Max's sleep was intermittent and dreamless. Once she did a sweep of the third and fourth floors, she locked herself in Glenn's office for the night. He had leftovers in his mini-fridge, which were actually quite tasty when they were cold, and she knew there were some random fruits and veggie platters in the staff fridge that she could eat in the morning. She was too exhausted, at the time, to do much. Like she promised, she locked away a few of the more valuable pieces on the off-chance that people started looting, but she did it in such a monotonous, zombie-like state that when morning came, she had to double-check the safes to make sure she had actually done it.

She didn't want to think. As she sat there, limbs stiff and sore on Glenn's armchair, Max knew it was a slippery slope to reliving the horror she saw the day before. She knew he was gone. She knew that the brother who had been her closest ally for her entire life was dead and gone, and there was nothing she could do about it anymore. Even though she had wanted to check the lower levels to ensure that she was completely alone in her museum fortress, she couldn't bring herself to go down the stairs the night before. Instead, she barricaded the entrance with a barrel, as if that would ward off the bad memories, and had an awful sleep in Glenn's office. She woke frequently; on the cusp of a bad dream, she would bolt up, her eyes swollen and her head spinning, and then stare into the darkness until sleep overtook her again.

It was almost painfully sunny outside that morning—as if Mother Nature was trying to be ironic. After a quick dash to the employee bathroom, Max crept along to one of the front windows, resting her fingers on the ledge and peering down to the street below her. It was busy, even at eight in the morning. There were uniformed soldiers everywhere, but she noticed that many had removed their helmets now. A duo of guards stood in front of the antique shop across the street, and as Max's eyes traveled over the boarded-up windows, she wondered what had happened to the owners—they were good friends with Glenn and Maxine.

Along with the gunmen, all of whom kept a weapon slung out over their shoulders, there were what appeared to be camping tents pitched in the street—the shooters seemed to be using them for something. She hovered at the window ledge, careful to keep low, and watched men (and a few rather large women, actually) in black uniforms traipse in and out of those tents. Some of the smaller units were difficult to see in to, but there was a large tent—one that was used for family gatherings or to house eight to twelve campers comfortably—that was clearly used for food. In fact, she could see the smoke billowing out of a hole cut in the roof, and she was sure she would smell something meaty if she opened the window.

She did not want to smell something meaty.

What disturbed her most about the street scene below were the people in the large chain-link cage on the far left of the museum. She counted sixteen of them all together: three women, six children, and the rest were men—age and race seemed to hold no sway over who found a spot in the kennel. In the half-hour that she crouched to watch the street comings and goings, never once did a guard stop to bother with the prisoners. She did see a cook—dressed in brown khakis—deliver a steaming pot of something, but she didn't bother to stick around and watch sixteen hungry people devour whatever was inside.

Instead, Max skulked back to the locker area to see if she had something that was more comfortable than her skirt, which was stretched and stained and cutting into her waist—she should have changed out of it sooner, but she couldn't bring herself to do much the night before. Mercifully enough, there was a pair of trackpants beneath her binders that had been sitting there since November. She lifted them to her nose: they had a bit of a damp smell, but otherwise they were fine—anything was better than her skirt.

Unfortunately, she didn't have any socks in there, which meant she had to wander around barefoot, and while the museum floor was clean, she knew she would struggle if she needed to go anywhere in a hurry outside.

Ha. As if she would go outside at a time like this. For now, the museum's upper levels were silent, and it seemed that the battalion out front kept looters and stragglers away from the entrance. But then again, she had no idea if they were using the first two floors as a base, so she jogged up to the fourth floor to find a weapon. In the end, she settled on a Spencer carbine rifle that already had a set of cartridges in the display case. She knew she was a pretty good shot, but the gun was a last resort only: Max didn't want them to know she was still inside unless there was absolutely no alternative.

With the rifle loaded and slung over her shoulder, she hitched up her baggy trackpants and started for the stairwell. The first flight of stairs was nothing, but her heart started to race when she stood in front of the doorway to the second floor. She felt nauseous about going back in there, and her palms were a sweaty mess. The thought of what she might see when she opened that door was enough to send her scuttling back into the office to hide under Glenn's desk.

But she couldn't do that. She knew she needed to make sure she was completely safe in the building—Max needed to know how much noise she could make and when she could make it. She already knew she couldn't turn any of the lights on or off: however the building was when the attack happened, that's how it needed to stay when the sun set. Anything else would be too noticeable.

Taking a deep breath, she turned the knob and slipped through the doorway, her eyes on the floor. Each step she took toward the last place she saw Nolan made her weaker and weaker, and by the time she was where she stood when he died, she needed to lean on her rifle for support.

The body was gone. Her face screwed into an unattractive expression when she saw nothing but a massive bloodstain on the floor, and when she moved around the corner, she saw random droplets leading down the hall. They had taken him.

A small, horrible part of her was relieved that the body was gone. She didn't want to look at it—she didn't want to remember her big brother without a face. So, shouldering her gun once more, she moved slowly down the hallway and onto the second floor. She kept close to the walls, eyes peeled for any sign of movement around the display cases. The sunlight kept the entire floor illuminated; it glared in as though it was looking for her, spanning across displays of clothing and mannequins and information signs.

Max kept to the shadows the best she could. After circling the second floor twice, she was sure that she was still alone. The lobby would be more difficult, as the front doors were completely clear, but she simply hoped no one was looking in her direction when she made her move. Her sore legs protested the way she crouched as she went down the stairs, feeling like they had endured some awful work-out the day before, but she knew it was a necessity. After peering around the corner and into the lobby—which was empty—Max made a mad dash for the front desk.

She practically threw herself under it, and once she was righted, she started to rummage through the drawers to see if there was anything of use. The only thing she took was an envelope opener, which she tucked into the waistband of her pants. It wasn't one of those incredibly sharp ones (Glenn always had a fear a visitor would use it on the reception staff), but it would do a moderate amount of damage if there was enough force behind it.

After lingering behind the desk for what felt like an eternity, Max ran for the heavy loading dock door. Thankfully, she hadn't locked it after she pushed Glenn and Maxine inside yesterday, though it was still, as always, a challenge to open. Once she was inside, however, she locked it behind her and leaned against the dirty wall. This was the hall where she took all the garbage out to the dumpster. This was where new shipments of merchandise arrived—and delivery guys realized they had to lug everything up one to four flights of stairs. This was where she snuck calls on her phone—as there were no cameras here—and the place she hid during her first week when she felt overwhelmed.

The corridor spanned the length of the building. It was narrow and brightly lit, and the tile was a poorer quality here than anywhere else. When she spotted the double-doors that led to the loading dock at the back of the building, Max practically ran, slamming into the doors and yanking on the handle to get them open.

But they wouldn't open. Blinking rapidly, she pushed and pulled—knowing full well that she only needed to pull—and still nothing happened. The doors gave a little under her struggles, just enough for her to peer through the crack and see that someone had stuck a board through looped handles on the other side.

Maybe Glenn had assumed she would go out the front and hoped to spare her the trouble of new arrivals through the backdoor. However, this only added to her overpowering sense of frustration now. After rattling both doors a few more times, Max slid to the ground and buried her face in her hands to stifle her sobbing. She was trapped—locked in from behind and barricaded from the front.

When she started to feel lightheaded, Max wiped her tears away and leaned her head back against the door—numb. She was probably going to die in here. In here, out there, what did it matter? Aliens were taking over the planet (apparently), and her brother was gone.

Her eyes drifted across the circular room that made up the back loading area, and she paused when she saw a tarp covering something in the corner. Frowning, she eased herself to her feet and marched toward it, yanking the blue material off and tossing it to the side.

Oh. She had forgotten about this. She had forgotten about the beautiful, functional Napoleon cannon that the museum had spent a fortune on recently. They were going to host a display for a couple of middle-school classes next month as a treat. There was a case sitting next to the exquisite weapon, and after using the butt of her rifle to hack the lock off, she marveled at six artillery shells settled neatly amidst the packing essentials.

Max took two steps back, staring at the box. Live artillery. They were going to blow up a farmer's shed down in Newark next month, but she could think of a number of things she would rather blow up now.

She rose, nibbling her lower lip thoughtfully, and then searched the rest of the area for other useful items. After a good fifteen minutes of rummaging through both recycling products and Glenn's tool cabinet, she ended up with quite a haul: paint cans, motor oil, a tool box, planks of wood, matches, and a wooden dolly to help carry everything. She then thought of the immense armory on the fourth floor, along with all the artillery that was locked away in storage.

If Nolan had been here with all these weapons, he wouldn't have spent all his time hiding in Glenn's office. The thought gave her courage, even if it was the fake sort of courage that would disappear in an hour or so. Mind racing with ideas—anything to keep from actual thinking—Max walked back down the service corridor. Maybe she would die in this building, and maybe death would be outside somewhere, but she now had the capability of killing a few of them in the process.

It would probably take the rest of her day to get everything ready, but if Home Alone taught her anything, all her efforts would have hilarious and painfully crippling results.

She smiled at the thought. Was this what giving up felt like? Maybe. At least it was giving up with pizazz.

There was no sun the following morning. In fact, it had disappeared behind a thick layer of clouds the previous afternoon and Max hadn't seen it since. The skies looked like they wanted to pour, but so far the weather had held steady. The museum's air conditioning kept the building comfortable, though she wondered how long the power would last.

Thankfully, her museum remained her fortress. While she spent the day sneaking between the loading area and the various other floors, she stayed the only occupant of the building. Sometimes she would stop to watch the soldiers outside. Their numbers grew and shrank over the course of the previous day, but there was still a small contingent that remained behind with the prisoners. There seemed to be some sort of fuss over the antique shop across the street, but Max stopped paying attention to it when she realized the two stationary guards hadn't moved all day.

Although Home Alone had been her inspiration for her impending attack, Max knew this was going to be far more deadly for everyone involved—herself included. The storage room on the fourth floor had a substantial amount of extra ammunition, and considering there was one floor dedicated solely to weapons, Max had more than enough firepower to choose from. Unfortunately, some of the weapons on display were known for their inaccuracy. Some of the rifles also required a lengthy reloading time that she didn't have, so she stuck with the Spencer carbine and the Sharps rifle. Both had nice leather straps that allowed her to sling them over her shoulders.

She also swapped the letter-opener for an actual knife, though she hoped she wouldn't need to use it.

The rest of the museum was lined with various defenses, though she needed to trigger most of them herself. With the few tools she had, Max was able to create a few guaranteed death traps, while the rest would simply slow an assailant down long enough for her to make a run for it.

She finished around four that morning, and before she went to sleep, she scrubbed Nolan's blood off the floor. She wasn't sure what had made her to do it—exhaustion or an unstable mind, perhaps? However, when she was finished, she felt better. She was still shaking and numb and horrified, but it was therapeutic to get the space cleaned.

After only a few hours of sleep (staggered and not at all restful), Max finished off the food in the fridge and checked on the caged prisoners outside. Sure enough, all sixteen people were still in that cage; today was going to be for them.

And Nolan.

She wished she had something to put on her feet, but the only shoes she had would be too noisy on the tile floor. So, she opted to remain barefoot. The one item she did add to her wardrobe was a gas mark courtesy of Glenn's paranoia. It was heavy and a little difficult to see in, but if she did manage to escape today, she would rather no one knew what she looked like. With her hair swept up and tucked beneath the hard straps, Max decided she looked fairly unrecognizable, but obviously a woman—the silk blouse didn't really hide much.

As she descended through the various floors, Max checked to see that nothing had been disturbed while she slept, and sure enough, everything was as it was supposed to be. She took the left staircase into the lobby, as the right was coated with a thick layer of motor oil. Same as before, she was able to sneak into the service corridor undetected, though her breath was ragged by the time she reached the cannon. Her limbs trembled, and for a moment, she stood there staring at the device. It was a relatively small model and propped up onto a dolly—moving it wasn't the problem.

She was about to bring chaos back into her life. In all actuality, she could have tried to hide in the museum until the soldiers moved on. She could have waited, but that seemed like the silly thing to do.

Somehow.

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the handle of the dolly and pulled with all her might. It wasn't impossible to move, but by the time she reached the door at the end of the hall, she was already tired. She paused to shake everything out, redistributing the nervous energy to all parts of her body, and then resumed hauling the thing out the door. Thankfully, she had loaded it the night before—one of those beautiful, lethal shells was just waiting to do some damage.

What would really cinch the deal, however, were the two hand grenades tucked into her pants. They were extremely rare—Ketchum's patent hand grenades, in fact—and Glenn had spent a fortune on them, but she knew for a fact that they were still operational.

Luckily enough, no one bothered to spare a glance at the museum. Most were doing whatever they were supposed to be doing when Max wheeled the cannon up to one of the front doors. There was a cluster of them around a table to her far right, a few more crowded by the food tent, and then the prisoners on her far left. She stepped around the large wheel, her hands shaking, and made the final preparations to fire the cannon. This was something she had only read about in theory—the guns she had been practicing on for the last year, but this was something new entirely.

Normally, there would be six or seven other people helping her with this, and the longer she struggled to get everything loaded, the harder her heart pounded in her chest. With the necessary powder poured in, Max grabbed the packet of matches tucked under her bra strap and lit one, then dropped it into the priming hole.

She then darted around the cannon and propped the door open, not wanting to get hit with shards of Plexiglas when the shell went through it.

And then it fired. Her ears rang after the shell shot from the cannon, but it was all worth it: the artillery slammed into the table, and the contact explosion sent the men around it flying. Chunks of wood and debris damaged the nearby tent, and the smoke billowing from both the cannon and the explosion made her glad paranoid Glenn had this damn smoke mask.

There were men screaming and stumbling and crawling away, but Max had her sights set on the prisoners. She raced through a nearby door and down the steps, skipping one and nearly falling for her haste. The distraction was enough to get her down to the cage, and several of the prisoners anticipated her arrival.

"The lock," an older man shouted, pointing down at a heavyset lock holding the door closed. "Break it!"

She tried to do as she was told, slamming the butt end of her gun onto the weakest looking point, but it was much harder in reality than it was in the movies. Max gritted her teeth, throwing everything she had into it, but whirled around when the same man warned her about oncoming soldiers. They were running at her, and before she had a moment to panic, she pulled one of those pricey hand grenades out and lobbed it at them. One had the audacity to catch it, and the contact set off the trigger point inside the old weapon. A second later, the idiot was in bits and pieces across the pavement, black liquid oozing everywhere.

The second managed to avoid the explosion, but she picked him off with a shot to the shoulder. It wasn't lethal, but at least she hit him.

She was really shaking now. However, a few more precise hits managed to break the lock enough for the man inside to twist it off, and Max helped him yank the cage door open. She then turned and fired two more shots at the uniformed assailants. When she saw one raise a gun to her, she bolted, racing back up the steps and toward the museum. She caught the reflection of a group chasing after her, a few stray shots shattering the remaining doors.

Thankfully, she was through the lobby and up the stairs before anyone could get to her—she had never run so fast in her entire life. The inside of the mask was slightly fogged from her heaving breath, but she tried her best to work around it.

Once she was at the top of the stairs, she spilled the remainder of her motor oil down the steps, coating them in a slick layer. Waiting just out of sight, Max grabbed the nearby paint can. She could hear men grunting and slipping on the tainted stairs, and when she heard one reach the top—after a good two minutes of cursing in a language she couldn't understand—she swung the paint can with all her might and nailed him right in the face.

He toppled back onto his companions, and as he reached for his gun, Max lit another match and flicked it onto the oil stain. Seconds later, the stairwell was a blaze with screaming men and melting skin. The museum was rebuilt with fire resistant walls: they would burn still, but at least it was only a slow burn. Hopefully someone down there would have enough sense to put the flames out—hopefully.

She turned back to the second floor, took a moment to apologize to the precious artefacts glaring at her, and then darted inward to her next trap.

Loki had been dozing when the second explosion went off. His eyes snapped open and he sat up, leaning just enough to see through the glass door of the shop. For a moment, he wondered if the Pagurolids were testing more weaponry, but when he saw some commotion outside—smoke, flames, scrambling uniformed men—he assumed this was anything but routine.

After straightening his attire, he sauntered casually toward the doorway to get a better look. He had been stuck in this damn shop since he arrived, and if the poor quality of food didn't kill him, boredom might. He shouldn't complain: anything was better than the pit. However, he would have preferred to at least earn some walking privileges.

His guards were distracted. They seemed unable to decide if they ought to help corral the running humans back into their cage—somehow they had escaped in the calamity?—or if they should stay at their post. Taking their indecision as a weakness, Loki pushed the door open and arched an eyebrow.

"What's happened?"

"Someone in the building launched an attack," one of the guards insisted absently, his large brown eyes following scattered humans. The others had wrangled up three of the elderly back into the cage, but the others seemed long gone. "We…"

He trailed off at the sound of horrified shrieking, and Loki glanced up toward the Civil War museum as the clamour intensified. Moments later, a ball of fire rolled down the steps, screaming and begging for relief. His companions rushed forward, dousing the flames the best they could, but by the time they had extinguished some, Loki could tell this particular shell was wasted. The Pagurolid inside was probably hurting too—he was under the assumption that the nerves of the two species fused somewhat during the takeover.

"Perhaps," Loki started, seeing a possible chance for escape in the chaos. There was no back exit to the shop, unfortunately, which meant this was his only way out. "Perhaps you ought to see to your companion—"

"Get the king out!" He heard someone shout the order from his left, and his grip tightened on the doorframe when he felt a familiar blinding intensity coming from his tooth. In his weakness, his guards were able to drag him outside and hold him there. A higher-ranking Pagurolid soon stood in front of him, and Loki wondered if this creature controlled the trigger for his pain dosages. A quick sweep of his person said no, but he could never be sure.

"This is no way to handle a king," Loki spat, straightening up as the lingering shocks of pain fizzled out.

"You're going inside," the Pagurolid told him, his voice crackly and thick. "Your skin is made of stronger stuff—"

"Yes, you did pick a somewhat weak race to inhabit," he mused. Physically weak, anyway. He then nodded toward the building. "Can you not handle one simple human?"

He tensed, waiting for the pain to resume, but when there was nothing, he smirked at the glowering Pagurolid. However, rather than addressing the comment, the man spoke to Loki's bodyguards.

"Take him inside and bring us the human…" He licked his lips. "We will need to replace the brother we lost."

Loki saw that the Pagurolid who had been lit on fire had officially lost its skin, and its fellow creatures were already starting to undo the stitching down the man's stomach to extricate it. They would need to move quickly or the air would kill it—Loki planned to stroll through the museum with leisure.

"Come along."

He glanced down at the hand on his arm, and then moved as though he was being pulled. By now, his strength was almost entirely recovered: a good meal and sleep had done wonders for his abilities. Unfortunately, there were still too many of them for an escape, and where would he even go here? Stark's fallen tower?

Hmm. That was an idea, actually.

He marched up the wide steps slowly, taking in the trail of black blood in the process. His guards tried to make him move faster, but when they were out of eyesight from the rest of the camp, he used his full weight to keep them at the pace he desired. His eyes swept across the foyer. There were damaged displays everywhere, and Pagurolid soldiers battling the flames on one of the stairwells behind a large desk. Loki opted to take the staircase that was not on fire, though the steps were slick with some substance that made him slide from side to side.

His bodyguards were worse than he was, and Loki carried on without them. The second floor was a mess. There were fallen uniformed Pagurolids everywhere—some were digging nails out of their shoes, while another held his face. It appeared to have been scalded with some sort of hot liquid, and Loki could see the flesh starting to bubble as the Pagurolid panicked. No one seemed to pay him any attention, but he was extra alert for any other traps waiting to be sprung.

One of his bodyguards tripped over a wire of some sort, which had been strung across the hallway to catch incomers. Loki grinned and simply stepped over the trick, making a big show to highlight the creature's inadequacies. The third floor of the building was where Loki found dead Pagurolids. They appeared to have been shot, mostly from behind, and lay bleeding on the floor. This was where his bodyguards stopped, kneeling down to aid their fallen comrades.

Rather than wait, Loki sauntered toward the staircase once more. Hands clasped behind his back, he took to the next set of stairs with curiosity. He wanted to see the human who had murdered so many Pagurolids while evading capture. At this point, he wasn't sure if he would turn the person in or not—that would depend on the manner of their meeting.

The fourth and final floor of the building was completely silent. There were no Pagurolids anywhere—dead or otherwise—and Loki proceeded into the low lighting with caution. There were tables of weapons everywhere, and he paused at one to examine a knife collection. It was then, out of nowhere, that a shot was fired at him from behind. It missed, grazing his arm and denting his sleeve, and Loki whirled around to face the attacker. However, the person—a woman, funnily enough—tore off toward the stairwell. Had she thought she could simply kill him with a single shot and be done with it?

At least have the accuracy to hit him. Loki rolled his eyes, but he still raced after her, closing the distance between them with a few long strides. When he was close, she shot at him over her shoulder, and he stepped to the side to avoid the bullet.

She was halfway down the first flight of stairs when Loki decided the bint was not going to the Pagurolids—no one shoots at him twice and expects to live. There was a mask covering her facial features, but Loki could see the whites of her eyes clearly when he leapt over the railing and landed in front of her. She raised her rifle, but Loki was faster: he grabbed the weapon and slammed it against the wall, shattering it. Then, out of frustration for her audacity more than anything, he grabbed the snout of her mask and ripped it forward, dragging it from her face and tossing it to the side.

He wanted to show her—show her what would happen when someone tries to hurt him. He wouldn't hand her over to the Pagurolids. No, he would smear her tissue across the wall for her insolence.

"Loki?"

Her voice was breathy and quivering as he bore down upon her, but that brought his attention to her face. Familiarity.

He stopped, jaw slack as his gaze met a pair of brown eyes he had not seen in an age. They were watering now as she pressed against the wall behind her.

"Max…"

The name was strange in his mouth. It was a word he hadn't said since he left Earth. Unwilling to blink (lest the face change and reveal that this was some illusion), he reached for her hesitantly. However, before he could touch her skin—feel its warmth—she slipped under his arm and stumbled down the stairs. She tripped on the bottom of her trousers, but caught herself on the railing as she fled.

He stayed still in her absence, stunned at the turn of events. It wasn't until he heard her horrified, gut-wrenching scream two floors down that he snapped into action. Without another thought, Loki took the stairs two at a time, hoping that he wasn't too late.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

SO. This was initially going to be two chapters. However, all the reviewers were just so keen on Loki and Max meeting up again that I didn't want to drag anything on. I know it wasn't much of a meeting, but they'll have more face time in the next chapter—and goodness, it's going to be dramatic.

Max got a little bit of hate for the last chapter, and I'm not going to defend her. Reactions to what she does are going to be in a range, and I like that. She's really just trying her best in a situation that she's never been in before—only read about, really. There are going to be a lot of things that I'm sure she regrets in the future, but she's human. It happens. I tried my best to make her handling of the weapons as realistic as I could. The cannon bit maybe not so much, but... deal with it -slides sunglasses on-.

You all had such tremendous feedback for the last chapter! I really appreciated your kind words, and I'm so happy that my more action-y scenes were received well. Kind of like smut, I think writing good action can be difficult, and I'm still learning (we all are, really) to get everything right. So thank you.

You're all my FAVOURITES. The amazing feedback literally makes me want to start working on the next chapter right away, but I'm trying not to kill my wrists. But. It's very tempting.

See you soon, dearies! The wild ride continues!