The TVA's dressing stalls are barely that, small partitions of bronze and frosted glass, humming faintly with the same sterile energy that hums through the whole place. The light above flickers as if tired of itself.

Oridia stands just outside one of them, her back straight, hands folded neatly behind her. There's a clipboard in her hand, but she hasn't written a thing on it. The folder is just something to hold, something to do with her hands while she waits.

Inside the stall, Loki grumbles under his breath. The sound of metal buckles and fabric rustling filters out between the panels.

"These clothes are a crime," He says.

Oridia's tone is calm, patient.

"They're standard TVA issue. Practical, unassuming."

"Unassuming," He repeats, disdain curling his words, "A god in slacks. I'll be the talk of the timelines."

"You already were," She says.

There's a pause. Then a low laugh.

"Careful, Observer. That almost sounded like a compliment."

"It was an observation."

"Oh, so you do see me."

"It's my job."

Another rustle. A frustrated sigh.

"And does your job include choosing the dullest tie in existence?"

"Brown is neutral."

"Brown is sad."

She can't help the small smile that tugs at her mouth. He hears it in her voice anyway.

"I assure you, it's regulation."

"I assure you, it's tragic."

He steps out of the stall.

For a moment, Oridia forgets how to stand.

He's in the slate-blue shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins at his wrists, brown trousers fitting a little too well, and the tie, poorly tied, knotted crookedly at his collar like a deliberate provocation.

He sees her reaction, the faint blink, the smallest pause, and grins.

"Well?" He says, spreading his arms slightly, "Do I look like one of your little TVA drones yet?"

"You look like you dressed yourself without supervision," She says evenly.

"Ah, but you noticed," He adjusts the tie, making it worse on purpose, "Perhaps you'd prefer to fix it. Since you're the honest type."

"You're incorrigible."

"And you're blushing."

Her lips press together in a faint, betrayed smile.

Before she can retort, a high-pitched drawl chirps through the air:

"Well, aren't you two some cutie patooties!"

Both turn.
Miss Minutes flickers into existence beside them, all orange glow and cartoon grin, bouncing like she's powered by sheer saccharine.

Loki arches an eyebrow.

"Good heavens, what is that?"

"That," Oridia says through gritted teeth, "is Miss Minutes."

"Hiya, sugar!" Miss Minutes waves her little clock-hand, "Say, you two sure make a handsome pair. Observer and Variant! My stars, I--"

"Goodbye, Miss Minutes," Oridia says firmly, waving her hand through the hologram.

"Aww, don't be like that, I was just--"

"Goodbye."

With an indignant poof, Miss Minutes vanishes.

Loki smirks.

"You don't like her."

"I tolerate her."

"That was not tolerance. That was execution."

"Semantics."

"The truth, then," He teases, stepping closer, voice low,"You despise her."

"She's... chirpy."

"You mean unbearable."

"If you say so."

"You're incapable of lying. So I'll take that as confirmation."

Her eyes flick up to his, a warning there.

"You enjoy being difficult."

"I enjoy being me."

"That explains a great deal."

She turns sharply and starts walking.

"Come on. Mobius wants you at his desk."

The walk is long, longer than it needs to be. The TVA seems designed to stretch time thin: corridors of endless bronze and gold light, elevators that hum without moving, the faint buzz of machinery like a heartbeat under the floor.

Oridia leads the way, posture straight, the rhythm of her boots a steady metronome. Loki walks beside her rather than behind, his stride easy, lazy, hands in his pockets.

"So," He says, "you're my keeper now?"

"Temporarily. Mobius has... meetings."

"And you volunteered?"

"I was assigned."

"A pity. I'd hoped it was personal."

"You hope for many things."

"You noticed again."

She exhales softly through her nose, a sound that almost passes for laughter.
He grins wider.

"You know," He says, tone casual, "you intrigue me, Oridia Orion."

"That sounds dangerous."

"It is," He admits, "for both of us."

They walk in silence for a beat. The corridor seems endless, filled with the hum of temporal energy and the echo of their footfalls. The light glances off his hair, the blue of his shirt, the bronze of the walls, a strange harmony of color.

"Why can't you lie?" He asks suddenly.

"Because I was made this way."

"Made?" His brows lift, "By whom?"

"The universe," She says without hesitation, "I was... chosen. By the Time Keepers."

"Chosen to do what?"

"To speak truth."

"And what happens if you don't?"

She hesitates for just a fraction of a second, too long for him to miss.

"It isn't possible."

"Everything's possible."

"Not this."

"You sound sure."

"I am."

"So if I asked you..." His voice dips, low, testing, "If you found me attractive... you couldn't lie."

Her pace doesn't falter, but he sees it, the faintest shift of breath, the tightening of her jaw.

"That's an inappropriate question."

"Not an answer."

"It doesn't require one."

"Ah, but if you say no, I'll know it's true. And if you say nothing," He leans closer as they walk, voice a whisper at her ear, "Then I'll know the truth I want."

Her steps slow.
Her lips part, just slightly, she's ready to deflect, to twist the truth into safety like she always does. But something about his tone, about the nearness of him, trips her.

"You're not unattractive," She says before she can stop herself.

He stops walking, grin spreading slow and triumphant.

"So I am attractive."

"That's not what I said."

"That's what you meant."

"You're twisting my words."

"I'm clarifying them."

She exhales, sharp but amused.

"You're impossible."

"And yet, you're still walking beside me."

"I don't have a choice."

"You always have a choice."

Her silence after that is telling.

They reach a junction, walls splitting off into three different hallways. She pauses, taps a panel on the wall to check directions. He watches her fingers move, her focus precise, professional, and utterly magnetic.

He loosens his tie further, then tugs it all the way off, feigning irritation.

"What are you doing?" She asks without looking up.

"This tie is choking me."

"Because you tied it wrong."

"Ah," He says innocently, "did I?"

"Yes."

"Then perhaps you should fix it."

She looks up at him, expression cool.

"You're perfectly capable."

"I prefer when you do it."

For a second, neither moves. The air thickens. Then, with a sigh that's half-exasperation, half-surrender, she steps closer.

He holds still. Doesn't smirk. Doesn't move. Just watches.

She takes the tie from his hands, smooths the fabric once, then slides it around his collar. Her fingers brush his throat as she adjusts it, light, practiced, impersonal... except it isn't. The skin beneath her touch warms instantly. His breath shortens.

"Hold still," She murmurs.

"Always," He says softly.

"You're talking again."

"Can't help it."

Her fingers tug the knot tighter, centering it. The movement brings her close enough that he can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the faint curve of her lips as she focuses. For a heartbeat, he forgets to breathe.

She finishes the knot, smooths the collar flat, then steps back.

"There," She says, "Better."

"Perfect," He says, eyes still on her.

She clears her throat.

He glances past her, sees the wide-open floor filled with TVA agents and endless paperwork. The world is still turning, still absurdly bureaucratic. And yet, somehow, all he can see is her.

He falls into step beside her again, quieter now.

"You know," He says at last, "I've met a lot of liars."

"Congratulations."

"But I've never met the truth."

"You're flattering me."

"No," He says, voice softer, "I'm just observing."

She glances at him sidelong, a small smile betraying her.

They reach Mobius's desk. Mobius isn't there yet, piles of case files and a half-eaten donut mark his territory. Oridia stops, turns to face Loki, her hands folding neatly again.

"Wait here," She says, "He'll be back shortly."

"You'll leave me alone? After all this bonding?"

"You'll survive."

"Will I?"

Her lips twitch, "I'm fairly certain."

"You'd know."

"I would."

For a second, it feels like the conversation might keep looping forever, truth and teasing chasing each other in circles. But then Mobius appears at the end of the corridor, waving a file in the air and calling Loki's name.

Oridia steps back.

"Play nice," She says quietly.

"Only if you promise to watch," He murmurs.

"Always."

Their eyes hold, just for a second longer than appropriate. Then she turns and walks away, the hem of her trousers brushing the floor, hair swaying softly at her shoulders.

Loki watches her go, the faintest, reluctant smile tugging at his mouth.

And somewhere, buried deep beneath his ribcage, something glows, an ache, a pull, a truth he doesn't yet have words for.

—

Loki lounges in the chair at Mobius's desk, the Sacred Handbook spread open on his knees. The pages are stiff, the print so small it feels like punishment. He's been reading it aloud to himself in mocking tones.

"The Time-Keepers... dictate the proper flow of time... maintaining the Sacred Timeline..."

"Utter drivel," He mutters, flipping a page, "Written by cowards to keep order."

Across the aisle, Oridia sits at a narrow desk, half-watching him, half-pretending to catalogue case files. She already knows the script, word for word, but she still listens, studying how his inflection changes: disdain here, fascination there. He's learning despite himself.

The projection of Miss Minutes pops onto the screen, chirping, "Let's get ready for your training!" Loki groans, throwing his head back dramatically.

By the time Mobius returns, coffee in hand, Loki is already finished with the handbook and flipping through a Jet Skis Monthly magazine he found in a drawer.

Mobius stops mid-stride.

"Training goin' well?"

"Yeah," Loki says, not looking up, "I'm an expert now. Time, destiny, sacred blah-blah, piece of cake."

"Is that my jet-ski magazine?"

Loki lowers it slowly, guilty only in theory.

"Put it down," Mobius sighs, snatching it away, "Gear up. There's been an attack. Let's go."

—

The locker room smells faintly of ozone and disinfectant. Mobius tosses Loki a dark jacket as they walk.

"Put it on."

Loki slides his arms into it, pops the collar like armor.

"Finally, something that suits me."

He's admiring himself in a glass panel when he sees her, Oridia, striding toward them, curls framing her face, the gold buckle at her waist glinting under the lights. His smirk turns wolfish before he can stop it.

"Observer," He greets, voice low, "Here to supervise me again?"

"Someone has to," She says without looking up.

"Careful. I might start to think you enjoy it."

She stops walking for half a second, long enough for his grin to widen.

Mobius clears his throat loudly.

"All right, lovebirds, enough. We've got a field job."

They join B-15 and a unit of Minutemen assembling near the time door. The gold portal shimmers, ready to open.

B-15 briefs the team, voice sharp.

"C-20 and her team went dark shortly after they jumped into the branch. All signs point to another ambush. We've grabbed enough temporal aura to know it's our Loki Variant. But which kind of Loki remains unknown."

Loki folds his arms.

"They're the lesser kind, to be clear."

B-15 eyes him.

"Let me see the back of that jacket."

He obliges, turning with exaggerated flair. The word VARIANT blazes across the back in bright orange.

"Very subtle," Loki says dryly, "Well done."

"I don't want anybody out there to forget what you are."

"Oh, your only hope of capturing a murderer?"

"No," She says flatly, "A cosmic mistake."

Mobius steps in.

"That's enough. Here's the deal. When we get out on the branch, we're not just looking for a Time Criminal. We're looking for a Loki. A variation of this guy. A type we should all be familiar with, because the TVA has pruned a lotta these guys, almost more than any other Variant. And no two are alike. Slight differences in appearances, or not so slight. Different powers, although powers generally include shape-shifting, illusion-projection, and my favorite--"

"Duplication-casting," Loki interrupts smoothly.

"Illusion-projection," Mobius corrects.

"No, they're two completely different powers."

Mobius gives him the please not now look. Loki continues anyway.

"Illusion-projection involves depicting a detailed image from outside oneself, perceptible in the external world, whereas duplication-casting entails recreating an exact facsimile of one's own body in its present circumstance, a true holographic mirror of its molecular structure."

He finishes with a flourish.

"But you already knew that."

"Okay, take a breath," Mobius says, scribbling, "Noted. We're gonna break into two teams, including myself, Observer, and Professor Loki."

"Why?"

"Because whoever this Variant is, we haven't been able to find him. So let's bring in an expert."

"That's me."

They move down the corridor toward the armory. The orange lockers slide open, revealing racks of batons and reset charges.

"Do I get a weapon?" Loki asks.

"Nah," Mobius says without slowing.

"Well, I'll have my magic back," Loki points out, "Is no one concerned about that?"

Oridia glances at him, tone calm.

"Of what?"

"Me betraying you."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you know we can catch you. And how would betraying us get you closer to the Time-Keepers?"

He perks up instantly.

"An audience with the Time-Keepers is on the table?"

"Keep that focus," Mobius says, already stepping through the time door.

The door ripples open onto dusk and dirt. The smell of hay and sweat fills the air. A banner flaps above them, and somewhere nearby, a crowd cheers to the tune of synth-medieval music.

Loki blinks.

"Aren't time criminals supposed to have taste?"

Oridia's boots crunch against the gravel as she steps out beside him. The air outside the TVA feels different, alive, vibrating with the threads of reality. She inhales sharply.

Her chest warms; stars whisper behind her eyes. For the first time in an eternity, she feels her weave, the astral lattice that connects everything true to everything real. Power hums through her fingertips like silk charged with light.

It's overwhelming. She steadies herself with a breath, but when she looks up, at him, the current shifts.

Loki stands a few feet away, bathed in the amber light of the fair's torches. And suddenly she feels him: a pulse that echoes her own frequency. Not sight, not thought, recognition.

When her gaze meets his, the world narrows.

His eyes, green, sharp, impossible, are threaded with constellations she's sure she's seen before. The weave trembles. Her truth stirs.

"Are you... all right?" He asks, half-teasing, half-concerned.

She blinks, grounding herself.

"Fine."

"You're staring."

"Observing."

"Same difference."

Before she can answer, Mobius calls from ahead.

"You two comin'? Let's move."

The thread between them hums once more, faint and unresolved, as she follows.

They enter the large medieval tent. Torches flicker along the poles; shadows of the fallen Minutemen stretch across the ground.

B-15 steps forward.

"So he's taking hostages now?"

"The Variant's never taken a hostage before," Mobius says, scanning the scene.

"Maybe he's upping his game. A Loki couldn't have gotten the jump on C-20."

Loki crouches near a scorch mark, fingers brushing the dirt.

"I think you underestimate, actually..."

B-15 rolls her eyes.

"Fan out and search for her. And hurry up, we're at three units until red line."

Loki stands, eyes bright.

"Wait. If you leave this tent, you'll end up like them."

Oridia narrows her gaze. She sees straight through him, his pulse steady, his aura flickering in the weave. He's improvising. Lying. And yet she can't fully anchor herself; her powers flood her senses, distorting the edges of truth and untruth.

Mobius looks up.

"What do you see?"

Loki turns, half-smiling.

"I see a scheme, and in that scheme, I see myself."

He begins to pace, hands gesturing theatrically.

"We have a saying in Asgard: 'Where there are wolf's ears, wolf's teeth are near.' It means to be aware of your surroundings. Which is absurd, because my people are, by nature, gullible fools. A trait that I, the God of Mischief, exploited time and time again simply by listening. My teeth were sharp, but my ears even sharper."

B-15 cuts in.

"We're running out of time, Mobius."

"Hold it," Mobius says, "Just give him a chance."

Loki's voice softens, persuasive.

"You remind me of them. The Time Variance Authority and the gods of Asgard, one and the same. Drunk with power, blinded to the truth. Those you underestimate will devour you. You underestimate me, just as you underestimate this lesser Loki. Which is why you walk into one wolf's mouth after another."

B-15 snaps, "Two units. He is wasting our time."

Mobius:

"Okay, come on, Loki, make a long story short."

"We need to look for C-20," B-15 presses.

"That's exactly what the Variant wants you to do," Loki counters smoothly, "It's a trap. He's waiting for you outside this tent."

A Minuteman calls,

"Should I secure the reset charges?"

"No," Loki says quickly, "He wants me. I'm the key to his plan. He knows that I'm stronger."

"Almost one unit," B-15 warns.

Loki steps closer to Mobius, voice dropping to silk.

"And he rightly believes that together we can overthrow and rule the TVA. But that's not what I want. I have a new purpose. I'm a servant of the Sacred Timeline. And knowing what I now know about his tactics, I can deliver you the Variant. But I need assurances, assurances that I won't be completely disintegrated the moment the job has been done. We'll need to speak to the Time-Keepers at once. They're in graver danger than we realized."

The tent falls silent.

Mobius studies him for a long moment, then looks at Oridia.

She's standing perfectly still, but her hands... her fingers are red at the cuticles, the skin torn from where she's been picking. It's the only tell she has. The weave inside her sings lie, lie, lie, but her nerves are overloaded, buzzing with too many signals, too much of him.

Mobius exhales.

"He's lying. Just playing games. There's no one out there."

B-15 lifts her baton.

"Reset the timeline."

Mobius turns to Loki.

"You had me for a second. My ears are sharp too."

Loki's mouth tightens, caught.

The reset charge hums to life, white light spilling through the tent. The branch collapses, the moment erased.

But Oridia keeps staring at him even as the light floods in.
Something in her, something older than the TVA, older than time, knows that the truth and the lie are tangled here, in him.

And when the light fades, when the world snaps back to orange and order, that feeling doesn't leave her.

The weave still hums with his name.

Loki.

—

Two figures stand on opposite sides of the corridor of Judge Renslayer's office, backs to the walls, facing each other in the amber half-light.

Loki twirls a pen he's stolen from someone's desk, spinning it between his fingers. Oridia watches the motion, though she pretends not to.

They've been waiting for several minutes now, Mobius is still inside with Renslayer, the muffled sound of their conversation echoing through the door.

Loki looks irritatingly at ease. One ankle crosses over the other, jacket unbuttoned, tie slightly loosened from earlier. He taps the pen against the metal wall with a rhythm too deliberate to be idle.

Oridia keeps her eyes trained on the opposite wall, but every few seconds her gaze drifts back to him. Without her powers, without the weave humming beneath her skin, she feels strangely untethered. Empty, almost. But there's still something about him that pulls at her anyway, some instinctual gravity that isn't cosmic at all, but human.

He notices her staring before she notices she's doing it.

"Careful, you'll wear a hole through me," He says softly, without looking up.

"I wasn't staring," She says.

"You were," He replies, tilting his head, "Not that I mind."

"I was," She stops herself, clears her throat, "Observing."

"Hm. I must be quite the study."

"You're... something."

He grins at that.

"You're off your game, Observer. Usually, your words cut sharper."

"Perhaps you dull them."

"Or perhaps you're distracted."

The pen stops twirling. His gaze meets hers.
The air between them hums, charged, wordless.

"You're staring too," She says quietly.

"I'm learning," He says, "About my keeper."

"I'm not your keeper."

"And yet, here you are, keeping me."

Her lips twitch, the ghost of a smile fighting its way through composure.
He leans forward just slightly, like gravity itself has tipped.

Before either of them can say anything else, the door opens.

Mobius steps out, closing the file he's holding. His expression is somewhere between tired and amused.

"Well, that could've gone better," He mutters, then starts down the hall.

Loki straightens, falling into step beside him, hands clasped behind his back. Oridia follows quietly behind, her expression resetting into neutrality, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

The three of them move through the TVA corridors. The hum of chronal energy is steady, the glow of the ceiling panels flickering like slow lightning. Loki's voice fills the silence.

"You're probably wondering what happened out on the mission," He says conversationally, "That was your first lesson in catching a Loki. Expect the expected. Half the fun of being a trickster is knowing everyone knows you're a trickster, and then many of your tricks come from exploiting the fact that you know that they know--"

Mobius stops walking.

"Okay, just, shut up! Please."

He turns, exasperated.

"What happened to the guy I met on the elevator? The one who didn't like to talk. Remember him? Now I'm stuck with this guy who won't stop yacking about what makes a Loki tick!"

"What?" Loki protests, "Isn't that precisely why I'm here?"

"No!" Mobius says, pointing at him, "I don't care what makes you tick. You're here to help me catch the superior version of yourself. That's it."

"Hang on," Loki says, offended, "I'm not sure superior is actually quite the right word--"

"See?" Mobius interrupts, "There it is. That insecure little need for validation. I thought that would motivate you to find the killer. Not 'cause you care about the mission, but because you know this Variant is better than you, and you can't take it."

Loki smirks faintly.

"Very nice. I mean, it's adorable that you think you could possibly manipulate me. I'm ten steps ahead of you. I've been playing a game of my own all along."

"What? Charm your way in front of the Time-Keepers, hustle them, seize control of the TVA? Am I getting warm?" Mobius asks, "A double cross by history's most reliable liar."

Loki stops walking.

"Why are you in there," He nods toward Renslayer's door, "sticking your neck out for me?"

Mobius crosses his arms.

"I'll give you two options, and you can believe whichever one you want. A, because I see a scared little boy shivering in the cold, and I feel bad for that ice runt. Or B, I just want to catch this guy, and I'll tell you whatever I need to tell you."

Loki stares at him.

"I don't need your sympathy."

"Good," Mobius says, walking again, "'Cause I'm running out of it."

Oridia falls back into step beside Loki, her hands clasped in front of her.

"He's right, you know," She says softly.

"About what?"

"You do talk too much."

"Only when the company is worth it."

"That's a terrible line."

"And yet you smiled."

She doesn't respond, which he takes as victory enough.

They enter an enormous chamber lined with rows of metallic file drawers, stretching up and out of sight. At the center of the room towers a statue of the Time-Keepers, their faces looming from the shadows like watchful gods.

Loki's eyes flick up to it, unimpressed.

"They really do love their own likenesses here."

Mobius claps him on the shoulder.

"All right, Professor Loki. I need you to go through every Variant case file we've got. Give me your unique Loki perspective. Maybe there's something we missed."

"Well," Loki says, glancing around, "You're idiots."

He turns to Oridia.

"Not you."

Then, to Mobius again.

"I suspect you missed quite a lot."

"That's why I'm lucky I got ya for a little bit longer," Mobius says, "Let me park you at this desk. Don't be afraid to really lean into this work. Here's a good trick for you: pretend your life depends on it. I'm gonna get a snack."

He starts walking away, calling over his shoulder,

"You want anything, Ori?"

"Popcorn, please," Oridia says, almost absently.

"Ori?" Loki repeats, blinking.

"Nickname," She says.

"Hm. I'll allow it."

Mobius waves a hand and disappears down the corridor.

The two of them sit facing each other across the TVA desk. The light from above pools softly across the scattered case files, thin manila folders stamped with the TVA seal. The hum of the air vents is the only sound for several minutes.

Loki flips through the first file lazily. Oridia, trying to focus, reviews another. But her eyes keep wandering, to his hands, his posture, the way his lips purse when he concentrates. Without her powers, she can't feel the weave, can't sense truth from lie, but her human instincts are louder than ever.

He looks up once and catches her.

"You're staring again."

"You're probably imagining things."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I can't lie."

"Even worse."

She huffs a quiet breath that's almost laughter. He leans back in his chair, stretching lazily.

"You know, it's odd," He muses, "You spend your existence surrounded by lies, an entire organization built on them, and yet you're incapable of telling one yourself."

"That's why I was chosen."

"Or cursed."

"That's a matter of perspective."

"Mine's usually the interesting one."

"Arrogant as ever."

"Consistent, then."

She rolls her eyes and turns another page. The silence that follows feels heavier now, comfortable but taut.

He stops on one file, his expression shifting.

"What's this?"

He flips it open. The label reads: Asgard. Zero Survivors. Total Planetary Destruction. No Variance Detected.

The words hit him like a slow echo. He stares at them too long, thumb trembling on the edge of the page.

Oridia looks up.

"Loki?"

He doesn't answer at first. Then, quietly:

"No variance detected..."

He turns another page, faster now, eyes scanning lines of data. Something in his mind clicks, gears shifting. He sees the pattern. Destruction without deviation. Death without consequence.

"Of course," He whispers, "Of course."

He's already gathering the files into his arms.

Oridia rises slightly, startled.

"What are you doing?"

"Finding Mobius," He says, halfway to the door, "I've figured it out."

"Figured what out?"

"Where our Variant is hiding. In the one place no one would ever think to look, the end of everything."

He stops, glancing back at her. She's still seated, the files spread around her like golden leaves.

"Aren't you coming?" He asks.

She hesitates, heart beating too fast.

"I'll catch up," She says, voice soft.

He smirks, eyes glinting.

"Suit yourself, darling."

And then he's gone, his long strides echoing through the corridor, papers tucked under his arm like trophies.

Oridia stays seated for a long moment, staring after him. Her pulse is a strange rhythm, something she can't quite name. Her fingers hover over the file he left behind, the one with her own absence.

—

The TVA cafeteria glows a sterile green, the color of tired mint and old bureaucracy. Rows of plastic tables line the room, all identical, all humming faintly under the overhead lights. The food here is never hot, never cold, just perfectly neutral, like everything else in this place.

Mobius sits across from Loki at one of the small green tables. Loki lounges in his chair, one arm stretched over the backrest, jacket half-unbuttoned. The time collar is gone, but the smugness remains. He's been talking for several minutes, though Mobius has long since stopped pretending to listen.

Finally, Loki leans forward, elbows on the table, voice lowering with a curious sharpness.

"Tell me about Oridia."

Mobius blinks.

"Oridia?"

"Yes. Your Observer. She's not like the rest of you."

Mobius chuckles.

"You notice that, huh?"

"Hard not to. The others move like clockwork. She moves like she remembers what it's like to be alive."

Mobius takes a sip of his coffee, eyeing him.

"You got quite the poetic streak for a guy who strangled someone with a snake once."

"I have layers."

"Yeah, sure you do. All right, since you're so curious, she's... special."

"Special," Loki repeats, tasting the word, "Define it."

Mobius leans back, twirling his coffee cup.

"She's the only one in the TVA who wasn't made by the Time Keepers."

That catches Loki off guard.

"Wasn't made?"

"Nope. The rest of us, we're TVA stock. Born of order. But her? She came from somewhere else. She existed before the TVA found her."

Loki's brow furrows.

"Before?"

Mobius nods.

"They say she was an Astral Weaver. Some kind of cosmic being. She could see the threads of existence, connect realities, shape truth itself. She was drawn to anomalies the way moths are drawn to flame. Maybe that's why the Time Keepers noticed her."

"And they brought her here," Loki says quietly.

"More like took her. Gave her a title, gave her purpose. The Observer."

"Why?"

Mobius shrugs.

"That's above my pay grade. Time Keepers wanted her here, she's here. I don't ask why."

Loki studies him, unimpressed.

"But you want to."

"Sure," Mobius admits, "But wanting and asking are two different things. Around here, the second one'll get you pruned."

He chuckles lightly, but the air shifts. Loki's mind, however, is a maelstrom.

The Astral Weaver.
Truth made flesh.
Chosen, no, taken.

And yet, when he thinks of her, of the way she looked at him in Wisconsin, that second of quiet recognition, something hums in his chest. A memory that isn't his. A feeling that shouldn't exist.

—

The sound of boots echoes down the corridor: rhythmic, metallic, alive. Loki and Mobius walk side by side, heading toward the armory's massive bronze doors. The air smells faintly of ozone and machine oil.

"All right. Alabama, 2050. Roxxcart superstore. Natural disaster, Category Eight hurricane. That's our next stop."

Loki hums thoughtfully.

"Ah, yes. Nothing says adventure like shopping and annihilation."

Before Mobius can retort, a voice calls from behind them.

"Mobius!"

They both turn. Oridia is striding toward them, her curls bouncing lightly with each step, expression caught somewhere between irritation and disbelief. The sleeves of her cream blouse are rolled neatly to her elbows, and her belt buckle catches the light as she walks.

Loki's face lights up instantly.

"Where in the Nine Realms have you been?"

"I told you I would catch up," She says, brushing past him to fall into step, "When are we going?"

Mobius hesitates, then clears his throat.

"We are going to Alabama, 2050. You are staying put."

She stops walking.

"What? Mobius--"

He turns, holding up a hand.

"Argue with the Time Keepers, Ori."

"The Time Keepers don't want me to go? Says who?"

"Renslayer," He says simply, already turning back toward his locker, "Take it up with her."

He walks off, leaving the two of them in the corridor.

For a long moment, there's only the hum of the fluorescent lights between them.

Oridia stares at the bronze floor, lips pressed tight, thinking. She looks... unsettled. Loki tilts his head, studying her.

"You seem dubious."

"I've never... They've never stopped me before."

Loki steps closer, hands clasped behind his back. His smile is all charm, but his eyes are sharp.

"Perhaps it's for the best. Perhaps the almighty space lizards foresee danger to you. We could never even think about putting you in harm's way, dear Observer."

She squints at him.

"You mock what you don't understand."

"And you defend what doesn't deserve it."

Her eyes flash, but she says nothing. Instead, she folds her arms and leans against the wall. Loki mirrors her on the opposite side of the corridor. They stand facing each other again, just as they did outside Renslayer's office, but the silence now feels heavier, more intimate.

He studies her for a beat too long.

"So," He says at last, "you're really staying behind?"

"Apparently so."

"You don't strike me as the obedient type."

"You don't strike me as the helpful type."

"Touché."

She exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the time door at the end of the hall.

"Be careful out there."

"Worried about me, are you?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I can't help it," He says, grin half-hearted now, "It's second nature."

For a moment, he almost says something else, something softer, but Mobius calls from the armory, breaking the spell.

"Let's go, Loki!"

Loki straightens, adjusting his jacket. He starts to walk backward toward the time door, eyes never leaving hers.

"Try not to miss me too much, darling."

"I'll try," She says, though her voice catches ever so slightly.

The time door flares to life, bright orange light spilling across the walls. Loki steps through without looking away, and for a split second before the portal closes, Oridia sees it again: that same pull in her chest, that invisible thread humming faintly between them.

Then the door seals, and she's alone in the corridor.

She stays there for a long time after they're gone, hands folded neatly in front of her, jaw tight, heart louder than it should be.

For the first time since she's been in the TVA, she feels the tiniest, traitorous spark of something she doesn't have a word for.

Something dangerously close to doubt.

—

Now, the Mission Control Center is quiet.

Too quiet.

Oridia sits alone at the central console, a sea of monitors before her, each one flickering between surveillance feeds from Alabama, 2050. The monitors display aisles of the Roxxcart superstore: fluorescent lights flickering over abandoned shopping carts, overturned shelves, the wet gleam of puddles from the oncoming hurricane.

She's not supposed to be here.
She's supposed to be in her quarters, reviewing variant reports.
But something, something deep and wordless, had kept her from leaving.

Now she watches. She listens.

B-15 leads the group down a corridor, her baton raised. Loki trails behind, his new jacket soaked, curls plastered to his forehead. His smirk, even in the chaos, is intact.

The hurricane winds rattle the building. The fluorescent lights pulse like heartbeats.

Oridia leans closer to the screens. Her reflection is faint in the glass, eyes wide, lips pressed tight.

Mobius's voice filters through the comm feed.

"All right, team, stay sharp. Loki, try not to--"

"Do anything heroic?" Loki replies, the faint smile audible in his tone.

"That'd be a start."

The audio fuzzes. Rain lashes against the camera housings. Static ripples down the screens, but the feeds stabilize again.

Loki splits off from the group, stepping down a darker aisle, fluorescent lights flickering over his shoulders.

Oridia exhales slowly, fingers tapping against the control desk.

"Don't wander," She mutters under her breath, "You never listen."

She can't help it, her eyes track him on every camera. The sway of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the way his expression sharpens when he's alone. It's like watching a flame trying to outsmart the wind.

Then something moves. A figure in a hood. Just for a second. Then gone.

"Mobius," Oridia says into the comms, instinct overriding protocol, "There's movement by the north aisle."

No response.

She tries again.

"Mobius, can you hear me?"

Nothing.

One by one, the feeds begin to flicker.

She presses keys, trying to patch the signal. Her voice rises slightly, panic edging in.

"Come on, come on..."

The last feed stabilizes. Loki's there.

He's breathing hard, crouched slightly. The picture shakes from the thunder outside.

Then she hears him.

"What do you want from me?" Loki grunts. His voice cracks, not fear, but confusion, "What is this about?"

A pause. Then a chuckle, low, male, mocking.

"Brace yourself, Loki."

And then--

static.

Oridia's hand freezes over the console.

The next voice isn't a man's. It's a woman's.

"This isn't about you."

The sound of her voice cuts through the static like a blade through silk. Smooth, confident, and something else, familiar.

Something hits Oridia in the chest, sharp and electric.

Her breath stutters.

For the briefest instant, she feels it again, the hum she'd lost, the celestial thrum beneath her skin. The weave. The truth.

And tangled in it, the same frequency she felt around Loki, only now it's multiplied. Different tone, same chord. Recognition. Resonance.

It feels like the air is folding in on itself, whispering something she doesn't understand.

She tries to breathe, but her lungs feel heavy. Her pulse pounds in her temples.

That voice.
That woman.

The screen flashes white, then black.
All feeds, offline.

Oridia stands slowly, her chair scraping the floor. Her reflection stares back from the dark glass of the monitors: wide eyes, trembling fingers.

She presses the comm again.

"Mobius? B-15? Come in."

Silence.

She tries another channel.

"Loki? Loki, respond."

Static.

Her throat tightens. She knows what the handbook says, Observers do not intervene in field operations without Time-Keeper authorization. But the words feel hollow now, meaningless.

She looks around the empty control room, rows of abandoned chairs, empty screens glowing with their sterile orange borders. It's just her.

Her heart beats louder than the hum of the machines.

Something inside her snaps.

She grabs her coat from the back of her chair.

She doesn't think, she moves.

She exits the control center at a near-run, boots echoing against the bronze floors. Down the corridor, a Minuteman rounds the corner, holding a tempad.

"You!" Oridia calls.

The agent stops, "Ma'am?"

"Your tempad. Give it to me."

"Uh, I can't, ma'am, it's--"

She doesn't wait for him to finish. Her hand darts out, snatching it clean from his grasp. The man blinks, startled, he doesn't even move to stop her.

Her steps quicken. She's moving on instinct now. Logic, procedure, reason, none of it applies. There's only the pulse in her chest and the ghost of two voices overlapping in her head.

She punches in the coordinates from the mission docket. Alabama, 2050. Roxxcart Superstore.

The time door opens with a low, resonant hum.

Amber light spills across the corridor, painting her face in gold and shadow. She hesitates for half a heartbeat, just long enough for doubt to whisper: This is disobedience. This is madness.

But the hum beneath her skin, the cosmic thread that's never wrong, tells her it's truth.

So she steps through.

2050. Alabama. Roxxcart Superstore.

The air hits her like a wall, thick, wet, electric with the coming storm. The lights flicker, reflecting off slick tile floors and shattered glass. Wind moans through broken doors.

Oridia's boots splash through puddles as she runs down the aisles, calling softly,

"Loki? Mobius?"

Nothing. Only the low rumble of thunder and the whine of failing generators.

She finds a half-burned sign that reads ELECTRONICS →, half-hanging from the ceiling. The static hum from a still-running monitor fills the space, buzzing like a heartbeat.

Then she sees it.

A time door, still open.

The orange light glows against the gray-blue storm.

And Loki, she catches a glimpse of him, stepping through it.

"Loki!" She calls out instinctively.

He doesn't turn. The portal flickers.

Without hesitation, Oridia sprints forward, water splashing under her boots, hair whipping behind her. She doesn't think about the consequences, or the TVA, or Renslayer's orders.

She dives through the time door after him--

--and vanishes into light.

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