Chapter Text
Mobius jolted awake in the dead of night, the silence around him almost oppressive in its stillness.
His eyes, bleary with the remnants of sleep, slowly adjusted to the darkness of his TVA apartment.
The room was dim, with the only light seeping in from underneath the door, casting a faint, eerie glow that barely illuminated his surroundings.
He lay there, heart pounding, a gnawing unease settling deep in his chest.
The shadows around him seemed to move, shifting and twisting in ways that defied logic.
He could almost swear they were alive, creeping closer with every heartbeat, threatening to swallow him whole.
His breath hitched, and he forced himself to focus on the tangible details of his apartment, grounding himself in the familiar.
The burnt orange couch dominated one side of the room, its fabric worn and threadbare from years of use.
Mobius had always been fond of that couch, its vibrant color a stark contrast to the otherwise muted tones of the apartment.
The cushions were slightly misshapen, deformed by the countless nights spent sitting and thinking, plotting and planning.
He could almost feel the rough texture of the fabric under his fingertips, the way it snagged slightly against his skin.
Next to the couch stood a side table, cluttered with the remnants of his daily life.
A half-empty cup of cold coffee, its bitter aroma faintly mingling with the stale air of the room.
The metallic taste of the last sip lingered on his tongue, a reminder of the sleepless nights and early mornings that had become his routine.
Papers and files lay scattered across the table, a testament to his relentless work the past few weeks.
His badge, a small but significant emblem of his authority, lay atop the pile, catching the dim light and glinting softly.
The kitchen, though small, was meticulously organized. Every item had its place, a necessity in a life governed by order and routine.
The stainless steel countertops gleamed even in the low light, their cool surface a stark contrast to the warmth of the couch.
The smell of yesterday’s take-out dinner still lingered faintly in the air, a hint of spices mingling with the ever-present scent of disinfectant that permeated the TVA.
The refrigerator hummed softly, a low, constant sound that seemed to fill the silence. Inside, he knew there was a meager assortment of items—leftovers, a few condiments, and a carton of milk.
He rarely found the time to cook-not that he knew how to- his days consumed by the never-ending demands of his job.
The small kitchen was a direct contrast to his life, a place where order and necessity reigned supreme.
The tiles underfoot were cool, their smooth surface a sharp contrast to the warmth of the blankets he had just left behind.
The bathroom, a small and utilitarian space, was just off to the side. The faint smell of soap and shaving cream lingered, mingling with the sharper scent of the disinfectant.
He could hear the faint drip of a leaky faucet, a constant, rhythmic sound that seemed to echo in the silence, amplifying the tension that thrummed through his veins.
If he were to walk over there right now, the mirror above the sink would reflect a weary face, eyes shadowed with fatigue and stress.
He barely recognized himself sometimes, the lines of worry etched deeply into his skin.
His eyes drifted to the back of the door, where a poster of Miss Minutes hung.
The cartoonish clock, with its wide, cheerful grin, seemed out of place in the otherwise somber apartment.
Her eyes, unnaturally large and expressive, seemed to follow him no matter where he stood, a reminder of the once omnipresent surveillance of the TVA.
The poster was old and slightly faded, its edges curling with age.
The sight of it, so familiar and yet so unsettling, sent a shiver down his spine. He really should get rid of that.
The ticking of the clock on the back wall was the only sound that broke the oppressive silence. Each tick seemed louder than the last.
The sound of it ticking away was both comforting and maddening, a steady rhythm that matched the rapid beat of his heart.
It was a metronome to his thoughts, a constant beat that underscored his racing mind.
Mobius sat up in bed, his body tense and on edge. The sheets were cool and smooth against his skin, a polar opposite to the contrast to the warmth of his own body.
He could feel the weight of the blankets, heavy and comforting, but they did little to ease the unease that gnawed at him.
His mind was racing, thoughts tumbling over one another in a chaotic frenzy.
Tomorrow was important, more important than any day in the past two and a half years.
The weight of it pressed down on him, a heavy burden of hope and fear and anxious anticipation.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cold floor a shock against his bare feet. The sensation grounded him, momentarily pulling him out of the spiral of his thoughts.
He briefly considered getting up, making his way downstairs to get a fresh cup of coffee.
The idea was tempting, the thought of the rich, bitter liquid a small comfort in the face of his worries.
He could almost smell the earthy aroma, feel the warmth of the cup in his hands, taste the familiar bitterness on his tongue.
But he knew better. Tomorrow, he needed to be at his best, and that meant getting as much rest as he could manage.
With a sigh, he forced himself to lie back down, the mattress creaking slightly under his weight.
He stared up at the ceiling, the grayish paint cracked and peeling in places, forming intricate patterns that his mind couldn’t help but trace.
The familiar shapes and lines made for a great distraction from the overwhelming feelings that threatened to consume him.
As he lay there, the ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder, each tick a countdown to the day ahead.
He focused on the sound, letting it drown out the chaotic whirl of his thoughts.
His breathing slowed, matching the steady rhythm of the clock, his body gradually relaxing into the mattress.
The darkness around him seemed to press in, the shadows still shifting in the corners of his vision.
But he forced himself to ignore them, to focus instead on the steady beat of his heart, the soft rustle of the sheets, the faint hum of the air conditioning.
Gradually, the tension ebbed away, replaced by a heavy drowsiness that pulled at his consciousness.
His eyes fluttered shut, the last image burned into his mind that of the ceiling above, the intricate cracks and shapes a testament to the passage of time.
His breathing evened out, the steady rise and fall of his chest a comforting rhythm in the silence.
The last thing he felt was the cool touch of the sheets against his skin, the faint tick of the clock a lullaby that carried him into the depths of sleep.
Loki leaned back on his throne, a cold, unyielding seat that seemed to mock him with its grandeur.
The golden trim and intricate carvings were a stark contrast to the emptiness he felt inside.
He had been scanning the timelines for hours, his eyes darting over the shimmering streams of time, ensuring that no anomalies went unnoticed.
The effort was taxing, both mentally and physically, but it was a task he took upon himself willingly. After all, if he didn’t do it, who would?
As his gaze swept over the myriad possibilities, a familiar face caught his attention. Ravonna Renslayer.
He had been keeping an eye on her ever since she left. There was something about her that made him uneasy, a nagging doubt that he couldn’t shake. She was a wildcard, a variable that he couldn’t fully control or predict.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled in front of him as he scrutinized her actions.
She had been lying low, seemingly content to drift through the timelines without causing any major disruptions.
But Loki knew better than to trust appearances. He had learned that lesson the hard way.
A pang of conflict tugged at his conscience.
Had he made the right choice in letting her walk away so easily? After everything she had done—the betrayal, the lies, the attempt to take over the TVA, and the countless lives lost because of her ambition—should he have forced her to stay and atone for her crimes?
She had been pruned once, but that hadn’t stopped her.
His mind wandered back to the moment he had let her go. It had been a decision fraught with uncertainty, a gamble that he wasn’t sure would pay off.
He remembered the look in her eyes, a mixture of defiance and desperation.
She had believed in something, something beyond the TVA, and he had let her chase that belief. But was it the right thing to do?
He couldn’t help but draw parallels between himself and Renslayer. They were both flawed, both driven by their own ambitions and desires.
He had committed atrocities in the name of power, and yet, here he was, trying to keep the universe from falling apart.
Did that make him a hypocrite? Perhaps. He had never claimed to be a hero.
His thoughts drifted to his own past, the long list of crimes he had committed.
He had been a tyrant, a conqueror, a deceiver. He had betrayed his family, his friends, and even himself.
And what had he received as punishment? A role as the reluctant guardian of time, a position that demanded more than it gave.
He had spent the past three centuries trying to save the TVA, suffering through hallucinations and making decisions that gnawed at his sanity.
His anxiety had worsened over the years, the weight of his responsibilities bearing down on him like a physical force.
There were times when he felt he couldn’t breathe, when the walls of his chamber seemed to close in on him.
He had started using his duplication casting ability to step away from his throne, to find a quiet corner where he could curl up on himself and try to stave off a mental breakdown.
He had conjured books on the matter, seeking answers in their pages, but they offered little comfort.
But just because he had suffered did not mean his wrongs had been righted.
His past actions still hung over him like a dark cloud, a constant reminder of the man he used to be.
Perhaps that was why he was here now, in his own little personal prison at the end of time. Was it punishment for his crimes, or was it simply his fate? Even when he made the right decisions, he still ended up with the short end of the stick.
Loki closed his eyes, the familiar ache of regret settling in his chest. He wasn’t upset, not really. He had come to accept his role, to understand that his presence here was necessary.
He reminded himself time and time again that he was here for a good reason, that his sacrifice was keeping the people he loved alive. In a way, he had been given a second chance, a chance to do something right.
And if he, with all his flaws and bad decisions, could have a second chance, then so should Renslayer.
For now, he would keep an eye on her, watching from the shadows to see if she stayed on the right path. If she strayed, if she tried to wreak havoc on the timeline, he would be there to stop her.
He opened his eyes, the space around him coming back into focus. If he listened close enough he could hear the timelines hum softly.
Loki sighed, the sound evaporating into the endless void of space.
Loki sighed, the sound evaporating into the endless void of space. He closed his eyes, allowing himself a brief moment of respite from the relentless march of time.
His mind, however, was not so easily silenced. Thoughts of Renslayer's fate continued to gnaw at him, but he decided he needed to focus on something else, something that mattered more to him.
He straightened up, his gaze shifting to the timelines where he usually found solace in watching over his friends.
Mobius and Sylvie had been his anchors, their presence a reminder of why he had taken on this monumental task. He directed his gaze toward their timeline and came up blank.
That was peculiar. Usually, he could find them immediately, their lives like bright beacons in the sea of time.
Maybe they had visited another timeline? He checked another, then another, then another. Each time, the result was the same: nothing. They weren't showing up anywhere on the timeline, which only meant one thing—they were at the TVA.
A cold dread settled in his stomach. Why were they at the TVA? How long were they planning on staying there? Were they going to stay forever?
If they stayed forever, he would never be able to see them again. What was the point of everything he had done if he couldn't see them being alive and happy? His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic rhythm that matched the spiraling chaos of his thoughts.
No! He couldn't be selfish. This wasn't just for them but for the fate of the entire multiverse. But how was he supposed to not be upset by this? Stop! He couldn't think like this.
He had no right to think like this. Mobius and Sylvie were entitled to live their lives however and wherever they pleased.
So what if they chose to stay at the TVA? So what if his heart slowly shattered each second he didn't get to see them? It was their choice, not his.
Norns, he was so pathetic. How would they react if they knew he was reacting like this? They would probably be embarrassed by him, disappointed, disgusted.
He had to stop thinking about this. He needed to put his thoughts elsewhere.
Maybe he should distract himself. Yes, that was a great idea. He would distract himself.
Loki decided to rethink some of the poetry and stories he had stumbled across some time ago. Which one should cloud his mind in place of his worry and self-pity?
He settled on Macbeth. He had first encountered the play some years ago and had been greatly impressed by it.
For a Midgardian work, it was beautifully constructed and well-composed. Loki often found himself comparing his life to that of the story.
The way his actions had defined him and changed his future, the way he felt that no matter what he did to make up for his past, he would never be able to give back the lives he had taken. The guilt he carried would never leave him.
The guilt clung to him like the bloodstains on the hands of Lady Macbeth.
He tries not to think about how her story ended.