missing.

Mobius spends the next two days catching up on sleep and reviewing the AESIR files, compiling all the progress he’s made so far. The laptop lies undisturbed in its designated spot on the table as Mobius resolutely ignores it, unwilling to talk to OB or update his mission report yet. He knows it’s petty and OB probably wasn’t informed by Ravonna either, but Mobius isn’t quite ready to hear his suspicions confirmed. And besides, OB’s most definitely bugged his apartment so it’s not like they don’t know his status.

By the third day, though, Mobius is bored. Amora had somehow gotten the number of his burner phone—unsurprising, really—and told him that he could take a few days off while they repaired the club, which was nice at first. His body ached in places he didn’t even think could hurt the morning after the attack, and he needed the alone time to get his mental state stabilized again, but now he can feel the timer counting down above his head as the mission deadline steadily approaches with Mobius no closer to finding the Apples.

Mobius casually leans back against the convenience store wall, mindful of his freshly wrapped shoulder as he watches the clouds roll in from the mountains. It was a couple blocks away from Enchantress, and Mobius needed to get out of his stuffy apartment to clear his mind. He still has six weeks till the deadline, but without working as a bartender and strengthening his relationship with Loki to get to Valhalla, he’s hit a stalemate.

The evening breeze ruffles Mobius’s silver locks, carrying with it the scent of rain and the sound of voices from the alley that runs behind the building. Normally, Mobius would let the noise flow past him without a second thought, but something seems familiar about one of the voices.

If that’s who I think it is, Mobius muses as he edges silently towards the alley, the plot just thickened exponentially.

Sure enough, Loki’s unmistakable tone reaches him as Mobius peeks around the corner, low and angry. His back faces Mobius, all tense lines and sharp angles beneath an emerald green suit vest, perfectly tailored to his lean form. Mobius has to tear his gaze away, his mouth unreasonably dry as he forces his attention towards the owner of the other voice.

The other man is taller than Loki, looking down upon the prince in obvious disdain as he speaks, but that isn’t the strangest thing about him. No, that would be his deep blue skin, stark beneath the heavy pelt of furs he must be sweating buckets in. It may be autumn, but the weather is still decently warm, even in the nights.

Mobius’s eyes widened in surprise. Is that one of the jotunn of the Jotunheim branch, the frost giants of AESIR?

He’d skimmed over the file briefly, so he knows the Jotunheim branch has long been shunned by the rest of AESIR thanks to the Allfather, but that was about it. The jotunns’ distinctly painted skin and barbaric culture easily set them apart from the rest of the syndicate, but Mobius doesn’t think either of those facts explain why Loki would be talking to one.

“—he wants to do is meet you.” Mobius catches the tail end of the jotunn’s sentence.

Loki holds his ground, growling back. “I refuse. You aren’t welcome here Raze, like I’ve told you before. I do so hate repeating myself.”

“And like I’ve told you before, I don’t understand why you are being so childish about this,” the man, or Raze, hisses in response. “Odin’s not even here and yet you continue to hold onto his skirts, reciting his words like a broken record. Guess you really are his least favorite toy.”

Mobius’s hand flexes at his side. Anger ignites in his chest, stoked by the cruel words that weren’t even directed at him. Forget a stranger, if OB talked to Mobius like that, it wouldn’t end pretty.

Loki turns sharply, clearly ending the argument. Mobius gets only a glimpse of the side of Loki’s downturned mouth and smoldering eyes before Raze suddenly strikes.

Caught by surprise, Loki only barely manages to twist away in time, showcasing his honed reflexes as the blow only clips his cheek. Loki blocks the following kick with his hands, which unfortunately leaves him open for a punch that sends him staggering. Raze doesn’t hesitate, grabbing Loki’s vest and throwing him into the wall.

Mobius is straightening before he registers the movement, and he freezes before he leaps around the corner. Amora’s words surface in his mind, taunting and amused.

Everything is a test in AESIR, Mr. Agent.

What if this is just another test? What if this is just a set-up to see how Mobius reacts to a high-ranking member of the syndicate in immediate danger? A ploy to get Mobius to reveal more of his abilities and expose him as something other than a simple bartender?

It can’t just be a coincidence that Loki gets into a fight with someone behind a random convenience store Mobius just happens to be hanging around. And yet, Loki’s tone seemed genuinely upset with the jotunn and it was clear from their stances they had been arguing for some time.

While Mobius was hesitating, Loki had been fighting back, catching his attacker with a sharp elbow to the jaw. Raze grunts, batting away Loki’s hands and smacking his head back into the wall with a dull crack, knocking him out cold.

The sound makes Mobius’s decision for him, and he snaps into action as Raze slings Loki’s unconscious body over his shoulder with minimal effort, striding quickly towards a tinted ford expedition parked a few yards away.

“Hey!” Mobius jolts into a run, but Raze moves faster. He tosses Loki into the back seat, sliding into the driver’s seat and slamming the door without a backwards glance at Mobius, peeling away with the screech of rubber right before Mobius reaches it.

Swearing under his breath, Mobius races toward his car, barely noticing his throbbing shoulder as he jumps in and turns the ignition.

“Come on, come on—”

He almost hits another car as he pulls out, shifting the car into drive with a squeal of tires as he tears after the disappearing tail lights.

The city blurs past, darkness falling as the evening gives way to the night. Flashes of lightning appear in Mobius’s rearview mirror, heralds of the approaching storm from the mountains as Mobius chases the car east, keeping a steady distance away. Oh, how the tables have turned—now Mobius is the tail instead of the tailed.

They don’t go through the downtown industrial districts like Mobius expects, swerving onto the freeway and taking busy main roads throughout the city. Despite abducting a prince of a criminal empire, the jotunn is a fairly good driver, following the traffic laws and using turn signals. Mobius is almost impressed.

Finally, the car takes the ramp to the airport on the southeast side of the Springs, coasting through the employee entrance and cutting across maintenance access roads. Mobius’s stomach drops. They are trying to get Loki on a plane.

Mobius cruises to a stop while he waits for the car to move out of sight, raising his eyes to the heavens. “Ravonna is definitely gonna kill me for this.”

Flooring the gas, Mobius accelerates into the lowered arm at the entrance, snapping it off as he shoots after the car. Loki’s safety is on the line and he doesn’t have time to explain his status to some employee manager so criminal destruction of state property it is!

Mobius crosses the roads just in time to see the car turn off the ramp leading to the parking garage above him, and he steers over to the concrete stairwell on the side. Killing the engine, he slips out of the car, taking the stairs two at a time and regretting the key lime pie he ate for lunch.

By the time he reaches the upper level, the car has stopped and Raze is in the process of pulling Loki out of the backseat. Two other identical ford expeditions are parked around with more jotunn stepping out of the vehicles, armed with guns and muttering amongst each other.

“Next time Ob should land me a spot as a bodyguard, not a bartender,” Mobius sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face as he reaches for the double bladed folding knife in his pocket. It was a gift from Time when he reached ten years of service, an Old Timer Minuteman knife Ravonna thought was hilariously branded.

He doesn’t have time to linger on the memory, however, sprinting towards the closest jotunn. Within moments Mobius is spotted, and the jotunn raises his gun with a shout.

Mobius throws his uninjured shoulder into the man’s gut before he can fire, gritting his teeth at the spike of pain from his still healing wounds as they tumble to the pavement.

By now Loki is out of the car, Raze holding his arm firmly, but when Loki sees Mobius awareness seems to return to his dazed eyes and he draws his elbow back into Raze’s solar plexus, ripping out of his grasp as the jotunn gasps for breath. Loki stumbles toward Mobius, a strange cocktail of confusion and anger twisting his face.

If Mobius needs confirmation this isn’t a test, he just got it.

“Jet,” Loki rasps, his voice oddly raw. “What—”

“Not now,” Mobius interrupts, rolling off the winded jotunn and stabbing another in the foot with his knife. This one howls, attempting to shoot Mobius as bullets hit the ground in a spray of dirt. They all miss as Mobius surges up, grabbing the man’s arm and sinking his knife into the soft part of his wrist, forcing him to drop the gun with a scream.

Behind him Loki wrestles with another jotunn, but Mobius can’t focus on him for long as hands suddenly wrap around his neck, dragging him back and pinning him against one of the cars in a chokehold. Mobius flails, dropping his knife as his hands scrabble for purchase against Raze’s thick forearms.

“I just knew you couldn’t resist following us, old man,” Raze snarls, the red of his contacts striking against the whites of his eyes. “Feel like a hero yet?”

Mobius digs his nails into Raze’s hands, pointlessly attempting to pull them away from his neck but they don’t budge. “Well yeah,” he chokes out, his vision starting to darken at the edges. “Better…than feeling…blue.”

Unamused, Raze tightens his grip, and Mobius can feel his consciousness fading from lack of oxygen, his legs kicking out desperately. This is totally uncalled for; the least Raze can do is appreciate his final words.

Several pops echo in his fuzzy hearing, and Mobius is abruptly released, collapsing to the ground like a puppet with its strings severed. Sliding back against the door of the car, Mobius’s eyes close against his will, surrendering him to the peaceful darkness.