Work Text:
A twist, a swing, a strike. The last dark elf collapsed onto the blackened soil with his throat slashed open. Loki, catching his breath for a moment, scanned the battlefield. To his surprise, Thor had yet to finish off his own foe; more than that, it seemed the Thunder God himself was in need of saving. The Trickster scooped up a fallen elf's sword and rushed to his brother's aid.
He crept up silently behind the Kursed — the brute was too engrossed in hammering Thor into the lifeless ground. Taking a firm stance, Loki drove the blade deep into his back. In the very next instant, he had to throw himself backward, barely dodging the monster's claws. The tip of the sword, now protruding from the creature's chest, flashed right before the Trickster's nose. Dangerously close! The foe was impossibly fast for his massive frame. But he was a heartbeat too late.
"See you in Hel, monster!" Loki shouted, dodging a fresh blow and leaping behind his opponent.
A high-pitched whine began, growing louder by the second. The Kursed jerked a hand toward his belt, but the motion was just as futile. Loki never relied on brute force alone. A pop sounded, a red light flared — and with a sickening crunch and squelch, the monster was pulled into the black hole that yawned open at his waist. Then, silence. Only the wind still howled across the endless black wasteland.
"Thanks," Thor grunted, his voice strained, as he struggled to rise. "Where's Jane?"
Loki didn't answer. Still somewhat dazed, he merely waved a hand vaguely toward the hills where he'd last seen her, then moved to help his brother to his feet.
"JANE!" the Thunder God bellowed, and then he was gone, charging off in pursuit of his beloved.
The echo of his roar resonated among the crags for a long time after.
And Loki still stood there, rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on nothing. He dragged his fingers over the breastplate of his armour, tracing the deep gouges left by the Kursed's claws. It had been too close. For a handful of heartbeats, he'd been certain death had come for him. His entire life had unspooled before his eyes like some bad stage play. But he'd slipped the noose. Again. Death had passed within a hair's breadth, only slightly grazing him.
Loki drew a deep breath and made to follow Thor. Judging by the way the panicked shouts had given way to joyous ones, his brother had already found his Jane. It was time to return to Asgard, and Loki didn't even want to imagine what awaited him there. Nothing good, clearly. Should he run? Now, while Thor was still distracted. They would hunt for him, of course, but hiding was a trick Loki had always mastered.
And then, without warning, a strange rectangular frame unfolded in the air before him. It bore no scent of magic, no familiar hum of seiðr, and Loki froze, bewildered. It simply hung there, a couple of inches above the scorched earth, utterly unreal. In the next heartbeat, soldiers began to pour from the frame. Their black-and-orange uniforms bore little resemblance to dark elf armour, looking more like some Midgardian design. They were armed with flimsy-looking batons, which they immediately brandished, moving to surround him.
For the second time in less than five minutes, Loki's salvation lay solely in his lightning-quick reflexes. He didn't attack — there were at least a dozen soldiers — instead, he flung himself into a sideways roll, came up with a flourish of his hand, and swept the two closest fighters off their feet with a concussive wave of emerald energy. He conjured a pair of illusory doubles to draw their focus and, without a second thought, took a decisive dive headfirst into the baffling portal. Anything, anywhere, had to be better than facing the Allfather's judgment again.
***
Mobius stood in the TVA corridor, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. He'd given explicit orders to bring the variant in alive, of course, and protocol strictly dictated that all detainees be presented for judgment. But exceptions had been known to happen. Besides, Ravonna remained unaware of his little plan, and the Minutemen might well disregard his request, delivering the variant straight to processing without giving Mobius a chance to talk to him. All in all, the agent had plenty to be anxious about.
Suddenly, the surface of the time portal shimmered. Mobius braced himself, expecting to see Minutemen dragging a secured prisoner through. Instead, the variant himself came tumbling out of the aperture, landing almost at his feet. Before the agent could react, Loki — resplendent in full Asgardian regalia — sprang upright, executed a sharp, dramatic spin, and fixed him with a piercing stare. Mobius was dumbstruck. Loki seemed equally taken aback, but the god recovered much faster. His hands came up in an arcane gesture, wrists flicking, fingers weaving through the air. But nothing happened. Loki froze.
He's trying to cast a spell, Mobius realized. He backpedaled, dropping into a combat stance and raising his Time Stick. But he didn't get a chance to capitalize on his opponent's confusion. Loki snapped out of it swiftly, swept the folds of his cloak aside with a sharp motion, and drew the daggers from their sheaths. Then he lunged at Mobius.
The agent began to retreat, fighting to maintain distance. Taking on a god — even one stripped of his magic but now armed with twin blades — with nothing but a stick seemed a profoundly naive idea. Fortunately, at that moment, the belated Minutemen began tumbling out of the portal, and Loki switched his attention to them.
"No pruning!" the agent managed to shout, backing away even farther. Let the professionals handle the brawling. All he cared about right now was making sure these blockheads didn't accidentally erase his variant. He still needed him.
Meanwhile, the Trickster had already dispatched a few Minutemen. One stumbled blindly, his helmet yanked down over his face. A pair of Minutemen thrashed about on the floor, hopelessly entangled in their own arms and legs. A fourth was crawling away, clutching at the dagger still protruding from his shoulder wound. In place of the lost blade, the god now wielded a commandeered Time Stick like a simple bludgeon. Fortunately, obeying Mobius's order, the Minutemen had deactivated their own sticks, and the variant evidently had no idea how to reactivate his. At one point, the remaining Minutemen managed to press Loki back, shoving him away from the portal, and fresh reinforcements immediately spilled through. In a flash, the Trickster assessed the new threat. With a dramatic swirl, he snapped his cloak across the face of the nearest soldier, blinding him for a moment. In the same fluid motion, he pivoted, grabbed the disoriented man by the utility belt, and — using the hapless Minuteman as a living battering ram — plowed through the newly arrived squad, sending most of them crashing to the floor. Then he broke into a sprint, aiming straight for the portal.
This, Mobius could not allow. He'd been clutching the Tempad this whole time, uselessly, with no idea how to help his people without making things worse. Now, he simply stabbed a button, and the portal snapped shut, severing Loki's escape route. Somehow, the variant knew exactly who to blame. The last thing Mobius saw was the enraged god charging him, the stolen Time Stick raised high for a crushing blow. Then — darkness.
***
Mobius slowly swam back to consciousness on a wave of pain. His head was splitting apart, a high-pitched ring drowning out all other sound. When he finally pried his eyes open, the world swam in a blur of indistinct color. He wrenched them shut again and shook his head feebly, which only made things worse. A fresh wave of nausea rolled over him, joining the symphony of agony in his skull. He lay still for another minute, maybe two, willing the room to stop spinning. On his second attempt, his vision stubbornly refused to clear, but the shapes around him began to resolve into something familiar. Columns. A projector screen. A desk. An ordinary office. The TVA had hundreds, maybe thousands, just like it.
He turned his head and saw the Trickster frozen by the door. The god stood with his eyes closed, listening intently. From beyond the door came the tramp of many boots and sharp, barked commands. Strange — no alarm sirens wailed.
"They'll find you. It's only a matter of time."
"This room's already been swept and sealed," the variant replied with a dry smirk.
Where had he been hiding? And more importantly, where had he stashed me during the sweep? Mobius wondered. He decided against asking.
"They're unlikely to come back here. Unless, of course, you call them."
At those words, Loki fixed him with a look of such potent menace it instantly vaporised any thought of testing that theory.
"So, what now? Plan to hide here?" the agent asked.
Loki pushed off from the door and made his way slowly towards Mobius. Even without magic, he radiated power. The agent might have thought he'd gotten used to Loki variants over time — he'd processed more than his fair share — but no. This was a god, and it was written into every line of him.
Mobius pulled himself into a more stable position and held the trickster's defiant gaze. Loki snorted dismissively and lowered himself into a chair with casual grace, angling it so he could keep both the door and Mobius in his sight.
"Tell me about this place," the trickster's voice sounded indifferent. Yet the agent caught an undercurrent that was not curiosity at all. It was confusion, and perhaps even fear.
"This is the Time Variance Authority. Or TVA," there was no point in hiding it. "We're dedicated to preserving the Sacred Timeline and preventing the creation of alternate branches."
"And what is that supposed to mean?" Loki frowned.
"We make sure no one disrupts the course of history. And we arrest those who try to twist events in ways they aren't supposed to."
"And what were you doing in Svartalfheim? Why were you trying to capture me?"
"Because you're a variant. A criminal who's disrupted the timeline."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You changed the course of history."
"And how, exactly, did I manage that?" The smirk on the variant's face was almost amused.
"I don't really know yet. I wasn't there, remember?"
"Don't you dare be insolent with me!" Loki's feigned good-naturedness was gone in an instant, his brows drawn together in a menacing frown, and Mobius shifted uncomfortably under that gaze. "I don't know what kind of circus you're running here, but you're going to just bring me back. Right now."
"That's not going to happen. I can't send you back."
Before Mobius could even blink, Loki had launched himself from his chair and was suddenly right there, inches from his face. That furious gaze pinned the agent to the floor. He felt a dagger blade press against his jugular, his shirt collar twisted tight in Loki's fist.
"Can't? Or won't?" the trickster hissed.
"Can't," Mobius tried to pull away, his only thought to put distance between that blade and his neck. Still, he pressed on: "That world is gone. There's nothing left to go back to."
Mobius swallowed hard as he watched Loki's anger shift to sheer horror.
"Gone?" His eyes, wide and unseeing, darted wildly around the room. "My brother? And Asgard?"
And in the very next moment, the variant surprised Mobius again — with the sheer speed at which he mastered his emotions.
"I'll destroy this place," Loki hissed. "And I'll start with you."
"Wait!" Mobius grabbed the wrist that held the dagger. "Hold on! They're alive! Everyone who was there!"
"But you said—"
"Yes, we destroyed that reality, but it was only a branch — a deviation we pulled you from! The Sacred Timeline is intact, and everyone there is alive! Your brother, Jane, and Asgard!"
"Then send me there. To the Sacred Timeline."
"I can't. Because you 'survived' there too. Or rather... you died there. But you survived."
"Wait," Loki finally lowered the dagger from Mobius's neck, angling the point against his chest instead. Small progress. "Slower, please."
Mobius exhaled and continued, a little calmer:
"I lied to you. Actually, I do know what you disrupted in the Sacred Timeline. You dodged. You dodged Algrim's grasp and his sword. Algrim was supposed to run you through with that same blade."
"You're spouting nonsense! Did I survive, or was I killed? Get to the point!"
"I'm trying, but you keep interrupting me."
The Trickster held the agent in a heavy stare for a few seconds, then waved a hand in irritated dismissal, allowing him to continue, and finally put the weapon away.
"In the Sacred Timeline, Algrim grabbed you and impaled you on the sword that was protruding from his chest. And you died in your brother's arms. A hero."
Loki opened his mouth again to protest, but Mobius pressed on, cutting him off:
"But it was an illusion. You were only wounded, or something like that. You survived. You fooled everyone, like you always do — faked your own death."
Loki remembered how close he'd come to being run through on that sword, like a butterfly on a pin. A visible shudder went through him.
"You say I was only meant to be wounded?"
"Yeah. In the chest. But you survived."
Loki considered this.
"Show me exactly where."
Mobius did.
"I doubt I'd have survived a blow to that spot. Even Thor wouldn't have."
"Well, then you must not have been there at all. It was an illusion. Or the sword wasn't real — I don't know! That episode isn't described in much detail in our records. For some reason."
"An illusion couldn't wield a sword and a grenade. And an illusory blade..." Loki shook his head. "The one I used was real. And so was I. Something doesn't add up."
Mobius was starting to tire of this conversation, but he needed to keep the god distracted for as long as possible and hope he wouldn't get himself killed.
"Look. I've heard this story many times. I know how it was supposed to go. You saved Thor, Algrim wounded you, you took the opportunity to fake your death so you didn't have to go back to your cell. Thor went to Earth with revenge on his mind, and you went your own way. Everyone went back to living the lives that were meant for them in the Sacred Timeline. That's how it was supposed to be. But you dodged. That's why we pulled you out. And you can't go back there. Or to the Sacred Timeline, because that Loki stayed there, and there can't be two Lokis in the universe. Frankly, one's already more than enough. And you can't hide here forever either. Sooner or later, they'll find us. You've got nowhere to run. Better give yourself up."
"And what will happen to me?" Loki's voice was laced with bitter mockery. "What exactly happens to those you rip from their... timelines?"
"That's not my call. It's up to the court."
"And?"
"Well... if you're found guilty... you get pruned. Sorry."
"Oh yes, very tempting. Where do I sign up?" Loki shot back, venom dripping from every word. "And what if the court finds me not guilty? Which, I might add, I am. What then? You keep me here? Put me to work? Feed me? Do you have dormitories here?"
Mobius paused.
"I... I don't know. I can't recall a single acquittal."
"Oh, excellent! Simply magnificent! So your entire court is nothing but a farce — a spectacle designed to lend the illusion of justice to plain murder? Why not simply kill these so-called 'variants' on the spot? Why all this circus? So that they don't die in honest battle, earning their place in Valhalla as warriors should, but instead die on their knees, in chains, like cattle, in a world so far from home that even the chance of reaching Hel becomes a phantom? Is that what you call right and just?"
Mobius listened, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He wasn't a religious man, but standing before him was a Norse god, and his words carried weight. And that was terrifying.
"No. I won't back down." Loki adjusted his grip on the dagger. His eyes darted frantically around the room, searching for any weak spot. "Either send me back, or I'll tear this place apart. I'll fight. And if I lose, I'll die in battle — as a warrior should."
Loki was clearly distracted, mentally preparing for the possibility of death, and Mobius saw his opening. He fumbled in his pocket for the syringe of tranquilizer from the standard field kit, primed it, and lunged forward, aiming for Loki's neck — or trying to, anyway. No matter how absorbed the trickster was in his thoughts, the sudden motion didn't escape his notice. He managed to react, throwing up an arm in defense. Instead of an unprotected neck, the needle found his shoulder. Mobius groaned inwardly: Of course this variant gets lucky again! He wasn't even sure the needle had gone through the clothing or if it had all been for nothing.
Loki sprang up with a snarl, seized Mobius, and hurled him across the room as if he weighed nothing. The agent hit the floor, the air driven from his lungs, his recently injured head ringing like a bell. Before he could gather himself, Loki was already there, yanking him to his feet and slamming him over the table.
This time, the impact wasn't quite as devastating, and thankfully, the god seemed too enraged to bother with his dagger. To his own surprise, Mobius rolled aside, dodging a kick aimed at his ribs. He scrambled awkwardly to his feet and backed away.
Loki advanced swiftly, his eyes blazing with fury. But halfway there, he suddenly faltered. He staggered sideways, catching himself against the wall to stay upright. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, then pressed forward again toward the agent.
Mobius felt something clench inside him with terror. The injection had found its mark, but it seemed it wasn't enough. He'd faced plenty of Loki variants over the years. Some were bigger, stronger. Others were craftier, more devious. Every Loki was smart. But this one was different. He picked things up fast, had a temper, but knew how to push distracting emotions aside. He adapted on the fly. And despite the apparent fragility, he was incredibly strong. This dose would've been enough to drop a woolly mammoth — and yet, Loki was still standing!
Mobius watched in horror as the god tried to focus his clouded vision, steady himself, raise his arm for one final strike... But the strength was finally giving out. The variant made one last desperate swing of his arm and crashed to his knees. The dagger, flung in that final motion, whistled within inches of Mobius's face and embedded itself somewhere in the wall behind him. A formidable opponent.
Mobius caught his gaze. The eyes were glassy, and terror flickered in them. Then they rolled back in his head, and Loki collapsed in a heap onto the floor.
Mobius let out a loud breath — he realized he hadn't been breathing the whole time. He pushed himself up slightly and listened. The hallway beyond the door was quiet; it seemed no one had heard their scuffle. He crawled over on all fours to the trickster and felt for his pulse. His heart was beating steady and strong. The variant would be fine.
Mobius pressed a hand to his chest and listened to his own heartbeat. It was almost unnecessary — his heart was pounding so loudly and fast that his whole body seemed to shake with it. With a grunt, he got to his feet and made for the door. His first instinct was to bolt into the hallway and call the Minutemen. But halfway there, he slowed, and a few steps from the exit, he came to a halt. Something was nagging at him. Loki's words about his resilience. The way the variant had fought off the sedative certainly suggested the trickster was incredibly tough. But a sedative was one thing — a sword through the chest was quite another. No matter how resilient the Jotun or Asgardians were, a stab through the heart killed them just as surely as any mortal. It was hard to know exactly where the blow had been meant to land, but what if Loki was right? What if that wound would have been beyond even him?
Mobius knew a handful of creatures, mutants, and demigods who could shrug off something like that — but Loki wasn't one of them. Not in any of the variants he knew. The agent turned and studied the trickster. He lay face-down on the floor, curled in on himself in a last-ditch effort to protect himself, utterly still. He didn't look superhuman or godlike right now. He just looked like an ordinary guy in a ridiculous costume. Vulnerable. Helpless. And probably terrified. No wonder — the circumstances were more than a little stressful.
Then the agent remembered how this "scared guy" had fought off a squad of Minutemen and taken him captive. Yeah... Right.
And yet, the trickster had managed to plant a seed of doubt.
Mobius walked over to Loki with resolve and rolled him onto his back. The god was still unconscious, his head lolling limply from side to side. Mobius took off his own belt and used it to bind the trickster's wrists. Then he removed Loki's belt and strapped his ankles together. He confiscated the daggers and anything else that could serve as a weapon. Too bad he didn't have a temporal collar on him.
But there were some office supplies in the desk drawer. The agent dragged Loki over to one of the columns, propped him against it, and carefully wrapped tape around him. It didn't look very secure. The tape was standard office tape — thin and flimsy — and Loki was a god — strong and resilient. But for now, he was unconscious. And there was nothing more suitable on hand anyway.
After checking the room one more time and grabbing any sharp objects he could find — scissors, pencils, the like — Mobius took a moment to survey his handiwork.
"Okay, God of Lies and Mischief. You just sit tight. Don't go anywhere. I've got a quick check to make, then I'll be right back."
Loki remained motionless, his head hanging forward onto his chest.
"Here goes."
With that, Mobius pulled out his tempad, opened the door, and stepped through without looking back.
***
The wind continued to sweep across the dead ground. The sun barely pierced the thick layer of clouds, leaving the world in a cold, muted twilight. Mobius grimaced, instinctively wrapping his arms around himself, and surveyed the wasteland. Bodies of dark elves lay scattered everywhere, marked by puncture and slash wounds. Loki's work.
The agent quickly got his bearings — he'd seen recordings of these events many times, though he'd never been to Svartalfheim before, nor to this particular moment. Skirting the carnage, he climbed a low ridge and, just in case, crouched down behind the crest.
An oppressive silence hung in the air, broken only by the howling wind and the skittering of dust. The main events were already over. The elves had departed; Thor and Jane had left the planet as well. Loki had to be somewhere nearby. He must have already finished his performance and was getting ready to leave this place too.
Mobius, careful not to disturb so much as a single stone, crept to the very crest of the ridge. Not a stir. Nothing. Had he arrived too late? But according to the reports, it would still be several hours before Loki left the planet disguised as an Einherjar.
After lingering a little longer, scanning the bleak landscape, Mobius still saw nothing. So he decided to act. Carefully, he made his way down from the ridge and headed toward the site of the final battle.
He spotted him about forty paces off — a motionless figure at the foot of a massive rock. His face was covered by a cloak, his body half-buried in black sand. The agent approached hesitantly. You never knew with this sly one, but even Mobius doubted he'd lie this still with no audience to play to.
He crouched low and drew back the fabric from his face. It was definitely Loki. And he was unmistakably dead.
Still, the agent leaned over the body, studying the darkened face closely, checking the neck for a pulse, lifting an eyelid. The skin was cold and clammy to the touch. He lifted an arm — yes, there it was: rigor mortis had already begun to set in.
Mobius took a shuddering breath and lowered himself into the dust. How could this have happened? How had they missed it? Before him lay a Loki who was utterly real, undeniably dead. That's it. That's the end. This guy wasn't going anywhere. No overthrowing Odin. No deceiving the Asgardians. No more disappointing his brother.
Mobius pulled out the Tempad again, checking the metrics frantically. No, there was no mistake. He and the corpse were in the Sacred Timeline — a key detail had been disrupted — yet the device showed nothing. No deviations. No branches. Nothing.
Mobius couldn't begin to fathom how this was possible.
***
Loki regained consciousness with a sharp, violent jolt. He remembered how everything had swum before his eyes, how his arms had stopped obeying him, and his legs had turned to lead. How the roaring in his ears had grown, drowning out everything else. He remembered trying to fight it, shaking his head in the vain hope of clearing his mind. But his thoughts had stuck, like flies in molasses, and a wave of panic was rising inside him. He knew: if he lost consciousness in this cursed place, he would never wake up. He had to get out! He couldn't afford to lose now!
And then he felt himself falling. Further and further, down into the darkness. Just like years ago, when he had fallen and fallen from the Bifröst — to where nothing good awaited him. In terror, he jerked, trying either to stop his fall or to finally wake up — and suddenly realized that he was no longer plummeting into the void. He was sitting on the floor, his back against something hard and cold.
His head was splitting, his whole body stiff and aching. He could barely feel his arms, and a cramp had seized his neck. He tried to move, to turn, but nothing happened. Lifting his head and looking around proved even harder. He sat still for several minutes, trying to slow his suddenly ragged breathing and wait for the pounding in his temples to ease, just a little. Gathering what strength he had, he made another attempt to take stock of his surroundings.
This time there were more details. He was still alive, still in the TVA, but now he was bound and, it seemed, fastened to one of the columns with some odd, clear tape. He recognised the belt around his ankles — it was his own — but the one binding his wrists was unfamiliar: rather plain, narrow, unadorned, a little worn, with a small, ornate buckle. Loki swallowed; his throat was dry and sore, and he was desperately thirsty. He hadn't felt this wretched in a very long time. As if he'd spent a week trying to keep up with Thor, drinking himself sick and washing it down with rotten meat.
I'm so sick of this place, flashed through his mind.
Loki was trying to work the belt loose from his wrists — it wasn't easy: the buckle, simple as it was, proved all the more secure for its simplicity — when a time portal opened just a couple of metres away. Mobius all but fell out of it, lugging something heavy over his shoulder. A second later, he dumped his burden practically at the feet of the stunned Loki.
He'd escaped prison, got into a proper fight, saved his brother, narrowly cheated death, had another fight, landed in some sort of temporal agency, been shot up with an unknown substance — and all in less than a day. Quite enough for one person, you'd think. But the Norns apparently disagreed. Loki sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, staring at his own corpse with a dumbfounded expression. It was odd. Very odd. Of course, he'd seen himself from the outside many times, creating projections and illusions for all sorts of purposes. But even for him, this was a bit much. He swallowed thickly and fixed his gaze on Mobius.
"Well... You were right. About not surviving a wound like that. So, yeah." The agent gestured vaguely with his hands.
They both looked at the body, lying on the floor in an unnatural position.
Loki slowly edged closer to the corpse. He didn't trust his legs, so he shifted onto his knees and shuffled forward, bracing himself on his bound hands. He was trembling so much that it was plain to see. He carefully stretched out his hands and touched his double's face — and immediately recoiled as if burned.
"It's definitely not a fake. And he... uh... me... it's — definitely dead."
"Are you sure it's not an illusion?" Mobius checked, though the answer was obvious — an illusion would have dissipated the moment it crossed into the TVA.
"Absolutely."
Mobius looked as if every bone had been pulled out of him. He crumpled into the nearest chair like a sack.
"This can't be. How could this happen? What am I supposed to do? I have to tell Renslayer! She'll figure something out!"
He shot to his feet, then almost immediately collapsed back down with a heavy thud.
"She'll notify the Time Keepers. There'll be a hearing. An internal investigation. And right now, when I'm already at a dead end on another case..."
The agent muttered something under his breath, completely oblivious to Loki, still sitting on the floor. Loki kept staring at the remains — his own — but no longer out of idle curiosity. He'd noticed that his double's daggers were still on him. Carefully, he reached for the dead man's belt, trying to make the movement look as innocent as possible.
"Loki, are you listening to me?"
Loki flinched and jerked back. He'd been so focused on his target that he hadn't noticed the agent addressing him.
"What?"
"One of your variants had the ability to enchant minds. Can you do that?"
"You want me to enchant someone?" Loki raised an ironic eyebrow. Mobius drew a breath to lay out his plan, but Loki cut him off: "You want me to enchant myself?"
The agent nearly choked on his own breath. This Loki was sharp. No wonder he was the one who existed in the Sacred Timeline out of all the other variants.
"So... is that possible?"
Mobius could see Loki's mind racing. He'd clearly already grasped the agent's plan and was now weighing the pros and cons.
"If I'm understanding you correctly," he began slowly, "you want me to erase my memory? And then you'll let me go home?"
"Yes."
The agent watched the trickster's pupils dart back and forth. Mobius could practically read his face as he weighed the options — lie or agree.
"And don't try to fool me. I'll be watching you. If you keep your memory of this place, sooner or later you'll slip up. I'll know. The TVA will know. They'll come for you, and you..."
"That's enough, I get it!" Loki cut him off sharply. "You know, I'm not exactly thrilled at the idea of my whole life being mapped out minute by minute. That if I make one wrong move, you'll show up and set things back to where you want them. But..."
"Any decisions you make," Mobius cut in, "they're yours. No one's controlling your mind. You're free to act — as long as you stay within certain boundaries."
"I've lived my whole life inside boundaries," the trickster snapped. He thought for another moment, then took a deep breath and continued more calmly: "Fine. I agree. How are we going to do this?"
"Alright..." Mobius rubbed his forehead. "You won't be able to work your magic here. We'll have to leave the TVA. What are we talking? A spell? A ritual?"
"A potion, obviously," Loki snorted in indignation. "It's impossible to work magic directly on your own mind. In the middle of a spell, I'd forget what I was doing or why, and the whole thing would go straight to Hel."
"Right. I've got something that might help. It could blow your memory clean on its own, but with your magic backing it up, we'd be more certain."
Loki nodded. He still hesitated, still looked for a loophole — but his gaze kept drifting back to the body on the floor.
"I'll deal with him. The TVA, too. No one will know, as long as we work together."
Loki nodded again.
"Why should I trust you?" Loki asked suddenly, catching Mobius off guard. "And why would you trust me?"
"There's no reason for me to hurt you. It's in my interest. As for you..." Mobius picked up the tempad. "I'll set up a time loop. So we have enough to prepare. And so you don't change your mind — or try to run. If you do anything to me, you'll be stuck in that loop forever."
By this point, Loki no longer had any intention of escaping or harming Mobius. He'd thought it all through, dozens of moves ahead, and realised that trying to keep his memories would lead nowhere good. More likely than not, he'd turn into a jittery paranoid, seeing traps in every shadow. He'd second-guess every decision and pour all his energy into getting back here. Trick Mobius and stay in the TVA? Maybe even nick the agent's Tempad and make a run for it? Get lost in time, answerable to no one — but with no hope of ever going home, no right to claim what was his by birth? Become a fugitive all over again? No. He'd spent more than enough time running. Better to just forget the whole thing, like a bad dream, and believe he was free to do as he pleased... He was the God of Lies. And this would be his greatest lie yet.
Still, making the decision was incredibly hard. To voluntarily give up such knowledge. The chance to shape his own destiny. But he had chosen. Mobius had said it back then: "You went your own way." So it would work out. He'd even already thought about where he might go, but he didn't make any long-term plans. He'd forget them anyway. And yet, at the very edge of his consciousness, a thought flickered: this couldn't be the end. None of this was for nothing. The Universe couldn't have shown him this place, revealed the truth about time, the Sacred Timeline, the TVA — only to then take it all away without a trace.
Meanwhile, Mobius finished his preparations, opened the portal, and they stepped through it together. Loki recognised his chambers at once, even though he hadn't been there for several years. Moreover, judging by a few details, they looked as they had many years ago, when he was still very young. Still, almost everything remained exactly as he remembered: his private library, his desk, the workshop and the laboratory. This was where he'd practised magic, studied ancient tomes, and even invented new things. Brewed elixirs, enchanted objects. Yes — everything they'd need for the potion was right here.
Loki walked slowly across the room. His gaze kept catching on familiar details: favourite books on the shelves, familiar tapestries, rare potted plants by the window, traces of soot on the ceiling, and a bare patch in the carpet — the memory of a spell gone wrong. It turned out he had missed this place, even though he'd denied it, even to himself. He'd thought he had long since stopped thinking of Asgard as home, but the moment he found himself in his chambers, the memories swept over him. And with them came others — bitter ones. The last time he'd been brought back to Asgard, it was in chains. His brother had done it. His father had disowned him, locking him in a cage, and his mother... his mother was dead, and nothing would ever be the same again.
Pushing aside his sentimental thoughts, Loki headed for the workbench and began pulling open drawers, rummaging through pouches and jars in search of the ingredients he needed.
Mobius watched him out of the corner of his eye, but he was also taking in the surroundings with just as much interest. He rarely got the chance to visit Asgard. And while this room, locked in a time loop, wasn't exactly a proper trip through the Sacred Timeline, there was still plenty to see. Tapestries depicting strange, otherworldly landscapes, maps of all Nine Realms hanging on the walls, curious plants on the shelves by the window, books in antique bindings. And right alongside all of that — a crumpled shirt sticking out from under the bed, boots lying on the carpet, a couple of apple cores on the nightstand, some drawings stacked in an untidy pile on the bed. An entire shelf in the bookcase was crammed with all kinds of essential junk. One of the bedposts supporting the canopy was deeply scarred — looks like someone had been throwing daggers at it. Repeatedly. All of this filled the room with life. It felt like an almost ordinary teenager lived here — not the Norse God of Lies and Mischief.
Loki, meanwhile, pulled a wrinkled root from the drawer, turned it thoughtfully between his fingers, and then, quite unexpectedly, laughed. Mobius looked up from his inspection and raised a questioning eyebrow.
"It's svefnrót. A very rare plant, grows only in the mountains of Asgard. I thought I'd forgotten to put it away, and that a servant had thrown it out — or worse, stolen it. I didn't leave my room for days, afraid it would turn up somewhere and lead them straight to me."
"And what's so dangerous about this... Svifn...?"
"Svefnrót," Loki corrected. "It's one of the most powerful narcotics in all the Nine Realms. Brew it into a decoction, add a touch of magic before sleep, and you can create your own dream world. Any event, any place — anything you can imagine. And it will be the most vivid dream possible. So vivid that even after waking, you won't be able to tell dream from reality. An extremely dangerous thing. And useful."
"And why did you keep that in your room?"
Loki cast the agent a critical look.
"I was a teenager."
"That explains a lot," Mobius chuckled.
Loki continued twirling the root between his long fingers.
"I think I've found everything I need. Give me your forgetting potion. I'll reinforce it with a couple of oils, add some herbs for stability and a gentler effect. A little charm work, so as not to wipe out anything essential, and with this root, I'll weave in false memories. I must remember how Algrim wounded me — and how Thor said goodbye. He must have said something lofty. Maybe even forgiveness? I'll need your help there. I don't know how it really happened — unlike you. We can't afford any inconsistencies between my memories and those of Thor and Jane. If something doesn't line up, it will eat at me. I'll start digging, trying to unearth the truth, and I'll pick at that itching wrongness until I tear it open. And then the whole enchantment will collapse. Everything we've done will be for nothing."
"I have recordings. There might even be some video in the archives."
"Video? What's that? Actually — never mind. Let's get started."
And so they set to work. Mobius watched the trickster's every move warily, suddenly aware that he was locked in a room not just with a dangerous warrior, but with a highly skilled mage. He kept his Tempad in hand, ready to either bolt at the first sign of trouble or do something unpleasant to Loki himself.
Loki, meanwhile, was completely absorbed in the process. He carefully ground up the pill Mobius had given him, examined its properties with a light touch of magic, and began mixing it with his own powders and herbs. Green sparks flickered in his hands. After a while, everything was ready. The amount of potion was small, but that didn't matter — its power lay not in its volume, but in the enchantments woven into its making.
"It's done. All that's left is to drink it. And all of this will be forgotten — as if it never happened. If only you knew how much I don't want to do this..."
He stared thoughtfully at the small vial into which he'd poured the finished potion. And Mobius suddenly felt an inexplicable urge to offer some kind of support.
"You know, I've worked at the TVA for years. I've dealt with more Loki variants than I can count. Sometimes I think the agency was created specifically for you lot. What I mean is — sooner or later, every Loki ends up here. Maybe someday we'll meet again, and you'll get to learn this secret all over again."
"Is that supposed to comfort me or frighten me?"
"I don't know. Just... let's get it over with. Drink."
"But..." Loki hesitated. "Right here? Aren't we going back to Svartalfheim?"
"We will. After you drink the potion. I don't want you changing your mind at the last second, getting a whiff of freedom."
Loki gave a bitter smile. They'd only known each other for a few hours, and Mobius was already expecting a trick. Then again, it had been a rather tense introduction... Suddenly, he laughed.
"You missed one little detail. Your pill, among other things, happens to be a very strong sleeping aid. Remember — you were the one who wanted to do this here."
And with a sly squint, he downed the potion in one go.
The meaning of his words only hit Mobius when the trickster staggered, let out a sweet yawn, and sank gently onto the carpet, fast asleep.
"Damn. And how am I supposed to carry you now?"
***
"...after which I engaged the variant in combat, managed to disarm him, and, seeing no other option, delivered a fatal blow to his chest. The variant then fell silent and expired."
Renslayer looked at him skeptically, slightly tapping the report against her palm.
"Don't give me that look. That's exactly how it happened."
"You defeated an Asgardian armed with daggers in single combat? And walked away with barely a scratch? And you expect me to believe that?"
"Yes. Because it's the absolute truth. Word for word."
The judge stared at the pages of the report and sighed wearily.
"Fine. As they say — once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." She signed the document with a flourish and handed it back to Mobius. "File it in the archives. And you still haven't given up on your idea of bringing in a Loki variant to help with investigations? Even after this?"
"No. I still believe only a Loki can catch a Loki. Didn't work out this time, but Loki variants keep cropping up all over the Timeline. I'm sure another chance will come along. Besides, the fugitive variant is lying low for now. I think we've got time."
"I hope you're right. You may go. And don't forget — dinner's on you."
"Of course," Mobius smiled and walked out into the hallway.
Only now did the tension begin to ease, and he allowed himself to relax a little. He carefully felt the cold casing of the Tempad in his pocket. He still couldn't believe it had all worked out. While he'd been writing that absurd report, he'd thought a lot about why it had all happened. And he'd come to the conclusion that time was far more flexible than the TVA generally believed. The Codex prescribed destroying branches and catching variants in order to preserve the Sacred Timeline intact. But it turned out that the agents' own intervention had already been woven into history. Loki's death by Algrim's sword had been an acceptable deviation — one that hadn't triggered a branch — precisely because he, Mobius, had returned Loki — alive — to where he was meant to be. The system allowed for minor fluctuations, as long as the final vector remained unchanged. It allowed itself to be corrected, while staying intact itself.
"If the TVA is capable of such complex maneuvers, what else is possible?" The thought was searing. It required careful thought. Mobius felt he was onto something — the key to capturing that very fugitive variant who had eluded them for years, hiding where it seemed impossible to hide.
But that could wait. Right now, he had plenty to do. He was going to review the Sacred Timeline Loki's life story again — just to be absolutely sure he hadn't been fooled. He desperately wanted to believe that everything had worked out as well as it could have, and that his trust hadn't been misplaced. Strangely enough, he'd liked this Loki. And working with him — despite everything — had been interesting.
And Mobius hoped that one day, they'd do it all over again.