Okay, so that final scene from "Thor: Ragnarok" combined with the repeat use of Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song" kind of just begged for a fic. To be specific: A Ragnarok-meets-the-Bureaucracy fic… (Darcy wandered in because I've missed her.)
If you've been reading my stuff before, you will know that I like filling in gaps between movies, so this is my own imaginary little bridge between Thor: Ragnarok and Infinity War. It will of course be totally obliterated by canon when IW comes out, so I'm posting it now, quickly and unbeta'd. All glitches are mine.
The Western Shore
By Alpha Flyer
The hammer of the gods
Will drive our ships to new lands
To fight the horde
Sing and cry
Valhalla, I am coming
On we sweep with threshing oar
Our only goal will be the Western shore
Led Zeppelin, "Immigrant Song"
.
The space ship comes down in the Sheep Meadow, on the South Side of Central Park. Its struts and landing gear sink deep into the grass, and it's a good thing that it's too late in the year for the people with beach blankets and Frisbees.
As it happens, the landing site is not far from Bethesda Terrace, where Thor had taken Loki and the tesseract up to Asgard. Coincidence, or not? Speculation on twitter is rampant; the hashtag #AliensForKillary is trending already.
The tesseract thing, of course, had been back in the good old days, when there'd been Avengers to deal with alien threats. No one, so far, has invoked the Sokovia Exemption to call them in, and it's down to the government to handle the crisis.
The first response is, of course, military: Gun-studded choppers causing the gingko trees to drop their leaves early, tanks leaving cracks in the cycling paths, that sort of thing. Bow Bridge is a heap of rubble in the lake, thanks to some APC driver not understanding that the admonishment that it's for "Pedestrians Only" covers army vehicle traffic. Then there are the thousands of flashing red and blue lights from law enforcement, local, federal and everything in between, reflecting off the water and the ship's hull. At night, the place looks like a scene from a Ridley Scott movie.
The second thing that happens, once their leader has made the purpose of the aliens' arrival clear, is the deployment of a field office of the US Citizenship and Immigration Service.
The army isn't going anywhere, but Secretary Ross – who seems to be responsible for Homeland Security now in addition to State and everything else - unleashes an entire regiment of ICE agents on the scene, lest any of the newcomers try to make a run for it and blend into the latte-sipping crowd on Madison Avenue.
Darcy takes it all in. Tossing her Starbucks cup into a conveniently placed bin, she comes to the conclusion that there are now two zoos in Central Park, except this one is short a few penguins.
Summoning her best Competence Glower, she waves her freshly-minted Department of Damage Control badge at a guy with a machine gun. He's barely out of high school, zits and all, holding his weapon in front of the family jewels like an oversized jockstrap. Just the manly protection the world needs.
"Darcy Lewis. Asgardian liaison, DDC," she says airily, hoping the guy won't question the Stark Industries subtitle on the badge, or ask how long she's been in the job. (That first paycheck will be so sweet, when it comes…)
Department of Damage Control. Darcy still isn't sure how she ended up there; someone (Jane?) must have pulled a string. She doesn't even remember applying, specifically… Yet here she is.
The one thing she has learned in her three days on the job, is that there's a pretty complicated division of competencies at DDC. Stark Industries mostly does reconstruction and clean-up, while the Government gets to keep all the scary shit the various alien invasion waves have left behind and turn it into weapons of mass destruction. What Mr. Stark has asked her to do doesn't exactly fall on his side of the fence - but with any luck bullets-for-brains here won't know that.
"Find out who they are, why they're here, and what the Government plans to do with them," Stark had said. His hands were tied, he'd said. Something about 'those damn Sokovia Accords'.
Darcy Lewis: Master Spy.
After a brief assessment of her credentials - consisting mostly of a frown and pursed lip designed to make it look as if he can read - Baby Goon decides that Darcy is carbon-based, human, Caucasian and female, and therefore not an existential threat. He waves her through.
"Careful, missy," he says. "Thems aliens are dangerous."
Darcy nods politely. His concern is rather sweet, but honestly? The aliens are the least of her worries. She's seen Arrival and man, wasn't it just like those over-armed, hopped-up military freaks to lose their cool and kill that poor talking spider and almost everyone else in the process?
No, Thor always said Asgardians are harmless (unless one of them turns out to be Loki, of course). Which is where this recce for Mr. Stark comes in. She adjusts her purse, making sure the mic in her StarkPhone isn't wadded up with old Kleenex, and heads into the roped-off area.
Once she gets past the military, there's a bunch of ICE agents, milling around what looks like a processing tent. They're all wearing the scowl usually reserved for owners of Taco restaurants or seven-year-old kids, but don't seem to be in deportation mode yet. Where would you take a bunch of people descended from the heavens anyway? El Salvador?
The scowls turn into wide-eyed stares when a teenager picks up an ICE-marked truck, occupants included, to lift the wheels off her baby brother's raggedy plush bildshnipe. Darcy whips out her phone and takes a quick picture.
The alien at the head of the queue is almost as big as Thor, but older and black. Grizzled beard, dreadlocks, and eyes that look like they're on fire. Not to mention, the sword on his back looks like it weighs more than a telephone pole.
Darcy takes another picture. Are all these people as strong as Thor?
Insanely attractive, the guy is. Darcy has to swallow down a whole lot of unexpected hoo boys, and calls down another blessing on whoever got her this job.
The official behind the fold-up table, though, pretends to be unimpressed. He twists his pen and squints at the man before him.
"Visa applicants cannot bring weapons to an interview," he says. "Please, sir, surrender the sword."
Something in what he's just said reminds Darcy of the video from that super-secret S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. They'd let Jane study the footage, to see if she could figure out how that tesseract thing worked, but all Darcy remembers from it is Thor's little brother, zombiefying an Avenger. And then all hell broke loose.
Who knows what this guy will do when provoked?
Peaceful landings are one thing, but after Puente Antiguo and Greenwich, Darcy has no wish to be at Ground Zero of another alien eruption. Someone has to do something, and fast.
But who? One of the ICE men is fingering his gun. Better not be him.
That leaves …
Darcy Lewis: Slayer of Dark Elves. Tazerer of Gods.
"Emm," she says.
Everybody looks at her, even the big Asgardian. His golden eyes make her feel like her clothes her are melting off (a not altogether unpleasant feeling, although probably not one she should be examining right now). He cocks a questioning eyebrow at her, which she ignores, too.
"Hi? I'm Darcy Lewis? Department of Damage Control, Asgardian liaison branch?" Darcy summons her voice and holds up her badge, like they do on cop shows to prevent getting shot by their own people. "Here to help y'all out. In defusing this… this situation."
She has everyone's undivided attention now, and nobody seems inclined to shoot. Leadership, that's what this is called. Darcy Lewis, Queen of the Interns.
"So. First . Asking an Asgardian to give up his - or her, let's be fair here, they must have women if there's little kids, and I've seen one of them, great with a sword – anyway, asking them to give up their weapons is bad. They're … emm… ceremonial."
The bureaucrat scowls.
"Are you telling be that this sword is like a kirpan?"
Darcy has no idea what that is but it sounds good, so she nods.
"Like, you remember Thor? When he first came here? Man, was he a mess until he got MewMew back." She is warming up to her topic now. "Asking one to give theirs up is like asking them to take off their clothes. So, let's not do that, okay?"
The Big Guy's lips twitch, but then he quickly scowls and nods to reinforce her point. Great-looking and smart? Darcy decides she likes Asgardians. (Except Loki.)
Whether it's in response to Darcy's comments or whatever - none of the security dudes makes a move to take the sword off the big guy's back, and the guns stay in their holsters. Maybe the memory of the man's first step outside the spaceship, and those bullets falling off him like so many mung beans, is still fresh? It sure made for great TV, even with the twitter trolls immediately howling Fake News.
It had certainly made an impression on Mr. Stark.
Point is, no one is disarming anyone (for now) and Central Park isn't a crater (yet). Darcy Lewis, Wrangler of Aliens. And ICE agents.
She looks around. The rest of the people in the queue before the tent don't look particularly belligerent. Bedraggled, more like. In fact, they look like they've been through some serious shit, especially the little boy who is still clutching his muddy toy to his chest. He's clinging to his sister, eyes big and wet, crying for a Mommy who doesn't seem to be there.
Darcy feels a twitch of conscience, thinking that her biggest problem this week had been that barista at Starbucks not filling her venti latte all the way to the top. These are huddled masses alright, yearning for … something that doesn't include handcuffs and guns.
The big Asgardian seems to have come to the conclusion that it's his turn to fill the silence. He shrugs his shoulders, in a movement that makes the sword on his back twitch. Darcy has the distinct feeling he hasn't enjoyed waiting while the bureaucrat-in-charge was lining up his pencils.
"I am Heimdall, of Asgard," he says, in a voice that sounds tired but strong. His eyes strafe those standing around the table with golden fire. "Our home world has been laid waste by Hela, Goddess of Death. Upon the word of Thor, Son of Odin, I request asylum in this Realm for myself and my people."
The chief immigration agent, a chinless white dude with a name badge that says 'Webster', frowns and shuffles his papers. He casts a furtive glance at the guys from ICE, of course can't make a move until someone gets declared illegal and does a runner. They don't look too unhappy about that.
Webster sighs, the weight of the world on his shoulder, and puts down his pen.
"Sorry, Mr. Heimdall. Name-dropping Thor doesn't count for anything in this context. He's just another undocumented alien, as far as we are concerned. Plus, he never signed the Accords, and for all I know is wanted by Interpol like most of those other so-called Avengers."
He shuffles through a manual for a minute.
"As I thought: Destruction of a home planet is not grounds for refugee status under the Geneva Convention. You must be able to prove persecution for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group, or political opinion."
Heimdall glares, but he does seem to catch on quickly. (Maybe with those eyes of his, he's actually read the Geneva Convention?)
"We are of Asgard, the last of our people. Odin's daughter called a curse upon our nation, and her dark minions waged war upon us because we refused to bend the knee to her evil ways."
That should do it, no?
But … Dark Minions from outer space? Visions of those black-and-white Malarky things with the pointy ears, and those scaly aliens that messed up New York, send a chill down Darcy's spine. Just how many Dark Minions are there, in this universe and the bazillion others that people keep punching doors into?
Webster, meanwhile, remains professionally detached. Maybe in his job he hears about Dark Minions a lot?
"And this Hela and her army are where now, exactly?" he says, sounding bored.
"Odin's First-born was slain by the demon Surtur."
Wait. What? Hela is … Thor has another sibling, beside the one with the scraggly hair? Talk about shitty genes. Darcy makes a mental note to e-mail Jane that she just may have gotten off easy, which might make her feel better about dumping a God. Seriously.
"Presumed dead, then." Webster scribbles something in his book. "And the… the Dark Minions?"
"Consumed by Ragnarok, unleashed by Surtur."
There's a bit of pride in Heimdall's voice at that, and Darcy makes a mental note. Anything that eats dark minions should be of interest to Mr. Stark - and if this guy knows how to use it... Darcy feels a bonus coming on, and maybe a promotion.
The agent looks up from his steno pad, his voice raised in ill-concealed gotcha triumph.
"So, if they're all dead, who exactly is left to persecute you?"
A scraggly looking young girl pulls on the ratty blanket thing that Heimdall is wrapped in.
"Tell him about the big space ship," she whispers.
Heimdall shushes her, pats her on the head and glares at Webster like so much dryer lint.
"Asgard protected this realm against the Frost Giants a thousand years ago," he says. "Today we seek your protection in turn. It is just."
"I'm afraid that's not how asylum works, Mr. Heimdall," Webster says, putting down his pen and taking off his glasses to clean them with his shirt. "There's no pay-to-play. Besides, the United States didn't exist a thousand years ago. So whatever protecting you may have done in the past, it's got nothing to do with us. No chance of political waivers, either, I'm afraid."
The little girl beside Heimdall sniffles and begins to cry. Darcy has seen enough.
"What about other types of visa? Visitors? Or that Einstein one they gave the First Lady, although I'm not sure what for exactly?"
Webster looks at her indignantly.
"Once you've claimed asylum, all other options are off the table, Miss … whoever you are. And if we were to give them all visitors' visas, who's to say they won't disappear and stay here illegally?"
The ICE agents collectively nod their approval, like someone just triggered a pleasure stimulus in their brain.
Darcy is undeterred.
"Like I said, I am Darcy Lewis, Department of Damage Control. We clean up after aliens. Real aliens. Tell me, Mr. … Webster, is it, you say?" Two can play that game. "For starters, I'm pretty sure Asgard isn't on the immigration ban list."
Webster's mouth opens but he stays silent. Darcy senses an advantage.
"It isn't, is it, because, like, it's not even a country? So how do you even have jurisdiction here? Hmm? I bet alien visits aren't even in your mandate."
There is some shuffling of paper now.
"The sword," one of the ICE guy comes to Webster's rescue. "Extreme vetting, remember? Doesn't the latest Executive Order say something about that? That thing is clearly a security threat. Irregardless of where he comes from."
Darcy inner grammarian shivers a little, but she lets it go. There are bigger points to be made.
"Swords don't immigrate. People immigrate. And there's no Open Carry restriction on swords."
The DHS guy decides to pile on.
"Congress is working on something," he says. "The Extraterrestrial Restriction Act. Based on the Mutant Registration Act. But the Dems aren't letting anything through the Senate right now, fucking pussies."
Darcy isn't a lawyer any more than she's an astrophysicist, but political science? Civics 101? Very much her turf.
"Working on something isn't quite the same as passed by House and Senate and signed into law, is it?" She turns back to Webster in triumph. "So. If they're not from a foreign country, none of your immigration stuff even applies. Case closed."
"The Lady is correct. Asgard is not a country. It is a realm," Heimdall says, tired of being ignored. "And now, a people. I do not know about your lists, or your laws. Only that our need is great. In return for you hospitality we offer protection for Midgard, as we have always done. We seek no alms - we offer a pact."
The air around the tent suddenly starts to move, as if it's being pushed aside from up top.
With a graceful little bounce and a sound like subway doors closing, Ironman lands between Darcy, Heimdall and the bureaucrat's desk.
In his arms, looking more than a little terrified, is a guy in a suit, with flight-woozled hair and a tie that's flapping over his shoulder. The man leaps heavily to the ground, coughs, straightens his tie and runs a jittery hand through his hair in a vain search for dignity.
Meanwhile, Ironman's faceplate shrivels up and there he is, Tony Stark in the flesh. Darcy's boss.
"God job, Hot Lips," he says to her, and vaguely waves his hand in the direction of his passenger. "I brought a lawyer. Looks like these Asgardians here could use one. I have more."
Darcy pockets her phone. If Stark has been listening in, maybe there's a promotion in her future? Senior Asgardian liason officer – now that has a ring, no?
"Nice to see you," she says. "We were just discussing jurisdiction, and how these people here don't seem to have any."
Darcy does that whole-face-wink, to give the lawyer his cue to say something legal, but he's busy not throwing up. Jane always got a kick out of flying with Thor – maybe Ironman isn't that smooth a ride?
Heimdall's laser eyes zoom in on the new arrivals, then back on Darcy, and for a moment she feels stripped to her knickers. Not a bad feeling, actually, and if Jane's stories are anything to go buy… His lips twitch a little and Darcy feels a blush creeping into her cheeks. He can read minds? Awkward... Then again - could be a useful shortcut.
She straightens her shoulders, clears her throat and looks straight into those golden orbs. Eyes. Eyes.
"I don't know if they have lawyers on Asgard," she says, "but here they can be quite useful. Think of it like a rope and a sack of anvils, slowing things down."
Webster is about to say something, but Stark shushes him with an impatient gesture. The ICE guys and the man from DHS are just standing there with their mouths open.
"Hush, puppies," Stark says. "The grown-ups are talking."
He turns to Heimdall and comes straight to the point.
"Did you bring Thor? Haven't seen him in ages."
"We met a vessel on the way to Midgard," Heimdall says. "He engaged the ship, along with certain others, so the people could be safe. I can no longer see them. There is a veil, a void. They may be between realms."
That sounds … bad? Darcy shivers a little.
"Well," Stark says breezily, "if I know Point Break, he'll come out just fine. And what's in space, stays in space. I hope. In the meantime…"
He claps the still-shaking lawyer on the shoulder with his metal hand. Greene whelps a little but doesn't complain; he knows what's expected of him. He adjusts his glasses, fixes Webster with a professional stare, and takes a deep breath.
"As the young lady rightly said,you have no jurisdiction here. These people – my clients - are clearly 'enhanced individuals' as per the definition in the Sokovia Accords. Pursuant to these same Accords, they are entitled – no, make that required - to reside at the Avengers' facility until called upon for action. You may check with Secretary Ross, if you wish."
Stark nods with approval, and turns his back on the resulting argument. He looks at Heimdall.
"You, Aragorn. If we give you the coordinates, can you fly that space ship of yours there without knocking over any trees?"
Heimdall nods.
"And take her with you." Stark points to Darcy. "Friday, transfer landing coordinates to her phone."
He fixes Darcy, who is about to say something, with a pointed stare.
"You're what, the Senior Asgardian liaison officer for Stark Industries' joint venture with the DDC? Make sure these people all take a hot shower and put on clothes that don't look like they're ready to crawl away on their own."
He sniffs, pushes a button and closes up his face.
"I'll see you all later. After you've cleaned up and had a burger."
And with that, Ironman takes off in a swirl of leaves.
Well. What else is there to say? The lawyer and the bureaucrat are still arguing; the ICE guys and the military outside the perimeter are all busy with their cellphones, taking pictures of Ironman disappearing in the skies over Manhattan, and don't seem to be an imminent threat.
Darcy looks at the space ship on the meadow. Will she even be able to breathe in that thing? They can breathe here in the park …
The hell with it. Life is an adventure. And didn't she just get a promotion, three days on the job?
"Well then, Mr. Heimdall. Let's go liaise."