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Chapter Text

When Five awakes, all he can focus on is the blaring throb of a pounding headache. Have I been drinking? The traveller strains to remember.

Rather than returning to his family and figuring out how to avert the Apocalypse, Five stumbles onto the eastern shores of a people lost to the ages. More precisely, four harvests have passed since he fell through the headman’s roof. It happens on Samhain Eve and, when the heavens tear, he appears to the tribe as a strangely dressed elderman — youth restored — struggling to get free of a desolate land. The thinning of the veil is brief but deafening. Welcomed among the Picts as Flett, by the time Five is honoured as a Wolfwalker, he’s instrumental to the community’s survival.

A prickling chill overtakes Five as salty air floods his senses. I hear seabirds. His pulse quickens, intensifying the bulging beat in his addled grey matter. He opens his eyes and jolts upright, only to be blinded by the light. 

Fuck.

He’s on a ship. A Viking ship. His limbs are bound, and he’s surrounded by the meagre valuables of his relations. When he’s able to see, he sees no other captives. The chieftain, Aodh, is like a father to him.

Was like a father.

The memory of their last stand lands like a kick to the gut, causing a tearful retching as Five gags on a foul rag covering his mouth. His jarring movements pull back his hood and draw unwanted attention.

Beneath a fringed short brown cloak, Five wears a dark blue chequered tunic fastened by a knotwork brooch, his deep green half trousers tucked into once cream coloured leg wrappings. Leather boots still hold to his feet, but two empty scabbards hang from his belt and his silver pelt is missing. Whereas Five has reached adulthood (again), he is uncommonly clean-shaven with cerulean-stain markings that run the length of his left side. The brunette’s fierce features, plump cheeks, and piercing green eyes scream Otherworldliness.

Five struggles against the rough braid digging into his wrists, a growl emanating from deep within his chest. Several of the gawkers edge away, but one steps closer. The blond blur is laughing. There’s a disorienting assault on his eardrums as they ruffle his hair, the back half of which is caked in blood, and return the cowl to his head. Five’s thoughts get a little clearer as the shade settles. 

My journals are gone. Thirty years of calculations up in smoke. I have no way home, no one left to live for. I want to close my eyes and have the next thing I see be a breathing Klaus.

Five contemplates pitching himself over the side and waiting it out for a thousand years. Because I definitely have unfinished business to attend to. Despite his desire to see the sorely missed séance, he slumps himself against the ship’s hull with a groaning thud. It’s unwise to sleep with a head injury, but the lulling pull of dreamlessness is too alluring. And he’s been through so much already. He’s heartbroken. Utterly exhausted. He sleeps away the pain and saves his strength for dry land.

The Norsemen have seen him skywalk in a howling frenzy of bloodlust. He even remains unharmed until battle fatigue robs him of his powers. Only then is Jarl Harald’s horde able to ensnare the ferocious lad and subdue him with a blunt sword hilt to the back of the skull. The scoundrels believe him to be a wordweaver, which is why they unsheathe their blades whenever the jarl hand-feeds him bits of stale bread or dribbles strong mead over parched lips. While the warrior understands just fragments of the repugnant man’s babble, his glances and lingering touches speak volumes. It’s nauseating.

There’s many rough days with heavy swells followed by untold weeks held mute in a cold dungeon. Five’s sole companion during his confinement is an enslaved woman, the only person fluent in his acquired tongue, who acts as his attendant. Angrboda possesses sad but kind eyes and a gentle voice. She reminds him of Grace. Five tolerates his stint as a flesh and blood Delores. The gommy naff is mostly absent, little is expected when he visits, and Angrboda excels at guessing his no-handed charades. But then the ludicrous universe decides a priest can enthral Five’s powers with a runic-inscribed gold circlet shaped like a snake eating its own tail.

Fuck. Getting home just got a lot harder.

Chapter Text

Five tries to take a deep breath, exhaling through his mouth, only to be met by fitful coughing and the dull taste of salted iron. He’s pretty sure someone broke his nose, along with a few other things. He’s also going to be ill with the uproar between his ears and his…

Aargh!

The man dry heaves a handful of times, lets out an exasperated sigh, then grabs the plain tunic Angrboda left when she tended to his latest, last injuries. They weren’t allowed parting words but, with unshed tears, she held the back of his neck as they touched foreheads and he clasped her arm. Just for a little while, before they made her leave. The woad on Five’s face has long since faded and, as he pulls the linen over his head, he recoils with the burning tinge of an unreachable ache. The caustic agony is one in a constellation he’s never quite grown accustomed to over these last…

Five draws a blank.

He doesn’t know how long the monster has smothered him with his poisons. He’s only somewhat certain he last saw the open sky three years ago. It was an autumn afternoon, way back when he still received the periodic gift of fresh air. The blustery wind stung, but the colours on the hillside were mesmerising. Or perhaps that’s when the clouds first cleared amidst the wreckage of civilisation. Both may be true. Five is so goddamn tired, but he presses on. If he lets himself rest, even for a second, he might not get up again.

There’ll be plenty of time to sleep when I’m dead.

Fortunately, the numpty bawbag will put him out of his misery soon. Except who will stop the Apocalypse if not Five? His siblings had obviously failed on their own. He’d found their bodies. He almost joined them, in fact. The decades had ground by, but he can still picture Klaus’ remains if he closes his eyes: Four’s scruffy hair and hobo chic; their messy eyeliner and chipped nail polish; the creases at their temples and the corners of their mouth. The séance’s ink is no surprise. Then there’s later, when Five comes across V’s book. He mourns twice over. He’d failed them all. 

I will do anything to save my family and the world.

Five’s jumbled thoughts come to an abrupt halt as the door of the dingy, but blessedly empty, cell opens and a surly guard appears with the familiar shackles. Harald has finally decided to sacrifice the traveller to his war god.

Although escape is laughably impossible, Five is determined to die on his own terms. Life won’t likely get worse for trying, for once. He doesn’t believe in the gods, but he hasn’t rejected the idea wholesale. The infernal snake collar somehow strangles him as tightly as ever. Plus, he has grown to despise Odin during his bondage, believing that the shifty-eyed deceiver is simply another authority figure drunk on power and begging for a takedown. Like Dad. Or the jarl. At the very least, he’ll cause a few new nightmares. 

I’ll take any win I can get.

While shuffling — being mostly dragged — into the main square, the weary warrior takes stock of his surroundings.

Boda is nowhere in sight. Very good.

He wouldn’t have put it past the hackit dobber to make Angrboda witness his death, and her absence only steels his resolve. The ogre and his cronies are in front of the Great Hall. A crowd has gathered, and the atmosphere is heavy with incense. Five can’t help but notice the prosthetic eye he plucked from Luther’s mighty grip all those years in the future is glaring at him in the skull of his enemy. The colour eerily matches his original, and Five hates the dirty animal all the more for it.

As the cacophony of drums ceases, Five returns the contemptuous smile a toothless priest gives him as he waits for the tribute’s arrival. The guard then pushes the man onto his knees at the high stone altar, his cumbersome chains clattering in the forefront. With the withering thing droning, Five focuses his threadbare energies on catching sight of the bag of bones in his peripheral vision.

Timing is everything.

As the priest moves to expose the brunette’s neck, Five crouches and swivels to knock the old-timer off balance. The priest hits the ground and, before anyone intervenes, he grabs the fallen knife with his bound hands, then uses his restraints to hold the priest hostage against him.

The mob hesitates and, in the space between life and death, Five somehow shouts, “I am not a prize to be won or given as a gift. Instead, I offer myself to Loki in the hope he wreaks havoc upon the tyrants of the apocalypses who have slaughtered my kin. In this way, I pray they may be avenged.”

With his piece said, he shoves the priest forward and lifts the blade to slit his own throat.

As the dagger grazes his skin, he no longer senses the weight of it. Crimson mouth agape, Five looks up to see a pale, dishevelled willow of a being whose mane is as dark as the winter solstice. The lithe figure is holding his weapon with a hint of mirth. Wait, are they wearing business casual and a sword holster? Five scrunches up his face, bewildered.

“Loki?”

“Fear not, noble warrior,” the trickster purrs. “It would be my pleasure.”

Chapter Text

Moments ago, Loki failed Sylvie as a shield brother as well as a friend. Now he’s preoccupied with ignoring the high-pitched wailing, strobing lights, and Hunters giving chase as he fiddles with a stolen device he doesn’t understand. Fear rakes at him, dragging its nails along his ribs. The sensation mingles with his guilt and self-doubt until it forms a heavy, suffocating weight in his chest. The god is alone in an unfamiliar, familiar setting and doesn’t know where or when to go — other than away from the TVA. Particularly this reiteration of the TVA, which appears to be run by a very dangerous person.

He hopes Sylvie is okay. Loki didn’t regret voicing his concerns in the beginning. However, a deep sense of shame soon washes over him when he realises he’s tried to impose his will despite the overwhelming evidence of her unwavering conviction. He let her down when she needed him the most.

Sif’s right, I deserve to be alone. I’ve betrayed everyone who’s ever loved me, after all.

How could he be so naïve? Even though they share many similarities, that doesn’t mean he knows her emotions. Sylvie spent her considerable life at the end of a thousand worlds, hunted like a dog as she struggled to find those responsible for the unexplained abduction. Every memory lost, every hardship endured, has shaped her understanding of the Multiverse and fuelled her relentless determination. In contrast, Loki enjoyed a privileged upbringing as a prince of Asgard, cared for by a loving mother and flawed father before being snatched from the Sacred Timeline just a few years before he was supposed to die. His understanding of pain and loss, while present, lacks the visceral intensity that Sylvie carries. Although he still believes He Who Remains is telling the truth about his own death, if Loki had made the wiser choice, the pair would have handled the fallout together. Instead, Sylvie has pushed him through a portal, and he’s revealed intel to a hostile, well-equipped, dictatorial organisation.

Just as Loki is about to drown in regret, the TemPad lights up and a Timedoor materialises a few strides away. By the Norns! The only TVA with the mischief maker’s temporal aura on file is his TVA. He’s almost free of these despotic doppelgangers. It’s unclear where or when the passage leads, but it doesn’t matter. He needs a place to think. Preferably somewhere out of imminent danger. The beleaguered trickster dives, twisting his torso as he does so in order to see if any Minutemen sneak through the closing gateway.

As he descends onto the soft grass of a hill overlooking the sea, Loki recalls the events of Lamentis and conceals the TemPad within his pocket dimension. It’s nearing dusk and, taking in the fresh taste of freedom, he catches nag champa, juniper berries, as well as wild herbs on the wind. It’s thick in the air and coming from a nearby settlement.

Loki’s heart aches. For his family. His friends. Sylvie. Nonetheless, he presses forward as his stomach grumbles at the prospect of a meal. And ale. Lots of ale. He will conjure appropriate attire once he assesses the population.

With his presence concealed, Loki determines he must be in Midgard around the time of his birth. It’s a wonder why Heimdall hasn’t made himself known to the son of Odin. Locals speak of their lord’s victory against a bewitching Jotunn, now to be sacrificed. Others whisper of a cruel jarl and a supernatural warrior from across the sea. Immensely brave. The last of his kind.

A clamour of drums causes the crowd to part as a small-statured, beardless man with dark mid-length brown hair, braided on one side, attempts to drag himself to the podium barefoot. He’s gravely injured, but keeps his head held high while sneering at his tormentors. He also wears a gold collar bearing Jormungandr around his neck.

Loki, immediately liking this fellow, moves closer with no particular plan in mind.

After the priest pleads for the Allfather’s blessing, when he seeks to grasp the young man’s hair, the brunette manoeuvres himself in such a way that the priest is now pressed against his chest, choked by the chains of the condemned, with a dagger to his neck. The fighter then states in a rough but husky tone, spitting blood as he does so, “I am not a prize to be won or given as a gift. Instead, I offer myself to Loki in the hope he wreaks havoc upon the tyrants of the apocalypses who have slaughtered my kin. In this way, I pray they may be avenged.”

His plea given, and with the priest pushed aside, the courageous rogue makes to slit his throat. However, by the time his skin meets the blade, Loki has leaped into action.

He seizes the weapon, revealing himself to the terror-stricken crowd. “Fear not, noble warrior. It would be my pleasure.”

Chapter Text

Five watches in stunned awe as mayhem erupts, spiralling out from the fucker and his pack of dogs. It’s a sound decision given the doomed warrior has called forth a hex only to have the bearer of dark tidings cheerfully materialise, sacrificial dagger in hand.

There’s fresh blood on Loki’s ripped sleeve, but no open cut.

A flick of the wrist later, the blade vanishes and the god stoops down to inspect the necklace.

With a wave of his hand and a few precise words, the snake collar releases its tail and clatters to the ground. His nimble fingers glide effortlessly — as if he’s conducting an invisible orchestra — while he recites the short incantation. The silky baritone then breaks his heavy chains like they’re matchsticks and helps the lad to his feet.

“You know my name. Now, what may yours be?”

With a wrinkled brow, and wiping red from his lips, Five takes longer than he would have liked to reply. “I am known as Flett the Wolfwalker, but my name is Number Five Hargreeves.” Squinting, he quickly adds, “Sorry, but why are you speaking English?”

“It’s Allspeak, my dear Five. It allows me to be understood by nearly every species in their native language. Yours is from the early 21st century, if I am not mistaken,” Loki wonders with an upturned eyebrow.

What does the deity mean by species? How are they aware of the 21st century? Five has so many questions, but they’ll have to wait. He’s on the verge of being sick again, and it’s already too difficult to stand without a noticeable tremor. “Yeah.” Five chuckles breathlessly. “It’s a long story. One I’ll be happy to tell you about, but not now. Not here.”

“Right, my apologies.” He clears his throat. “Let us bid farewell to these unworthy knaves. Trust in me; we’ll be seeing them again soon enough,” the seiðmaðr stresses as he takes Five’s hand and teleports away from the scrambling bodies. Five is more than amazed. He’s never met another skywalker.

Assisting the dumbstruck man to sit down, Loki kneels and meets Five’s eyes prior to voicing his thoughts.

“You’re severely wounded. By happy chance, I know a few tricks to aid in your recovery. As you may have deduced, a touch of misadventure has led up to our fateful encounter. I won’t be able to heal your injuries entirely, but it should stave off the worst of it. Would that proposal be okay with you?”

Five can’t stop a wide smirk, shaking at the considerate tone. He coughs out, “Of course!” as he places a hand on his saviour’s shoulder. Gathering his composure, the worn-out warrior then rasps, “I didn’t anticipate saying this face-to-face. But from the depths of my heart, thank you for answering my call.”

Startled, the god nods with a blushful smile. He subsequently turns inward, gently holding the man’s nape and closing his eyes.

The tips of Five’s ears burn, and his pulse might have skipped a beat or three as he studies the so-much-more-than-a-man’s frazzled features. How his expressive brows knit in concentration. The pale cherry blossom lips and rosy cheekbones. He’s unblemished, beardless.

Suddenly aware of his staring, Five breaks his gaze, leans forward, and places a hand on the god’s knee for support.

Once in a settled position, he allows himself to drift behind eyelids, sensing the sharpest pains receding from his beleaguered body while the ancient alien in the raggedy retro-future workwear repairs his injuries. He groans as bones mend and a numbing, long since omnipresent tension begins to ebb, then melt. He can breathe without significant effort, and incense no longer chokes him with the smell of death. His death. Five draws in the crisp night air and tastes salt.

Fuck!

Five opens his eyes and jolts upright, trying to gather his thoughts. He’s by the sea, not on it. He can feel damp grass beneath his feet and between his toes. He’s sitting on the flat surface of a boulder. The weight of his, or rather, the collar is absent. He isn’t bound, and the thistle-prick is gone. It feels as though he’s walked into the sunlight from a darkened room when, in fact, he’s been rescued from the abrasive torchlight swarming his vision. The moonlit horizon no longer tosses or rolls. Exhaustion is not so all-encompassing. A tired raven-haired person looks at him with concern, then with a shared understanding, waiting for permission to continue.

The traveller flirts with the notion that he’s actually slit his own throat. Yet, if Five were dead, he reasons Klaus would be there. Somehow. More than a millennium before they, along with 41 others, are born to random unconnected women who’ve shown no signs of pregnancy the day prior. No, the ethereal presence is real. Five’s life is just unbelievable.

He takes several slow breaths, forcing back tears brought about by the unending generosity. The god-like being with the low, smooth, genteel voice reassuring him he’s out of harm’s way. The chilled chest with the long arms holding him while he breaks down with relief. Finally, Five feels safe for the first time in his long life.

After Loki returns to his ministrations, with a tremulous voice but a bemused grin, Five asks through a curtain of hair, “So, why are you dressed like a pencil-pushing monster slayer?”

Loki laughs to himself and then answers, “It turned into more of an enchantment than a slaying, but I suppose that’s beside the point. Tell me, wayward traveller, what do you know of the Multiverse?”

Chapter Text

Loki has had his fair share of thrashings since his fall from Asgard. Yet, even when the Black Order was at its most sadistic, he had avoided some of the suffering that lay hidden beneath Five’s tunic. It’s a miracle the Midgardian can stand, let alone hold a conversation. Loki suspects he is only conscious because the most severe of his injuries are fresh. If the brutes hadn’t sacrificed him, he would have died once the infection set in.

The poor man keeps himself together until Loki fixes his punctured lung. Then he pulls away, hugging himself as he frantically looks every which way but at Loki. His breathing, rapid and shallow, slows down as he wiggles his toes. The frantic searching in his gaze subsides, and his face softens when their eyes meet. It isn’t long, however, before his breath turns choppy and tears well up. The rush of blood to his head is visible, a flush of reddish pink overtop of his gaunt complexion. Loki can tell Five is trying to mask his true emotions. He wants to physically comfort the troubled figure, but assumes it will do more harm than good.

“The people who have hurt you are not here, Five. You are safe. I will not harm you. You are in control of this situation.”

He puts his hands at his sides, palms open to show he has nothing to hide. “How may I help you?” There’s silence as his distress intensifies. “Oh, no need to answer that. I will be right —” A blur of movement catches him off guard as Five dives into his arms, and cries. “... here.” Five’s grip is astonishingly intense as Loki conjures a handkerchief and enfolds the fragile human.

When Five pulls away, it’s clear that he is feeling somewhat better. He stands up, taking deep inhales and long exhales. He shakes out his limbs, releasing the tension that had built up within them, before wincing. Sitting back down on the rock, Five places a hand on the god’s knee. His smile, though infused with remnants of sadness, is open and reassuring.

“Thanks, I... uh, really needed that.” He sniffles. “Now — but only if you don’t mind — please continue.”

Loki’s new apprentice soon proves himself to be intelligent, inquisitive, quick-witted, prideful, loyal, and ruthless when required. He can already tell they will get along swimmingly.

Mobius is right about the ridiculousness of creation and our relative position in the cosmoses. Five’s unable to know for certain, but the linen clad youth with the wavy hair explains how there’s no evidence of super powered individuals — outside of what he calls the Umbrella Academy — or outworld contact when he becomes marooned in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. An apocalypse that, as far as Loki understands, never happens in his universe. Well, at least not until after Midgard’s 31st century. The TVA are a mistrusting and secretive lot, but it doesn’t seem like the mad scientist would allow a worldwide disaster on his home planet if he could prevent it.

A shiver runs through Loki as he recalls Jotunheim, letting go of the Bifrost, the undoing of the Abyss, and the untold horrors of Sanctuary. Except in immeasurable ways, he knows Five’s experiences are much more grim. While the warrior’s appearance is of a young Midgardian adult, his eyes speak of a bone-weary existence untethered from time.

Born of chaos, Five and six remarkable others were bought by a maniacal billionaire, surprisingly not named Stark. Raised as soldiers in the fiend’s personal crusade, their only semblance of parental concern emanated from older experiments — a machine of a mother and an advanced chimpanzee, unable to stop their master’s abuses. That is, until, as an adolescent, the traveller discovers his siblings’ adult corpses in the rubble of their home. Lacking an explanation, and possessing few clues, he scrapes by in a dead world for almost three decades before finding himself in an ill-fated village; a community which helped heal his fractured psyche, while showing him he’s more than just a number, only to have his newfound kin annihilated and himself enslaved by the worst sort of cur.

Of course, the god jumps at an opportunity to reunite the brave man with his sole surviving companion.

Sylvie occupies Loki’s thoughts, reminding him of the elusive concept of a lost childhood. Suddenly, he realises he should have shown more respect to the King of the Void. The boy had raised himself in a land of cannibals and a furious cloud creature intent on his devouring, yet he gave away his weapon when Loki needed it. Without him even having to ask! There’s an apt metaphor somewhere in there. He bet Sylvie would know what it was. It must be painful at the best of times to be forever young, reminded of the day he killed their brother.

The concerned trickster will make it a point to visit Kid Loki once he’s reined in the Multiverse a little. Maybe Classic Him hid from Alioth as inanimate debris, or His Highness and the alligator changed their minds about staying. It’s worth the risk to check-in.

Chapter Text

When you’re born immaculately and spend most of your life surrounded by chaos, it’s reassuring to know that there is a god of it all. Nevertheless, it becomes somewhat less comforting when Five realises his alien prince is just as subject to the whims of the unknown as he is.

Although the god-like visitor from another universe progresses much slower with his attention divided, their talk is a welcome distraction from the patchwork of bizarre sensations stitching Five’s body back together. As Five listens intently, the sights around him blur into a hazy background. Their conversation softly mingles with the waves crashing against a nearby cliff. The chilled wind is refreshing, lessening the weight pressing on his eyelids. Five feels as if his mind is being stretched and challenged after years of atrophy while they speak of multiple universes, oddly named adversaries, and quantum mechanics.

Apparently, there’s an Orwellian regime called the Time Variance Authority, supposedly located outside of spacetime, who sound like a bunch of assholes except for Agent Mobius. The TVA eradicates undesirable timelines, or sometimes wipes the memories of variants, in order to enforce the relentless bureaucracy of a sacred timeline. Orphaning little girls and ensuring apocalypses is just another day at the office. Some drones even spend their entire lives within the maze of brutalist hallways and corridors. But then Loki and his allies overthrew the TVA’s leader, a human who calls himself He Who Remains. 

Five notices Loki’s panged expression when he discusses his lost comrades, particularly a staggering individual named Sylvie. The weight of his regret hangs heavy in the space between them. As he speaks, his voice trembles slightly, and he visibly sags while explaining how much his arrogance cost him. Five’s not sure how to comfort the celestial being, so he reaches out to bridge the distance by taking Loki’s palm in his.

His hands are like those of a skilled artisan — or a marble statue carved from flesh and bone.

Loki lets go of a held breath, and the furrow in his brow smooths over. The pair let a stillness settle before he returns to his efforts. 

Sometime later, Five pipes in with, “Let me see if I have this straight. Nexus events occur when someone deviates from their predetermined path — say, if a Loki veers away from their ‘glorious purpose’ — causing a split in the timeline. Each resulting timeline then develops its own unique future, leading to a multitude of possibilities. It’s like the branches of a tree, spreading out in different directions.”

Five thought he’d figured out what went wrong with the time dilation projection calculations, which burdened him with a second bout of puberty, but his underlying assumptions were also incorrect.

No wonder I can’t acorn.

“That’s fascinating.” 

He does not expect Loki’s face to darken as uncertainty seeps into the atmosphere.

“You are correct in theory. From my perspective, until a few hours ago, anything and anyone the TVA didn’t like was ‘pruned.’ That’s a nice way of saying ‘sent to the Void at the End of Time to be consumed by a terrifying monster.’

“The Void is an amalgam of alternate realities inhabited by variants organised into factions. All the variants I met were rubbish except for me as a child and me in the future. Oh, and the alligator is a fine chap to have in a scrap. Otherwise, he growls. When not fighting amongst each other for survival, they’re running from a nightmare — a glowing, malevolent hunger. The sky is a chaotic maelstrom of swirling thunderclouds, from which emerges a gargantuan creature, a grotesque blend of all the tears in reality. Until Sylvie thought to enchant the beast, all anyone could do was outrun Aiolth.

“When Mobius broke from our party in the Void, it was to burn the TVA to the ground — I assume he meant this metaphorically — yet, after Sylvie rightfully sent me flying through a Timedoor, everything was wrong at headquarters. Instead of a giant statue of three space lizards, there was one of He Who Remains’ variants. The timeline was branching far faster than the TVA could react, but Mobius and Hunter B-15 didn’t recognise me. Sorcery is not possible inside the TVA, so when I realised I was truly alone, I jumped over the railing and landed in a hovering mail cart. Startling the driver, we crashed into the command centre, and I nicked Casey’s TemPad before he could respond. I had no time to work out how it functioned, so I pressed a random assortment of prompts until a Timedoor led me three metres to your left. I was following the sound of ale and intrigue when we met.”

“Woah! And I thought my life was a sequence of concentric outliers. It’s hard to say what’s worse, the Void or the post-Apocalypse! I had absolutely no one, but you could’ve met an infinite number of absolutely anyone. With my luck, I’d run into nothing but Sir Reginald Hargreeves’ variants.”

For far too long, all the traveller heard from outside himself was the disappointed drill sergeant chiding him whenever the disaster du jour claimed his shelter, contaminated his water, or stole his food.

“My biggest worry about lunch was its absence or contracting botulism, not whether I might be lunch. I always felt like I was wasting time just surviving. Now, I’m grateful that I didn’t get stuck as that 13-year-old version of myself. Everything just keeps getting more complicated, but I’m ready to face it.”

Loki raises an eyebrow and sets his hands on his hips, as if to say, ‘No, you certainly are not.’

“Kang the Conqueror can wait. Time and space are funny that way. We’ll unravel the mystery of the machine’s operation once you’ve recuperated and we hunt down those miscreants. But first, I need a drink.” Loki’s stomach growls. “Amongst other things.”

Five chuckles weakly while holding his sides.

“We should head back to see what sort of feast they’ve laid out in my father’s honour. If Odin shows, I’m sure I can talk our way out of whatever offence we’ve inadvertently caused. Where I am from, we do not require such indulgences from Midgard. Since the Great Hall is likely deserted, I can apply a few concealment charms to ward off our enemies.”

“You, my friend, are amazing!” He places a hand on Loki’s shoulder and squeezes. “Thank you so much. I feel about a thousand times better.” Five’s eyes widen as a sudden realisation hits him. “Oh, shit. Before we deal with that fuck-knuckle of a tit, the witless cocksplat who tried to sacrifice me (and worse), we gotta find Angrboda. I can’t just leave her behind.”

Loki, finished with his rejuvenations, blinks away Five’s bloody grime, evens out his poorly shorn hair, and conjures short leather boots along with woollen socks. Soon after, they locate the woman hiding in a storehouse. There’s quite a tearful shriek of happiness as the ageless beauty with the gracious eyes and flaxen hair bruises Five’s still aching ribs in a crushing embrace. Or maybe it’s happiness topped with a twinge of fearful reverence at her answered prayers.

Chapter Text

The Norns must be in stitches because the pair finds Five’s only confidant, named for Loki’s mythical wife, praying to the chaotic god while holding the last vestiges of a man’s life. Shortly thereafter, Five dons a wolf pelt draped over an indigo tartan surcoat along with cream wraps meeting half trousers in the shade of the darkest forest. The attire of a formidable warrior, he will strike fear into the hearts of his enemies.

As Loki listens to Angrboda recount the tales she’s heard since Five’s supernatural arrival nearly a decade ago, he can’t help but hide a smile into his cup of Mead. Word of the ‘fair folk’ who’d taken up residence in the chieftain’s home after falling through the veil spread like wildfire. In return for their kind hospitality, Five taught the leader how to ward off sickness and swore to protect the community. His abilities were extraordinary — he could teleport great distances, fought with the strength of dwarven steel, and possessed a staff capable of causing harm from a mile away. His reputation then solidified when he faced a pack of wolves and single-handedly killed their queen in close-range combat, his unique scars and fur making him easily recognisable.

However, fame also made him vulnerable.

Before any stories could circulate in Tønsberg, the jarl’s son began dreaming of a mythical creature who held the key to immense power and prestige. More importantly, they’d ensure his place in history — that tales of his family’s feats would travel the Nine Realms until the Twilight of the Gods. Similar in some ways, drastically different in others, Harald thought Flett the Wolfwalker fit the description well enough. By his 18th year, he’d amassed enough clout to overthrow his father and kidnap Five.

They did not expect him to resist, but resist he did. Soon the horde called him Fenrir. Not just because of his manner of dress and method of capture, but also his demeanour and the entwining wolf tattoos that adorn his shoulder. Loki’s earlier spectacle had ignited rumours of an impending apocalypse. Naturally, the discussion shifted towards comparing Loki’s life with the woman’s lore. 

It’s clear both of their universes hold a certain mean-spirited reverence for the mischievous scamp. They were not wrong about the trickster’s fondness for Thor stabbing. In Loki’s defence, however, it’s sometimes the only means of holding his brother’s attention. Besides, transforming into the thunderer’s favourite pet snake Jormi was quite amusing. Although the incident occurred when they were children, Thor still enjoys recounting the story. Or rather, Thor loved declaring it throughout the Nine when Loki last evaded the Avengers. It isn’t as if a brief stabbing now and then caused lasting harm to the Aesir. His earliest weapons were shorter, the injury less deep.

Loki misses his brother.

Born into a household where she received as much consideration as the furniture, Angrboda is a wellspring of intelligence. Her revenge was long in the making. She knows their foe’s preferred routes and hidden encampments, along with candid assessments of the men. Withal, while lacking combat training, she makes it known she’s spent a lifetime with an axe, a knife, and a stealthy sensibility.

As Loki observes the formerly enthralled woman, he notices a striking resemblance she bears to his mother, Queen Frigga. Like his mother, Angrboda is compassionate, nurturing, and possesses an eternal beauty that is both strong and tender. She has also accepted Five as her own and obviously loves him. What’s more, despite a lifetime of oppression, Angrboda is unafraid to speak her mind. It takes a Prince of Asgard comparing the two to transform the statuesque maiden into a shy, timid girl.

Much strengthened, the god soothes Five’s remaining pains, returns to his spare Asgardian leathers, pockets away items of value (food, weapons, or travel wares), and joins the Midgardians in a long slumber. Vengeance could wait until the morrow.

Chapter Text

Becoming aware of the soft bedding beneath, Five anticipates being met with half-consciousness; a prisoner in his own body. Able to sense the bruising grip of a heavy shadow, and hot breath grunted into his ear, but unable to intervene. A familiarly intimate woe swells, escaping as a low mournful sob at the looming possibility he’s imagined yesterday. 

How am I going to save my family now?

Expecting a meaty fist’s prickling sting wrenching his hair back, hopefully his only punishment for the presumed protest — Please, please, ple-e-ease be my only punishment — a strange touch is exchanged with the pounding ache of hardwood.

Wiping off the foggy remnants of sleep, and hurrying away from the unoccupied restraints, Five turns around to discover Angrboda in the large ornate bed they’ve shared. Paralysed with shock, her callused fingers are still hovering mid-air as Loki rushes in with daggers drawn.

The benevolent god asks, “Is everything okay?” as he pockets his weapons.

Five only hears the thump, thump, thumping of his racing heart. However, the sensation soon subsides as he looks up at his companions. Ignoring the feathered mattress, he runs a reassuring palm up his bare neck before scratching his head and saying, “I was expecting, uh, to wake up on straw.” He huffs. “Good news! My powers are back.” Five then grasps Loki’s offered hand and leaves to break fast. He wants to test his weapons prior to departure and desperately needs the practice.

It felt wrong being unarmed for so long, like a phantom limb. Five had had Diego’s knife and a rifle since the wasteland’s earliest days. The latter lasted only as long as the bullets, but it came in handy with wolves and wildcats. Then he smelt it down to make Aodh's helmet. Little good it did him. They took Two’s blade after Five’s capture, but the bassa probably carries it as a memento. At least the warrior sure hopes so. He wants to stab the bipedal wank splatter’s other eye with it. In the meantime, he settles for two seaxes carried in sheaths suspended horizontally and a small hafted axe tucked into his belt. The single-headed axe is for emergencies. It’s a balm for the wounds gone, but not forgotten.

Never in Five’s wildest imaginings did he consider someone like Loki actually existed, let alone that their lives would intersect. In retrospect, it’s a close-minded thought process, given his extraordinary upbringing, education, and time to think. The long-lived, fantastically endowed alien isn’t just an unparalleled master trained by a war god and a sorceress in a society hardened by interplanetary conflict spanning aeons. He’s also a brilliant, kind, and humble yet cheeky soul. Whereas Asgard didn’t value the god’s feminine fighting or skill with magic, the skywalking warrior will be forever grateful. 

Five catches himself thanking the Norns for their wicked weavings. He’s discovered his faith in the possible personification of existence’s unhinged statistical absurdity and the support of a not-all-powerful, but devastatingly handsome, Aesir Jotunn. Barely any time has passed, yet Five does not doubt that, if given the choice, he will fight by his Lord’s side for eternity. Anything’s possible with the right calculations and some guidance. Loki sees behind the youthful exterior and yet, because he’s a powerful being more than a millennium old, Five’s unbothered by his shielding nature or tenderness. In fact, he secretly loves it.

Chapter Text

Harald Haakonsson thinks he’s been overly generous since loading that feral dog onto one of his ships five summers ago. Many warriors reached Valhalla the day of, and even more went to Hel as Thor battled the giant sea serpent near all the whale road home. He should’ve seen it coming after discovering Jormungandr’s head above the water tattooed on their cursed body.

He expected they’d become comrades-in-arms, only to find the deadly little shit was determined to maim when given the opportunity. The benevolent ruler had merely extinguished an already dwindling tribe, and his pale vision from beyond the veil wasn’t really one of them. He’d given the famous warrior the privilege of being saved for a greater purpose. Flett might have thought of it as suffering, but it was their salvation. Harald saw himself in Wolfwalker. The stubborn mutt chose the muzzle, choker, and chain. 

His loins stir, recalling the silver-tongued bastard’s taut heat once the thankless mare proved temporarily tamable with the stupefying effects of several herbs or, when the mood suits, dried fungi. Harald had hoped for a more present recipient, but, even with the petite chalice’s wits obscured, the muddled whore achieved remarkable skill in their (albeit involuntary) writhings. The wilful thrall burnt bright with unsought desire, like a caged bird waiting for a chance to sing. His seiðmaðr sang so beautifully, the mewling quim.

The headman would have preferred to hump his bashful ergi, which he underwent such efforts to collect and collar, for the foreseeable future. He still believes the minx would’ve eventually embraced destiny. There were signs of acceptance. They ceased their pathetic escape attempts, learnt their master’s tongue like it was their own, and prepared themselves for the inevitable. The pretty little thrall should have felt honoured to receive a resting space on the covered floor of their rightful Lord’s chambers. Prior to his arrival — to free them from that squalid speck of a settlement — they’d been tricked and bewitched by the local populous. Flett had almost died! Harald was kind enough to keep his confused fae idle, well fed, and warm, while they returned to their right mind. The rest of his chattel received rations, were worked to the bone, and slept with the pigs and goats. 

Despite such lavish treatment, an experienced guard, and the bedwarmer’s magic sealed in serpentine gold, that hawknose vamp used those honey-coated poisonous words of theirs to lay a trap. Worse still, it nearly worked at the cost of an eye and two able-bodied men. Next, those damnable priests petitioned to gift the slithery deceiver to the gods. He agreed, but not until after claiming his fair share of merrymaking. The tartlet is unnaturally talented, and Harald found it exceedingly difficult to let go of his jewel, which he kept under lock and key, for quite some time.

He grins lopsidedly, remembering the smooth-faced fae’s reddish-pink flush as they were rutted within an inch of their life. In the end, Flett had rolled over like Harald always knew they could. There was so much more to savour when the otherworldly creature submitted with smouldering embers behind their eyelashes instead of a glazed-over stare. They put their unruly mouth to better use too. 

Betrayed by their own bleeding heart, all it took was a threat — more of a promise — to have Angrboda share their fate, followed by a lengthy demonstration. Harald might have saved himself some strife by holding her hostage the moment he noticed their bond. However, the mere idea of mounting the slave who’d borne his old man’s whelps was disgusting. It held him back. Luckily, his men did not share his unease. Indeed, there was quite an eager crowd after Flett’s murderous outburst. It was as if his shield brothers were mourning their felled brethren by sending their love to the Hall of the Chosen Dead. She was overdue to serve his father, anyway.

The jarl made sure his beaten treasure watched it all unfold because there would be no more chances — not that the trove knew it at the moment. Flett showed such overdue gratitude at the unexpected mercy Harald believed they’d finally been broken in. They were such a sweet ride for seasons thereafter. The man could still feel the softness of their lips, those narrow hips. A reluctant fledgling there to please. Boy, how they pleased.

If only the snug bitch would bear his pups, they would’ve never parted. It wasn’t for lack of ploughing the wayward nymph’s garden of earthly delights, and he certainly sowed enough seed in the shifty shapeshifter to birth some barns by now. Harald should have sent the troublesome runt to Odin personally, after he sliced off the pixie’s lovely dark waves.

Harald isn’t the type to share such a rarity, but those calamitous advisers convinced him to make the sacrifice public in order to shore up support among his warriors. If it weren’t for those fools, the enchantress wouldn’t have overpowered that husk of a priest and called forth the Evil One. The pair shared a manic gleam. It’s also said the God of Lies released the tribute’s seiðr and smashed their irons before vanishing. 

Ragnarok had begun.

Not long after fleeing the prospect of unbridled carnage, a supernatural woman carrying a four-sided object wrapped in obsidian skin offers to ally against his monstrous foes. At first, her unexplainable appearance and strange garb startle his men. They fear she’s the craven god in disguise. Harald knows better though and figures her to be one of Odin’s ravens, Muninn, transformed. Her half-veiled shoulder-length silver-white locks ripple in the morning sun, her hands have been sharpened into talons, and her pointed crimson walk lets off the sound of hooves. Kohl and blood adorn a crone’s face while just her shapely calves are visible under a billowy seeress cloak, secured tightly at the waist, as dark as onyx.

She calls herself The Handler. 

Chapter Text

Wrestling with intermittent sleep (he hadn’t enjoyed a peaceful slumber since the fall), Loki awakens to the sound of a nearby ruckus. Afraid an enemy — either of this realm or from afar — was breaching his wards, Loki sprints towards the commotion. He meets eyes like saucers, a hovering hand. Angrboda’s gaze is fixed on the panic-stricken man, freezing her in place. Five is on the floor, as white as a sheet and trying to catch his breath. 

“Is everything okay?”

Loki knows perfectly well that everything is not okay. However, it’s the least intrusive way he can think of to nudge the pair out of whatever dark corner they’d found themselves in. Perhaps they shared the nicest bed in the hall, but chances are it was also the most troubling. Fortunately, his trick works. Angrboda shakes off the daze as she sits up. Meanwhile, Five’s breathing slows. He runs a reassuring hand through his hair. Their eyes meet, with the faintest hint of a smile forming. The tension eases.

“I was expecting, uh, to wake up on straw.” Five looks shaky. “Good news! My powers are back.”

It’s best if they find something to eat. No one was going back to bed.

*

Nothing surprises Loki anymore. Instead of a tesseract or TemPad, small teams of third-tier TVA facsimiles pop in and out of existence in a futile attempt to protect the nefarious jarl. The blue-clad pairs travel by way of cumbersome briefcases and carry increasingly sophisticated weaponry. Otherwise known as Loki’s usual unusual, but better. He hasn’t had so much fun since Pompeii, which is who in Helheim knows how long ago.

The benevolent god doesn’t possess their travel device because he hasn’t been trying to obtain it. Doing so would undoubtedly ramp up their efforts. So far, the would-be assassins have learned little about the mischief maker’s capabilities and use limited intelligence-gathering methods, meaning they rarely stray far from their mark. Loki’s keen eyes always see their rivals first, and it takes little effort to apply a concealment charm. That’s how, more often than not, Angrboda watches from a safe distance as their warrior releases some righteous fury on the brute’s supporters. Prolonging the swine’s terror while Loki teaches Five how to better wield his seiðr is a cheerful benefit.

Five’s ability to somewhat command time and space is an asset, but Loki believes that his true talents are his enhanced speed and reflexes. The otherworldly warrior had been named Flett for a reason. By dual-wielding short swords, and targeting his opponents’ weak points instead of clashing with blades directly, he swiftly finishes off foes while avoiding their attacks. 

The god grins as he thinks about how the combat style matches his own. It is a phenomenal feeling to impart knowledge, and an even better feeling to see his tricks admired instead of scorned. Still, the second prince in him wonders what New Asgard thinks of his other self, or how they might perceive him today. Were they told of his shameful origins? In the grand scheme of things, it’s silly. Nevertheless, it weighs on him heavier than Mjolnir ever could.

Chapter Text

The Temps Commission, in all its sagely wisdom, oversees and manages the space-time continuum; making sure all events that are supposed to happen, happen. Their raison d’être, if you will. The Board of Directors directs while The Handler handles threats to the timeline. She usually enjoys her job immensely. The organisation keeps tabs on the portal lad when a field agent notes Jarl Harald’s increasing infatuation with a mysterious emerald-eyed beauty by the name of Flett the Wolfwalker. It appears to be a family trait.

The warlord hears tales of Flett for years before he crushes his father’s head under the weight of his hammer, kills a few rival bastards, then uses his new position to squash an otherwise ant-filled colony. It doesn’t take much for a case manager to connect the dots to Number Five Hargreeves, the Harbinger of the Apocalypse’s long-lost time-travelling brother. Otherwise known as the bane of The Handler’s existence. It’s a shame since she believes the man would make an excellent temporal assassin, possibly even management.

All things considered, The Handler sees the appeal. That is why she personally supervises the creation of a suppression collar that perfectly complements the pouty man’s lips. She also nearly samples the spunky lad while his master is away raiding, rules and regulations be damned. It isn’t like mon petit was going to remember much of anything, anyway. Even the jarl’s men got their fill of the scrumptious Fudge Nutter prior to that accursed ritual. If only the Commission had recruited instead of quibbling over how to remove Five from the equation, Five would now be working under the platinum bombshell.

Now, that would be wunderbar.

C’est la vie. Case Management has danced around the problem of Number Five for too long, and now they’re all answering for it. For eight days, The Handler has done nothing but damage control for the teleporting berserker working his way down an enemy list — a list that includes the ancestor of a very important person! The overtime pay has been murder on their bottom line. Worse still is the mini-psycho’s patron. The Records Department finds nothing for Loki beyond a comment that he’s in stories the Aesir and humans tell to one another until the Commission ensures their timely demise. It’s unclear who this Loki is, but he’s formidable.

Protocol dictates agents remove targets utilising the appropriate means of the period. The Commission makes an exception almost immediately, but to no avail. It is time to recall all troops from the field and bring in her Little One.

They are going to war.

Chapter Text

Their game of cat and mouse has whittled away all but the timeless army’s fiercest warriors, most of whom possess enough firepower to bring down an Aesir. Yet, the younger Friggason is no ordinary Asgardian, and feigning injury is a begrudging specialty.

With dramatic flair, Loki draws the battlefield’s attention while his champion confronts a black-clad valkyrie blocking their path. She’s a hair taller than Five with smoky dark eyes and honey brown skin. Loki’s a little concerned for his recently liberated mortal. She fights as if trained by Kali herself and easily mimics the Midgardian’s powers. To add to his worries, their enemies seek his enthrallment via a contraption reminiscent of his time with the TVA. Given their previous collar, which was crudely made at best, it’s tempting to fuel their misplaced faith in technology. However, he can’t risk Five getting seriously hurt or, Norns forbid, killed should he be mistaken.

Distracted by his inner thoughts, the trickster doesn’t catch the soldier at his back until it’s too late and he hears the click of a shutting latch against his wrist. The band seals away his seiðr, and he can’t immediately break the barrier. Rather than wasting energy soothing a bruised ego, Loki drops his glamour, pulls at his inherent magic, and shatters the machine in an instant. The Frost Giant is done with frivolities. Unleashing waves of ice, Loki freezes everyone in view except for the duelling mages.

I’m going to find out who these people are before any more ensnarements arise.

Appearing next to the stunned pair, the azure god with the crimson eyes jeers, “I’m terribly sorry, but I need to have a look at your memories,” as he touches the woman’s forehead.

There’s darkness save for pinpricks of light trickling through a square panel. Hidden within the gloomy vent sits a four-year-old trying to stifle her shuddering breath. Loki hears pleas followed by two gunshots, a woman’s voice, a man’s vanishing footsteps, and the click of stilettos. The heels stop and the grill opens. It’s the fiendish woman they’ve spotted several times, only younger and wearing a dalmatian coat.

I thought those were Midgardian pets.

“Well, well, well, look who we have here. Does this belong to you?” She chuckles while holding a toy. Arms open, the ghoul motions to the frightened little girl in pink pyjamas, saying, “Come here, darling. Come, come. Yes. There we go.”

Lila Pitts, daughter of Ronnie and Anita Gill, was raised to be a weapon in a fight against free will.

“Bloody hell! What kind of monster shows their adopted mum killing their parents?” The tear-streaked woman shrieks as she pounds on the god’s chest.

Loki makes no move to stop her as he explains with deep sincerity, “I played no tricks with the memory. Your young and terrified mind has never linked the woman who raised you to the person who shot your family, or at least stood by while it happened.”

“It’s not true.”

“Why do you think she’s there? She never cared about your parents. She was looking for you. They lied to you, Lila. A powerful person stole you for your potential use, just like Five.”

“You’re wrong. She loves me.”

“Her love shouldn’t be contingent on unquestioned obedience.”

He pauses, taking a breath to reapply his glamour.

“I know all too well how it feels to be taken, like a relic one day to be wielded, and raised under a lie. It’s why I’m not myself without my father’s disguise, in fact. I’ve had it since I was an infant, but only found out about it recently. The circumstances under which I learned of my heritage ignited a spiral of self-destruction, wherein I hurt many people. After murdering my not-so-innocent living birth parent, I almost destroyed my home world. It was a misguided attempt to gain approval. And when I found none in my father’s eye, I tried ending my life — a feat much harder than I expected. Journeying through the vacuum of space, I sort of fell into a wormhole generated by my destruction and landed in the Abyss between dimensions. I pray your realm knows not of Thanos.”

Loki shakes with what’s left unsaid, continuing when Five threads his fingers between the god’s and squeezes.

“I make no excuses, but try to understand that my people are the wild beasts in children’s stories. I believed the role of villain was mine to play. I thought I was proving my loyalty by doing what must be done but one person dared not do. Thankfully, my dear brother intervened… What I mean to say is that I apologise for what I made you relive. I was trying to determine your identity, and that’s where we ended up.”

Somewhere in the middle of Loki’s confession, the beating slows and then stops.

“Who are you?” She squints.

“Until my apprehension by a totalitarian temporal authority akin to the Commission, and mis-adventuring my way into your universe, I was Loki, Prince of Asgard, Friggason, rightful heir of Jotunheim, and God of Mischief. I’m not sure if this universe has a Loki variant. Hopefully not. Most of the variants I’ve met are overly sensitive, tiresome assholes not to be trusted. Please, just call me Loki.” He finishes with a subtle smile and a slight bow.

With open eyes and a hoarse voice, Lila declares, “Wow! That’s completely bonkers yet actually explains a lot… Can you do that mindmeldy thing again, but with me mum while I tag along?”

“Certainly, but first, let me fix your hands.”

Chapter Text

Five did not envision the hunt ending this way.

He’s on the verge of getting his butt dragged through the mud by a skywalking Brit with cutting wit when they both stop to stare. Loki has frozen countless people and is fast approaching. He moves with grace and precision, his every movement a deadly dance as he dodges and blasts. Loki has never looked more deified than with his gorgeous shade of blue, ruby eyes, raised markings, and pointed teeth. Five shivers, a smile forming at the sight.

Then, instead of continuing the fight, Loki presses a few fingers to the woman’s forehead. Suddenly she’s crying and screaming while hitting his chest. Bones are breaking, yet she doesn’t cease until Loki bares his own wounds. Lila’s one of the other 36 and, to Five’s surprise (as well as Klaus’ boon), she would have had a happier childhood if she’d grown up in the Umbrella Academy. He lost the bet from their eighth birthday.

Shortly thereafter, Loki snatches a nightmarish hag’s briefcase and ties her up as another Loki grabs Diego’s knife and transfigures the mucky cocksplat into a caged rat. Having secured the absurd case, and entrusting everything else to Five, Loki conducts a three-way mindmeld. A lot of cross words flow from their new comrade while The Handler spouts manipulative bullshit. It gives him Dad flashbacks. The scene ends with Lila shooting the crone dead and then letting him test out Hitler’s actual gun. He wishes the weapon were his, but finders keepers. It’s likely willed to her anyhow.

Lila’s alright when she’s not kicking my ass.

As they walk through the freshly sewn chaos, Five shakes the rodent’s cage and asks, “Why were you protecting this ugly fuckface?”

“I’m light on the details, but one of his descendants is supposed to be the Herald of the Apocalypse — Harold’s the knobber who manipulates your sister into destroying the moon in 2019.”

Five drops the cage. Falling to his knees, his vision blurs as Loki’s grounding arms envelope him. Tears roll down his cheeks. Meanwhile, Lila blurts, “Ompf, sorry! Me mum, erm, The Handler raised me at the Commission, and I don’t know how to get on properly. Even my first date was a target.”

Five waves a hand before saying, “It’s okay. My upbringing has also stunted me.” He then uses the sleeve to wipe his face. “How could Allison destroy the moon? I found her body in our home, and the post-Apocalypse didn’t have a nuclear winter vibe. I wouldn’t have survived the radiation.”

Just as she’s about to answer, Lila sits cross-legged, tilts her head, and asks, “What do you mean by ‘the post-Apocalypse?’ You disappeared from the Commission’s radar in 2003, reappearing when the rat king began his creepy fascination with ya. Although, I suppose that explains the fake,” she clicks her tongue, “viddy ball that’s shown up. We, uh, they assumed you’d lost one of your marbles.”

“Heh, they’re not wrong. Travelling into the future is more intuitive to me than going the other way. Or at least it used to be.” Five sighs. “I spent over a quarter century raiding crumbling and mould-ridden libraries in search of a way back to the Academy. My miscalculations left me with a pubescent body in a region of the world without paper.”

“That’s horrible. Wait, does that mean that you (vis-à-vis I) can age regress and live forever? Like Doctor Who but you keep your original kisser and can otherwise die, obviously,” Lila asks wide-eyed. “Nevermind. It’s a question for another day and chapter. Number Seven can manipulate sound and energy, but emotion influences ‘er control. She accidentally killed a slew of nannies before your dad made you guys a robot mum, drugged Seven, and had Three rumour the lot of ya into forgetting.”

“That, that, that sounds a lot like something he would do. Fucking Reggie!” stammers Five as he realises the warped logic is solid. A short distance away, a bright flash precedes a tiny man waving a white flag and a lightly freckled black woman with a tall stack of papers. They’re dressed for an afternoon stroll through 1955 rather than a battlefield.

“Who the hell are they?” Five huffs while he and Loki stand, bracing themselves for another round of fighting.

“Oh, they’re harmless bureaucrats.” Lila scoffs. She disappears, reappearing moments later holding one aloft by the scruff of his shirt. Five has questions for the peculiar woman and her strangely similar powers, but they can wait. The situation is just getting good.

“All right, sweaty gerbil man. Tell us why you’re here or I’ll staple your colon to your nose and let you die on your own farts.”

The man flails about. “That’s… so… vivid. Please, we’re on your side,” he pleads.

“Go on and tell them, Herb.”

“Due to the recent supervisor vacancy in Case Management, I’ve been promoted.”

“Congrats,” Lila deadpans.

“Oh, I’m so goddamn nervous… could you put me down?”

Once on his feet, the pale pencil-pusher holds out his palm to the scowling warrior. “Happy to make your acquaintance, Number Five, uh, Mr Hargreeves. You’re kind of a celebrity in our office.”

Some awkward silence later, keeping two very lucky limbs at his sides, Herb babbles, “Anyway, we’d love a truce now that I’m authorised to do so. The Commission was created to prevent devastation beyond our comprehension, unfortunately at the cost of our planet, but it seems Five’s deviation has created the perfect opportunity to save the Earth and the universe.”

His associate wiggles in giddy anticipation.

“Thanks for that, by the way; we’re forever in your debt. What are the chances, eh? Dot can finally take a vacation. All we ask is that you return to a time and place after Sir Reginald Hargreeves’ death. His funeral, for example. Your father orchestrated his own suicide in order to reunite the team — to, to, uh, stop the world’s destruction. We’ve never figured out how he knew it was coming. It’s fitting, in a way.”

The spectacled man clears his throat.

“As a gesture of goodwill, we’ve brought all the information we have on Number Seven’s abilities and the Apocalypse.” Dot hands Loki an armload of files, which he promptly disappears into his dimensional pocket. “Also, if you don’t annihilate us, we agree to maintain the timeline in a more humane manner; much less murder and no more psychopath enabling. A stance I’ve always advocated. You’ve slain most of our temporal assassins, anyway. Heh.”

Lila sneers at the pair. “And no more child abduction, or else.”

“Woah, The Handler did that of her own accord. But, yes. Of course. So, is it a deal?”

Five’s stomach drops at the thought of losing Ben again, even if his brother would give his life in a heartbeat. It’s of some relief knowing Loki will help his siblings with their powers while they study the TemPad and prepare for the Multiversal Wars. A family séance has some perks.

As Five shifts his focus outward, he asks, “Do you think we should trust them?”

Lila shrugs. “I reckon we can try it out with some assurances.”

Five lifts an eyebrow in Loki’s direction.

“It’s barely been a week since I toppled my last regime and broke the Multiverse.” The desk jockeys squeak in unison while Lila seems to revel in the idea, or possibly their discomfort. “I’d prefer the less cataclysmic route today, if you agree it’s warranted.”

Five draws out the stillness until the tension is heavy in the air.

“It’s a deal. Except we’re taking some time machines, Angrboda is coming, and I want every piece of data you have on our family. That includes all four of us. If we ever see any of your people again, we’ll be paying each and every one of you a visit to remember for your rapidly dwindling lives.” With further contemplation he sneers, “Add whatever the fuck explains your organisation’s mission, structure, and founding. I’ll be in touch if we think of anything else, in-person unless you provide another method.”

“Wonderful! Feel free to take your pick. We’ll even include the instruction booklet,” Herb chuckles while motioning to the melting ice, bodies, and briefcases littering the bloodied field. “Dot and I will return with the materials in an hour.”

Five replies, “Sure, but Lila is going with you. She’ll stab first and ask questions later if she thinks you’re holding out on us.” The woman sprouts a sinister grin at the comment, winking at the anxious couple as they depart in a blink. Five likes her moxie.

“What do you want to do with him?” Five asks Angrboda not long after. “He’s hurt you most of all.” Pausing for a moment, the generous woman kneels and opens the enclosure.

“May the vermin be plagued by undreamt terrors.”

Chapter Text

Mastering hands-free time travel is like trying to walk, swim, and breathe underwater simultaneously. Seconds turn into minutes, hours, days, years, decades, and so on and so forth, forming a möbius strip in a network of choices leading to conception, beyond, then back again. Everyone but Klaus calls it looping. Five grasps the skill set with Loki by his side. The god eases his fear, slash recurring nightmare, of miscalculating and ending up at the beginning of the post-Apocalypse without powers. Clutching a broken briefcase, able to fit into his uniform and drowning in a crisp, black, soon-to-be funeral suit. He will survive finding their bodies again, but not digging his own grave beside them.

Five makes a habit not to rank what was second worst on the wasteland’s bottomless list of terrible things. The weather is unpredictable; there are no seasons; and the topography shifts with the tides. The fires last forever and relight without warning. Earthquakes are common; clean water is scarce. He has little followed by no first-aid supplies. Hunger. Arthritis. He’s alone until he isn’t, even though he really is. He never works hard enough, and his alcoholism makes it that much harder. Reginald might as well be whispering, “I told you so, Number Five,” yet he would give anything to hear the old man’s voice. Any voice. One voice in particular. A life bordering on death is the norm. Mirrors are near impossible to come by and break easily. Itchy beards. Chapped lips. Charred bones. Grit. Rust. The fucked up sounding wind. No wind. Muted colours that only get duller. There’s not enough light in the day. The thoughts race on and on.

Luckily, Loki’s gifts can pull him out of it and, thankfully, his siblings don’t remain 29 for long. Klaus resets to the only time they completed rehab without relapsing. It's one of their proudest moments, and they wanted to see how hot they’d get without the drugs, among other reasons. Allison is always at her most beautiful, Lila, Diego, and Luther at their fittest, whereas Viktor hasn’t asked. Five dials back to the end of his time with Aodh and enjoys ageing in comfort. Loki’s the common thread mending their torn family, most of whom live at the former Academy. No longer Sir Reginald Hargreeves’ stuffy residence, they remodel the mansion to suit their eccentricities. Five’s mental health improves, everyone’s does.

They track down the other 35, but their cohort skews volatile and only 13 live to hear Loki’s offer of assistance. Sloane, a certified genius able to manipulate gravity, marries Luther. They’re perfect together, but it’s best to avoid them unless you wish to witness gushing kissy-faces or baby talk. Diego and Lila scramble their DNA. Stan’s spectacularly ordinary and by far the strangest Hargreeves. Dear little-girl-on-a-bicycle, you gotta love him; he accidentally kills Klaus a dozen times by the age of 12. The cool dead auncle jokes about it, but it’s worrying in a number of ways. Plus, the house wouldn’t be complete without little Grace or Coco monkeying about. It’s funny watching Diego and Lila raise kids and, as far as Five can tell, they’re great parents.

Allison and Patrick live in Los Angeles, whereas Claire is a doctoral student at the University of California at Berkeley. The couple reconcile once their troubled sister works through her issues. They visit often since a trip to the city is just a phone call away. Ceasing Dad’s pills and being around Loki in a supportive environment allows Viktor to see his true self with pride. He lives with his partner nearby.

Five and Klaus are inseparable, in their own way. Wasting no time, the pair drip flirtation in the morning, have their first tango with drinks that afternoon, and are ripping each other’s clothes off by nightfall. Five shows his saviour how he feels, and Loki eventually accepts he wears blue as divinely as he does green. The triad introduces the world to the term throuple. Meanwhile, women can’t keep their hands off the famously dead Hargreeves.

Understandably, it takes a while for Angrboda to acclimatise. Having never had a life of her own, or adequate nutrition, Boda takes the chance to live a childhood. Well, as much as anyone can have a typical childhood in the Institute for Snarky Delinquents. She teaches Stan and the twins how to swing an axe. Pogo, always youthful, learns to tattoo. He then opens a parlour specialising in repurposing Umbrella pieces. Mom passes the Turing test and earns recognition as the originator of a new artistic movement. News of the would-have-been Apocalypse and the Commission stay family secrets. Nonetheless, a cult of Loki forms almost immediately. Who could blame them? He still blushes if someone mentions it. 

Although the fateful funeral happened 20 years ago today, it’s difficult to say if they understand anything about the TemPad since there’s no safe way to test their limitless theories. The Norns will provide, or they won’t, and they cause enough chaos to fill the days without it. More often than not, they train for the Multiversal battles ahead of them. Recharging and treating injuries become a cinch between Loki’s sorcery and Five’s rewinding. They’re the strongest they’ve ever been. The United Nations declares March 24 a holiday after they intervene in natural disasters on seven continents. Despite all the fuss, the team prefers to spend their leisure time chilling at home. They adopt a cat and name her Sylvie. Five tries every flavour of coffee, eats at Griddy’s on the regular, gets fucked up beyond all recognition while singing karaoke, and helps a guy leave the Commission. Hazel elopes with his favourite server, Agnes, soon after. The inaugural class meets their birth mothers and visits a giant ball of twine. Then, when they’ve all gathered for a family dinner, the fabric of reality slides away.

A drably dressed, moustachioed man with salt and pepper hair walks through the passage, and faces Loki with a wide grin.

“Hey, there you are, pussycat. I’ve been looking all over for ya.” Surveying the room, he continues in a comforting twang, “I see here you’ve had kittens since our last chat.”

It’s Mobius.