Chapter Text
Sylvie had started her life as a Loki, but she adamantly refused to define herself as one. At least, not completely. Her relationship with the identity was certainly a complex one. Even before meeting her own variants, she had felt a disconnect from her birth name, its sound like a foreign word in her mouth. It hadn’t ever felt like hers, but neither had the titles of “Prince,” “son,” or “brother.” Thor had fit into the role fine, radiating vigor and strength even in their youth. He was proud, jutting his hammer in the air, confidence palpable in his toothy smile and broadening shoulders as he soaked up the appraisal. Sylvie had never related to it: the charisma, the belonging, or the self-assurance of fitting into the role Odin and Frigga originally ascribed to her as Loki Odinson, God of Mischief. The name felt like it belonged to someone else.
As far back as she could remember, she had been entranced by her reflection in the mirror. Not vainly like Thor, she thought smugly, but she was simply entranced by the act of watching— watching as her black, slicked-back hair grew past her neck. She had rather liked it. The way it curled at the ends, the smell of the oils Mother would weave through it, its shininess after it had been brushed. When Frigga had suggested a haircut, the royal hairdressers had gone mysteriously missing from the palace. Only when Frigga assured her that she wouldn’t touch the growth did they return from their “self-imposed” exile to Jotunheim. “That’s alright with me, Loki,” Frigga said soothingly, cupping her face. “My beautiful boy.”
The hair grew past her shoulders. Thor’s hair grew too, but he also didn’t have qualms with Father calling him “son” or “prince.” He didn’t much care about that, too focused on the acclaim he got from Odin or his friends. Odin pitted them against each other from the beginning, telling Thor that he was to be King one day, while the adopted Frost Giant Sylvie only received the title of Prince.
At her young age, the resentment over this had not yet grown to its full scale. After all, she had Mother to mollify the sting of Odin’s rejection. Mother understood her in a way she suspected Thor and Odin never would. Frigga taught her magic, a powerful ability just the two of them shared. To Sylvie, that was immeasurably better than the promise of a throne.
While Frigga stressed the importance of such power, she also delighted in helping Sylvie hone her sorcery and form-shifting. Sylvie had watched, giggling, as her mother cast an illusion of herself in Odin’s traditional regalia, complete with a perfect mimicry of Father’s booming voice. “Thor, stop eating all the turkey legs! Those are for the guests!” She remembered the Allfather’s helmet falling over Frigga’s eyes as Sylvie doubled over in laughter.
Learning enchantments was one of Sylvie’s favorite parts of the lessons. As a child, they enabled her to play hysterical pranks on Thor. One time she cast an invisibility spell on Thor’s utensils whenever he went to take a bite of his food. He’d flipped out, slamming his plate on the table while Sylvie snickered behind her fist. (It had resulted in a harsh punishment from Odin, but Frigga had brought Sylvie her favorite treats in her chambers, where she was sequestered, for managing the feat.) And when Sylvie ran to her room, hiding her cries after Thor made fun of her or Odin yelled, Frigga would provide her comfort. She taught her how to cast illusions, creating elaborate stories of warriors and fairytale creatures to distract her. Magic became a solace for Sylvie.
Mother taught her how to switch back and forth between different forms, clapping appreciatively the first time she achieved the form of a snake, even more so for her Jotun appearance. Sylvie looked forward to the lessons and the associated praise from Mother, since she seldom got it elsewhere. But Sylvie’s favorite part was when their lessons devolved into raiding Mother’s closet. She swam in the huge dresses, and the earrings were always too heavy for her small ears, but that was not what mattered in those moments. All that mattered was Mother, cooing over how pretty Sylvie looked.
Frigga held Sylvie’s chin between her index finger and thumb, instructing her to close her eyes as she applied a shimmery golden powder to them. The brush tickled, making Sylvie sneeze. “You can use magic to do this too, but it is not as fun,” Frigga had told her, as if she was divulging magical secrets to her instead of makeup advice. “I prefer the manual method.” She bopped Sylvie’s nose with her finger. “All done, you can open your eyes now,” Mother instructed her, and Sylvie did. She stared at her reflection for quite a bit of time, mesmerized. “What do you think, my son?”
Sylvie looked at herself in the mirror. They’d done this before, of course. There was nothing different about Sylvie herself, she supposed. She’d sat here in front of Mother’s vanity before, gentle hands brushing a strand of hair back where it had come loose from her braid. Mother wore that same wide smile, waiting for Sylvie’s reaction to the makeup and dress.
But there was something different in Mother’s eyes that day. Something perceptive, something knowing, something kind. It was that look that gave Sylvie the courage to ask. “Do you think…” she faltered, then continued, and something simultaneously monumental and insignificant burst forth from her mouth. Life changed, but in other ways, it didn’t. “Do you think you could call me Odinsdottir instead?”
Mother’s smile had grown wider.
Sylvie knew that the other Loki’s she’d encountered were rather fluid in their gender expressions. Loki – the one she’d watched sacrifice himself for her and his other friends a few months prior – had only presented solely as male because of the TVA’s restrictions on magic. Kid Loki was fine with being referred to by any variation of pronouns, saying something about “delighting in confusing the mortals.” Even the Crocodile Loki had introduced itself as the Crown Princess and the Rightful King of Asgard. But for Sylvie, none of the masculine labels felt… right.
And Mother had known. Mother always knew, somehow.
She wondered if Mother would like the new name Sylvie had chosen for herself while concealing herself in the ends of worlds. If she would like her dyed blonde hair, her grunge fashion, or admire the considerable enchantment skills she’d honed by herself. If she would like the woman her daughter had grown into.
But Mother would never know. She wouldn’t know about any of it. Mother was gone, she remembered with a sinking feeling in her stomach, gone— pruned with a pained cry as Sylvie was yanked through a Timedoor by goddamn Ravonna Renslayer—
“Do you think I can get a Big Mac meal?”
Sylvie jolted back into reality. On instinct, her hand reached for the knife in her pocket, only to grasp at the red-and-white fabric of her company-issued uniform. She wasn’t in Asgard, nor was she fighting her way through apocalypses. She wasn’t even in the TVA. Sylvie took in a shaky breath, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, the customer at the counter was staring at her expectantly. She snapped back into her role, compartmentalizing her nerves, shoving them to the side. That could be dealt with after work, with the company of a stiff beer. “And for your drink?”
“Dr. Pepper, I think. Wait, or maybe a milkshake…”
By Sylvie’s standards, the rest of her shift went well. She served about sixty-four more meals before the end of her shift, including a particularly obnoxious soccer team who had all wanted McFlurries. She guessed that her acquaintances at the TVA judged her for returning to the same 1982, Oklahoma timeline, but she found the tedium of the work— and the money she received for it— comforting. She’d settled back into her previous routine quickly, still perfectly content with her full-time schedule. She hardly ever took a day off. Her manager, Jack, said that Sylvie was the most dedicated worker he’d ever met. She even had a plaque attesting to it, Sylvie Smith: Employee of the Month, inscribed under a picture of her off-guard smile.
Sylvie was completely satisfied with the timeline she’d chosen for herself. There wasn’t much she would change about it. She liked her job. She liked her stop at the record store after her shift, with the employee who knew her first name but not much else. She liked having the same beer at the same bar, with the regulars who greeted her but mostly left her alone. She had casual relationships without unnecessary attachment.
For the first time since her childhood, she liked life. It was quiet, it was uneventful, it was unambitious, but it was hers. No one bothered her here. She was grateful she’d been able to find the same timeline again, and she wasn’t about to begrudge Loki’s sacrifice that had enabled her to do so.
Sylvie bid Jack goodnight before clocking out, taking her employee meal to go. She’d been looking forward to listening to a record from a new band called The Smiths all day. The record store employee, Lyle, had promised she would enjoy it. She toyed with her keys, ready to leave when she caught sight of a familiar figure in the restaurant. A mustachioed man sat in the booth by the window, munching noisily on a piece of apple pie.
She groaned internally. So much for nobody bothering her. She considered pretending like she didn’t see him, but Mobius looked up, smiling and waving her over. There were crumbs in his mustache. “Hey, Sylvie!” He called.
Against her will, or perhaps just to avoid the way the restaurant’s occupants swiveled to look at them, Sylvie slid into the seat across from Mobius. He wasn’t in his TVA uniform. Instead he wore a loud floral-patterned shirt and khakis, with the most hideous boat shoes. He looked ridiculous. How had she not noticed his presence in the restaurant? One of her coworkers must have served him while she took her smoke break. “Hoped to find you here,” Mobius said, taking a slurp of his drink. “What’s up?”
“What do you want?” she asked, crossing her arms.
“Hello to you too,” Mobius joked. “Just wanted to check in, see how you’re doing! You haven’t responded to any of our messages on the TemPad.”
Irritation crept up her neck. Sylvie had stuffed the TemPad in the back of her closet a while ago, around the first time Casey had invited her to RSVP to a “constructive conversation about our friend transforming into Yggdrasil and leaving us to deal with the ramifications.” She had declined, as had Mobius, if she remembered correctly. Loki’s friends had commenced using the TemPad like a message-sending system, the sound of its muffled ding intermittently making its presence known on sleepless nights. “I’m fine. What do you want? Is something wrong with the TVA again?” She asked curtly.
Mobius frowned, fork halfway to his mouth. “Can’t I check up on a friend?”
She huffed, looking over her shoulder at the clock hung above the registers. She regretted not getting in her truck and leaving when she had the chance. “We’re not friends.”
Mobius shook his head in disbelief. “Yes, we are!” Before Sylvie could refute him again, Mobius waved his drink at her in indignation, “You might pretend not to care, but you helped save the timelines along with the rest of us, Sylvie.”
“I didn’t help save anything,” Sylvie snapped. “I think you’re confusing me for your Loki. You know, the one who left you to go be in the magical tree?”
Mobius smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, resulting in more of a grimace. She ignored a flicker of regret at her action. “Just wanted to see how you were. See how you’re holding up.” He held up his milkshake again, shaking it side to side. “Not to mention this McDonalds has the only working ice cream machine in the whole Multiverse,” he joked.
Sylvie rolled her eyes. It was unfair how easily this man defused tension. Still, she kept her arms crossed over her chest, not letting her guard down. “I’m pretty tech-savvy, remember? I’m the only one who knows how to work the damned thing.” She shifted in her seat. “And as I’ll repeat one more time, I said I’m fine. Are you sure you’re not just projecting?”
Mobius ignored her comment. “Same old timeline, huh? Didn’t feel like… branching out?” He asked, chuckling at his own dumb pun.
Sylvie didn’t laugh with him. Loki might’ve endorsed this man’s jokes with a grin, but as she kept reminding everyone, she wasn’t a Loki. Not really. More like... Loki-adjacent. “I’m happy here,” she asserted, keeping her expression neutral. She was happy with the same routine as before— the routine that involved impermanent interaction with the Midgardians, gave her a free meal of her choosing, and left her with little time to ruminate on her past. She could go to bed, get up for her shift, and come home again after a few mind-numbing pitstops, barely having any time to indulge her intrusive thoughts.
Except when they attempted to claw their way into her consciousness in the middle of a shift, or during a lull in a song, or before she took the first sip of her drink. Or when she lay awake at night, plagued by visions of worlds burning and her family’s agonized screams, hands clasped over her ears. “I’m happy here,” she repeated.
“Not what I asked,” Mobius said, without any venom. In fact, there was a hint of compassion in his tone. Sylvie despised it. “But, I mean… are you, Sylvie?”
Her face fell into a scowl. “I am,” she said through gritted teeth. How dare he come into her timeline and accuse her of… of… something. Being unhappy? Settling for a monotonous, boring life? Isolating herself? Then she realized that Mobius hadn’t actually said any of that, which only made her angrier. She clenched her fists hard enough to produce an audible crack.
“You okay over here, Sylvie?” She heard a voice ask. She registered it quickly as Jack. He had come up behind them, putting his hand protectively on the booth behind her. She could feel the tremble of his hand through the plastic as he eyed Mobius. Sometimes she forgot that Jack was just a teenager. He didn’t know that Mobius was the least threatening Midgardian she’d met. Perhaps the most annoying. “You were ’sposed to leave a few minutes ago. Is this guy, um… is this guy botherin’ you?” Jack coughed into his fist.
“Yes, he most certainly is,” Sylvie grumbled, shooting him a glare as she moved to stand. She had wasted enough time indulging this man— her food was probably cold, she was drawing unnecessary attention to herself, and worst of all, her fucking schedule had been thrown off. She was already late for her visit to the record store. She grabbed her meal and stood, ready to leave, when she spared an actual look at the man.
For the first time since she’d seen Mobius, she fully registered the extent of his unkempt appearance. He stared down at his meal, resigned to his fate. His hair wasn’t gelled back, his eyebags were as deep as caverns, and the characteristic twinkle in his eye was missing. As much as he tried to hide it, not even the apple pie had lifted his spirits.
He looked… sad. There was a stab of guilt in Sylvie’s gut, tinged with something adjacent to the compassion she had just spurned. And as much as she tried to push it away, the feeling wouldn’t abate. It lingered, ballooning exponentially every second she stared at the man. He wasn’t doing any real harm, she knew. She sighed.
Gods damn it.
“No, it’s… he’s alright,” Sylvie managed, grimacing between Jack and Mobius. Mobius’ head perked up, a dumb smile on his face. “He’s just my… my brother-in-law. You know. Those damn in-laws,” she shook her head. She’d heard the men at the bar complain about theirs. “So annoying, right?”
“You’re married, Sylvie?” Jack asked with surprise, looking too excited about the prospect.
“No, no, nothing like that,” Sylvie said quickly, “No, he’s married to my…” A flash of Loki’s blue eyes materialized in her mind, crinkling with mirth at one of Mobius’s stupid jokes. It was the first plausible excuse that came to her. “…to my sister.” She cursed inwardly. She had been called silver-tongued in her youth, but it was if regular human conversation just sucked the cleverness right out of her. How did Midgardians manage it?
Still, Jack seemed to be satisfied with her answer. He winked and nodded, “Well, let me know if you need anything, Sylvie. I could be convinced to comp some desserts for our best worker’s family.” He went back behind the counter, disappearing into the back.
When Sylvie sat back down, Mobius’s cheeks were tinged a faint pink. “Thanks,” he said.
“Don’t mention it,” Sylvie said. He was so predictable when it came to any mention of Loki. “As long as you don’t insinuate that I’m not happy again.” He nodded at her pointed finger. “So, what are you really doing here, Mobius?”
“I…” Mobius took a deep breath, staring at the empty wrappers on the table. There was nothing for him to fidget with now. He had finished his pie. Eye contact felt too vulnerable, she supposed. She understood the feeling. “In all honesty… I’m just… confused.” Mobius bit his fork thoughtfully. “Well, not confused, per se, but… adrift, I guess.” Sylvie nodded.
He continued, “I’m working what you would call ‘part-time’ at the TVA again. I requested my info, but once I read it, I couldn’t just take that guy’s spot on the timeline.” He seemed caught in a daze for a second. Sylvie remembered her comment back at the TVA and bit her lip, but didn't say anything. “It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t me. Wasn’t even my name. Don.” He snorted to himself, sounding it out. “D-on. What a stupid name." Mobius looked wistfully into the distance. "He sure had some cool jet skis though."
Sylvie stared at her nails. She’d bitten them down to the quick earlier. Never one to mince words, she asked what first came to her mind. “Why come here, though? I’m not a replacement Loki, Mobius. You were Loki’s friend, not mine. And you have friends at the TVA I'm sure you can vent to.”
Mobius gave her a half-smile, meeting her eyes. “I’m trying to figure out my purpose. Been spending time on different timelines, exploring it all. I thought I’d stop by yours, see how you’re doing. I was a little worried about you, all by your lonesome. I mean, despite all your protesting, I do think of you as a friend.” She returned the smile uncertainly, uncomfortable. She gestured for him to move on from that line of reasoning. He did. “Everything I’ve seen on the timelines… It’s all so beautiful, all of it. But.” Mobius’s eyes fell back to the table between them, as if ashamed. “It feels selfish to say, but… it feels… it feels like something’s missing.” There was a pregnant pause, as if Mobius was on the cusp of a grand revelation. Sylvie waited. But instead, Mobius rubbed his hands together, lighting up with a grin. “Maybe it’s that free dessert.”
Sylvie guffawed, caught off guard by the switch in tone. “What? You already had an apple pie!”
“Maybe one for the road?” Mobius asked, hopeful.
Sylvie cocked her head. “Going back to the TVA?”
“Yup!” Mobius checked his watch. Since they’d started genuinely talking, she had barely registered the time. She realized that she didn’t care as much as she thought she would. Strange. “Me and the whole gang get together each Tuesday… well, since there’s no time in the TVA, I guess any day we want, really, and we drink ourselves silly! Although I usually tap out at one drink these days. You’re welcome to join us, if you want,” he offered, catching himself rambling. At her skeptical look, he said, “B-15, O.B., and Casey’ll be there. They’d love to see you, I bet.”
Again, those are all Loki’s friends, she thought. Not mine. She smiled thinly. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“That’s alright,” Mobius acquiesced. “Not gonna force you into anything. If you change your mind, you got that TemPad!” He stood, brushing the crumbs from his shirt.
There was an awkward silence as Jack came over with another packaged apple pie, ever the dutiful employee. Sylvie sat in her booth, staring up at Mobius as he in turn stared at his dessert. He seemed a bit happier now, but the deep creases in his face and furrowed brow were evident. He turned to her, hesitant.
“I don’t think you’re a replacement, by the way.” He added, quietly, “I don’t think anyone could replace him.”
The name was unspoken, but Sylvie knew who he meant. She just didn’t know what to say in response. Mobius's eyes were downcast, fixated on his shoes. She settled for a placating hand on his shoulder, patting him lightly.
“I hope you find your purpose, Mobius.”
Sylvie skipped her visit to the record store that night, settling instead for the music on her Walkman. The change in routine hadn’t knocked her as off-kilter as she had expected, but something was still amiss. The drinks she’d gotten that night hadn’t settled well in her stomach, she determined. That was it.
When she arrived at her apartment, she immediately entered the shower, shedding her clothes and magically depositing them into the laundry hamper. She needed to wash the smell of fry oil from her body, she decided.
In the shower, there was no music or tasks to distract her from her thoughts. As the cold water roared to life around her, as was routine, Sylvie found herself thinking of her family. How their timeline was wiped out of existence, their wails still echoing in her ears. How Sylvie had attempted to go back to Asgard once she’d escaped the TVA, only to be blocked by the TemPad’s two little words: TIMELINE PRUNED. How desperately she’d wanted to help them, screamed and cried and begged to do something, to keep them alive, provide them comfort while they died, even just to see their faces one last time.
But she couldn’t. She’d done something to get them all killed, but she’d never know what. She’d never see them again. And she’d never gotten the time to process it. The second she let her guard down, the agents would be after her again. So, she ran. Consumed by guilt and hatred for the TVA.
Now, it was the guilt that dominated the majority of her ruminations. You got your whole family murdered. And when that wasn't enough, then you tried to destroy the Multiverse. Sylvie felt the telltale sob claw its way up her throat and stifled it with her hand. Like clockwork, the same thoughts had cycled, over and over and over ever since that day, a crippling obsession that Sylvie would never shake. Usually, these thoughts were dimmed by the haze of alcohol in her system, but they roared with stunning intensity tonight. She reached for the shampoo bottle, trying to think about anything else. Food, sex, music, anything.
But tonight, she saw something new. Tonight, uninvited, Mobius’ miserable face popped into her mind. She saw him, as despondent as she’d ever seen the man, the sad furrow of his brow when he thought she wasn’t looking. She saw him without purpose, unmoored.
What the fuck? The sadness was abruptly gone, replaced with disorientation and anger. What the fuck did Mobius have to do with anything? Sylvie clasped her hands over her ears, trying to focus on the mind-numbing thrum of the water pouring around her. The sound in combination with the freezing water was grounding, comforting. Her Jotun heritage made it so. But it didn’t take long before it all rushed back, paired with that same sad look on the analyst’s face.
She waved a hand and turned off the tap, grumbling to herself. What was she supposed to do about it? It wasn’t as if she could magically make him feel better. And why did she care so much, anyways? Mobius wasn’t her friend, not really. It was just pity that made the TVA agents keep trying to reach out and contact her. Which irked her more. They all believed she must be so distraught after Loki’s sacrifice, but they had severely overestimated her feelings for him.
She had some sort of care for him, but it wasn’t amorous. It was enough of whatever it was to cause a Nexus event, but Sylvie didn’t think she wanted to be with Loki.
She’d tried to picture it, sure. But picturing herself… romantically… with Loki felt like the equivalent of picturing herself involved with Thor. The thought made her shudder with disgust. She’d sensed some sort of affection from him and had utilized it to achieve her goal, kissing him and then kicking him through a Time Door so she could kill He Who Remains without hinderance. She wasn’t sure how that equated to romance in everyone’s brains. Just resourcefulness. She hated being assigned the role of Loki’s “lover” without being consulted on whether she actually felt that way towards her variant. She hated being told what she ought to be, who she ought to like. She hated being put in a box or pitied.
It had to be pity. Why else would Casey want to chat with her about Loki? Or Mobius invite her to drinking nights? They were wasting all this energy on her when they should be channeling it into Mobius. The man was clearly depressed if he was coming to her for comfort. Sylvie didn’t have friends, she had acquaintances. If you had friends, it meant getting hurt, she thought. Either them or you.
Sylvie cleaned herself with another motion of her hand. She preferred doing it the Midgardian way, but today had been a bizarre day already. She just wanted to pass out and have a dreamless sleep. The smell of fry oil was quickly replaced by eucalyptus and mint, and she was clothed in an oversized shirt and boxer shorts for bed. She sighed and made her way towards her bed facing the door, pulling back the covers and drawing her legs under the fabric of her sheets.
The alcohol hadn’t done its job tonight, that was for sure. She lay there, brain careening towards chaos. There was still a gnawing in her stomach. An itch that threatened to erupt if Sylvie dared to scratch at it. Something under the surface, something growing, accompanied by the undercurrent of Frigga. Thor. Odin. And then Mobius’s stupid face. His stupid, heartbroken face.
She groaned and grabbed her bottle of sleeping pills from her side table.
Sylvie had successfully avoided inspecting the feeling further until the middle of her shift the next day. The feelings’ return coincided with the arrival of a certain Hunter, who happened to be her next customer in line. It seemed these visits from the TVA agents were going to become a daily occurrence. Sylvie wondered grimly if she should adjust her schedule to avoid them.
Like Mobius, Hunter B-15 was not wearing her TVA issued uniform. Unlike Mobius, however, the woman looked put together. She wore a knee-length yellow dress adorned with tassels, and loose-fitting sandals. It was far too nice an outfit for eating at a McDonalds. Her ears were adorned with golden earrings, and she far outshone everyone else in the restaurant. She stuck out like a sore thumb. Sylvie barely paid attention to the customer in line ahead of her, wondering what the hell the woman could want.
B-15 smiled tentatively at Sylvie when she came to the counter. “Hey,” she said. She had no wallet or purse. Not here to eat, Sylvie noted. “I was wondering if we could talk,” B-15 told her, hands hanging uncomfortably by her sides. Sylvie could see her soldier’s posture itching to be set free.
“I’m on the clock,” Sylvie tried. She just wanted to shove whatever the hell last night’s emotions had been deep, deep down, and never think of them again. B-15 just reminded her of them, perhaps conflated them. And what the fuck did that mean? Sylvie thought. She shook her head. “Besides, there are other customers behind you. Waiting to order,” she reminded her with a jut of her chin. No matter how much Sylvie didn’t like the way they looked at B-15, tittering behind their hands. Sylvie considered spitting in their food.
B-15’s face fell. “Is there a good time that we could talk?”
That same stupid guilt solidified in her stomach. Why did she have to feel guilty for making her own life away from these people who felt sorry for her? Sylvie was about to dismiss her when Jack popped out of nowhere, his cheery voice and sudden appearance making her flinch. She hoped B-15 did not notice. “Sylvie, is this another friend? Another relative?” He shook B-15’s hand with vigor. The woman shook back, albeit perplexedly. “Didn’t know you had this many! How come I never met ‘em before?”
“No, no, she’s not my friend—” Sylvie was cut off by Jack again.
“Oh. Oh goodness! How rude of me to just assume!” Jack clapped a hand over his mouth, then leaned in conspiratorially, his voice lowered so only Sylvie and B-15 could hear. The customers behind B-15 started to complain. “I didn’t realize that she was your life partner, Sylvie! I have an aunt like that. Y’know, a ‘friend of Dorothy.’” He grinned widely, oblivious to the daggers Sylvie glared at him. Her face had reddened, and Jack took this the wrong way. He patted her shoulder, overwhelmingly genuine. “Don’t worry, ladies. I’m good at bein’ discreet.”
“Oh gods,” she muttered.
B-15 just looked confused. “I don’t know anyone named Dorothy.”
“Either way, Sylvie, you’ve logged plenty of hours this week,” Jack continued, ignoring what Sylvie thought were fairly obvious cues to stop talking. “You’re here practically open to close every day! We’re frankly overstaffed at the moment. Take the day off, Sylv.”
Sylvie pointedly ignored the nickname. “It’s really no trouble, I like the money—” she started to protest, but Jack held up a hand.
“I’m saying this as your manager: you are taking the day off. Hang out with your ‘friend!’” He winked at the two of them, and Sylvie wondered if it would be considered rude to evaporate into a puff of smoke.
She looked back at B-15, who, to her credit, had not wavered in her resoluteness on the matter. In fact, she smiled at Sylvie. Sylvie forced her mouth into a thin line. “Guess I’m free to talk now,” she conceded.
“Great,” B-15 remarked, looking like she meant it.
Sylvie slipped off her apron and came around to B-15. Jack took her place at the register, greeting the next customer as if he hadn’t just provided Sylvie with the most humiliating experience in her life. That included the time Thor stole her clothes and made her walk naked through the gardens to get them back. Lady Sif had even been there, laughing alongside the Warriors Three. Perhaps she was being a bit dramatic, but she was entitled to it, she thought.
Sylvie looked up at B-15, wondering how the woman hadn’t fled from embarrassment. She admired her determination. “Nice dress,” she said awkwardly.
“Thanks.” B-15 said, just as awkward, “I’m trying new things out. Not sure how I feel about the breeze on my legs yet,” she chuckled, flouncing her skirt around. Sylvie ducked her head, avoiding a laugh. They exited the restaurant, the Midwest breeze immediately wafting through Sylvie’s nostrils. They came to stand near the wheat field, entranced by the back-and-forth motion of the stalks. Although she didn’t spend as much time outdoors as she might have liked, one of Sylvie’s favorite things about Oklahoma was its nature. It was unmarked by the smoke of world-ending explosions, the scent of bodies decaying, or the rapid sound of gunfire. Nobody coming to capture her. The wind whipped through her hair, plastering it to her lips. She closed her eyes for a second, breathing it in. It was so beautiful here, she thought. She almost forgot B-15 was there, until the woman cleared her throat.
“Mobius told us he talked to you yesterday,” she stated.
“Yeah,” Sylvie said simply, still staring at the field. She waved a hand at her body and her McDonald’s uniform disappeared, to the floor of her apartment, with a flash of green. Her outfit was replaced with a gray Joy Division shirt with cut off sleeves, dark green-and-gray striped shorts, and clunky black boots. Gold rings lined her black-polished fingers. Sylvie realized too late that her knees were uncovered, the scars from years of battle evident on them. She had been told they were unnerving. B-15 did not even spare them a glance. Sylvie shoved her hands in her pockets. “He came in and bothered me at work.”
“So, you’ve seen him,” B-15 stated. Sylvie looked over at her.
“Yes, and his incredibly horrendous taste in clothing,” Sylvie quipped, but B-15 just tilted her head at her.
“And you’ve seen the state he’s in,” B-15 clarified. “He’s listless, Sylvie. He’s been like that since Loki left.” The woman’s lips pursed. “And he might try to hide it with dumb wisecracks, or burying himself in those silly jet ski magazines, but I’ve known him long enough to know when something’s wrong with him.”
There was that same feeling again, this time materializing as a pang in Sylvie’s chest. She shook it off, trying her best to appear nonchalant. She shrugged, turning to face B-15 full-on. “And what does that have to do with me?”
B-15 narrowed her eyes, knowing. Sylvie felt itchy under her gaze. Like B-15 somehow knew Sylvie was so plagued by it that she had to drug herself to sleep last night. “I’m saying we should help our friend feel better.”
“He’s not my friend,” she said on instinct, although it was beginning to feel like a moot point. Nobody believed her. She wasn’t even sure she believed her. Sylvie continued, “What could I even do to help? Just throw him on a jet ski in an open lake or something. Give him a new case to work on. Hell, maybe give him some weed,” she said, kicking at a pebble. “Distract him from it,” she finished.
“You know that doesn’t work. Plus, he’s tried all of that,” B-15 countered, ever the reasonable one.
“Even the pot?” Sylvie queried.
The hunter’s lips quirked upwards, but she kept her composure. “You know he’s not the type to ask us for help directly,” B-15 maintained. She squared her shoulders, psyching herself up for her next sentence. Sylvie bristled automatically, the smirk dropping from her face. “So, after Mobius left drinks last night, Casey, O.B., and I were talking. We came up with a tentative plan, but we would need to recruit you, Sylvie.”
Bile rose in her throat. “What is your plan?”
B-15 gave her a placating grin, an attempt to pacify a snake she knew was poised to strike. “We’re trying to make Yggdrasil self-sustaining so that Loki can come back home. And we need your help to do it.”
“And how the shit are you planning to do that?” Sylvie exclaimed.
“We find someone with a similar energy source to Loki,” B-15 gestured to Sylvie, who began to shake her head. “O.B.’s theory is that the intersection of science and magic could create a device more powerful than the Loom. A device that might uphold the timelines through enchantment and machinery. Loki wouldn’t have to stay up there.” She paused. “We could give him the same chance at a life that he gave us.”
The alarm sirens in Sylvie’s brain began to blare. “No,” she said, immediate. Interfering with time again? She’d already done that with He Who Remains, and look what happened there— entire timelines burnt to the ground, all because she’d let revenge cloud her judgement! “No. Nope! Not doing that! I don’t even know what kind of magic Loki used!” Sylvie shook her head adamantly, gesturing wildly. She knew she must look crazed, but couldn’t find it in herself to care. “We can’t mess with the timelines again, what if we screw everything up, and everyone dies, B-15?” What if I screw everything up? She thought, frenzied. “What if the timelines are destroyed? I don’t know how to make it clear to everybody that I am not Loki! I don’t know how to fucking control time!”
“I know you’re not, Sylvie,” B-15 said, irrationally calm. “But you’re a powerful enchantress. The goddess of mischief. You were resourceful and crafty enough to survive in thousands of apocalypses. You slipped past the TVA’s radar for millennia. That’s not nothing.” She smiled. “Whatever Loki did, I’m sure you could learn,” she added gently, “You’re meant for more than a customer service job.”
“B-15,” Sylvie began, not entirely sure how to persuade this woman that outsmarting minutemen and hiding in collapsing worlds was not the same as weaving together timelines through magic that she had no idea how had Loki manifested. She had always perceived B-15 as intelligent, how could she not tell that Sylvie wasn’t the right person for this?
“Bea,” B-15 corrected. “Call me Bea.”
Sylvie blinked. “Bea,” Sylvie said pointedly, “I am done helping out the TVA.”
“You wouldn’t be helping the TVA. You’d be helping Loki. And by extension, Mobius,” Bea pointed out.
Fuckfuckfuck. Sylvie clawed her fingers through her scalp, warring emotions threatening to make her stomach spill. “But I like my branch where it is, Bea! Undisturbed and steady and fucking safe. No fluctuations, no people turning into string cheese, no death or destruction or mayhem. Safe!” She shook her head again. “I can’t do that again. Watch it all disappear.”
So much for the goddess of chaos, she cursed herself. Look at you. Complacent. Purposeless. She’s right. You could do so much more. She scrambled for another excuse but came up empty. “Please, Bea.”
“Mobius would help you,” Bea reminded her, the sympathy plain on her face.
Sylvie knew it was true. She shook her head silently to herself, turning to focus on the field in front of them. Pictured it in flames. Every self-preservation instinct screamed NO, that they were playing with things they couldn’t understand, that it wasn’t worth it. She was selfish. She would rather stay in her own comfort than give Loki a chance.
Instead of the wheatfield, she saw her family, pruned. She saw apocalypse upon apocalypse, agents closing in behind her as she ran through TimeDoors, her only destinations being world’s extinctions. She saw O.B.’s lab— Loki and the TVA agents dying in front of her. B-15’s horrified scream as she slipped out of existence, right next to where Sylvie stood. Countless dead strewn across the timelines. Some were her enemies, others were companions she’d made, only to figure out that anyone who got close to her got killed. That it was easier to stay to herself.
And just when she’d found her own life, her own timeline to call home, stupid fucking caring was going to ruin it all. Not revenge, not a malevolent organization, but caring. Unbidden, she found tears welling up in her eyes. She wiped them away furiously, not wanting Bea to see. When it came down to it, Sylvie knew she wasn’t happy— her life was boring and lonely and painful, but it was hers. It was predictable. She didn’t have to guess when the next attack would be, or when she would have her next meal. It was safe. She had the basic comforts. And to think it could be ripped away again because she tried to help. She shook her head again, scrunching her eyes shut.
The silence was pierced by Bea’s voice behind her. “Sylvie… I can’t get his miserable face out of my mind.”
Sylvie turned to her. That face. Mobius had looked so distraught. Sylvie had been filled with an urge to comfort, to give him solace, an urge she hadn’t felt properly since Frigga. She wanted… to be a friend.
How did Bea know? Sylvie’s eyes darted over to the woman. Bea’s face was crumpled, a tear dribbling down her cheek. She hadn’t moved to wipe it. Even in the midst of her turmoil, Sylvie had a spark of admiration for the hunter, how open she was with her emotions. It was a weakness for most (her) but it hadn’t gotten Bea killed, yet. It must be some sort of strength for her, she supposed.
Bea was able to voice her emotions, but Sylvie was not. She looked down at her boots. She didn’t answer her, but to Bea, it was answer enough.
“You too?” Bea asked, soft.
The woman was disarmingly perceptive. Sylvie shrugged. “I mean,” she admitted, “he does look pretty shit.”
Bea laughed. It was a crackly thing, like she hadn’t done it in a while. Sylvie spared her a glance, then looked away again. Her stomach was queasy again, albeit in a different manner. It felt like she had swallowed a rock. Bea knocked her shoulder into Sylvie’s, an expression of familiarity that made her heart twitch uncharacteristically. Sylvie shoved that reaction to the side. “He does,” Bea agreed, but Sylvie’s thoughts had already absconded back to catastrophizing.
She wanted to help. She just knew she shouldn’t. She could only end up making things worse than they already were, not only for Loki and Mobius, but for everyone. The people who got close to her died or met some other awful fate. And she was fucking sick of it.
But she was also sick of accepting things for how they were. Wouldn’t it be worth trying to change that? Wasn’t her whole schtick dismantling systems? Only this time, it was a system that she had set in place herself, one of self-preservation and isolation. Keeping her head down, staying to herself, not letting anyone get close. Mother would be so proud, she thought drily.
There was a feeling deep in her, a yearning, a longing, whatever she wanted to call it, she knew what it was— she wanted to be useful. To help. She didn’t want to say no, to walk away from Bea, knowing there was a possibility she could aid them. Despite her best efforts, she held affection for the team. Wasn’t it enough that she wanted to help? That had to mean something. She wanted to try, at least.
Didn’t Loki deserve a chance? Didn’t Mobius?
Sylvie looked up at Bea. She took in a shuddery breath. The woman was only an inch taller than her, but her gaze felt inescapable. Good. She couldn’t allow herself to reconsider her choice. “Well, Hunter Bea,” Sylvie drawled casually, hands shoved in her pockets. She narrowed her eyes, schooling her expression into one of composure. “What’s the first step of this plan, then? It better be good."
Bea’s eyes widened. Then she grinned. “You’re not going to like it.”