A/N: By the way... thank y'all so much for the reviews and favs. This is my first fic for this fandom (and second one ever) so it seriously inspires me. Love to hear what you're thinking. Gives me a fresh perspective, which is sometimes lost when rereading my own work again and again.


XV

She asked him his name but he cannot recall. If he did not press too hard, the shape began to form in his mouth – L – L – but it was lost.

He hated when she spoke. The sound grated on him, too loud, like screaming in his ear. The shock and pain made him flinch when she opened her mouth. The woman – for it was a woman who lived in the boxy white shack – was elderly and frail. Her deeply lined face crinkled further when she looked at him, lips pursed in a moue of concern.

The sheet she placed over him was infuriatingly scratchy. He continually shoved it off, shuddering at the feeling of the fabric on his bare skin. The woman quickly learned to keep the lights dimmed. His eyes watered incessantly even at the meager rays edging in through the thick drapes covering the window.

When she brought him a meal, no more than fragrant broth, he'd retched at the smell. Its cloying scent coated his tongue and throat, the insides of his nose. After he'd finished coughing up bile, he'd glanced up at her sympathetic expression and abruptly felt the urge to crush her skull under his fingers. Slash at her throat with his nails. Rip her hair from her scalp. The furious, towering rage caught him completely by surprise, and dissipated as swiftly as it came.

But it lurked, simmering beneath his skin for days. He couldn't determine the source. It swelled and receded like a poisonous tide. The periods of recession found him weak and shaking, a nebulous sense of despair blooming in his chest, tears clogging his throat. His strength returned with each wave of fury, as did the black urge to destroy, to hurt someone, or if there was no target for his ire, to hurt himself.

The woman caught him clawing at his arms and face one night when he'd woken from a tormented sleep. He'd dreamt of a man raging at him, pummeling him with a great silver hammer. He'd begged for mercy, pleaded with him, stared into blue eyes – but the hammer had come down in a graceful arc and collided with his stomach, sending splintering pain through his very bones.

She restrained his arms and he was weak enough to comply. Murmuring softly, she'd stroked his hair back from his forehead. The gesture struck some chord within him, and he'd begun to sob.

"Please – forgive me—" The breath rattled in his lungs, searing and agonizing. "Please – brother – "

"Shh, sweetheart. S'all gonna be alright now. Don't you worry. Shh…"

For once, her touch did not rub him raw. He'd fallen back into an uneasy sleep. The faintest light of morning a few hours later roused him. He blinked up at the yellowed, peeling ceiling and pictured the visage of the man from his dream. Even twisted with rage, his features had been broad and handsome, his blond hair a storm-tangled mane crowning his head. Eyes crackling with electric blue fire.

Thor. The name came from nowhere. Somehow, it seemed fitting that he remembered this man before even his own name. A surge of familiar bitterness clawed up his throat.

He lay there for the rest of the day, the hidden sun dwindling to evening in his lethargy. The woman came in and coaxed him to drink some water, though she did not attempt broth again just yet.

When night had fallen in truth, he levered himself up from the bed. He crossed the several steps to the window achingly slow, his legs shaking with his weight. The curtain parted under his fingers and he stared at the unfamiliar starry firmament.

The certainty had been coalescing within his mind in the interminable hours since his dream. The reality of his identity bowed his shoulders, the remembrance like putting on a heavy cloak woven of resentment, hatred, and suffocating misery.

I am Loki, he thought, and felt the urge once more to claw at his face. Liesmith. Trickster. Disfavored prince. Blood of giants, son of none. False king. Betrayer.

Monster.


XVI

Lukas watches the two scientists flit around the room, chirping to each other like little sparrows. No one had seen fit to escort him out of the building yet, so he takes the opportunity to observe his surroundings and the august personnel in the employ of S.H.I.E.L.D.

"Fitz, will you stop touching the jaw!"

"Why? It helps me think. Look, Jemma, I'm like Hamlet!" The curly-headed young man holds a long black jawbone, complete with slender sharp teeth, out in one palm, thrusting it up to the ceiling. "Wherefore art thou, Romeo!"

"That's not Hamlet," Agent Simmons replies.

"Well, no. But I don't recall any lines from Hamlet."

"To be or not to be?"

"That's Hamlet? I thought that was King Lear."

"Are you having me on? That line is perhaps one of the most famous—"

His phone chimes, interrupting their spat. They both spin towards him with sheepish expressions. Simmons blushes. "I forgot you were here."

"Don't mind me," he says with a smirk. "I'll take this over here and you can continue your… discussion." He steps away and answers.

"Lukas Eld speaking." He manfully resists the urge to greet the caller with 'Sup', as Caroline had tried to convince him was appropriate cell phone etiquette.

"Hello, Lukas."

Raina's appealingly smooth voice sounds in his ear. He had been wondering when she would contact him again. He drifts away from the two bickering S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. "What a pleasant surprise."

"I was hoping we could continue our chat. I believe you'll be most satisfied with my counterproposal," Raina says.

"Indeed?" he asks mildly. "Your employer agreed to my conditions?"

"With a few minor changes."

"Minor from your perspective or mine? I shall be most offended if you think I cannot tell a genuine Rolex from the replications sold by that most obliging man under the bridge next to my hotel."

There is a hint of suppressed laughter in Raina's tone. "I don't doubt your keen eye for quality. The only changes proposed concern your hourly consulting rate."

"Hmm. And you anticipate I will agree to these changes?"

"Of course. They are minor, as I said. And a small compromise compared to the exclusive chance to study an artifact your fellow academics would salivate over."

The renewed interest in his voice is audible. "Oh?" Raina is finally coming to the true reason for contracting his expertise.

"Something truly ancient. An object straight from the pages of your mythology," Raina confirms softly, persuasively.

The ring – there is no doubt. "When might I see this legendary object with my own eyes?"

"How about we meet tonight to finalize our partnership?" She doesn't wait for him to answer. "Nine pm. 409 Jacqueline Street. I'll open up a 1961 merlot and you can study the artifact at your leisure."

Lukas calculates for a moment – there is not much he can do for S.H.I.E.L.D. at this juncture, other than wait for news. He is not a member of the ranks of their warriors – their agents. Likely he can excuse himself without undue attention.

There is not much to be said but yes. "Splendid. It's a date."

"Then I look forward to seeing you again, Lukas," Raina purrs, her voice warm and low.

Lukas disconnects the call and drifts back to the laboratory bench, still pondering Raina's words. She seems quite serious about retaining him as a consultant. If he can wheedle his way into her confidence, convince her to allow him to study the ring directly, under his own supervision… then what? Steal the ring? Relinquish it to S.H.I.E.L.D.? He doesn't trust the mortals with such a powerful magic artifact. Take it for himself? What use has a liar for a truth-telling ring?

Simmons interrupts his indecisive internal monologue. "I love your phone!"

He glances down and sees the sleek touch-screen cell and its rosy outer skin, still in his hand. Fitz raises an eyebrow as Simmons gushes. "I just think it's absolutely wonderful that you don't subscribe to that stereotypical gendered nonsense."

Lukas shrugs. "The color is pleasing."

Fitz blinks. "It's pink."

Simmons shoots him a disapproving look. "The notion that only one biological gender can appreciate a color is rubbish." She crosses her arms over her chest. "I find that most men who are so bothered by associating with pink are not secure in their masculine identity," she continues pointedly.

Fitz scrambles to his feet. "Are too!" Simmons just makes a disbelieving noise in the back of her throat and Lukas feels a surge of amusement from observing the antics of the pair.

The curly-headed scientist sets the black jawbone on the laboratory bench to better argue his case. Lukas doesn't hear any more of their exchange, for he notices the rest of the skull once attached to the lower jaw, set up nearby under a lighted surface and magnifying glass. Something about the shape of it nags at him, vaguely familiar. He reaches out and lightly traces the eye sockets, set deep in either side of the face and ridged with bone. Now that he sees either half of the jaw together, he thinks perhaps whatever beast unwillingly donated this skeleton must have been able to spread its mouth unimaginably wide, like a serpent. The lower jaw is in two parts, unconnected at the front.

The serrated edge of one black fang catches the tip of his finger, drawing a dot of blood. Lukas stares. To cut his skin… the edge must be incredibly sharp. He peers more closely at the fang. There is a groove running down the center, the barbs of the serrated edge run only along the side of the fang facing the interior of the beast's throat.

The sense of familiarity resurges. Simmons and Fitz reappear at his side before he can pinpoint what exactly is causing it.

"Cool, isn't it?" Fitz says reverently.

"I performed the necropsy myself," Simmons adds. "Couldn't tell you much about its biology… but I decided to deflesh and keep the skeletal remains along with the tissue samples." She shrugs. "It could tell us more."

"What is it?" Lukas asks.

Fitz and Simmons exchange a glance. The woman bites her lip. "I'm not sure how much I can say about when or where S.H.I.E.L.D. encountered it," she confesses. "But I think I can admit I have no clue what it is."

"Alien," Fitz whispers. "All scaled and ferocious. So creepy, right?"

Lukas resists the urge to jerk back. Alien. How? What manner of beast… he glances back at the fang and abruptly realizes where he has seen its like.

A lifetime ago, in a famous dagger fashioned from the fang of a shadow beast from Niflheim, brought back as a trophy by Fálki. Th- someone vowing to undertake the same quest when he came of age, and promising to return with the whole skull to provide daggers for all his friends and his brother.

By Hela's freezing teats, how did a shadow beast travel to Midgard from Niflheim?

The smooth feel of bone under his fingertips unsettles him, provoking some enigmatic instinct. This creature does not belong in this realm – its presence is deeply unnatural.

This conundrum threatens to put both the Ring of Andvari and the Tesseract far from his mind. He knows with sudden certainty this obscure beast is of utmost importance.

But Coulson pops his head through the open door and summons them with a few words – "One of the doctors is missing. Get up to the situation room."

Fitz and Simmons scatter, quickly gathering folders and tablets, before ushering him out, leaving the mysterious skull behind. Lukas forces himself to refocus on the Ring, the more immediate difficulty.

Coulson is grim and serious when they arrive. He stands near a screen similar to the one Lukas observed in the conference room during his first meeting, but larger. This room is not wood-paneled and comfortable; it is efficient and clean, with a sizable black table surrounded by many chairs. Before each chair, embedded in the gleaming surface, is a miniature screen for its occupant to manipulate separately from the larger one on the wall. As he takes his seat next to Simmons, she logs in to hers, pulling up several documents and scanning the words rapidly.

Agent May paces across from him in front of a bank of windows displaying the buttery yellow, late afternoon light. There are two new agents seated on the other side of the table. The dark-haired man reclines with a confident poise, his gaze sharp and assessing. The young woman beside him fidgets, looking unsure of her welcome. She is comely in a relaxed, approachable sort of way.

She notices his scrutiny and gives him an awkward wave. "Uh, hey. I'm Skye. New girl. You mighta heard about me."

"Lukas Eld," he responds genially. "And no. I'm new as well. Recently hired on as a consultant."

"Cool. Glad I'm not the only one," she says with a friendly smile. The man at her side flicks a glance at Lukas but doesn't introduce himself.

Roberts hurries in and closes the door behind her. Coulson clicks the screen on, displaying another picture, this one a far cry from the balding and pudgy Agent Morris.

A middle-aged woman, with sleek dark hair and eyes and a narrow, tanned face only lightly lined. Unsmiling, serious, but beautiful. Coulson gestures to her. "Dr. Maria Flagretti was last seen leaving the private S.H.I.E.L.D. medical clinic she manages in Miami last night at nine-forty-five p.m. She never arrived home to her husband and teenage son. They were just about to report her missing when we contacted them regarding her whereabouts. The husband swears she hasn't taken off, that this isn't typical behavior for her."

"A team has been dispatched in a quinjet to examine the scene and see if they can't locate Dr. Flagretti in Miami, but we've got to assume that if this is Centipede, they moved her as quickly as they could to one of their bases of operations." His lips press together tightly. "Unfortunately, we don't know where all of these bases are. We've only got solid intel on two of them, one in California and one in New York City."

"But if Raina snatched Agent Morris, that must mean she's got a base close, near Washington D.C." Roberts points out. "She took him, questioned him, and released him here in less than 24 hours. Morris said it was closer to 12, and he admitted he was unconscious for several of those and the questioning took a few more hours."

"New York's only four hours away by car," May argues. "It's possible Dr. Flagretti's at the base there."

"Possible," Coulson agrees. "But just as likely she's here in D.C. at an unknown location."

Simmons raises her hand at her side and holds it aloft and Lukas blinks at the odd gesture. Coulson nods at her and she speaks. "Not to interrupt, but can I ask why Raina would want Dr. Flagretti? If she works in Miami, how can Raina be sure she'll know anything about the serum or Captain America?"

Roberts fusses with her miniature screen, flicking her fingers across towards Simmons. Lukas sees a new document appear on Simmons' screen. "I just sent you Dr. Flagretti's file," Roberts says. "She only recently relocated to Miami to accept a position managing the clinic down there. Before, she worked in New York City, at the main S.H.I.E.L.D. medical research clinic. She's an oncologist by training, and she did treat several patients during her tenure there – including Agent Morris. But she also did research on telomeres and cellular repair mechanisms. She was part of the team trying to recreate the serum from Captain America's tissue samples and blood work."

"Trying to recreate the serum?" Simmons repeats hesitantly. Lukas sees a frown flicker over her lips and wonders at the source of her disquiet.

Coulson redirects the conversation and Lukas reminds himself to look into this serum more at a later date. "Dr. Flagretti is almost definitely in Centipede's custody. The problem is less why they chose her, and more where have they taken her?"

"It's about sixteen hours by car," May says. "Unless they flew, they're still an hour or two away – or if they chanced the possibility of being pulled over, they only just arrived in the city."

"They wouldn't fly," Roberts pipes up. "I don't think Centipede's got a bunch of private jets on their pay roll. They're a smaller organization than that. It'd be easier to transport a person discreetly by car."

Coulson taps his chin thoughtfully. "Still, we should check out any flight plans registered by private jets flying from Miami with a final destination in D.C." Roberts nods, clutching her tablet to her chest and tensing like she's going to leap from her seat to do just that when Coulson gives her leave. "As for the base in D.C.—"

Lukas considers the address Raina gave him. Is it her base of operations, or just a convenient meeting place? If he should tell S.H.I.E.L.D. and it turns out to be useless, he's just lost his advantage over Raina and Coulson both for nothing. Best not to risk it without strong confirmation Raina has the ring.

"I'm having Intel Analysis track down any places that fit the parameters Agent Morris provided during his debrief, or rented by any company or individuals even marginally associated with Centipede and its known employees. We've got them working on everything we have for Raina – last known locations, phone numbers, contacts. They'll dig something up."

"Meanwhile… I think we need to bring in the big guns."

Fitz timidly raises his hand. "I'm sorry, but what's that exactly?"

Coulson eyes them all. "I'm calling Captain America."

Simmons squeaks. Fitz spit out the sip of water he'd just taken from his bottle. Across the table, Lukas sees Skye's jaw drop. "Our big guns are- are Captain America? He's more like… like a really patriotic anti-aircraft missile," she says.

"I think Steve will be willing to help us." Coulson shrugs, though he looks oddly smug. This is the first time Lukas has heard anyone refer to the Captain with his first name, and suspects Coulson is inordinately pleased he is familiar enough to do so.

"What can Captain Rogers do that we can't?" May questions with a frown. "This isn't some operation where we need him to muscle in and destroy a base. He's not familiar with Centipede like he is Hydra."

"You're not giving him enough credit, May," Coulson argues. "Captain Rogers is smart, with a mind for tactics and personal experience with a few of the many attempts to recreate the serum. Plus… well, they are his medical records and history Centipede's trying to steal. Wouldn't you want to know?"

May concedes the point with only the subtlest change in expression. Coulson nods curtly and pulls out his phone, stepping into the hall.

"Oh – he meant like, now. Okay. Wow. Captain America is coming here," Skye babbles, a cross between nervous and excited.

Lukas is possessed of excellent hearing. So he hears the dark-haired man whisper to Agent May. "Calling him in will be just a waste of time. We need to focus on finding that base. Coulson's indulging his hero worship again."

May narrows her eyes. "That's not the reason he's bringing the Captain in and you know it, Ward. He thinks it'll help."

Ward's eyes flash but he doesn't argue again. Coulson steps back in the room. He pauses and holds a hand to his ear. Lukas can just see a little plastic device. His expression is intent, as if he is listening to something. A miniature cell phone? Why does he need two?

"It's Intel Analysis," he tells Agent May. "They say they've got –"

Coulson freezes. His face goes blank and still. Finally, he makes a noise of assent and taps the device in his ear twice.

"What is it?" May demands.

"They traced one of Raina's phone calls. The number we got for her in the last sting. Apparently, she must not know we tracked it to her. She's still using it." Coulson crosses to the table and leans on it heavily. "She made a call, about twenty minutes ago."

His gaze settles on Lukas, blue eyes cold as a glacier. And Lukas would know. He swallows very discreetly.

"A call to a phone registered to one Lukas Eld."

All eyes swivel to him.

Ah.