Asgard – Months later
The once Loki of Asgard would have found amusement in the tales and exploits set by the Norns, especially when it highlights the ironic yet moral lessons of the day. Wherein most Aesir would find adventure, justice, and honor in these fables, the trickster would see them for what they were: the ultimate manipulation by beings with much greater power. These so-called fates spinning their stories of entrapment to ensnare the witless hero in pitting his might against an ill-favored foe. Always a monster, verbally painted in gore and tainted with evil so foul one would think they were motherless creatures sprung from the void.
He'd seen the void. Or rather, felt its confining vast darkness to the bones. There were no such creatures. Adrift as he was, utter silence pervades one's senses. Always falling; seeing nothing; hearing nothing; feeling nothing. Time, meant nothing.
It was night and day compared to the Isle of Silence. Loki had realized now how lenient Odin Once-father was in his sentencing from his youthful days. His past punishments felt trivial compared to that vast expanse. In some ways, Loki preferred the void to this. At least in that, pain meant little when one is void of everything.
Make no mistake. Loki did not regret the words he spewed before the Norns. He is no hero for them to cast in their play. Were he to pen their asinine rhetoric now, he would end their script with this:
Let thy quest expire and rot,
For Loki of No-Realm cares not one jot.
The Norns always did have a sense of humor.
Not even an hour later, the first brand to appear on Loki's left wrist seared with such intensity, it wrench a ear-splitting scream from the trickster that reverberated throughout Asgard's dungeon. Nearby, a pair of patrolling guards' step faltered before they soon rushed to the second Prince's cell block to investigate as other prisoners close by clamored as near as their barrier would allow spying for themselves. What they found would cause any less seasoned warrior, notorious or otherwise, to retch at the sight of his blue flesh melting away.
Still no one took action as they gawk either in shock or in fear as such a gruesome scene unfolds. Barely recovering his composure did a second brand seared at the Prince's neck. The cracked scream that tore from him sent even chills down the cruelest of prisoners who heard it. There were more than a few who wish to unheard such terror. And those who could bear no witness began circulating rumors of torture being implemented as they speak. Even the few guards posted at the closest entrance came to investigate. They too were stun into silence, though one who had fell for the trickster's schemes in years past grew wary at the picture painted before him.
It wasn't until the third brand manifested sight unseen beneath the Prince's clothes accompanied by his silent scream did one of the guard heeded action.
"Send for a healer! Make haste! Make haste! The Queen must hear of this!"
Waverly, Iowa – 1:23 PM
If one were to ask any agent worth his salt, Clint Barton's idea of a safe house would not meet S.H.I.E.L.D. standards. Despite the measures he took to deflect and scramble any type of surveillance by living off the grid and creating a dead zone perimeter around his homestead, the simple fact that he included his family in the vicinity made it all the more dangerous to implement. However, to Clint, his farm isn't just a regular safe house, it was his safe haven. It was a place for him to leave the life of an agent outside the perimeter and be the dad to his kids and the husband to his wife.
It was what he wanted with Nat all those years ago, long before the Avengers, Prague or Budapest. Their torrid love affair ended as quickly as it began. They were kindred spirit who sought different endings. Clint wanted a family, while Natasha… she never did answer him. These days, Clint opted to stay away until S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers have need of his particular skill sets. As for Natasha, her teaming up with Captain America himself should prove interesting to say the least.
For now though, his idle thoughts would have to wait. The woods wouldn't chop themselves as his wife reminds him of his honey-do list every time Clint has an extended leave of absence.
"Huh— here ya— you ga— go, dad."
Cooper scrambles to carry the heavy chunk of wood towards the chopping block for him. His son's developing muscles struggled with a bit of effort, mindful of dropping it on his toes. The last one attempt had been a near miss. At the last few steps, Cooper practically half tosses and half drops the wood block down.
Clint witnessed all this while trying not to smile like a loon as he unbuttons the cuffs of his flannel shirt and folds it up. Upon finishing, he reached out to rough up his son's short hair with affection before commenting, "Not bad, kid. Not bad."
In all seriousness, Cooper grabbed his dad's hand to push it away. His cheeks puffing up with self-indignation, "It's nothing. That was the smallest one. The next one will be way big—woah! Cool tattoo, dad! Let me see, let me see!"
Clint didn't know what his son was babbling about. A tattoo in his line of business would be too noticeable. It must have been an imprint or dirt from something he worked on earlier in the barn. However, he couldn't even get his hands back to have a look for himself. Cooper had grabbed both of them with his soft pudgy hands, inspecting every which way.
After a minute or two, the requisite amount of time to indulge his son, Clint gently pries his son's hands away then shakes his head while saying, "It's probably noth—what the fuh—! Uh, yeah. Hey, Cooper. I heard your mom calling, why don't you go see what she wants."
"But… I didn't hear any—"
"Just go, Cooper. Please?"
Clint heard his son mumbling something under his breath when he left. He would have chided the poor boy except his attention was still caught on the mysterious black mark scratched on the inside of his left wrist. It was about three by two inches in length and width. He tried rubbing it off with his other hand, not even a smudge. After a few attempts with a bit of saliva and shirttail later, he gives up in favor of inspecting it instead. Under direct sunlight, at a certain angle, Clint notices that it wasn't even black, but a shade of green. Then, when he traces the pattern with a finger, gold shimmers at its wake.
"Ah fuck."
And instantly regrets the suspicious connection his memories just made.
Brooklyn, New York – 2:34 PM
"My work for S.H.I.E.L.D. has taken me all over the world...and that is, without a doubt, not just the best milk shake in Brooklyn...but on the whole darn planet," declares Natasha Romanoff after she licks the last bit of cream from the end of her straw.
Sitting across from her on the other side of the booth, Steve Rogers, America's golden boy and a Brooklyn native only grins and offers, "If you like that, their apple pie is even better."
Her eyes slid to half-mast as she sights their target from the corner before responding with a flirtatious smirk, "Don't tempt me. If I can't chase after our detail because I'm too full, you can debrief Fury on why we failed without me."
Upon seeing her subtle signal on the table he turns around and flashes the nearest waiter down and negotiates instead, "Why don't l order a slice and you can have a taste. But I warn you, one bite only."
When their detail arrives wearing a pair of glasses they hadn't seen him wore before, they both smiled brightly at the hidden camera.
Natasha presses back in her seat and decides to up the ante, "Give me half and I'll raise you another chocolate milk shake."
Steve accepts her raise of the pot with a nod and places his order to the overly sweaty waiter who's clenching his pen and notepad a tad too tightly, "A slice of apple pie and another chocolate milk shake, please."
The nervous waiter scribbles something down and made to leave. Natasha tracks their detail back to the kitchen and sees the waiter talking hurriedly on his phone as he passes through the storage door.
Smiling sweetly beforehand, Natasha conveys her wager quietly, "I'd say we give him a five minutes delay before we hightail out of here."
"No apple pie?" He didn't sound too disappointed.
"Maybe later."
After dropping a couple of tens on the table, they both walked out the diner with Natasha looping her arm through Steve's. It wasn't until they were a block down the sidewalk that her phone rings.
Spying the caller ID, Natasha casually leans her head on Steve's shoulder and answers the call in a hush voice, "Not now Clint, we're currently baiting a trap. What's up?"
"I'll make it quick then, have you notice any weird tattoos on your body lately?"
It was a testament to the Black Widow's professionalism that she took the non sequitur in stride while she whispers literally sweet nothing in Steve Roger's ear as he immediately changes course to a discrete alley two blocks down.
"Can't say I have. How recent?"
"Oh, a little over ten minutes ago."
Looking both ways, Steve takes a hold of her hand as they cross the street. Five others follow suit. Natasha smiles at Steve and continues her conversation.
"Is it contagious?"
"Let's say it appeared like magic."
Her steps only pause for a split second before they continue to carry her to the target area.
"I'll call you back."
"Happy hunting."
Drawing near to the mouth of the alley, Natasha drew Steve's head down and moves in as if she's brushing a kiss on his neck before dragging him into the alley.
To the five onlookers following them, their luck couldn't have been better. Taking out both Captain America and the Black Widow with their civilian pants down, caught unaware would definitely put the Cadre Group on the map as far as mercenaries go. Armed and ready, they rush into the alley with the element of surprise.
And didn't know what hit them.
Steve's round shield knocked out the first gunman and bounced off the chest of another, sending the assailant back landing amongst a pile of black garbage bags. Upon catching his shield two more dropped to the ground after having a taste of the Widow's bite, not before they suffered a few blows to the chest and groin.
When both rounded their attention to the last gunman, the nervous waiter at the restaurant no less had his gun wavering on both of them. Natasha couldn't help but rolled her eyes. Steve however took the matter quite seriously.
"Son, either shoot at one of us now and have the other knock you down or surrender quietly and tell us where Dr. Sana Armanat is. You're call."
The waiter didn't wait to be told twice. He dropped the gun and raised both hands above his head.
After successfully extracting the Nobel Prize winning professor from the Cadre Group and dismantling their headquarters with a group of S.H.I.E.L.D agents lead by Brock Rumlow, Steve and Natasha returned to the diner. As they split a slice of apple pie and a large chocolate milk shake, Steve politely follows up on Natasha's earlier conversation with Clint Barton. The one sided snippet of conversation he overheard did make him curious though Steve rather not pry.
"So how's Mr. Barton doing these days? Is he okay?"
As fiercely as she took down the mercenaries earlier, Natasha didn't relent her prize until all the apple pie was devoured. Steve didn't even put a fork in to intercept, fearing her wrath. It was only when she drop the utensil down on the empty plate did she deem to respond.
"He said he caught something. And it's contagious apparently."
Her expression didn't correlate with her deadpan delivery; Steve didn't know what to make of it.
"Um, I hope he's okay."
Then she tilted her head to the side and eyed his neck with a sudden sharp interest.
"You should worry about yourself. Steve, you have half an arrow mark on your neck."
"What!?"