Sister Theresa, the woman who used to be Trista di Salvi, walked quietly through the corridors of the Vatican.
Head down did not mean eyes cast down. A constant flickering of her gaze might have betrayed a running assessment of her surroundings. If you had noticed it, that is, and you would have had to suspect a nun of needing to notice these things in the first place.
A quiet, unobtrusive checkpoint allowed her to pass deeper into the venerable building. The gilt walls, magnificent frescos and echoing marble halls meant very little to her. A sudden summons to see the Grand Headmaster of her order meant only one thing.
Trouble.
Trouble that it was her sacred duty to get rid of.
Even at the cost of her own life.
She turned down another seemingly endless corridor, though this one was markedly plainer than the others. No Persian rugs on the floors, no crystal above. No paintings, no gold. Wood, leather and steel against marble.
Nizaris had no need of ornamentation. Their very nature was that of concealment and austerity.
The guards at the end of the hall checked her identification badge, though it was a formality. They had seen her many times before. Sister Theresa was as feared a portent as a raven before war.
The guards opened the large double oak doors and allowed her to pass.
The room was simple. Tall windows and thick linen drapes. A small fire burned low in a giant stone hearth. An energy efficient lamp threw light onto a large, simple wood desk where a laptop was open next to a stack of papers and a cell phone.
The man in the chair behind the desk looked up at Sister Theresa. He pulled off the glasses that he didn't need and rubbed his eyes. Today, he was bald and wore tweed.
"S.H.I.E.L.D has been compromised," he said. "The Tesseract has been stolen, and the suspected culprit is Loki of Asgard, brother of Thor of Asgard."
The lack of preamble suited Sister Theresa just fine. She preferred it that way. It wasn't as if she was unfamiliar with SHIELD and the information about the alien prince Thor of Asgard. Loki, however, was a new name to her.
"Loki as in the Norse god of mischief?" she questioned evenly.
"Yes. He has the Tesseract right now. The word is that his goal is to conquer the planet, to subjugate the human race and rule as an absolute dictator and monarch. We have a line on his location right now as he is preparing his move. Agent Clint Barton seems to have been a defector to his side."
Now, that was surprising.
"Barton is news," she said calmly.
"Yes, and it could be a double-cross. However, he's the contact you're going to make to get in."
"Once I'm in?" She knew the answer, but she needed it said, to be charged with the mission.
"Kill Loki. At any cost."
He really didn't have to add that last bit. She was a Lasiq, a Fida'i. The most feared and fearless rank of assassin. Her life was consecrated to serve the Nizaris, the Hashshashin as it was vulgarly known by those who knew nothing.
"Anything else?" she asked.
"You are alone in this," he said, a ghost of a small smile played on his lips. He reached into his pocket and drew out a small packet of white powder and dropped it into a cup of coffee, stirring it slowly.
"You are off the record, off the grid, and gone from existence as of now," he said. "Nobody can know – the consequences of your capture or failure is far too steep a price for humanity to pay. I am the only one who knows of your mission, and soon, I will be gone from existence."
She struggled for a moment to keep a stoic expression on her face as she watched him calmly drink the coffee.
"Three minutes, I think," he said with a sigh as he put the empty mug down. "You are the only chance we have. I know SHIELD is trying for the Avengers Initiative, but they don't think like we do. Like you do. They have scruples. They count the costs. You do not. You cannot. Our future is in your hands."
He shuddered a little and coughed, then smiled gently at her. "You are the best there is. I have always been proud of you."
She swallowed hard at his words of praise, the last of only so few she had ever received from him in her life.
"Make me proud, daughter."
She tried to say something, anything, but she knew only screams and tears would come out if she opened her mouth. So she said nothing as her father closed his eyes, leaned back against his chair and let the life fade from him.
"How did you find us?" Clint Barton's voice was hard and uncompromising as he looked at the woman across the table from him in the interrogation cell.
"God sees all things," she said gently, a playful smirk ghosting across her lips.
"Don't give me that bullshit," he snapped. "You have exactly two minutes to explain yourself fully before I send a dead diplomat back to the Vatican."
"Didn't your mother ever teach you it isn't nice to kill nuns?" Her voice held the tremor of laughter in it. What the fuck? This woman was clearly not scared of him, which made him extremely worried.
"You don't look like a sister to me, sister," he growled, looming over her.
She really didn't. She looked exotic, with thick jet-black hair pulled severely back in a braid and olive green eyes that reminded him of Persian beauties. Her skin was the palest warm gold. She was wickedly fit, he could see it in the way she moved, even though her modest black sweater, black pants and sensible black boots somewhat hid her figure.
Part of him knew that she was telling the truth up to a point. She was a special ambassador from the Vatican. Her credentials had checked out perfectly. Too perfectly said his gut, but he couldn't prove anything otherwise. From his time at SHIELD…he knew that the Vatican had a highly trained branch of top secret operatives that went to mediate and negotiate in volatile situations.
But a nun? Since when did the Vatican send women into warzones unless it was for first aid and shit?
"Time's a wasting, sweetheart," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Talk."
"I am Sister Maria Elisabetta of the confidential diplomatic secretariat of the Vatican," she said evenly. "I do not speak directly for the Holy Father, however, I am authorized to gather and offer information, as well as to open negotiations or serve as an intermediary as needed."
"We've been through that," Barton snapped, refusing to be lulled by the softly rounded lilt of her faint Italian accent.
Sister Maria sighed and spoke. "The Vatican is a proponent of peace and non-violence. The Holy Church seeks to be an agent of peace wherever it can serve. The Earth is the garden of our Lord God, and it pleases Him to see it choose peaceful means of conflict resolution."
"Blah, blah, blah. Why you?"
"Aside from my record, which I assume you have already accessed? Ah, I see. You wonder at His Holiness' emissary being a woman. I regretfully inform you, Mr. Barton, we are in the twenty-first century, and women are much more integrated into the Church and serve valuable and valued functions, though not specifically in the clergy, which is the most visible arm of the Church."
Clint rubbed his temples. This woman was making his head hurt with her words. Probably that was why she was a diplomat. She just yammered on until people gave in to her just to get her to shut up.
"And, just what do you think you can do for us?" he asked almost wearily.
"Whatever is within my powers to assist you in achieving a peaceful settlement or satisfactory compromise of your aims."
"We welcome the Vatican's gracious offer of dialogue and assistance in our endeavors." The voice was smooth and reverberated in Clint's brain, calming the surface of his thoughts and allowing him to sink into a kind of peace.
His Master stepped into the interrogation room and with a nod dismissed him. He left immediately, only hoping the woman wouldn't give the Master as bad a headache as she had given him. The Master was a real bitch when he was in pain.
"Sister…Maria, is it not?"
He grinned and slowly stalked around the table to where the small woman had stood up. He noted the expression of curiosity and measuring intelligence on her face, and he was surprised that there was little to no fear in her lineaments.
"Prince Loki of Asgard?" she returned, bowing her head, keeping her hands primly folded in front of her waist.
"Indeed," he acknowledged, looking her up and down. What a drab little thing. All black like one of his fa- Odin's tiresome ravens. Even her eyes were drab, a kind of sage green. Oh, he supposed she must have been attractive by Midgardian standards. Clint's thoughts on the matter had not been hard to hear. Still, she was not nearly as attractive as what she represented.
"So," he purred, circling her, noticing her slight catch of breath at his proximity. "How does it feel to speak to a god?" His voice dripped sarcasm and disdain for her own puny religion.
"Tremendously unlike what I would have expected," she replied calmly.
Her words took him aback for a moment. Speaking of the unexpected, that was the last answer he would have guessed of her.
"You're not very pious," he said.
"My faith is in my heart, not on my sleeve, your highness."
He frowned. Why would it be on her sleeve? He surreptitiously glanced at her sleeve. Ah, it must have something to do with being in the open for all to see. Stupid expression from a stupid species.
"You have a Holy Father?" he asked, trying a different tack.
"And you have an All-Father," she replied again without missing a beat.
Crazy white rage danced before his eyes, blinding his sight for a moment at the cursed name of the cursed man who cursed him with this life. No, no, breathe. She did not know. She could not know. She would never know. Time to reach for the heart of the matter and crush it into a bloody pulp in his fist.
"Just what does Holy Father –" he spit the words out "– think he can offer me, a god with power that mortals could never conceive of with their miserable little minds?"
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Sister Maria said drily. "But, according to our intelligence, your goal is achieve political, economic and military dominance over all the nations of the planet. This may or may not be achievable with brute force. If you use your 'godly' power in a show of force, we estimate that there will be so few survivors of this conflict that it would not be worth your while to hold authority over us. However, if you are willing to play a longer, more subtle game, the Vatican is willing to partner with you in diplomatically building a power base and using political, economic and social means to consolidate governance under you at a meta level."
Loki pondered her words. There were many, many options that she offered, and several appealed to his logic and intellect. However, time was of the essence. The Other was likely to be willing to sit on the sidelines while he worked a multi-generational scheme to gain rule over Midgard in a peaceful manner. The Chitauri would leave massive destruction in their wake, and he would have to fight just as hard to preserve Midgard from them as to subdue it for himself.
However, he was close to being able to truly control the Tesseract, and once he had it tamed to his bidding, there would be no more to fear from the Chitauri, from the Other, from Thanos himself. He could then subjugate Midgard in the blink of an eye, moving on then to every realm and every kingdom…even Asgard…
The Chitauri were coming, though, whether he wanted them or needed them here or not. It would be useful to have the armies of Midgard ready to fight with him than against him. It would buy him the extra time he needed for Selvig to finish harnessing the Tesseract.
Perhaps diplomacy was the way to go after all…
She was certainly willing, and any further convincing she needed could be easily achieved through…a charm offensive. After all, wasn't that what his fa- Odin had tasked him with when kings, queens, princes and princesses, gods and goddesses and had found themselves insulted or angry with his blunt policies or Thor's grotesque ministrations? Words or otherwise, his Silvertongue was quite capable of effective persuasion.
"You are very clever for a mortal," he said, pitching his voice low and intimate, speaking close to her ear. The shiver through her body was confirmation enough that he had weapons aplenty to battle her with, should the need arise.
"There are many clever mortals," she retorted, stepping away from him and turning back to face him. "Clever enough to choose peaceful means to build instead of war to destroy."
"And what is it about your…Church that enables you to be so confident that you can be of true value to me?" He stepped closer to her, eliminating the space she had put between them.
She laughed in order to imply he was a simpleton. He knew that trick well. Hadn't he used it many times himself?
"What other organization in the world crosses every border, has networks throughout cities and countryside, can reach the rich and the poor, the politicians and the children with a single word from a single man?" she said, stepping back again. "The Catholic Church is positioned perfectly to leverage every conceivable kind of relationship you might need in order to…persuade governments to your…way of thinking."
He stepped to her again, forcing her a step back and into the wall. He leaned his forearms against the wall on either side of her head and brought his face close to hers. Fortunately, she smelled pleasant, and she seemed to emanate a warmth that felt comfortable to him. No, it would be no particular hardship to use this Midgardian diplomat for his purposes.
"Why does the Church care?" he rumbled deep in his throat.
"We seek to aid and serve humanity in the name of Jesus Christ," she said, gasping for air a little.
"What is your real reason?" He smiled and brought them almost nose-to-nose.
"Our purpose is true to what I just said. However, we are a large, complex, financially and politically powerful organization as well. We cannot follow our mission and use our resources if there is chaos on a global scale. Like any organism or organization, we seek to thrive."
"And do you thrive, Sister Maria?" Loki asked with a low chuckle, running the backs of his fingers down the side of her face. Soft, he thought. Very soft. Fragile.
"I serve."
His laughter darkened as he pressed his body to hers and asked, "Just how do you do that?"
Her expression shifted from slightly anxious to blank and calm. Fascinating, he thought.
"I serve the mission of the Holy Church in whatever humble way I can," she said evenly. "I honor my vows of poverty, obedience and chastity."
"Chastity?" Oh, this would be too much fun, and a welcome distraction from all that threatened to consume him in the quiet moments of darkness.
"Apparently, intergalactic male species are all the same," she said, poking a finger into his chest and pushing him back. He allowed it because it was quite charming, the ant pushing at the boot. "Chastity is the only vow you're fascinated by because it's the one vow you have the most trouble with yourselves."
"I took no such vow," he said, calculating in his mind the timing he would need to use in building toward a seduction of this chaste woman so that she would be ready to fall to him when he needed her to put the most pressure in the most distasteful way on the governments she would negotiate with.
"And, I took no vow to limit my intelligence," she retorted. "So, please stop insulting it."
"But, of course. I was merely testing you, and your…resolve."
He laughed, and for one moment, he felt satisfied.
She watched as he laughed, and yet again, she was astounded at how little it took to convince a man (of any species, she could now add) of his powers of seduction. A quick intake of breath, an approximated shiver at nearness, the helpless glance at lips that were too close to her own.
Really, she had expected more of a challenge from the god of lies and mischief. He had bought her act. Hook, line and sinker.
Now, to survive long enough to plant the double cross and make sure Loki of Asgard died.
By her hand.