Thrownness is a concept ... to describe our individual existences as "being thrown" into the world.… with all its attendant frustrations, sufferings, and demands that one does not choose, such as social conventions or ties of kinship and duty. [Thrownness results in] a kind of alienation that human beings struggle against, and that leaves a paradoxical opening for freedom.
-"Thrownness" wiki/Thrownness
When Loki was small, he had thought of his father's office as 'the throne room.' To a child of eight, his father was king and Asgard Tower the kingdom; twenty seven floors to explore, with each level offering some new realm to traverse. He spent his formative years hidden under desks and behind doors, silently observing his father conduct business. People came, were questioned, and dismissed. When Odin was away, Loki would sneak into his office and sit in his chair. Legs dangling off the edge of the leather seat, directing imaginary people and things wherever he pleased.
Twenty four years later, the scope of his father's reach had expanded. The hallways that had once seemed cavernous had grown physically and emotionally constricting. Now his long legs carried him from one side of the building to the other quickly. As he strode into the office, he noticed again how little the 'throne room' had changed in the intervening years. His mother's redecorating skills had not been allowed to breach this sacred space. The same heavy red curtains covered the floor to ceiling windows. The same dark desk, on a riser several carpeted steps above everyone and everything else in the room. And the same man stood behind it, commanding everything. Loki's eyes slid past Heimdall, his father's right hand man, who was keeping his constant watch beside Odin.
"Ah, Loki," Odin greeted, looking up from the computer in front of him, the eye patch Loki had never seen him without covering one eye. He gestured at the screen, "Have you seen Thor's latest fight?" Loki approached and leaned over the desk, recognizing his brother's blonde hair pass across the screen as he speared his opponent into some fencing. "He won us a lot of money last night." Thor's focus this week seemed to be illegal sport and gambling, but that would inevitably change soon.
Loki winced, "You mean that bareknuckle boxing ring he rigged up in the basement? Really, father, is that the business we're in now?"
Trafficking, racketeering, counterfeiting, that was their business. The proceeds from these various enterprises going on to generate further wealth. Loki's specialty? Tax evasion and money laundering, things that required brains. And Odin, with Heimdall, oversaw all of it.
It was a neat little operation, if short-sighted in Loki's view. Fandral ran the prostitution ring, an unnecessary holdover from the 70's, Loki thought. Criminal industry was evolving, relegating familial enterprises to the footnotes. Pornography and arson were all well and good when Odin began his operation forty years ago. Having a few police chiefs in your pocket was great, but what good are they to you now if they're dropping from heart attacks or retiring to Florida? Nowadays you had to diversify into legitimate enterprises to keep the illegal ones funded. Otherwise you risk having one of your associates go straight and sell you out just to save their own hides. Asgard was at a crossroads. They could continue as they were, careful to stay small enough not to draw the attention of law outfits they couldn't bribe away, a big fish in a small pond. Or they could, like Loki often suggested, infiltrate every judicial, executive, and legislative board in the city. Finally know what it's like to have true power.
Loki nodded at the thick report sitting on the corner of his father's desk, where he'd left it several days ago. "Have you looked at my plans for expansion? We missed the boat on the mayoral election. But I believe there's some interesting things happening in City Hall that we could get in at the ground floor on."
"Hm? Oh, yes," Odin waved his hand through the air, his eyes never leaving the screen. He chuckled proudly at a kick-punch combo Thor landed. "Thorough. But unrealistic," he told Loki.
Loki cocked his head, as if he hadn't heard correctly. "Unrealistic?" His father ignored him, absorbed in the fight. Loki glanced at the computer and back at his father. "If I remember correctly, the last idea Thor contributed was for us to star in a reality tv show." Odin didn't respond and Loki's jaw clenched, "Speaking of, will my brother be joining us?"
Odin shook his head, reluctantly closing the video of his firstborn celebrating in the middle of the ring. But not before Loki saw his brother's wrapped hands being lifted in the air by Hogun, Asgard's weapons and drugs supplier. He kept the local youth gangs equipped and under their thumb. "It's not necessary he should be here."
Loki balked, "Considering he's the reason we're having this meeting in the first place, I disagree."
Odin regarded Loki for the first time since he'd entered the room. As most people who sought Odin's undivided attention found, when he did finally turn his unwavering gaze upon you, you wish he hadn't. "You and I are better equipped for this part of the business."
Loki raised his eyebrows, "You mean cleaning up Thor's messes?"
Odin emerged from behind the desk. He wore a brown suit with a gold and red tie, his signature regal colors. "Loki, someday," he clasped his hands behind him, "Thor will have to take over the business and run this family." He missed the darkening of Loki's eyes. "Until then, let him have his fun. He's young."
"I'm younger," Loki countered. He steepled his fingers against the desk, back to his father, trying to chose his words carefully, "If I was running..."
Odin spun on him, "Yes, but you're not, are you?" he barked. His cordial mood vanishing, which, Loki noted, had been happening more and more lately when they were together.
Loki's reply was interrupted by Sif, their head of security and intelligence gathering, at the door. Volstagg took information from her spying and used it, with some well-applied muscle, for extortion. "Laufey here to see you," she announced from the doorway. Odin motioned for her to show he man in and took his place in front of the desk. Loki, out of habit, moved to take his place on his father's left.
Loki kept his eyes locked on the entrance, "Father," he began again.
"That's enough, Loki," he growled. "If you do not want to do your job, I will find someone who will. Laufey," he greeted affably, calling to the man entering the room.
Where Odin was broad and white bearded. Laufey was tall and thin, cleanshaven and dark featured. He was flanked by two nameless, faceless men. The Laufeysons and the Odinsons had ruled over the city for half a century. They had shared a heyday together, fighting for territory, money, and power. Eventually, it was either cease the bloodshed or it would be the undoing of them both. Odin lost his eye around this time. But he'd never told anyone how it had happened and those who were present wouldn't breathe a word of it. As boys Loki and Thor liked to lay in their beds at night, trading fantastical war stories of what must have happened to injure the great man. So the two families had divided up the city and operated, not together, but beside one another for the next thirty plus years. A ceasefire which, two nights ago, had been broken by Thor.
"Odin," Laufey made a show of taking in the opulence of the room. "It's been many years since I stood in this room." His voice was low and measured, belying age old menace. "Heimdall," he acknowledged, "you still here, old man?"
"I am." His simple answer more than usual given the crowd.
"As much as I appreciated the tour given to me by the lovely Sif, I'm here for compensation." Laufey squared himself in front of them.
"For some roughhousing?" Odin asked. "Come, Laufey, he's a child. We were children once."
"As I understand it, he's 34 years old and heir to all this," he responded flatly. Loki's mouth tightened at yet another mention of his brother ruling over him one day. He relaxed his features when he saw Laufey studying him. "He's running an underground fighting and gambling ring in my territory, one of these events ended in the death of two of my men. What kind of precedent is that setting? If he can take liberties as an underling, what am I to expect when he has the whole of Asgard's resources behind him? Loki," he shocked everyone by addressing Odin's youngest, "you've always been the more reasonable son. I suspect you and I would run our business very similar," he surveyed Odin, "if given the chance."
"My son is in no position to alleviate you. You deal with me, Laufey." Odin had given up his feigned congeniality.
Laufey pivoted on his heels back to Odin, his features cold and hard, "Very well. I want twenty percent of your territory on the west side of the city. Including that land development project I know you've been eyeing."
Odin laughed at his outlandish request, "In the old days,"
"In the old days," Laufey interrupted, "I would have taken your son's life or declared an all-out war in retaliation. Do you prefer either of those two options? Because I do believe this truce we've so enjoyed over these past many years was your idea, not mine."
Odin was quiet. So quiet that Loki glanced over at him. Rarely had he seen him consider his options. Usually Odin's mind was made up before his opponent even entered the room. And everyone was Odin's opponent. He did not negotiate. And adversary may leave the room, thinking he had gained something, but only if that belief would help Odin later. No one ever left Odin's office with any more than he had not already decided to give. "Twenty percent of the west side and you can have the land," he relinquished.
"Deal," Laufey affirmed. "And I'll ask this of you once and only once, Odin. Reign in your heir, or I will."
"Loki, show them out," Odin answered, disgust tinged his voice. He spun and walked back behind his desk.
Glued to the spot in shock, Loki hesitated before shaking his head. Stalking across the room, he wrenched open the door. Laufey stayed where he was and glanced from Odin to Loki and back. Finally he shrugged, and turned to exit the room, his men trailing behind him. He halted in front of Loki, waiting until Loki met his eyes. "You look like your mother," he told him.
Loki met his stare, "I don't look anything like my mother," he retorted, because it was true. His brother was the one who had inherited his mother's golden tones.
Laufey continued to scrutinize him. He leaned in, murmuring, "Do you really belong here, Loki?" he glanced back at Odin and Heimdall, "With these people?" Loki searched his face for meaning. "You know this family could be so much more. YOU could be so much more." Loki was startled to hear his own thoughts confirmed by a relative stranger. Laufey smiled, his desired effect reached.
"Laufey," Odin barked, causing Loki to blink hard, the spell broken. Laufey stood back to his full height. He flicked a business card out of his sleeve, offering it to Loki. Loki peered at the card, a spark of curiosity flared behind his eyes before he corrected himself. He resumed staring away disinterestedly into the distance.
Laufey laughed, "You're loyalty is impressive, boy," He reached out to Loki, who took a defensive step back. Laufey held up his hands to show he meant no harm, then placed the business card in the outer pocket of Loki's suit. "When you feel like doing some real business," he said, and strode out of the room.
Loki watched them disappear down the hallway and onto an elevator. He kept his back to his father. Reaching into his pocket he took out the card. Flipping it over, scrawled in quick cursive was a date, time, and the name of a bar in Laufey's territory.
"What is it?" Odin hollered when he noticed his son fumbling with the paper.
He contemplated his father, thumbing the cardstock. "Nothing," he replied, ripping up the card and tossing it into the wastebasket as he left the room.
Jane walked down the long white hospital corridor, sneakers squeaking on the waxed floor. Her brown hair hung down the shoulders of her well worn blue scrubs. She took a long sip of her coffee, plenty of sugar - her third of that evening's shift. While she walked she pulled her phone out of her white coat. The building was so familiar to her, she didn't need to look up as she maneuvered the hallways and the people of the hospital. Jane pulled up her messages to send a quick text to Darcy.
She wouldn't be able to make it tonight, not that Darcy should be surprised. Darcy was always trying to get Jane to "come out" with her. "Coming out" usually meant a few nondescript bars, even more unremarkable men, and far too many fruity drinks. Their evenings out usually ended with Jane pulling the plug on the night early, either because she had to work at some odd hour the next day or to get some work done back at their apartment. Sometimes Darcy came with her, sometimes she stayed out well after Jane went to bed. Sometimes Darcy was home when Jane woke up the next morning and regaled her with tales of all the fun she'd missed, sometimes Darcy still hadn't come home from the night before, and sometimes a guy Jane had never met before was sitting in their kitchen, eating her cereal.
Yes, Darcy thought she should go out more than she was. But if Jane was being honest with herself, she thought Darcy should stay home more often than she was. What exactly did she get out playing Russian roulette with her life? The places she tended to hang out at, the people she associated with, all questionable. Jane knew because she saw them and their type wheeled into her ER on a regular basis for everything from broken bones to party drugs. And the last thing she wanted was the woman she thought of as a sister being one of them … or never making it to the hospital at all.
Sure Jane wasn't exactly lighting the world on fire socially, as Darcy liked to point out, but she enjoyed her work. Yes, she didn't get half of Darcy's references because she fell asleep halfway through any movie they watched. Yes, she had not been on a date in … well, a while. Yes, she lived off of mostly the aforementioned cereal eaten out of the same white bowl. The latter of which, Darcy assured her, could be alleviated by saying yes to some of the men who asked her out.
"Good god woman, if you can't feed yourself at least let someone else take a crack at it! You know guys are required to feed you on a date, like, that's part of the deal. Do you think I actually like half the guys I go out with? I'm running a money saving operation here!" This Darcy had told her while gesturing to the one night stand sitting at their breakfast nook.
But to Jane, any bowl of cereal or hospital cafeteria meal was usually preferable to taking time away from her work as a tired but happy resident in emergency surgery. She glanced down at her all too familiar uniform. Well, it would feel good to put on some normal clothes. Maybe she should take Darcy's advice. Maybe she should shake it up a little bit. It's only one evening out of her life. Maybe she should go out tonight. She'd call it a night before things got too out of control. Like she normally did. Nothing had to change. Jane smiled and her thumb slid over the backspace to revise her original text, suddenly energized.
"Plan Blue," the announcement came in over the intercom. It was their hospital's code to alert the surgeon on call to go immediately to the ER entrance. A patient injured so critically they couldn't spare the stop in the ER for evaluation needed to be taken for immediate surgery.
On second thought ….
Deflated, Jane hit send on her message to Darcy, tossed her coffee into the trash, and jogged the rest of the way down the corridor.
Jane threw her hair back in a ponytail, put on a surgical gown and mask, and joined the other doctors, nurses, and technicians in the OR. Jane nodded at Dr. Selvig, her mentor and attending physician, who stood across from her in his scrubs, waiting for the gurney to be rolled in. When the stretcher was pushed between the line of awaiting physicians, the team descended seamlessly in well-rehearsed formation. One member took over CPR. The anesthesiologist monitored the patient's vital signs. The patient's shirt was already cut open to reveal his injuries. The team called out their assessment.
"Male, multiple stab and gunshot wounds."
"Blood in the airways."
"Right lung may be punctured."
"Significant blood loss, hypothermia evident."
Despite their best efforts to stave off further blood loss and stabilize the man, 20 minutes later it was evident they were too late. The blood loss and internal injuries were far too great.
"Call it, Dr. Foster," Erik requested.
Jane glimpsed at the clock on the wall, then down at the man in front of her. With his gray hair and beard, he could be someone's favorite grandpa. One of his eyes was completely scarred over, a very old wound. Possibly from a war he had fought in as an idealistic young man. To survive seventy-some years in this world, just to die in such a horrific way…. Regardless of how this man lived his life, working in a hospital quickly taught you that tragedy befalls the careful just as much as those who court trouble. Though she had yet to learn how to be numb to it. Jane pulled off her gloves, "Time of death 11:28pm."
"Make sure the police are notified immediately," Erik ordered. "I recognize this man. They're going to be interested in this."
