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After the ren faire, Loki finds excursions onto branching timelines involve B-15 breathing down his neck. He steps two feet away from the hunter squadron and she gives a cough, low in the back of her throat, drawing a sigh from Mobius. "Loki, back over here," he says, torn between exasperated and amused.
Loki spins on his heel, plastering a grin on his face. "I was merely admiring the pleasant fog cover. Is this a particular favourite pastime of yours? Standing in the rain?"
"Oh, I love it," Mobius quips, eyebrows raised. "My favourite weather." He looks anything but comfortable in the drizzle, hood pulled up and strands of hair plastered to his forehead. It turns Loki's smile genuine, at least, and he returns to his side, B-15 giving a nod of approval.
Mobius has insisted on integrating him into the TVA lifestyle as much as physically possible. That means rising at an ungodly cycle and spending ten hours in the archives, tailing after Mobius like an intern. Loki once asked whether he could shadow someone else for a day – simply to break the boredom – but found out that Mobius is the only agent who is both qualified to keep charge of him and who actually wants to. Though wants to might be a stretch, certainly after the amount of time Loki has spent with his legs on the desk, or spinning in his chair, doing very little more than be a distraction.
Very occasionally Mobius is called for a non-Loki-Variant related task. Those are blessings against monotony, and Loki finds that he can set aside his disdain of the bureaucracy for an hour or two in order to accompany him on his missions. Mobius invites him along readily, keeping up a steady stream of commentary whenever they go. They're usually simple, but interesting nonetheless. Loki watches them dissect a Nexus event in fifteenth century Mongolia, helps them search for signs of Variant activity in modern day Argentina, and finally figures out the mechanics of the reset charges somewhere in Vormir's distant future.
Trust is hard gained, but slowly he creeps towards higher standing. Some days he's genuinely curious, throwing himself into the work with a fervour to rival Mobius. Some days he's sullen, chided by the restraints and the bright orange word painted on his jacket that screams prisoner to the world.
Most days he's just tired.
Today, however, he's buzzing with the energy of the outside world. He never thought he'd be so overjoyed to see the Scottish Highlands in mid-winter, but here he is, letting the freezing rain trail down the back of his neck.
"Okay, everyone listening? Loki?" Mobius calls over the wind. "Remember, this is unanalysed data we're working with. Not sure what it is, but we detected high energy, so stay smart. Keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. If you see a Variant, send out an alert." He pauses, then amends, "But not my Variant. I already know about Loki here." He lightly pats Loki on the shoulder, letting his hand rest there. "Everyone good?"
They part ways, splitting into smaller threes and fours. The two of them start with three hunters at their heels, but Mobius waves them away. Loki relaxes without them at his back, content to follow him over the dark grey-green hills without hostile eyes.
They walk for a long time.
"You remember the protocol here?" Mobius asks, taking the lead down a knoll. A stream rushes over rocks draped with pondweed, the noise rising above the storm's echo.
"Your TVA sends out an assignment team, which is us, to identify the problem. We retrieve the required additional information and return."
"Correct," Mobius says, drawing out the vowels. "And the safety risks?"
Loki exhales, then begins to recite, "Zones of high energy have been known to reach the red line at a slower rate, which provides extra time but can cause greater variety. They also may contain unidentified dangerous Variants, which pose issues to squadrons and may be the cause of an underlying Nexus event. Satisfactory?"
"Yeah, excellent. Y'know, you're actually gonna have my job in a few centuries."
"You jest. It would require ten years, maximum."
Mobius laughs. "Sure thing, Loki."
"I am dead serious," Loki replies, but his tone doesn't back the sentiment, his lips curving into a smile.
Mobius reaches the bank first, stumbling on the slippery surface. He regains his balance and Loki takes extra care stepping after him, scanning for abnormalities. "That plant has a strange shape," he says. "Could that be the issue?"
"No. That's a bush."
"It is shaped rather malevolently."
"Y'know, sometimes I think your whole God of Chaos thing just surmounts to saying the most stupid thing you can think of." Mobius, for all his chiding, has a lightness to his voice. He pauses, letting Loki come up beside him, and looks at the weather-beaten path tracing through the hills. His eyes crinkle. He looks happier in the wind, out of the grainy brown and plastic TVA cubicles.
Loki shakes his head. He resumes his scan. "What about that rock?"
"I'm pretty sure that's just a rock. Do you not get them on Asgard?"
"Not ones like that."
"Maybe it's… I don't know, maybe it's Scottish."
"It's a Scottish rock?" Loki draws his brows together. "That's the legendary Agent Mobius' analysis?"
Mobius turns, his hands raised upwards in irritation. "Hey, we're on a time crunch right now. I'm sorry my deductions about British geology don't meet your high standards of –"
Movement. A shadow dark across the dip in the land, cast from behind them.
They were alone a minute ago.
Loki spins. He thrusts an arm out to push Mobius back. A flash of bright green light flings him backwards. Pain tears through his chest. He flails then braces, battered by an ocean of wind and rain.
He falls with a solid crack on the opposite bank. He rolls down the drop into the stream, his knees scraping the riverbed. His hair hangs over his eyes. He jerks his head up.
Mobius curses, a similar state of disarray hanging over him as he splashes to his feet. Loki checks him first, scanning for injury and finding nothing.
He turns his attention back across the stream.
He meets his reflection before the sky.
It doesn't move as he tilts his head to the side, an entity in its own right standing opposite him. When it opens its mouth, Loki hears his own voice ringing back at him.
"Well. This is interesting."
Mobius mutters a warning for him to stay, wait, as he fumbles with his TemPad to alert the squadron. Loki ignores him and narrows his eyes. "You're… me."
The other Loki meets him with equal intrigue, but far more malice. "Are you a mimic? A witch?" Loki doesn't reply. Not-Loki shrugs. "You're not me because I would not be caught dead in that shade of brown. So –" he raises his eyebrows and, with a flourish, draws a dagger from the air, "– reveal your true form, or I will kill your friend."
Loki hums. "Rather rude. From my perspective, you're the impersonator."
Not-Loki's expression shatters into a sharp smile. "Well, I'm afraid that causes a… conflict of interests, shall we say." He's dressed similar to how Loki might've dressed a few years ago, the drizzle running off of his shoulder pads. His hair is slicked back, but coming loose with the rain.
Loki wishes he had his daggers. He shoots Mobius a glance, gauging the time they need to stall before reinforcements arrive, and finds him staring at Not-Loki with resolute determination. Too long then.
Loki suddenly sees the reason they are meant to stay in larger groups. Which they hadn't.
"We don't want to fight you, Loki," Mobius says. Loki falters, before he remembers he's not the target of addression. Mobius seems unperturbed by the Not-Loki across from them. A Variant then – this has happened a thousand times before in a thousand fractal timelines.
"Whyever not?" Not-Loki's smile cracks into a deeper grin.
"Because I know you'd win," Mobius says, a hint of humour in his voice. Not-Loki's expression softens in confusion, a drop of insecurity at facing an opponent lacking bravado. "My name is Agent Mobius," he continues, as he raises a placating hand. "You're Loki, right?"
"I am Loki Laufeyson, formerly of Asgard, frost giant and god. I have conquered the void and come out victorious." As he continues, a sprinkling of a hiss comes through his teeth, "I take my place in standing at the right hand of Thanos and denounce those who oppose either of us, which would be you in this given instance."
"Quite the achievements list." Mobius sounds genuinely impressed, a cordial tone to his voice. "Thanos' right hand? I salute your sheer nerve, but it's pretty stupid to even get involved with him. What task needed completing so badly he sent you out here?"
Loki's heart twinges watching Mobius speak, his voice calm and measured. Not-Loki fumbles in his anger. He lowers his dagger, drawn in by Mobius' combination of admiration and challenge, contrasted finely enough to be fascinating. Loki remembers feeling the same when he first met him.
He wonders how many Lokis have felt like this.
Mobius weaves them extra time with practice, but Loki cannot do anything but detract from the scenario. Not-Loki throws him an appraising glare. "Neither of you have yet explained the presence of my doppelganger."
"Oh, this guy?" Even Loki can see Mobius fumble. This is where the art breaks, where the practice falls through. He's met thousands of Lokis, but never two at once.
"I am Loki," he substitutes. "A different Loki."
Mobius scrunches up his nose. "Not quite the direction I was aiming for there, but we'll roll with that."
Not-Loki follows their interaction, scavenging for clues. He draws a blank, hackles visibly raising. "I stand by my earlier point. I would like an explanation."
"You see, we can't quite do that Loki –"
Not-Loki jerks his dagger up. Mobius activates his time stick. It glows yellow, crackling in the rain.
"Ah, so you are a warrior. I couldn't tell."
Mobius laughs. "Warrior? I like the ring of that. I only wish I was."
"I'm good at granting wishes," Not-Loki returns.
Loki recognises the drop in his tone.
He only just has time to throw himself at Mobius before Not-Loki lunges towards them, a dark green shadow in a wash of sleet. They tumble out of his range. Loki stands. He wishes he had his daggers. He ducks the first slash. He wishes he had his daggers. He gets a hold of Not-Loki's wrist. He wishes he had his daggers so he could actually do something. Instead he kicks, catching him behind his knee.
Not-Loki is younger. Less experienced. His grip on magic falters against Loki's own, even when limited by his respect for Mobius' no magic rule. He figures this is an occasion where he might break such a guideline, but he holds back, only blocking another attempt to throw them backwards.
A couple of well-placed jabs and Loki's got him worn out. Mobius hangs back until Loki shoots him a pointed look, wrangling to keep Not-Loki still. "Going to help at all?" he huffs.
"You've got it sorted."
"Of course," Loki replies, "now why don't you prune him so we can get out of here?" Annoyance infects his voice, a touch more than mild. He darts for the left dagger but it evaporates in his hand – an illusion. He swears and goes for the other one, gratified to find a solid hilt under his fingers. Wrenching it back, he directs the blade edge to Not-Loki's neck.
"Loki, that's not…" Mobius sighs. "That's not protocol. He deserves a trial."
"A trial? He's trying to –"
"Just hold him until they arrive."
Not-Loki stills under the knife-pressure. Loki sends Mobius a glare. "Oh, sure. Maybe if you let me use magic we wouldn't be in this mess –"
"You know why I can't do that –"
Not-Loki is still too readily, too compliantly.
Loki sees the trick a second after it happens. He loosens his hold and Not-Loki drops like a stone. Loki is knocked off his feet with a swipe. He hits the ground, cracking his head on the rocks. His vision goes grey, blackening at the corners. A sharp pain in his leg; he hears Mobius shout as his vision blurs. He exhales shortly, clinging at the coloured specks in his vision. Shadows flicker – he sees the shapes above him morphing and reforming, blurs of movement.
His healing isn't instant. It takes two heartbeats to regain full consciousness. Another one to catch his breath.
Another one to think. Mobius.
Loki blinks back the rainwater and sits up. He winces as he scrambles to his feet.
Not-Loki and Mobius, locked in a stalemate, don't pay him heed. Mobius holds the time stick like a cattle prod, Not-Loki swinging his dagger in an arc, so neither can get close enough to main the other.
Loki clutches his side, his healing not quite perfect. Lack of practice has rendered him useless. He limps, a wound in his leg that hadn't been there before. The rain tempts the worst of the agony to the surface.
Not-Loki's form catches his focus. Tension in the legs. The dagger in his left hand, not his right.
The opening in Mobius' defence, the gap to his left.
Loki remembers the first move Heimdall taught him.
Not-Loki moves right first, aiming for Mobius' guarded side. Loki watches it play out before his eyes, slow like a movie on a zoetrope.
His mouth is too dry to shout.
Mobius moves to strike, taking the opportunity. Not-Loki freezes in his fluidity and spins the opposite way. Towards Mobius' unguarded left, his dagger held low.
No time to shout.
Loki knows the move, knows the feeling of a pierced abdomen against his balled fist. He remembers it now; he still has Not-Loki's first dagger in his fingers, aiding his recall. He still has his first dagger.
He has a dagger.
He launches forward. He drives the blade up. It plunges into Not-Loki's back, tearing clothes and fraying skin, a dry cough propelled from his throat. His onslaught stutters and Mobius steps back, out of reach of the extended weapon hovering centimetres from his torso.
Loki's chest heaves. His heart pounds on the inside of his ribcage, his stomach turning as he twists the knife to ensure the job is done. He half expects the Not-Loki to evaporate, to vanish in a puff of green illusion and reappear with a grin behind him. But a wet, bloody choke and a heavy thud onto the ground is all he's given, his blade drawn away red. The body rolls the incline to the stream, limbs lifeless, limp like a ragdoll.
The storm crescendos, then dims to a dull hum. Rain drips down Loki's nose, his hair matted close to his scalp. The ache in his leg resurfaces and, as he catches his breath, he focuses on the skin there. A swarm of green particles tumble over the injury, knitting the edges together. He's not practised healing magic in a long time – a pinkish wound outline remains as a nuclear afterimage under the torn clothes.
Mobius inhales next to him, exertion tainting the colour in his face. "Hey," he says, raising a hand. "You hurt?"
"I am perfectly fine. Now, at least." His voice is surprisingly steady.
Hunters appear on the precipice of the valley, approaching in their masses. B-15 directs them to the body in the stream. Mobius flashes her a thumbs up, giving the all-clear, but the line of anger in her forehead remains, faint in the half-light. She kicks it over. The watery face turns to the sky, skin an off-tone white.
"Right. Okay." Mobius exhales. "Let's go. They've got it."
"No." Loki shakes his head, his voice strained. "No, I should –"
"You shouldn't do anything." Mobius wraps his fingers around his elbow and pulls. "C'mon. Door's this way."
Loki is dimly aware of a few hunters breaking away, coming towards them and speaking to Mobius. He can't break his focus from the stream, an uncomfortable churning in his chest. And then Mobius is tugging him again, through the door and into the muted brown of the TVA. His last image is of B-15, kneeling next to the dead version of him in the water, eyes dark.
Mobius attends the debrief when they return, which means Loki is fairly free to pursue whatever he'd like to do. They're fairly comfortable he won't try to escape anymore, and very comfortable that he wouldn't get far if he tried.
They're right on both counts.
He finds himself in the archives, at the desk he and Mobius share, stacked with folders in yellow and brown jackets. He shifts a pile aside and draws up a chair, folding into it. It's quiet, the time cycle tipping over into what could constitute night at the TVA, with most people electing to take their breaks at the same interval.
Loki doesn't often mind the silence, but it's somewhat overbearing now. Cotton pressed over his head. He leans his elbow on the table and his chin soon follows; he reshuffles so he can comfortably rest on the wooden surface. When his eyes drift shut it's a choice, not a necessity.
He awakes with a jolt. Vague memories of a dream shift and reform, their aftereffects lingering in a raised heartbeat and a sharp breath in. Mobius scribbles onto a clipboard, sat in the chair across the desk, then sets it aside and raises his attention to Loki.
"How long have you been there?"
"Oh, only a little bit."
"You were perfectly welcome to wake me," Loki says, adrenaline fading in face of the archive's warm sepia glow. He clenches his fists once to ward away a lingering energy, then stretches back into his chair.
"Didn't see a point. The death got approved at the debrief, given the hostile situation." Mobius taps his pen. "I'm in a little trouble for splitting us from the group. Which is fair, to be honest, so I'll take that."
Loki hums. "Only in hindsight does it seem rash. Though you don't seem the kind of man to disobey protocol that makes logistical sense."
It's a statement that invites an explanation, and Mobius delivers. "B-15 and her team breathing down your neck can't be much fun. Thought it'd be good to get you doing something less scrutinised."
Loki narrows his eyes a tad. Mobius forewent protocol for his sake. To give him something he'd thought he'd not have again. To give him a sense of independence.
That is not something he actually has the emotional capacity to analyse right now.
"Is it too wishy-washy to ask if you're okay?" Mobius asks. His eyes soften around the edges, but a tense line forms in his forehead.
"It would be, but not terribly out of character."
"Ouch." Comes the reply, but Mobius' lips twitch upwards. "Seriously, though. I can't have my favourite assistant having too much of an existential crisis to get his work done."
Loki scoffs at the word assistant, breathing harsh in his throat. "I've killed people before, Mobius."
"Yeah, I know." He sounds resigned. "But not… not like that."
Loki's mind tumbles back to the body, face down in the currents. "Was –" his voice cracks, how embarrassing, "– he was a Variant of me, yes?" The answer is obvious, but a reaffirmation would really help him get a grip of whatever blasted feeling is making a mess of his stress levels.
"Yeah. Guessing whatever he was doing caused the spikes we saw."
"Our mystery man?"
"No reset charges stolen, and didn't seem to be his aim, so I'd guess he's not our guy. Wasn't our guy," Mobius corrects. "No idea what a Loki was doing at that point in the timeline. I've got the central analysis department on it now, trying to figure out if some kinda temporal foul play was involved. If there's a version of you that figured out how to relocate in the time stream then I'm extra glad we got him quick."
Loki wrings his hands together, clutching his thumb until it hurts. "That is the reason I was brought in, was it not?"
"Mhm." Mobius waves a vague hand in his direction. "That's why the team was so on it when bringing you in, plus why I had to bribe Ravonna with like ten mission trophies to keep you."
"Why did you?" Loki's not unaware of the desperate note to his voice. This is absurd. It's humiliating. He feels like his skin is pulled back, exposing something underneath.
"Is the question why you in particular? 'Cause I don't think the answer will be very satisfying."
"No. I suppose not. It seems daft grafting with individuality in a place such as this."
"Well –" Mobius shrugs, oddly subdued, "– yes and no. Yeah, it must feel weird that there are like a million variations of you that occasionally pop up –"
"Before they're pruned," Loki interrupts. "As I should've been."
"But you weren't. And you aren't them either."
"Am I not? How so?" He can't pretend not to care now. He tilts forward and scans every inch of Mobius' face for a lifeline to cling on to.
Mobius tilts his head, silent. His stare is unyielding, and intense for it. "Look, I can't offer you much in way of comfort if you're looking for me to tell you you're the best Loki, or the only Loki we've ever taken a special interest in –"
(Loki will pretend that doesn't sting. It does.)
"– because that would be a lie, and lying won't help either of us."
"Reluctantly, I agree with that sentiment."
"What I can tell you, is that you're your own person just as you are. I've seen Lokis live the same lives as you, down to the millisecond. But you're not them."
"Why?" Loki throws his hands out to the side. "What sets me apart?"
"Because you are the Loki sat across from me right now. You're the one thinking and breathing here in this room. That's uniquely you. Not a Variant."
"But it could have been a Variant." His lips are dry. "It could've been any version of me. It could've been that one I killed today."
"Yeah. It could've. But it wasn't. If you're basing your entire self-worth on a set of unique experiences, you'll never get anywhere. Neither of us will. You've gotta base it on the fact that we're here together, and the people here are us and not other versions of us."
"Very philosophical, Agent Mobius. I hate to admit that you're worsening my feelings of insignificance, but I appreciate the effort."
Mobius lets out a huff of a laugh. "You're impossible."
"I do try my hardest."
They melt into pleasant quiet. Loki hadn't been lying about feeling worse, but the words settle and reform, and don't paint such a bad picture after a while.
"I don't know," Mobius concedes eventually, staring into the middle distance. "You think too deeply and you start to panic. Easier to just think, I'm me because I'm here in this head. Nobody else is me. Make sense?"
"I suppose." Loki's tongue struggles to form around the words he chooses. "I feel… sorry for that version of me I killed today. Is that pitiful?"
"Nah. That's normal. You're seeing someone who you know well, and they're in a bad place you know well. You're not seeing you. It removes that personal blindness."
"You're very clever about all of this." The compliment has been swimming at the forefront of Loki's mind, but he's surprised at how natural it comes out. "I've wondered how you've not been driven insane by this life."
"Like I said, works best if you don't think. Besides, I'm quite happy making my own significance. When I die I won't give a hell what anything meant in the end. There could be a billion iterations of my exact life, but it wasn't mine."
That's something to cling to. "This life is mine." Loki repeats the words slowly, measuring them, holding them in his teeth.
Mobius watches him, sensing the moment the weight lifts. "It is. Now, you want to unclench that fist? Because I'm surprised you aren't bleeding yet."
Loki relaxes the muscles in his fingers. He's unbearably tired, now he's got the poorly internalised breakdown over with. His hair is damp from the rain, half-dry and sticking to his forehead. He's still in his soaking clothes, cold on his skin.
Maybe even more poorly internalised than he'd thought.
But he does feel better.
"You want tea?" Mobius is pointedly avoiding looking at him now, giving him a moment of solitude to regather himself. He stacks sheets, lining up the corners of each page perfectly. "I'd suggest coffee, but I think we both need to sleep sooner rather than later."
Loki appreciates the phrasing. We. Not you. It lessens the weakness when he inclines his head in a slight nod. "That is not your worst idea."
"Hey, I should get you to try hot chocolate. That'd be priceless. You'd absolutely despise it." Mobius stands, waiting for him to follow.
"Is the purpose of that exercise to give me a beverage I despise?" Loki's legs ache as he clambers to his feet. He falls into stride with Mobius, a line of warmth at his side. "Because that sounds more like torture than a fun activity."
"Well, B-15 hates it, so at least it'll give you two something in common."
"If that's the target of the exercise, then I impolitely refuse."
Mobius nudges him. "Hey, she's not so bad. I think she's starting to like you a bit –"
"Don't kid yourself."
"Yeah, sue me, that one was a stretch –"
It's not all bad. Their bickering carries in the space, and follows them down the corridors, the passages winding and empty. It makes everything seem smaller. More comfortable. It throws Loki into the present, being someone with somebody else nearby.
He's there and he's himself. That's enough for him.