Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! So, it looks like I've been consistently a day late with this stuff, but, hey, at least I'm relatively consistent. :-) Anyway, people have been asking me tons of questions about the story, and I love to answer them! For all you who have been asking, things are going to be explained very soon! Starting now, in fact! Thanks for hanging in there for this long; I know it's been crazy.
On a side-note, my editor (*cough cough* my sister *cough*) remarked once that it would be hilarious if Loki wasn't hiding in the Chrysler building but in the attic of Stark Tower instead. Now, to indulge her, I'll write a two-second scene about what would happen when Tony found him.
[TONY enters the attic; sees LOKI]
TONY: What the hell, man? How did you even get in here?
LOKI: [looks around] I'm not sure. I probably couldn't do it again if I tried. [Shrugs]
TONY: Well . . . can I get you anything while we consider your terms and find a loophole so we don't have to surrender?
LOKI: Some coffee would be nice. But other than that, JARVIS has been keeping me company.
TONY: What? JARVIS?
JARVIS: Yes sir?
TONY: You didn't think to tell me about this?
JARVIS: I would have, sir, but I'm a computer. I can't think. Besides, he's a good conversationalist. He doesn't order me around like some people do.
TONY: . . . I can't believe this.
Anyway, there it is, for your enjoyment! But, as it is, Loki is in the Chrysler building (which, for those of you who aren't familiar, is a relatively famous skyscraper in New York City, constructed in the late 1920s) and NOT Stark Tower. Now go ahead and read the real chapter. :-)
It was still the earliest hours of morning when Natasha, Clint, and Elizabeth arrived at the Chrysler Building. They had very intentionally left before the others could wake so as to get this done and out of the way without everyone else trying to stop them. Granted, all three had misgivings of their own.
Clint had stationed himself just within the front doors with his bow and a quiver full of arrows. He had even felt the need to strap a pistol to his belt with four extra clips of ammunition – two in each pocket. Natasha stood sentry just outside of the room that they had agreed was likely the one featured in the video, loaded with two handguns, three knives, and her exceptional acrobatic prowess. If anyone got past Clint, she was the next line of defense.
Elizabeth had slipped quietly into an unused space above the cavernous stairs. She could understand why it was the perfect hiding place; angled walls with strange, triangular windows loomed in on her, almost forcing her to hunch over, cobwebs had gathered over the years in every corner, and dust coated the windows in a grey haze. The space was close to the spire of the building, making it more for architectural decoration than function.
She silently picked her way into the room, eyes wide and ears on alert. Her own breathing was the loudest thing at the moment, and it distracted her immensely. Slowly, she moved forward, her practiced stealth giving her a distinct advantage.
Still, advantage could only go so far.
Her fingers itched at her belt – a habit, really – in search of something metallic and sharp. She knew perfectly well that she would find nothing, but she let herself check once again just as a reminder. Coming in completely unarmed was either deliciously brilliant or exceedingly stupid, and Elizabeth was nowhere near ready to think herself stupid.
In the center of the room was a large, gaping hole where a hideously ancient set of stairs wound its way up in a derelict spiral. A steel railing surrounded the rectangular opening, and she slowly curled her fingers around it, wiggling it gently. When it didn't budge, she gave a much firmer yank. It appeared sure enough, so she approached the chasm and looked down.
The stairs twisted downward, passing levels along the way that all appeared to be more of the same, and all equally neglected. It was likely that this staircase was only there so that the builders could get out once they'd finished the spire, she imagined. At the base of the staircase was a trapdoor, mostly obscured by dust and warped wood. Beneath that, she assumed, began the realm of the living.
Nothing seemed alive where Elizabeth was, though. It was all either dead or dying, various stages of decay rotting it away before its time.
And it was so quiet.
She paced measuredly around the perimeter of the staircase, peering furtively into every shadowed nook, every dark crevice that she noticed. Her footfalls tapped such a muffled tune against the floorboards that she was certain that she would hear any other movement, though she didn't know if that would leave her enough time to react.
She had to frequently remind herself that this was not Loki.
No, this was not Loki. This could be something much less predictable and much more frightening.
When she had made a full revolution around the stairs, she stopped, glancing in every direction briefly, eyes jetting about, surveying the situation. She was on the point of calling out to the emptiness when she felt a wispy flip in the air behind her.
Her pulse spiked in her ears, but she dared not to turn.
"Well, well, well," that too-familiar voice exhaled hotly by her ear, "I was not expecting this."
She managed to keep her breathing even, though only at the expense of the inside of her cheek, which now seeped bitterly onto her tongue.
He methodically came around her side – still far too close – until she could see him in her peripheral vision. "Are you the newest member of the Avengers? How quaint; you get the jobs unwanted by anybody else," he purred, the golden arc of his horned helmet sweeping its way before her, the rest of him following gracefully.
"I'm not one of them," she bit, the tightness in her throat coming off as fury instead of trepidation. When he cocked his head at her, begging to differ, she nodded to his helmet, adding, "There's no cause for such ceremony. I'm no one, after all."
He eyed her carefully for a beat, his gaze much less intense than she had been anticipating. "But are you here on their behalf?" he asked systematically.
"No."
This answer made him pull back a fraction of an inch, and Elizabeth was grateful for the breathing room.
"Pray then," he said, tone changing, though Elizabeth couldn't tell whether this was in her favor or not, "what can I do for you, miss . . ."
"Names don't matter here," she told him.
His thin lips bowed up into a sneer that didn't seem quite right. "Very well. Why have you come?"
She took a breath, staring straight into his dangerous green eyes and knowing immediately that honesty was the best response. "I only wanted to ask you a question. Or several, to be more exact."
"In that case," he said suavely, spreading his hands and taking a step back, "be my guest."
"You are Loki of Asgard?" she began.
He inclined his head regally, clearly playing along. "Indeed I am. Second prince of the Realm Eternal."
"And," she continued, nonplussed by his ostentatious airs, "as such, who is your father?"
A bland expression crossed his face before he replied, "Odin Allfather, of course," as if she had just put forth the most inane question imaginable.
"No."
Elizabeth had spoken the single word almost before he had finished his response. She trained her eyes on the ground, though no trace of fear lingered there. "No," she clarified. "Odin Allfather is king of Asgard, but he is not your father." He didn't say anything to contest this, so she continued, "And speaking of Odin, what is the name of his eight-legged horse?"
"I was under the impression that you were asking me questions about myself," he said innocently. She could imagine the widened gaze that naturally accompanied such a tone, and the thought burned the underside of her skin.
"This is a question about you," she returned calmly. "Although, if you fail to understand the significance behind it –"
"How should I know what my father deigns to call his pets?" he spat, frustrated as her intent grew more and more apparent to him. "I would take care as to what you insinuate, my lady."
She lifted her hands apologetically, watching his feet stay uncharacteristically still. "I've only one more, if you will permit me."
He sighed, and his left foot scuffed the dust as he shifted, considering. "Fine," he decided. "Ask."
"Back on Asgard, there was a woman."
"Yes, there were many women on Asgard," he replied, exasperated by her trivia.
"I know that," she continued, "but there was only ever one who held your interest – your affections. Who was she?"
At his silence, she looked up at him. He was staring darkly at her. "How do you know about her?" he breathed.
"What is her name?"
"How do you know?"
"Tell me her name!"
"Where did you hear of her?"
Their voices rose in tandem, and Elizabeth almost shouted, "Her name!"
He drew back, eyeing her as he might have eyed a viper as it stretched its jaws wide, exhibiting its fangs proudly and menacingly.
She did not relent, instead letting her heavy stare pound into him in a way that she hoped was painful. "What was her name?" she asked again, more quietly.
When he didn't reply, that was the clearest answer she could have desired. Still, she would not let him rest in his silence. "If you don't know," she goaded, "it would be fitting to say so."
A dangerous electricity danced between them, and she knew she was pushing him over some line that had been drawn sometime in the past, attempting to force him into receiving the first shock. She didn't care that he resisted. She was far too bold to release him from this.
As they stared at each other, she was reminded of a particular adage regarding an unstoppable force and an immovable object . . . .
"I don't know," he finally admitted.
"Of course not. You're not Loki."
The flare in his gaze told her that she may have just pushed him too far, but it mattered little to her. For a long moment, he didn't respond. Then, the fury melted like candlewax in favor of a smirk that appeared under-practiced on his face. "What a clever, audacious girl," he declared, almost laughing dryly.
She, however, was not laughing. "Call it a hunch."
His smirk twisted sinisterly as he commented, "I hope you understand that this will do nothing to stop me."
"I thought not." She settled her entire persona back into its impassive coolness, saying, "This was merely for the purposes of research." Then, with a courteous dip of her head, she added, "Thank you for your cooperation."
He just watched her, hardly batting an eye at her jab. Instead, he just said, "I beg your pardon, but you have piqued my fascination."
"How so?" she asked, on her guard.
A sly grin replaced his former, darker expression. "That woman you mentioned. What is her name?"
Elizabeth smirked, her fingers brushing against a loose two-by-four leaning against the wall to her side. "Wouldn't you like to know." She seized the board and swung it with enough force that the aged wood shattered when it came into jarring contact with his skull.
He crumpled to the ground in a heap of robes and armor, all of it crowned with the golden helmet. The image of Loki before her flickered once, twice, and then shifted completely into something very different. Elizabeth reflexively took a step back, face contorting with shock.
"Got you," she whispered, backpedalling until her hand closed around the cool metal of the doorknob. Never did she take her eyes from the unconscious mass on the floor – not until the heavy door itself blocked her view. She let out a breath that had been searing inside her lungs since she had entered the room, leaning her forehead against the door. "Her name was Sif, you piece of filth," she hissed so quietly that she didn't realize the thought had left her head. "And Loki would never forget her."
In all the weeks that Elizabeth had stayed at Stark Tower, Natasha had never heard her raise her voice. Not even once. No, she was all cool diplomacy and crisp remarks with a poker face that could win her an international tournament while holding a green Uno card, two sevens, a get-out-of-jail-free card, and a blank slip of paper. It was rare that her languid demeanor changed at all, much less gave any insight as to her emotions.
So when Natasha heard her plainly through the six-inch-thick, solid wood door, she suddenly didn't know what her course of action should become.
"Her name!" demanded Elizabeth, her voice muffled. It was the only sound Natasha had heard from the room in many long minutes.
On one hand, Natasha knew that Elizabeth was speaking to somebody. If she was lucky, that somebody was Loki. On the other hand, Elizabeth was shouting. That couldn't possibly be accompanied by anything even remotely good.
Natasha let a hand fall to the butt of her pistol that she had strapped to her hip. Just in case.
Her name?
Whose name?
What was Elizabeth even talking about?"
Natasha tried to shrug it off, chalking it up as one of the many curiosities about this woman that she would never understand. For some reason, though, it wouldn't leave her mind, taunting her until she swore that she was missing an important detail.
She was right in the middle of contemplating this when her train of thought was derailed by a decidedly sharp noise from inside the room. If she placed her bet correctly, it was splintering wood.
Instantly, she had her pistol free from its holster, cocked, and lifted to shoulder level.
Her hand was on the knob, about to shove the door open with all the subtlety of a rampaging rhinoceros, but it turned within her palm, making her jump back, gun at the ready.
Her finger was already tightening reflexively on the trigger when Elizabeth backed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
Natasha let out a sigh of relief, lowering her weapon. She was about to ask the other woman how it went when Elizabeth dropped her head to the door, hand still curled white-knuckle tight around the knob, pulling on the door as if it could somehow close even tighter.
"Her name was Sif, you piece of filth," she murmured venomously, "and Loki would never forget her."
Natasha's hand jerked back from where it had already began its path toward Elizabeth's shoulder; it troubled her to see Elizabeth's chest expanding and contracting as she sucked in air too greedily – to watch her brace herself against the door, muscles bunched into defensive cords – to glimpse at the wild and confused tang that slashed through her eyes.
"Elizabeth?" she said softly. The other woman's head twitched in her direction, though she never faced away from the door and her hand never released its vice grip on the knob.
"We need to get out of here," Elizabeth bit. "It's down, but only just."
Shoving away the myriad of questions that had coughed into her mind, Natasha nodded and ran. Elizabeth followed, though not immediately.
The taller woman sped up, so Natasha found herself sprinting to keep pace. Elizabeth, however, slowed again, intent to remain a few paces behind her, constantly casting fleeting glances back. They pounded down the more modern set of stairs, peeling through the landings like speed skaters. Natasha almost tripped once, but Elizabeth's lithe hand was already grasping her arm and pulling her up, neither of them breaking stride.
By the time they reached the main floor where Clint waited, Natasha's legs were throbbing from exertion. Clint saw them coming and turned, falling into step with them instantly. The three of them burst through the glass doors moments later, spilling out onto the city sidewalk.
Clint was already veering off to the left, calling, "This way!" He rounded a corner, both women in close pursuit, tearing off down another street. When he turned again, it was into a wide alleyway in which a cab waited.
"I told him to stick around," Clint explained as he waved to the driver to start the engine, yanking open the back door and hurrying Natasha and Elizabeth inside before following himself.
Seconds later, their cab had melded seamlessly into the sea of yellow that ebbed and flowed through New York City.
All three passengers fell back against the seats, catching their breaths. Elizabeth, however, was back to her ram-rod straight posture rapidly, staring out the window with an unreadable expression.
"What was all that about?" Clint asked.
Natasha glanced at Elizabeth, but the darker woman didn't acknowledge this, only lifting a hand to lightly set her fingers against the glass through which she so fixedly gazed. So, as Natasha turned back to Clint, she replied as best as she could, saying, "Elizabeth talked to him, I think."
"I was afraid of that," he glowered. "He tried to kill you, right?"
"No," Natasha said, though she was hardly certain of this. "I mean, I never saw anybody but Elizabeth enter or leave that room, and I never had to fire my gun, so –"
"It would have done."
Elizabeth hadn't moved, nor had her attention been diverted at all by her short remark. Before they had a chance to ask what she meant by it, though, she amended, "It would have done, had we stayed to let it." Finally, she withdrew from the window. "I think we've gone far enough now without it following," she explained.
"'It?'" Clint repeated? "'It?' What is 'it?' Did you see Loki or didn't you?"
"I told you, that was never Loki." A shot of annoyance undercut her otherwise hollow voice, and Natasha could almost read the You should have listened on Elizabeth's face.
Clint let out a curt breath of frustration. "Well, what are we running from, then?"
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, but the gesture carried such a weight that they both knew she spoke the truth when she said, "Something very bad." She glanced between them seriously. "We were lucky to get away; I expected it to wake."
Both assassins gaped at her for a moment before Natasha clarified, "You knocked him out?"
"Why the tone of surprise?" Elizabeth asked, her brow creasing. "Yes, I knocked it out. For asking personal questions."
Clint cocked an eyebrow. "Personal questions?"
"About Loki," Elizabeth was quick to note.
Scoffing, Natasha asked, "Why would he think you would know?" When Elizabeth leveled a reproachful glare at her, she corrected, "Sorry. It."
"Because I asked it first."
Clint just stared at her, a touch confused but overwhelmingly blank. "You have a strange way of doing diplomacy," he told her bluntly.
Still edgy, Elizabeth snapped, "This was never about diplomacy. I simply needed a sound reason to kill it."
"Yeah, really strange diplomacy," Clint commented under his breath, shooting Natasha a look that blatantly questioned Elizabeth's sanity – one which didn't go unnoticed by the other woman.
"Need I remind you, Agent Barton, of your ardent desire to kill Loki not so long ago?" she asked.
"And do I need to remind you about how you defended him?" Clint shot back, hardly angry, but thoroughly annoyed.
Elizabeth let out a scornful noise from the back of her throat. "I always knew that this was not the real Loki," she said as if enlightening two children. "I merely needed proof. For the sake of everybody – in this realm and in others – because, as loath as I am to admit it, I have in fact been wrong once or twice before."
"Once or twice? No more than that, huh? You know, 'perfect' isn't the first word I'd use to describe—" Clint stopped abruptly. "Wait. Did you just say 'realm?'"
"Yes," replied Elizabeth, and, though they listened expectantly, she offered no further insight.