disclaimer: Marvel Comic charactes are still Marvel's. President Jimmy Dale is from the movie "Mars Attacks", his speech also liftet there.

suggested music: "In my Sword I Trust" by Ensiferum; "Ja Volim te Jos" from the Black Cat White Cat soundtrack


Meanwhile in Washington DC, Darcy Lewis, White House intern, had just finished her shift, serving coffee to the gaggle of scientists president Dale was to interview about SHIELD's new project for some wormhole bridge or whatnot. Who cared? Associating with nerds was a bad career move, always.

Besides, they were either dull and boring (What self-respecting woman would be seen in public unstyled like that mousy Dr Foster?), or plain ridiculous.

Another minute of Dr Don Blake's blather about aliens, and she would have bent over laughing her guts out. „We know they're extremely advanced technologically, which suggests - very rightfully so - that they're peaceful. An advanced civilization, by definition, is not barbaric." Snort. Any student of politics knew better.

And that Selvig man from Tønsberg, Finland (or was it Denmark, or Hungary?), with his so-called archeological finds from outer space? No, better never to be in connection with such weirdos, thank you very much.

The weather outside was abominable, dark clouds swirling, maybe a very early blizzard in the making. The young woman drew her hood tighter and hurried across the grounds. Lightning struck nearby. Darcy Lewis was flung through the air, half-stunned, breath knocked out of her. When she stumbled to her feet, a blond beefcake dressed for Comic Con advanced towards her.

„Kneel, mortals! I am prince Thor of Asgard, and I have come burdened with glorious purpose."

Security were running towards them already, but Darcy was a tough girl. She zapped him with her tazer. The wacko laughed and zapped her back with lightning.

Darcy Lewis was no more.


In Doomheim, Transdacia, SHIELD agent Natasha Romanoff retired to her carefully debugged hotel room, closed the shutters and the drapes, and received the urgent call on her custom-made ShieldPhone (no Stark Industries components built in). Her attempts at gathering intelligence about Victor von Doom's plans in neighbouring Latveria had not been fruitful so far, so Fury yelling a bit at her was to be expected.

In came instead a live feed from SHIELD's webcam on board Airforce 1. Agent Coulson was trying to calm down the First Lady, who kept crying „Oh my god, they killed Darcy!".

Dr Blake from SHIELD's astrophysics department was sitting with the president, his young assistant (Forrest? Fothergill? Foster?) with an older man whom Natasha did not recognize, grilling him about „Asgard", „Odin" and „Valhalla". What? The White House was under attack, and these people were discussing fairytales for children? They surely weren't attacked by the Baba Yaga, were they? Next, they'd get to that fertility god with the too short hammer handle who wore drag and got his wife screwed by his uncle.

Something heavy landed on the airplane with a thunk. Lightning flashed by the windows, and the aircraft rolled in turbulences. Then, something ripped the roof right off. Dr Blake and some security people who also had unbuckled their seatbelts were sucked out into the atmosphere, flailing and screaming. A blond man with billowing red cape was walking the aisle towards the president's seat, deflecting bullets with his … hammer?

Natasha sat back and fished blindly for her emergency vodka bottle, eyes glued to the display.

She had to give president Dale credit – the man had guts. He was now speaking, performing as if on stage, with feeling, gestures and just the right timbre:

Why are you doing this? Isn't the universe big enough for both of us? What is wrong with you guy? We can work together. Why be enemies? Cause we're different? Is that why? Think of the things we could do. Think how strong we could be. Earth and Asgard, together. There is nothing that we could not accomplish. Think about it! Think about it. Why destroy, when you can create? We can have it all – or we can smash it all. Why can't we forget our differences? Why can't we work things out? Thor of Asgard – why can't we all just get along?"

It even seemed to work. The blond giant hesitated.

Then, through the open roof, Natasha saw Clint's quinjet catching up, and from the left, Stark in his suit flew in, carrying Bruce Banner in his arms. Static buzz, and then the camera went off.


Loki read about his brother's quarrels in the newspaper the next day, on page 2 of international news, page 14 in total, well behind topics of more interest to the locals:

The town mayor had, after major protests, twice being beaten up by unknown assailants at night on his way home from a bar, and finding his car's tyres flattened, rescinded plans to charge fees for the public open air bath in the abandoned power plant's building pit.

Doomheim airport had been closed for a few hours, when a sniffer dog trained on explosives had made a racket at some suitcase, which proved to contain home-made black pudding. The reporter called this an entertaining diversion from the usual reasons for shut-down: power-outages and drunken pilots. Loki was glad he could teleport.

Several people had been injured by gunshots fired into the air at a wedding, leading to an editorial about the sorry state of the healthcare system since so many qualified personnel left to make more money in rich countries like Italy or Canada after studying at taxpayers' expense.

Transdacia's national soccer team had missed qualification for World Championship – again – and fired the coach.

The European Union had lowered permissible levels of mycotoxins in maize for animal fodder. A blow to exporters of maize, of course, but possible boost to domestic swine fattening farmers now able to buy cheaply. (And the 'toxic' part of it? Oh well, the mortals would know what they could take.)

A German merchant was plannning to open supermarkets in Doomheim, Doomhausen and possibly also in Doomnitz.

A flutist (?) had leaked secret documents suggesting that an organization named SHIELD was spying on everyone through cameras, by monitoring e-mail conversations, and other similar means. (That was worth looking into, Loki thought. Heimdall was a bit too powerful for his tastes; an alternative might come in handy one day.)

Princess Victoria of Latveria had been seen dancing with prince Harry of England in a club in London. (So some distant nephew was named Harry? Not the crown prince though, that would have been noted, so there must be at least one older brother. He'd have to read up on them, just in case this relative should marry to the throne of a country bordering on his own.)

The minister-president of Transdacia had apparently outperformed at bear-hunting once again and gotten a half-page picture for that, posing bare-chested with a hunting rifle.

A local businessman – incidentally the minister-president's brother in law – was to appear in court for causing a fish kill in a nearby nature reserve by dumping toxic waste in the lake there. The process was now being stalled by the prosecutor's apparent suicide, after two key witnesses had died in a car crash.

The national symphonic orchestra were on strike after not having been paid for three consecutive months.

Latveria had been disqualified from the Eurovision Song Contest for sending a singing robot. This should, supposedly, give team Transdacia a real chance, provided the Russian grandmothers would die of old age, the Fins got heatstrokes in their monster costumes, the Norwegian guy got into his puberty vocal change, and nobody understood the Transdacian text.

Two houses had caught fire from inhabitants smoking in their beds; the interior minister's niece had been elected queen of the harvest festival in her home village; a local businessman with the same family name as the fishkiller was going to sponsor the tractor race come saturday; the city was hiring a new dog-catcher; fasting two days per week could apparently help you slim down (Who would have thought?), and lady Donata the astrologist promised this was the best time of year to go out and make life-changing decisions.

What an eventful place, Loki mused. So unlike Asgard, where you had to travel to other realms once bilgesnipe-hunting and listening to Bragi's singing had lost their entertainment value.

Asgard, where Thor probably was now, if Heimdall had acted swiftly and beamed him up again. The newspaper article stated there was talk of an alien invasion, but suggested that in fact the US president's aircraft had disintegrated due to poor engineering („Nothing like the good old Tupolev"), which his people were too embarrassed to admit, and the attacker was a made-up cover story.

However, Loki concluded this was not the time to propose official diplomatic talks between Midgard and Asgard, and he'd better not mention his heritage to anyone. For more comprehensive information, he returned to the internet café and did a search. (He sorely needed to catch up on tech in any case, he noted. At least electronic devices responded to magic, and that helped a bit.)

Some hours of reviewing shaky video footage and facepalming later, the god decided it was time to acquire a false human identitiy and a fitting place of residence. That abandoned physics institute might do. It was as ugly as all the soviet-style concrete buildings, but in relatively good shape, probably due to some residual magic wards. If he could enhance those, it all might come in handy.