The fall is wrong.

Oridia feels it in her bones the second she hits the ground, no air-shift, no apocalypse-thick humidity, no Roxxcart fluorescent glare. Just the harsh, familiar sting of TVA lighting and the metallic taste of recycled air.

She groans, pushes herself up off the floor.

She's back in the armory.

Weapons line the walls in neat, lethal rows. Pruning sticks in sealed racks. Reset charges sleeping in their cradles. The bronze panels gleam like they never left her sight.

Oridia stares around for a full two seconds, then throws her hands up.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," She says, voice loud in the empty room, "Oh, wow, that was fucking stupid."

The tempad is nowhere in sight. The time door is gone.

She drags a hand through her curls, pacing once, twice. Her heart is still hammering from the jump, from Sylvie's voice, from the sense, no, the certainty, that she was supposed to follow.

She steps to the wall, grabs the nearest pruning stick from its rack. It hums to life in her hand, violet energy sparking along its length.

"Waste of time," She mutters, though she doesn't let it go.

She marches down the hall, curls bouncing, boots sharp against the floor. Anger sits hot in her chest, not at Loki, not at Sylvie, not even at herself, but at the whole absurd clockwork of the TVA. The Time-Keepers say sit. She has always sat. Tonight she ran, and it brought her right back to their doorstep.

She turns a corner, and hears it.

The crash of bodies. A grunt. The sound of metal on metal.

She follows the noise.

Down the long corridor off the golden elevator, lit in amber and shadow, she finds them.

Loki and his Variant are locked in combat, just beyond the curve of the hall, blades flashing, bodies twisting. The woman wears a battered leather outfit, a crown with one horn broken clean off. Blonde hair whips around her face as she moves.

Loki launches at her. She sidesteps, drives him into the wall. He snarls, pushing back.

They're both breathing hard, mirrored fury and desperation.

"Please don't kill each other," Oridia says.

Her voice is steady, but it drops into the space like a stone in water. The Variant's head snaps toward the sound.

Their eyes meet.

And for Sylvie, time dies.

It's her. It's her.
The same face from temple candles and stolen afternoons. The same voice that told her as a child that truth was beautiful, that stories mattered. The same presence that made the world feel less cruel.

Oridia.
Her Oridia.

Older. Wearing TVA browns and off-white. Hair longer, curls looser. But it's her. It's unmistakable. Reality lurches under Sylvie's feet, the breath catching sharp in her chest. For a moment, she thinks she might cry, right here in front of two Lokis and a hall full of guards.

Behind Oridia, the air shimmers. Renslayer appears with a unit of Minutemen, pruning sticks igniting, batons crackling.

Loki sees them out of the corner of his eye. No time to think, only move.

He lunges for the tempad in Sylvie's hand. She curses, they grapple with it, his fingers closing over hers as he wrenches it free. He mashes in coordinates, any coordinates.

The floor beneath them flashes orange.

"No!" Renslayer yells.

Too late.

The three of them, Loki, Sylvie, and Oridia, drop through the glowing circle in the floor, falling into pure, blinding light.

Blackness. Then color, muffled and distant.

The three of them hit the ground in a heap. Dust blooms around them. For a moment, there is nothing but the ringing in their ears and the ache in their bones.

Sylvie comes to first.

She rolls onto her side with a groan, muscles protesting. Her fingers scramble across cracked flooring, searching.

The tempad.

Her eyes land on Oridia instead.

The Observer lies a few feet away, on her back, curls fanned out like a dark halo against the dusty floor. Her shirt is rumpled, a smear of gray across the sleeve, her belt slightly askew. Her lips are parted, breathing shallow. The dim violet light of the strange sky outside seeps through the cracks in the shack's boards and paints her face in otherworldly hues.

Sylvie's chest tightens.

She could cry. The urge hits hard, raw and violent, a wave that thunders against the dam she built years ago. All those lifetimes spent alone, all that rage, all that purpose, and here, dropped back into her orbit, is the one person who once made the universe feel kind.

She kneels for half a second, hand lifting as if to touch Oridia's cheek.

Then she stops herself.

No. Not now. Not like this.

Her jaw clenches, tears burning the backs of her eyes, and she jerks away, scanning the floor.

The tempad lies a few feet away, half-buried in dust.

She crawls toward it.

Behind her, Loki stirs. He pushes himself up, groaning, one hand cradling his ribs.

He sees Oridia first.

She's sprawled beside him, breathing but still. His expression shifts, confusion, then concern, then something softer he doesn't examine too closely. He reaches out, fingers brushing a stray curl from her face.

"Hey," He says quietly, "Observer. Wake up."

Then he spots Sylvie, crawling toward the tempad.

"Absolutely not," He mutters.

He scrambles to his feet and lunges. Sylvie grabs the tempad just as he reaches it, and they lock into another tug-of-war.

"Give it here," She snaps.

"It's mine," He snaps back, "I stole it first."

They wrestle with it, fingers slipping over the device. The screen flickers.

Out of juice.

The display flashes dead: no power, no doors, no salvation.

"Perfect," Sylvie growls.

Loki's eyes narrow. He straightens, flicking his hands. A flicker of green surrounds him, duplication casting and teleportation returning to him with a rush as magic surges back into his veins. Illusory Lokis blur and shift around him as he tests the limits to fight this very angry blonde version of himself.

Outside, the sky rips open.

A tiny asteroid punches through the flimsy metal roof of the shack and slams into the floor in front of Oridia, throwing dust and sparks into the air. The impact rocks the entire structure.

Oridia's eyes fly open.

She jerks upright, sucking in a breath like someone who's been held underwater and finally breaks the surface.

And she feels it.

Her powers are back. All of them.

The astral weave sings through her, threads of reality flickering at the edges of her vision, connecting Loki and Sylvie to something impossibly bright and endless. Stellar manifestation sparks under her skin, solar warmth gathering in her palms. Her astral reflection hums, each breath rippling through the space around her.

And layered over all of that, pressing in, almost too much, is them.

Two Lokis.

Two anchors.

Two soul-frequencies resonating at once.

It's like staring into twin suns. Stunning. Blinding. Overwhelming.

She gasps, eyes trying to focus. The first things she sees are him and her, Loki and the Variant, standing opposite each other, blades half drawn, dust in their hair, both looking at her like she's the only real thing in the room.

For a heartbeat, all three of them simply stare.

Loki recovers first, gesturing to the crater in front of her.

"Is that one of your powers?" He asks, nodding at the asteroid.

His tone is half-joke, half-wariness. He has felt the surge too, magic thrumming against magic, truth humming underneath.

Sylvie finally drags her eyes off Oridia long enough to snap, "Where did you send us?"

They all push to their feet.

Loki offers Oridia a hand. She takes it, unsteady. Sylvie sees the way his fingers curl gently around hers, the way he steadies her without comment, and something sharp twists inside her chest.

She says nothing.

They step out of the shack together.

Outside, the sky is a violent purple bruise, split open by streaks of fire. A massive planet looms overhead, inching inexorably toward the surface of the moon they're standing on. Chunks of rock shear off it, hurtling through the thin atmosphere like flaming meteors.

The ground trembles beneath their feet.

"You idiot!" Sylvie shouts, throwing her arm toward the sky, "This is Lamentis-1."

"I don't know what that means!" Loki yells back.

Another asteroid slams into the ground, sending a shockwave through the dust just in front of them.

Sylvie whirls, eyes wide with furious disbelief, "The moon that planet is about to crash into and destroy! Of all of the apocalypses saved on that tempad, this is the worst! No one makes it off here!"

"Right," Loki says, "Well. That's unfortunate."

Another fiery rock screams overhead, clipping the edge of a nearby structure and sending debris raining down.

They run.

Oridia stumbles for a step, senses overloaded. The weave is screaming, this entire moon sings with impending annihilation. Every thread spirals toward one point: the end.

Loki stays close to her side, one hand occasionally hovering like he might grab her again if she falls. Sylvie's jaw clenches every time she sees it.

"I'm sorry, madam," Loki calls over the thunder of falling stone, "Didn't have time to scan the brochure. By the way, I thought you wanted me dead."

"I don't know where you hid that tempad," Sylvie snaps, dodging a falling chunk of rock, "But if you blow up, it blows up, and then I end up blown up."

"So we're a team now?" Loki asks as they race toward a cluster of sturdier-looking shacks.

"Oh, God, no!" Sylvie shouts, "Didn't need your help!"

"You're so weird!" Loki fires back.

They all dive into a sturdier shack, a reinforced mining outpost. The walls rattle, but hold. Dust drifts down from the ceiling.

Inside, the noise dampens slightly. It's still there, the rumble of impending doom, but now it's a distant roar, like the sea in a shell.

They stand there, catching their breath.

Oridia presses a hand to the wall to steady herself. The weave runs wild in her veins: two signatures, identical yet distinct, resonating so close it's like standing between two mirrored suns. Her skin prickles. Her chest aches. Her palms glow faintly with soft, golden light, solar energy simmering just below the surface.

Loki notices first.

He steps close, scanning her face, "Are you all right?"

Sylvie watches, the way he leans in, the way Oridia's eyes flicker to his, the way their proximity feels like a gravity well. Jealousy flares hot and sharp. She despises it. She despises him for being the one to ask.

She draws her sword.

Loki sees it, straightens, and with a flick of his wrist, summons his daggers into his hands. They gleam in the dim light, edges catching the glow of Oridia's palms.

They square off. Again.

Loki sighs, exasperated, "Look. Are we really about to do this here? Again?"

Sylvie's grip tightens on her blade, "What do you propose instead?"

"I don't know," He says, "A truce."

She snorts, "A truce."

"Listen," Loki says, glancing from Sylvie to Oridia and back again, "None of us are getting off this rock if we can't turn that tempad on."

"Where do you have it hidden?" Sylvie asks, eyes narrowed.

"In my heart."

"Then I'll cut it out."

"Nice. Very droll. Lovely," He rolls his eyes, "Okay, yes, I do have the tempad. But I'm not going to get very far if you keep trying to kill me."

"You're full of it," Sylvie says, "Because you need me to get that recharged. That's the only reason you saved me out there."

Loki thinks about that for half a second, then shrugs.

"Maybe," He concedes, "Yeah. I mean, sure. That too. Or we could slaughter each other here in this abandoned mining shack. What do you say?"

"Good for me," She mutters.

Oridia doesn't say a word. She just feels.

The astral weave spins around her, threads tightening between Loki and Sylvie, between Sylvie and her, between her and Loki. It's like standing at the center of a constellation she didn't know existed, every point of light tugging at her bones.

A sun hums in her chest. Solar energy prickles under her skin, pooling in her palms, begging to be shaped.

"The plan you interrupted was years in the making," Sylvie says suddenly, voice taut with anger, "Years."

"Okay," Loki says softly, "Got it."

"And as soon as I turn that tempad back on, I'm going straight back to the TVA to finish what I started."

"Good," He says.

"I'll kill you then."

"Or I'll kill you," He counters, more reflex than threat.

They stare each other down, two blades, two wills, two storms.

Through it all, Oridia leans against the wall, watching. Feeling.

Sylvie can't bring herself to speak to her. She keeps glancing over, though, quick, sharp looks that linger too long. She watches the way Oridia's fingers tremble, the way her eyes keep darting between them, the way the faint glow in her palms intensifies with every surge of emotion.

To Sylvie, Oridia looks like the last star in a dying sky.

To Loki, she looks like a question the universe forgot to answer.

Between her fingers, small disks of light begin to form, unconscious manifestations of solar energy, little golden shields spinning slowly, like miniature suns orbiting her palms. They cast soft glows across the shack's metal walls.

She doesn't even realize she's doing it.

She just feels, overwhelmed, split between them, tethered by something she doesn't understand. The truth she was created to embody is shifting under her feet, rewriting itself in real time.

—

The ground shudders with every impact as they walk in staggered formation across the cracked violet rock of Lamentis-1, the ruined mining moon trembling under the looming weight of the planet above it. Sylvie is ten paces ahead, blade at her hip, shoulders set, walking like she's dared the universe to kill her and is disappointed it hasn't yet.

Loki lags behind, matching pace with Oridia.

She's struggling.

The air here tastes like metal and dust and ozone. The sky is bruised purple-blue, torn by streaks of fire. Asteroids rip through the thin atmosphere and crash around them in irregular rhythms, each impact a deep, resonant boom that vibrates up through their boots. Oridia feels like she's standing in the middle of a star collapsing. Her powers are fully awake now, no TVA dampening, no muted senses.

And then there's them.

Two chords thrumming at once.

Loki on her left, Sylvie ahead, a double resonance that feels like being flayed open and bathed in starlight. It's blinding. It's too much.

She stumbles slightly as the ground rocks.

Loki notices.

"Careful," He says, reaching out to steady her elbow. His tone is light; his eyes are not, "I know I'm devastating, but I didn't think it was this literal."

She huffs, breathless, "You're not that devastating."

"Liar," He says automatically, then catches the irony of his own word and softens, "Well. Would be, if you could."

She can't argue. She just keeps moving. Her palm glows faintly, star-gold leaking between her fingers. She clenches her hand into a fist to hide it.

He watches her out of the corner of his eye.

"You really are struggling," He murmurs, and this time there's no teasing in it.

"I'm fine," She says, which is not a lie, fine is just not the whole truth.

"Mm. You don't look fine. You look like someone dropped you into the middle of a cosmic migraine."

"That is... not inaccurate."

"I knew it," He says, too pleased, "This moon has terrible ambiance. If I'd had a choice, I'd have picked something less... catastrophic. Maybe a seaside apocalypse. Very romantic."

Up ahead, Sylvie doesn't turn, but Oridia feels her attention like heat on her skin.

They crest a low rise, boots sliding in dust, and see it: a sad, abandoned little town, no more than six buildings in a loose cluster, like someone dropped a handful of boxes on the rock and called it civilization. Neon signs flicker half-dead in the purple light.

Sylvie stops, "This way."

They move between the buildings. Broken windows, doors hanging off hinges, an overturned hover-cart. The whole place feels like a breath held too long.

Loki veers off toward one of the houses, peering in through a cracked pane.

Inside, a framed photo sits on a table. A woman and a man, both older, both unsmiling, standing in front of this same house. Her hair is silver. His is thinning. There's a familiarity in their posture that says thirty years of habit.

Loki smiles to himself, "Perfect."

He steps back, straightens his jacket, and with a flicker of green, his form ripples. Armor fades, features soften, hair shortens, shoulders broaden, the man from the picture stands there instead, rendered in illusion down to the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Oridia watches, quietly impressed despite herself.

He knocks on the door.

A panel slides back. A woman peers out, eyes cautious.

"Hello, dear," Loki says, wearing the man's face, the man's voice, adding warmth the photo never showed.

The woman's eyes widen, "Patrice?"

"It... It's been a long time," He says, "You're as beautiful as--"

A pulse cannon slams into his chest.

The energy blast throws him back a good thirty feet. He hits the ground hard, skidding in dust, illusion shattering back into his own form. His jacket is singed, hair mussed, dignity obliterated.

Sylvie starts laughing. Actual, bright, startled laughter.

Oridia moves toward Loki, still wobbly, reaching out as he tries to sit up. He swats dust off his chest, grimacing.

"Patrice never said a thing that nice in 30 years," The woman says, stepping onto the threshold, gun still in hand. Her eyes, though, carry a quiet, tired intelligence, "You're no travelers. You're devils."

Sylvie smirks, "Which one was that? Diplomacy or--"

"Don't," Loki groans, "Just don't."

Oridia offers him her hand. He takes it without hesitation, letting her help him up even though she's still unsteady. The contact jolts her again, that double-sun ache, but she holds his weight anyway.

"What do you devils want with me?" The woman demands.

Sylvie steps in, arms spread in something like peace, "We just wanna ask you a question. Where is everyone?"

"The ark," the woman answers, "The evacuation vessel."

"How do we get there?" Loki asks, brushing ash from his lapel.

"Train station's the edge of town," She says, "But you'll never get a ticket."

"Come on," Sylvie says, turning away, "Let's go."

Oridia doesn't move yet.

She looks at the woman, really looks, through time, through memory. The astral weave threads around this stranger like a tapestry of all the choices she's ever made. Oridia sees hints of a younger version in that photo, laughter lines softened by age, hurt buried under pragmatism. A life lived mostly in the shadow of other people's selfishness.

Something about her thread vibrates, tugging at Oridia's.

"Your husband," Oridia says quietly.

The woman narrows her eyes, "What about him?"

Oridia's throat tightens. She never lies. She can't. Truth is not just something she speaks, it's what she is. And here, in the shadow of the end, the universe lets her see one more sliver.

"He loved you," Oridia says, "Not the way you wanted. Not the way you deserved. But he did, in the only clumsy, stubborn way he knew how," She swallows, "And he was wrong not to say it sooner."

The woman's grip on the weapon slackens a fraction.

"Nobody ever said that," She whispers. The lines around her mouth soften, just a little.

Oridia nods once. It's all she can give. Anything more would veer into prophecy, and the weave doesn't offer her that freely.

Then she turns, chest aching, and jogs to catch up with Loki and Sylvie.

—

The train station feels like the last gasp of civilization. A long, narrow platform juts out toward a hulking, angular train, dark metal, blue lights humming along its edges. Guards in matching uniforms check tickets at a choke point. People crowd in lines, shouting, pleading, clutching bags and children and hope in equal measure.

Asteroids streak across the violet sky above, throwing brief, violent light over everything.

Loki's eyes flick over the scene, mind already ticking, "Perfect."

He flicks his wrists. A wash of green flames up and down his form. Illusion wraps around him like a second skin.

When it clears, he's wearing a guard's uniform, helmet, armor, insignia. He looks annoyingly official.

Oridia's eyes widen, "Loki..."

He glances at her, pleased, "Impressed?"

"I can't lie," She says, heart hammering, "If they ask me something--"

"You don't have to lie if your lips don't move," He says, "Leave the talking to me."

Sylvie scoffs, "That went great last time."

"Jealous," Loki says, already moving, "Come along, prisoners."

He takes Oridia lightly by the elbow, herding her and Sylvie toward the front of the line. The crowd grumbles, some people swearing, but the sight of the uniform makes most of them step back.

A guard moves to block them, "Whoa! Hey!"

Loki's voice slides into authority,"Taking these ones to Shuroo."

The lie hits Oridia like a slap.

The weave inside her shrieks; her skin prickles. It's like hearing a wrong note played loud in the center of a symphony. She bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from wincing.

"Okay," The guard says, skeptical, "And the tickets?"

"Orders come from the top to get her on this train," Loki says smoothly.

Another lie. Oridia's stomach flips. Her fingers curl into fists, the urge to blurt the truth riding high in her throat. Her lips burn with unsaid words.

The guard frowns, about to argue.

Sylvie leans in, brushing his forearm. Her eyes go distant, sharp, focused.

The guard blinks once, twice.

"I just remembered," He says slowly, dazed, "Headquarters radioed in your request for them this morning."

The weave sighs in relief. The lie has been replaced with an implanted truth, compelled, but cleaner. It settles Oridia's nerves enough that she can breathe again.

They move onto the train.

—

The dining car hums with low voices and the clink of glass as blue lights run along the edges of the ceiling. A few passengers sit in booths, drinking, staring out the windows at the burning sky. They find an empty booth near the middle. The moment Oridia sits, she folds forward, pressing her forehead to the cool table. Her palms, hidden under the edge, still glow faintly, circles of solar energy rolling in and out, forming little disks of light that she has to choke back down into her skin.

Loki hovers at the edge of the booth, "Um, uh, look, I can't go backwards on a train."

"Well, I never sit with my back to a door," Sylvie says, tensing as she scans the car.

"What? There are doors on both sides," He says, gesturing.

"Oh, just sit down," She groans.

He does. Reluctantly. Oridia ends up between them, Sylvie on her right, Loki on her left, both of them warm and solid and loud in the weave. It's like sitting between two suns, both of them tugging at her in opposite directions.

She wants it to stop. Just for a second.

Under the table, her fists clench. Her nails dig into her palms, the pain grounding her, distracting her from the way every breath feels like an echo of theirs.

Then she springs up, almost violently.

"Bathroom," She says.

She doesn't say I need to use the bathroom. That would be a lie. She just says bathroom, a direction, not a reason.

She doesn't wait for a reply. She crawls over Loki's lap to get out, one hand braced on his shoulder, knee bumping his thigh. He tenses, but doesn't move, watching her with a strange, unreadable expression as she squeezes past.

Sylvie watches the whole thing, jaw tight, gaze burning holes between Oridia's shoulder blades as she walks away down the narrow aisle.

The bathroom door closes with a quiet snap.

Sylvie yawns, but it's sharp, brittle. Loki looks at her.

"Oh, you a bit tired?" He says lightly, "Feel free to, you know, get some rest."

"I can't sleep in a place like this," She says.

"You can't sleep on a train?" He asks, genuinely baffled.

"No," She says, "I can't sleep around untrustworthy people."

"Oh, right," Loki nods, "That me?"

She doesn't answer that directly, "But you feel free to take a nap," she says instead.

"Nice try," He replies, "I'm not going to waste my time being unconscious while someone quite literally bred for deceit is sitting across from me."

She snorts, "I'm not gonna waste my time rooting around for the tempad when someone taught you fairly decent magic."

He straightens slightly, pride pricking, "My mother."

Sylvie pauses. Something softens around her eyes, "What was she like?"

He looks past her, for a moment, to the window, where the apocalyptic sky streaks past in violet and flame.

"She was, um..." He starts, then swallows, "A Queen of Asgard. She was good. Purely decent."

Sylvie scoffs, "Are you sure she was your mother?"

He half-smiles, "Oh, no, she's not actually. I was adopted. Is that a bit of a spoiler for you? Sorry about that."

"No," Sylvie says, "I knew I was adopted."

"What?" Loki frowns, "They told you?"

"Yeah. Did they not tell you?"

"No," He says slowly, "I mean, they did, eventually. Hang on a second." He leans forward, curiosity now, "So, tell... tell me about your mother."

Sylvie shrugs, gaze darting unconsciously toward the direction Oridia went, "I barely remember her. Just blips of a dream at this point."

Loki falls quiet for a moment. His voice is softer when he speaks again.

"You know," He says, "when I was young, she'd do these little bits of magic for me. Like turn a flower into a frog or cast fireworks over the water. It all seemed impossible. She told me that I'd be able to do it too because... because I could do anything. You wanna see?"

He opens his palms.

Tiny fireworks blossom there, miniature bursts of colored light, blooming and fading like stars in a child's sky. They cast soft hues across Sylvie's face, across the empty space where Oridia would be sitting if she hadn't fled.

Sylvie watches them, expression caught between unimpressed and wistful.

"Not bad," She admits.

"She was the kinda person you'd want to believe in you," He says.

"Sounds like she does," Sylvie replies.

"Well, she did," He corrects, barely above a murmur.

Silence lingers for a moment, filled only by the clatter of the train over its track, the distant rumble of falling stone outside.

"So," He asks, "where'd you learn to do the... You know, the... whatever it is?"

"I taught myself," Sylvie says.

He lifts a brow, "You taught yourself that magic."

"Yeah," She says, "I did."

"What, do you just... you just go into their minds and project some sort of illusion?"

"It'd be easier if I just--" She starts.

"Enchanted me and take the tempad and leap out the train?" He shakes his head, "No, thank you."

"Well then, don't ask," She snaps.

Their eyes lock, stubborn and mirrored. Between them, the empty space at Oridia's side hums, like something missing, like a chord waiting for its third note.

And for the Observer, the bathroom is too small for how much she's feeling.

Oridia grips the edges of the metal sink, head bowed, curls falling like a curtain around her face. The light above the mirror flickers with every passing tremor from outside, making her reflection stutter, her eyes there, gone, there again. Her palms glow faintly against the sink. Golden light leaks through the cracks between her fingers, casting strange, liquid shadows across the walls.

"Get a grip," She mutters.

Her heart pounds. Not fast like panic, fast like overclocked machinery, like something inside her is running ahead of itself.

She squeezes her eyes shut.

Behind her lids, memory stirs.

She remembers kneeling.

Cold metal under her knees. Her head bowed. Three massive silhouettes looming above her, vague, indistinct, adorned with crowns that seem to shift as she tries to recall them. She remembers their voices, layered and distant, speaking as one:

" We name you Observer."

She remembers the feeling that followed: a soft weight on her shoulders, not physical but metaphysical. A role. A command. Truth settling into her bones like a second spine.

Before that?

Fuzzier.

She remembers floating, weightless, suspended in a place without up or down. Stars spinning past her like sparks from a bonfire. The astral weave humming loud and clear, unbroken, unbound. No walls. No Time-Keepers. No TVA.

Just... endless space and the knowledge of everything.

Then, nothing. A cut. A jump.

TVA.

Hallways. Panels. Renslayer's eyes. Mobius's smile. Files and files and files.

Her life, neatly contained between walls.

Now, in this cramped metal bathroom on a doomed moon, the old feeling nudges her. Floating. Limitless. Empty and full all at once. Only this time, she isn't alone in the weave. There are two bright signatures pressed close to hers, buzzing like twin suns.

Loki. Sylvie.

She exhales, breath shuddering.

"Stop," She whispers to her own hands.

The solar energy in her palms pulses in protest. She forces herself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. She imagines the light dimming, shrinking, retreating back into her bones.

It works. A little.

Her hands dim from gold to a faint warm glow, then to nothing at all. The sink is just a sink again. The mirror shows her just a woman again. Pale. Strained. Pupils too big.

She lifts her head and meets her own gaze," You can handle this."

Her heart immediately says, Can I?

A knock on the door makes her jump.

She actually shrieks, a short, ungraceful sound, half-strangled.

"Uh, you need any help in there?" A man's voice calls through. One of the guards, by the sound of it. Heavy boots, clipped vowels, the weary suspicion of someone used to being lied to.

Oridia's mind scrambles.

"Yes," would be a truth.
"No," would be a lie.

And what comes out of her mouth is:

"No."

The word hangs there.

Her breath stops.

She feels it. The wrongness. Not like a jolt of magic, not like a physical slap, but like a spider crack appearing in glass, small, almost invisible, but dangerous.

She lied.

She lied.

She lied.

For a heartbeat, she expects the universe to reject it. For the floor to open, for the lights to shatter, for the weave to recoil and snap her back into the Time-Keepers' hands.

Nothing happens.

The light continues to flicker, no more than before. The train rattles on. The guard hums.

"All right, then," He says, apparently satisfied. His footsteps recede down the corridor.

Oridia stares at the door.

She lied. And the universe... let her.

A tiny, cold pit opens in her stomach. Not relief. Not quite.

More like an impending sense of doom. As though the bill has not been waived, only delayed.

She straightens, splashes a bit of water on her face, and leaves before she can do anything worse.

—

Back in the dining car, the world has shifted again, but this time, only in small ways.

A waitress walks by with a tray, two champagne flutes balanced neatly on top. The pale bubbly liquid glows a faint gold under the low lights.

"Champagne?" She asks.

"Ah, yes. Thank you very much," Loki says, snagging one immediately.

"No, I'm good, thanks," Sylvie says.

"I'll take hers," Oridia says, slipping back into the car.

She reaches out, grabs the second glass smoothly from the tray, then has to crawl over Loki again to get to her seat. He leans back to make room, one hand automatically going to her waist to steady her as she steps.

"Careful," He murmurs, "Keep that up, and people will talk."

"They already talk," She says, sliding back into place, "Drink."

He gives her a look, half amused, half intrigued, but obliges.

He lifts his glass, "Cheers. To the end of the world."

"Cheers," Oridia echoes softly, clinking hers against his.

Sylvie doesn't toast, but she watches them both with a guarded expression before looking away.

They drink.

The bubbles fizz pleasantly on Oridia's tongue, warmth spreading from her chest outward. The weave hums in agreement, this, at least, is simple. Champagne is champagne. The truth of it is mercifully uncomplicated.

"A pity the old woman chose to die, don't you think?" Loki says after a moment, swirling his drink idly.

"She was in love," Sylvie says.

Her eyes flick, unbidden, to Oridia.

Oridia feels it. That gaze. It lands on her cheek like a brand. She doesn't look back, but her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass.

"She hated him," Loki argues.

"Maybe love is hate," Sylvie replies.

Her heart clenches as she says it, dredging up the memory of a younger her sitting on temple steps, staring at a woman who glowed like a star and told her stories of truths that never bent. The feeling of wanting to run and wanting to stay. Of loving something so much it hurt.

"Should probably remember that," Loki says.

He snaps his fingers, and with a soft pop of magic, a roll of paper and a quill appear in midair. He catches them neatly.

"What was that?" He mutters, already scribbling, "Love is... love is hate."

"Oh, piss off," Sylvie groans.

Oridia giggles.

It bursts out of her unplanned, a soft, bright sound that cuts through the low rumble of the train and the distant roar of falling rock. Light as starlight; warm as sunlight through a window.

Both Loki and Sylvie go still.

For just a second, the apocalypse, the mission, the tempad, the TVA, everything else drops away.

Loki stares at her like he's hearing a song he didn't know he missed. Sylvie looks like someone just cracked open an old wound and poured honey into it.

Oridia blinks between them, feeling her cheeks warm.

"Sorry," She murmurs.

"Don't be," Loki says almost too quickly.

He recovers, leaning back, twirling the quill between his fingers.

"So," He says casually, "on the subject of love... is there a lucky beau waiting for you at the end of this crusade?"

Sylvie's mouth twitches, "Yeah, there is, actually. Managed to maintain quite a serious long-distance relationship with a postman whilst running across time... from one apocalypse to another."

"With charm like that, who could resist you?" Loki deadpans.

"Well, people are quite willing in the face of certain doom," she says.

"I'm sure they are."

Sylvie's gaze slips past him, landing briefly on Oridia again.
In another life, she thinks. In another world...

"It was only ever just to keep me going," She adds, voice quieter, "How about you? You're a prince. Must've been would-be princesses or perhaps..." she tilts her head, testing, "another prince."

Loki's eyes glitter with amusement, and something like relief at not having to hide.

"A bit of both," He admits, "I suspect the same as you. But nothing ever..."

"Real," Sylvie finishes for him.

Her throat tightens around the word. Her mind flashes, unbidden, to an older Oridia from her own timeline, the one who held out a hand and pulled her off a temple floor. The one she adored before the TVA in their golden armor tore that life away.

"Love is mischief, then," Sylvie says.

Or a lie you tell yourself to survive.

"No," Loki says, staring into his champagne, "Love is... uh, something I might have to have another drink to think about."

He tosses back the rest of his glass.

"You do realize we're about to try and hijack the power source to a civilization's only hope?" Sylvie says.

"I do," Loki answers.

"It's not gonna be easy. We should rest."

"All right," Loki says, already scanning the car for the waitress, "You relax your way and I'll relax mine. Right, Observer?"

He turns his head toward Oridia.

She has already finished her champagne and is halfway leaned over the back of the booth, arm stretched to snag two more flutes off the passing tray with casual precision.

She sits back down with a satisfied little noise, setting one glass in front of him and one in front of herself.

"Hm?" She answers, as if she'd been listening the whole time and simply didn't feel like responding.

Both Loki and Sylvie stare at her like she's lost her mind.

"You realize we're in the middle of a cataclysmic cosmic event, right?" Sylvie says.

"Yes," Oridia says serenely, "Which means we should enjoy the amenities while we can."

Loki grins slowly, "I think I'm starting to like you."

"Drink," She tells him again, sliding the glass a little closer.

He obeys without protest.

—

Time blurs a bit after that.

The waitress comes by once, then again. Loki and Oridia keep acquiring more champagne, sometimes by asking, sometimes by Loki charming extras out of neighboring tables, sometimes by Oridia simply lifting a glass off a passing tray with the precision of someone who's done far more complicated cosmic maneuvers.

Sylvie watches them at first with wary irritation, arms crossed, shoulders tight. Every brush of their shoulders, every shared look, every laugh that passes between them is a tiny stab of something she refuses to name.

But exhaustion is a physical weight now. The long chase. The magic. The constant bracing for betrayal. The ache of seeing Oridia alive and not hers.

Eventually, her eyes grow heavy.

Loki is telling Oridia some embellished story about Asgardian court politics, gesturing with his glass, and Oridia is laughing, mouth open, eyes bright, the soft light in her palms flickering in time with her delight, when Sylvie's head finally drops onto the table with a soft thud.

Her arms become a pillow. Her eyes slide closed.

Loki glances at her, then at Oridia.

"Well," He murmurs, "one down."

Oridia exhales slowly, the laughter tapering off into a quieter, more fragile smile. The weave is still screaming, but the volume dulls now that one of the signatures is muted by sleep.

She looks at Sylvie, at the frown even in rest, at the hand still clutching the hilt of her sword protectively.

"Does she ever stop fighting?" Oridia asks softly.

"Not that I've seen," Loki replies.

There's a strange tenderness in his tone.

" She seems..." Oridia trails as she stares down at the woman, examining her features with gentle care as her heart thumps like a rabbit in her chest," ... heartbroken."

Under the table, Oridia flexes her fingers. Tiny disks of solar light flicker into existence, circling her hands like miniature suns. She turns her palm and one of them drifts upward, hovering above the table like a glowing coin before dissolving into motes.

Loki watches it, fascinated.

"Is that what you are, then?" He asks, "Little suns?"

"Something like that," She says.

"And yet you work for people who sit in the dark," He muses, "Strange choice for a star."

She looks at him. He's tipsy now, looser, softer, shields lowered. The trickster god is still there, still sharp, but there's something else too. Curiosity. Ache. A man who's never had a real answer to what love is, now stuck between two people who might be proof of it and has no idea.

"Strange choice for a god of mischief," She counters, "to care if I burn out."

He holds her gaze for a long, humming second.

Outside, the sky tears open again. Asteroids fall. Somewhere in the distance, something explodes.

Inside the train car, the lights sway. Champagne bubbles rise. Sylvie sleeps between universes.

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