As the Doctor sits at the kitchen table, sipping slowly at a steaming cup of strong tea, life on the Powell Estate bustles around him. Jackie gets the washing in, puts another load in the machine, breaks the sink, fixes the sink, breaks it again, declares her intention to get a man in… The Doctor had walked in the door at nine o'clock on the dot, but Rose isn't awake yet – they'd been up all night, talking about the Cybermen, about the parallel universe they'd come home from.
And Mickey Smith, gone! The Doctor presses his lips together, his hands clasping the warmth of his mug. Rose had muttered, softly, that he had no family left in this universe – no family but Rose and Jackie, that is – but it's impossible to ignore the guilt entirely. Mickey's choice, of course, but the Doctor's error.
Rose hadn't finally drifted off to sleep until some time past three in the morning, and the Doctor had quietly sidled out, dropping off on the Tylers' living room sofa. Jackie had kicked him awake at some time past seven, and since, the Doctor has stayed in place, thinking about Mickey Smith, and the Cybermen, and the horror of a parallel universe, cut off from everything else.
"That new phone's coming out today," Jackie says, by way of conversation. The Doctor glances up from his tea, his train of thought abruptly stopped in his tracks, and he looks at Jackie's face. Her blue eyes are, as ever, a little wide, as if she's twice as concentrated on the conversation than the Doctor himself is.
"New phone?" the Doctor repeats, and she slides a magazine across the table. In the centre of the page, a young blond man sits on a throne-like chair, one of his legs crossed over the other and his chin rested on the heel of his hand. He wears a periwinkle suit and a white shirt, looking every bit like a blue sky, and his smile is confident. The headline declares, in bold type: A NEW TECH EMPIRE! Loki Svensson, Scandinavian tech wizard, tells us about his style, his upbringing, and Kuldeheim's latest release: the Isaz I! He flicks through the magazine, glancing over the glossy photograph of the Isaz I and its lacking specifications – this magazine is centred on personality more than tech. "This isn't a phone," he says quietly. "Technically, it's a tablet computer with telephone capability."
Jackie stares at him, blankly. "And what's the difference?"
"Processing power, mostly," the Doctor says. "As well as screen size, and—"
"Shut up," Jackie says. "Just read your magazine and drink your tea."
"Yes, Ma'am," the Doctor says mildly, and glances down to the magazine. Loki Svensson smiles out from the page.
So, how did the name "Loki" come about?
My parents loved Norse mythology, and I was brought up with it. They named me after Loki, the son of Fárbauti. He was sort of, um, a figure of chaos and discord. The other gods would often end up asking him for help, except that he'd always somehow mess it up, effectively! Sometimes by accident, and a lot of the times on purpose. He was awful.
And your parents named you after him?
Of course! He was their favourite of Norse characters, and still is.
You've met Thor, right, the Avenger? Do the two of you spend a lot of time together?
Oh, yes! Thor and I are rather good friends. On the night he came down to Earth – Midgard, as he calls it – we ended up sort of chatting, and he ribbed me a little bit. He was actually the catalyst for my using the name Loki a bit more freely: when I came to America I tended to use the name Luke, as it felt a little less strange, you know? But Thor insisted I keep on using it.
We meet for coffee now and then, you know – nothing fantastic. You've interviewed him before, of course, and it's easy to see he's a rather friendly man.
Tell us about the fundraiser this month, for Magda Korp.
The Magda Korporacja, in its beginnings, was a corporation that came from several companies banding together – each of them produced programs, furniture, learning aids, et cetera, all intended for mutants. When Magda Korp. formed in 1982, mutant rights hadn't made the leaps and bounds they have in recent years, but even today, there's still a great need for their business. You know, mutants in our society are becoming more and more accepted, but we lack much of the infrastructure to accommodate some of their needs, in education, in transport, in business.
The Magda Korporacja aimed to solve that, initially – they aimed to fill in the gaps, as it were. But now, nearly fifty years later, they're so much more! The fundraiser this month is actually for the building and furnishing of a children's home in Seattle! It's just an honour and a privilege to be able to ally Kuldeheim Industries with Magda Korp.
Did you know many mutants growing up? What prompted you to take such an interest in the mutant cause?
I suppose…
I don't suppose anything in particular prompted me. Shouldn't everyone strive for equality?
The next questions are about the tablet's release, and the Doctor closes the magazine. Tapping his fingers on the scratched and abused wood of Jackie's kitchen table, and he racks his brain. He's never heard of Svensson before, and something about him seems a little off. The Doctor can't tell much about the Isaz, but he can see it's far in advance of many of the technology that should be appearing around this time.
Barring Odinson, aliens aren't all that common on Earth just yet, and certainly aren't able to put themselves in especially high-up international positions – in fifty more years? In one hundred? Oh, certainly, aliens will be arriving in their droves, settling into all sorts of jobs and placements, but for now…
Taking Jackie's phone off the table, he taps a few words into Google. The fundraiser for the Magda Korporacja is happening tonight, at the Hamish Institute in Chicago.
"Hey," Rose says. She stands in the doorway of the kitchen, her hair messy around her head, wearing soft pyjamas and still with bare feet; she rubs her eye with the heel of her hand, standing on her tip-toes to stretch out her spine, and in this moment, she is the most beautiful thing the Doctor has ever seen.
"I have to go," he says.
✯ ⇜ ⇝ ✯MY STARS FOR AN EMPIRE ✯ ⇜ ⇝ ✯
"Today, a line spans around the block of this electronics store in central New York City," says the newscaster on the television. "The reason? Kuldeheim Industries, the leading producer of home appliances in the country, has produced the newest computer tablet. With a processing power far in advance of any desktop computer on the market, this is the fastest tablet any expert has ever seen!" The screen cuts from the news desk to a pair of hands on a flat desk, displaying the tablet computer. The hands neatly fold the tablet into a quarter of its size, and immediately the screen quarters as well, displaying its menu in the same way a touch phone might.
Despite himself, Loki feels no excitement. This is what he has been working upon for months, for months: his tablet is like no other design on the planet. It's revolutionary! And yet here he sits, feeling… Nothing. Not even satisfaction.
"Kuldeheim Industries have really outdone themselves this time! We were sent a model of the new Isaz I, and we've been running it through every test we can – its ability to process information is phenomenal, and the amount of physical damage it can withstand… Well, just look at this!" A clip plays: several videos edited together, showing several Isaz models being thrown across rooms, falling from heights, even being dropped in the bath before being shown to be fully functional despite the abuse.
"You're gonna get square eyes," Darcy says. Loki looks at her. She's leaning on the jamb of the door, her arms crossed neatly over her chest. Her choice of clothing is leaps and bounds away from what she would once wear – she wears a professional blouse of soft lilac, a pencil skirt that clings to her hips and thighs, and tights of a silver colour. Her coat is still a camouflage green, of course, and she has such a penchant for woollen hats and tartan caps, but her everyday wear is that much closer to fashionable concern. It had taken her less than a week to take in the majority of her professional wardrobe, but months upon months to become comfortable wearing it.
"I have never understood that phrase," Loki says in a mild tone. "This screen is oval-shaped." Darcy laughs.
"Yeah, I was just talking shit. I have Thor Odinson on line 2."
"Put him through, Ms Lewis," Loki says, and Darcy winks at him as she steps from his office and slinks out into the corridor. He's glad he hired her – Thor's recommendation was a good one, and Darcy is sarcastic, biting and heavily critical of much of what Loki does. She's also competent and surprisingly good at soothing the ruffled feathers of those Loki occasionally accidentally offends.
And as for Thor… It is strange, in a way. Loki knows Thor cannot know him, cannot know who he truly is, else duty would have forced him to intervene, and yet— And yet Thor seems to seek out his company. Since Thor came to Midgard a year ago, every few weeks, he had contacted Loki, asked if Loki would like to join him for a drink, or to watch him training, or accompany him to a tournament or a sports game or, on one delightful occasion, to a fashion show. Thor has no interest in him as a romantic partner (the thought rather sickens Loki, even within the safety of his non-magical alias), but Loki sees the other friends he keeps with – members of the Avengers, of the X-Men. None of them seem alike to Loki Svensson.
They speak of nothing extraordinary. Thor tells him of that week's adventures, of his new friends, of missives he's received from Fandral, Sif, Hogun, Vostagg. He tells Loki not of his past, nor of his ambitions or fears for the future. They merely speak of what is.
"Hello, Thor," Loki says. He mutes the news on the monitor with a sweep of his fingers over his phone, and on a secondary screen, Thor's face appears. His phone is aimed rather unflatteringly up the length of his chin, and Loki can see more of his brother's nostrils than he should really like. "Thor, put your phone down. I can see your brain."
"Ha!" Thor barks out, and he places his phone, judging by the site of countertop and crumbs, on Jane Foster's kitchen counter, leaning back in his seat. "The children are very excited! Many of them have purchased your new telephone!"
"It isn't a telephone," Loki says. "It's a tablet computer with telephone capability."
"The children love it," Thor says, softly. He talks with such warmth when he speaks of Loki's various inventions, as if Loki is Loki, as if Thor knows a damned thing. "Billy Kaplan and Thomas Shepherd were playing a videogame together."
"How did they get hold of them so quickly?" Loki asks, and then realizes who they're talking about. "Shepherd stole it," he says, just as Thor says:
"Thomas pilfered one." Loki chuckles, shaking his head, and he places his chin neatly upon the heel of his hand, looking down at the phone screen and meeting Thor's eyes. "Have you great excitement for tonight's celebrations?"
"It isn't a celebration: it is a fundraiser for a mutant children's home in Seattle," Loki points out. "There will be no celebrations of any sort."
"You shall drink all ale offered unto you, Loki, son of Sven, as a warrior returned victorious!" Thor proclaims, showing all his teeth. Loki smiles, looking at the screen with fondness he does not even have to feign. As a young man, he and Thor had fought alongside each other so many times, so many times, and now… It surprises Loki, the sense of melancholy that settles in his chest. Once, he had been an explorer of worlds, and now here he stands, at the head of what? Perhaps one day, Loki shall have his empire, but for now, he controls naught but his own wonders, his own technologies, a small cabal of admirers.
"Very well, Thor, son of Odin. If I must." Thor hangs up the line, and Loki's smile fades slowly from his lips, replaced by the sudden heaviness that has come upon him so quickly. What is it that he misses so? He will have an empire – is it truly such a shame to give up his exploration, his travel between worlds, his Skywalking, if he might have his empire? The risk of leaving Midgard would be far too great – his absence would be swiftly noted, and although he might disguise his travel from Earthly technologies, there is always a chance he might be noticed by some alien, or another magic user amongst the Midgardian mutants.
What is it Loki misses? His freedom. That is what he has sacrificed, and he knows the sacrifice to be worth it.
Pressing his finger to the intercom, Loki says softly, "Darcy?" Immediately, he hears the line click, and the door opens once again. Her eyes are wide, and her hands are clasped before her belly. His perplexity must show in his face, for she tilts her head and intensifies her stare.
"It's just that, uh, we've known each other for a year, and you've only ever called me Ms Lewis. Kinda figured there was some kinda crisis going on."
"Oh," Loki says. "Yes. Of course." A momentary silence passes between them.
"Is there a big crisis going on?"
"What do you do," Loki says, "when you feel dissatisfied? When you feel unfulfilled?"
"I dump the guy and go buy batteries." Loki's brow furrows.
"Is that a sexual reference?" he asks. "That isn't what I meant." Darcy sighs.
"Yeah, I figured," she mumbles. "It was worth a shot, though." Standing in her place, she watches him, then says, "Egh, you haven't got any meetings today anyway. Get your coat, Mr Svensson. We're going out."
"For a bracing walk along the promenade?" Loki queries.
"We're gonna get churros," Darcy says. "So, yeah, pretty much. Come on, chop chop." Loki feels his lips twitch into a small smile as he looks at his assistant, taking in her quiet glory.
"And this, you think, will make me feel more accomplished in my life?"
"Oh, no, not at all," Darcy says. "But we'll have churros. Sometimes, my guy, you just need to take the good with the bad."
"That's very wise," Loki says, and standing from his desk, he takes his coat. The melancholy seems to be ever-twisting in his chest, shifting and turning in on itself, and he feels the whisper of wanderlust sing in his heels. If he could just fly…
But no. No, no, no.
He shall forget this nonsense for the time being – the two of them will get their churros, and then he will focus himself on the fundraiser later this evening.
✯ ⇜ ⇝ ✯MY STARS FOR AN EMPIRE ✯ ⇜ ⇝ ✯
"Are you sure?" Rose says, for the fourth time. The Doctor looks at her, grinning at her widely, and Rose hesitates before saying anything else, huddled in her hoodie with her elbows held under her palms. "You could stay here, if you wanted! You could stay here. You didn't have to take the sofa last night, you know. I mean, not that you had to… I'm just saying, you could have…" She trails off. Her tone is full of soft implication, implication the Doctor will not yet give into. What the Hell is he thinking? Not yet?
"Nah," the Doctor breaks in. "I couldn't stand two weeks of Jackie's cooking. You take your holiday, and I'll come back and get you, Sunday after next. On the dot." Rose smiles, looking down at her feet and shaking her head. It's beginning to drizzle, and the rain comes down and touches onto her hair, soaking into the blond locks and darkening it. She looks beautiful like this – absolutely beautiful.
"What're you going to do in the meantime?" Rose asks. Her slippers are getting wet in the rain, but she doesn't seem to mind. "I know you – you're not gonna have her stay still and just go forward two weeks."
"Well," the Doctor says, and he gives a shrug of his shoulders. "There might be a few things I want to do… Go to a few parties… There's one tonight, actually, in New York." His hands are in his pockets, and as he speaks he teeters back and forth on his heels, taking on a speculative tone, and Rose laughs. "You're welcome to come."
"Nah," Rose murmurs. "I'll have my two weeks off, nice and calm, just here. I'm sorry, I just need a little time at home. After all that—"
"I understand," he says, and he does. Her hand reaches forwards, touching for a second against his hip. The Doctor thinks about it for the hundredth, about staying here, about putting his hand on her wrist, sleeping beside Rose in her bedroom…
"See you in two weeks," the Doctor says brightly, and he slips quickly into the TARDIS, closing the door shut behind him. He steps forward, his trainers slapping against the TARDIS grating as he steps up onto the main platform, and he begins by shoving a paperclip into one of the Vortex Dials, keeping it in place as he flicks a few switches and moves over Earth. This era on Earth is a great one, he knows, full of all sorts of wonders – mutants, superheroes and all!
He takes a second, frowning slightly as he leans back against the console, and he thinks of Mickey Smith, left behind them on that parallel Earth, simultaneously so close and so far away. No superheroes on the parallel Earth. No mutants. No Avengers, no X-Men: it hadn't come up while they were in that universe, and Mickey and Rose hadn't spared it any thought, too distracted by their parallel families and the things that were the same, but the Doctor thinks about it now. What's the significance of that, he wonders? A much smaller Earth, with fewer connections…
The TARDIS touches down, and the Doctor glances down at his suit. Brown pin-stripe, blue shirt, tie and trainers – tonight could be a nice night for dress-up. He could put on the old tux, fluff up his hair… Or, he could stay just like this.
Grinning to himself, the Doctor steps down from the platform and opens up the door, pulling it shut behind him. It is raining here, too, the water pounding down onto the ground and onto the TARDIS' roof. He takes on a jog, rushing out of the alleyway and up the steps of the Hamish Museum, which is on the bottom level of the Hamish Institute. He'd done a little research on it before he'd decided to come to tonight's shindig: the Hamish Institute had been founded some years ago, but try as he might, the Doctor had been unable to suss out who precisely had founded it, being directed to one shell company after another. Tentatively, the Doctor has drawn the conclusion that the Hamish Institute is somehow under the control of the Magda Korporacja,
Something about the whole thing rings slightly wrong – the Doctor sees no reason a philanthropist would hide who precisely they are, and he needs to ensure this is not some scheme, some nasty plan steeped between contracts and business practices.
"Oh, sir, you're soaked through!" says an attendant as he enters the reception, a high-ceilinged room painted in blues and whites. The young man rushes behind a table, taking out a small towel from the stack prepared there, and offers it up to the Doctor. It's folded and lightly perfumed, and the Doctor smiles, taking it and rubbing it through his hair. "How long were you out there?"
"Not too long," the Doctor says. "I only, er, parked around the corner, but it's a bit heavy, isn't it?"
"It's coming down in sheets," says the young man, shaking his thick, dark hair. He has pale skin, and although he speaks carefully, not drawing his lips back over his teeth, the Doctor can see the tell-tale sharpness of his canine teeth – a mutant. "We've had a lot of complaints about not having our own parking," he adds, then seems to hesitate over it, obviously thinking the Doctor may add a complaint of his own.
"Oh, that's silly," the Doctor says. "What's life without a bit of rain, eh? What's your name?"
"Anton," the young man says, taking back the towel. "Sorry, if I'm uh… I'm new. Just got this job last week, and I didn't expect to just be thrown into a party with all these bigwigs. Oh, um, sorry, not that it's bad to be a bigwig, or anything, and I know it's for a good cause—"
"What do you know about this event, Anton?" the Doctor asks, his hands in his pockets and his eyebrows raised.
"Oh," Anton says. His eyebrows are stood on their ends, thick and brushy like a cat's tail – that's fascinating, that. The Doctor has never seen mutations develop like they have here on Earth, never seen a species react quite so particularly to nuclear radiation, in such diversity, in such infinite combinations… Humans. They're just fantastic. "Well, it's pretty straight forward. It's sort of like, this big gala – the tickets were really expensive, and there's this huge raffle upside for all the people who come. It's kind of… Well, it's kind of genius, really. I'm kinda friendly with Billy Kaplan, 'cause we went to the same high school, and they've pretty much done it to sort of… Make supporting mutants a kind of cool, bougie thing."
"Bougie, eh?" the Doctor repeats: Anton's eyebrows nearly double in size, and he spreads out his hands. "No, no, I'm not offended! That's pretty brilliant, Anton. And Billy – who's that?"
"Uh, Wiccan?" Anton offers. "You know, he's in the Young Avengers? He's kind of the son of Scarlet Witch, so his grandpa is Magneto."
"Right," the Doctor says, nodding his head. Magneto – now that's a name he knows. Ditto for the Scarlet Witch. "Thanks very much, Anton! You've been very helpful. You have a good night, all right?" Anton smiles at him, shows those canine teeth, and as the Doctor walks away, he smiles himself.
Good kid.
"Have you got your ticket, sir?"
"Here," the Doctor says, handing over the psychic paper, and he gives his widest smile to the woman on the desk. She seems harried, to say the least. She glances over it, smiles at him, and hands it back.
"Great to have you here, Mr Smith. Here's your raffle ticket, and you have a great night!"
"Thank you," the Doctor says, genuinely, and yet with some surprise. Really? That easy? Smiling to himself, he makes his way toward the staircase, being waved through by a security guard and into a lift. It's a big lift. Mirrored walls make it appear even bigger than it is, and he is in the lift with several other people. One of them he recognizes as Professor Charles Xavier, seated in his wheelchair beside a very blue, very hairy man with cat-like features. The man looks at him: the Doctor grins. "Hallo!"
"Hello," the cat-like man says. He seems bemused. "Have we met?"
"Oh, no. I love the waistcoat, though – very dapper!"
"His girlfriend picked it out for him," Xavier says, his lips twitching in amusement, and the cat-man's whiskers twitch.
"Stars and garters, Charles," he hisses. "Would you stop telling people that?"
"My name is Charles Xavier," he says, ignoring the cat-man's anger and extending a hand for the Doctor to shake, which he does. "And my friend here is Henry McCoy."
"You're Hank McCoy?" the Doctor asks, and he immediately grabs hold of McCoy's paw, shaking it with great enthusiasm. The flesh of his palm is soft and smooth, and tufts of fur tickle his fingers as he does so. "I've read a few of your papers on the moralistic implications of gene therapy on humans and non-humans! You're quite the philosopher!" McCoy stares at him, his yellow eyes slowly blinking, and Xavier's smile is warm and proud. Vaguely, the Doctor had had an idea of some of Xavier's students, but much of the mutant politics from this era, he's less aware of. He knows most of the basic history, of course – he knows about Magneto and his movement, as well as Xavier's staunch resistance, but he's no more up on general mutant figures than he is on the average Earth celebrity.
There are just so many of them to remember!
"Thank you. And what's your name?"
"Oh, the Doctor," he says. "Just call me the Doctor." The lift begins to move, and the Doctor glances to the shiny buttons on the wall. There are a good few floors to the Hamish Institute, but it's the one at the bottom that interests him – the reception had been marked G, but there are two options below G. M1 and M2 – museum floors for the Hamish Museum, the Doctor would guess… "I suppose the museum is closed tonight?"
"The Hamish Museum has yet to open at all," Xavier says. "Hadn't you realized? They're due to open in a few months, apparently. The Hamish Museum of Foreign History…"
"Foreign history?" the Doctor repeats. "That's a bit vague, isn't it?"
"They haven't settled on a proper name yet," McCoy says. "They specialize in extra-terrestial archaeology – alien artefacts found here on Earth." The Doctor's eyes widen a bit, and he can't help the smile on his face.
"Extra-terrestial, hmm? Have they got much?"
"Virtually nothing," Xavier says, shaking his head. There's no outward sign of his mutation, but the Doctor knows him to be a master of telepathy, and so he's careful not to let his mind wander too far afield. "Without meaning to sound like a crotchety old man, Doctor, it seems a bit of a waste of time."
"You don't sound crotchety at all," the Doctor says quietly. The door opens up with a soft ding, revealing a magnificent hall, much larger than the reception downstairs and with a vaulted ceiling, white ribbons hanging down and shifting in the current from the air conditioners. "I'll speak to the two of you later!"
"See you," McCoy says, and the Doctor steps out.
A party. A party! Taking a glass of champagne from a passing waitress with a warm smile and a wink, he takes a sip, and then regrets it. Ugh. Champagne – the stuff is terrible. Setting the glass down on a nearby table and walking into the room properly, the Doctor looks around, trying to find the next person to chat to.
It's coming together in his head – the vague suspicion, the difficulty in tracing the Hamish Institute to any individual, the alien technology… Well, no. It isn't coming together in his head at all, and each different factor is rotating repeatedly, letting his mind attack it from every angle. He'll work it out in the end.
But who to chat to?
Scanning the room, he sees mutants and humans alike, but in the corner of the room, one man sits alone. He isn't mingling or chatting with anyone, or even doing anything apparently complicated on his phone: he's merely seated in his place and watching the proceedings. There's something strange about him. Just looking at him, the Doctor can feel a sort of disturbance around him, a sort of distasteful twist to his personhood – perhaps he's one of those mutants with a time-travelling ability? The TARDIS never has liked those.
As if sensing the Doctor's gaze on him, the man glances in his direction, and the Doctor locks eyes with Loki Svensson. He feels his breath catch in his chest as he looks at him, and as Svensson looks back: the Doctor's suspicions are bolstered in this moment, because yes, yes, there's a disturbance around Svensson that doesn't add up at all. Perhaps he is an alien, or perhaps some sort of mutant—
And Svensson is looking at the Doctor as if the Doctor is made of gold. He is looking at him with eagerness, excitement, with a sort of hunger – oh, that look never ends well for the Doctor, and despite himself he feels a thrill inside him. In the very second he takes a step forward, a tall and cheery figure claps a heavy hand on Svensson's back, winding him, and the Doctor recognizes the form of Thor Odinson.
Svensson's look communicates spades: Not now. We'll talk later. Bringing two fingers to his own temple, the Doctor makes a mock salute, and Svensson's lips twitch slightly before he turns to Odinson. Because Odinson, the Doctor is sure, doesn't know. Whatever Svensson is, wherever he's from, he keeps it secret from everybody…
How does he know that? He isn't sure. And yet he is so positive. Before he can ruminate on the thought anymore, there's a heavy rumble from below them: the whole ballroom shakes in place, roughly enough that several champagne towers fall and smash on the ground, and a few of the guests even fall down. The Doctor just manages to keep his balance, grasping hold of a table to keep it from careening into a pair of unsteady waiters. The rumbling continues for a few seconds, with yells and screams around the room, and then suddenly stops.
Above them, the white ribbons continue to ripple.
Everyone in the room is looking at each other, their faces showing confusion, uncertainty… Except Loki Svensson. Loki Svensson, in the moment where no one but the Doctor is looking at him, looks glad. He looks excited, as if he's just received a wrapped-up present.
Suspicions soaring, the Doctor turns to the head of the room, where a woman in leathers with thick, green hair is calling the room to attention.