Chapter Text
Time did not stand still on the Sacred Timeline; it pulled him forward like the tide, but Mobius planted his feet deep in the sand, refusing to move.
It hadn’t taken a genius to figure out that Loki had been looping their failed attempts to stop the Temporal Loom from destroying everything. Mobius had picked up on the signs; it was what he did best. In a loop, time folds into itself, compressing the older loops until they become incalculable. Mobius had little chance of unearthing those layers to remember what occurred each time Loki tried again, and it made him feel unreasonably angry. Time stolen from him. Memories that could have taken the edge off the sense of wrongness haunting him.
Some would say that the final loop was the only one that mattered, but Mobius begged to differ. He wanted to know what Loki had tried to do, why it failed, and if he had ever stopped to take a breath before throwing himself into fixing everything all over again. He wanted to know, more than anything, how Loki came to the solution he used to save everyone.
Mobius’s hand crawled to his throat. He dug his fingers into the soft skin in a futile attempt to stop the swell of guilt rising like bile up his throat. He didn’t know why, but he felt like it was his fault that Loki had sacrificed himself.
“What if I did this to you?” Mobius muttered. “What if some iteration of me let you believe this was the best course of action?”
He couldn’t imagine agreeing to such an idea, even to save the multiverse, but then, whose to say Loki only looped that one point in time? He could have gone back a lot further. Mobius’s stomach clenched. He felt sick.
The sun beamed down on him, bathing him in gold. His vision was green at the edges, but it was just the trees. Just green leaves blurring as tears coated his eyes.
Shoulders slumped, Mobius stared at Don’s house. This house was the best house on the block. These sons, Sean and Kevin, the best sons to have ever existed. But Mobius didn’t want them. He knew how it would work: Mobius would have to replace Don to take it, and he would not kill a version of himself to take what the TVA had stolen from him.
He wasn’t Don the Single Dad and Chief Sales Officer at Piranha Powersports. He put his roots down differently.
He met a god and was forever changed by him.
Glorious purpose was a funny thing. Mobius shifted his weight and his hands fell loose at his sides. He should have wanted to raise his sons on some branch somewhere, a branch perhaps where Don had died early and left his sons orphans. Mobius could work with that. Or he should be like Sylvie and build a life from scratch. Make his own way in the multiverse.
The punchline, he realized, was that he still didn’t know what to do. He stood at the dead end. What was his glorious purpose without Loki?
Mobius took a sharp breath as an idea unspooled in his mind. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? His plan for his future wouldn’t stitch the hole in heart closed, but it was right. Maybe this was the only way he’d find peace.
He opened his TemPad and pulled up a door back to the TVA. The heat of the sun fell from him, but he held his head high. He had a proposition for B-15.
Mobius M. Mobius’s name was printed on the side of a mailbox crusted in salt. The old time agent occupied a weathered bungalow on a beach in St. Petersburg, Florida. Sand always blew in whenever Mobius opened the front door. He sometimes forgot to wear sandals when he rolled the trash cans out to be collected. His twin Sea-Doos were stored at the marina, where he paid rent to keep them safe. He took turns riding both, and never ever let himself think of why he couldn’t have bought just one.
At the height of summer, sunlight aggressively poured into his bedroom and woke him before his alarm. Mobius was sour about it since he swore he shut the blinds each night before bed. Yet, without fail, the blinds slanted open and disturbed his attempts to sleep in.
“Damn it,” Mobius muttered, letting out a string of grumpy curses with no real heat to them. He squinted and saw a green tinge to the light bathing his face. He groaned and pressed his palms to his eye sockets. Maybe he needed to see an optometrist.
He was a member of the Bean of the Month club. A new box showed up like clockwork on his doorstep with a blend to try. He never drank the same blend twice. It was his small way of having choices. He always had donuts—sometimes powdered, sometimes jelly-filled, and even frosted for more indulgence—which he ate standing over the kitchen sink. His stomach softened considerably from this morning diet but he didn’t care. He dusted the powdered sugar that had fallen on his sleep-rumpled shirt and washed his mug in the sink.
The pipes rattled when he turned on the water and showered. He had at least six different bars of soap, shampoo, conditioner. Choices. Smelling like he had fallen into a florist’s cabinet, Mobius put on his brown TVA suit and called up a TimeDoor.
Mobius coped badly with memories in the morning. He kept his eyes on the floor, foregoing polite greetings so he could maintain the illusion of being fine. If he lifted his eyes, he’d remember—Loki nipping at his heels in a hallway, Loki putting his feet on Mobius’s desk, Loki stealing his food in the cafeteria with a bright-eyed, devious grin.
“Same schedule as last week?” B-15 said as she met him in the costume department.
“Relatively,” Mobius said, dragging his eyes up to her face. She was always so pleased to see him; it took away some of the pain. “I’ll be in the Archives later scouting new branches.”
“As long as you’re careful,” B-15 said, squeezing his arm.
Mobius nodded. He’d long since proven he wasn’t on a suicide mission. Still, he knew her concern. Neither of them wanted to lose another friend.
He changed into the clothes he’d been using for the past few weeks and opened a TimeDoor that brought him directly into Odin’s palace on Branch 2078. A new branch. The analysts were still recording its history as it deviated from the Sacred Timeline.
He took a steadying breath. The air smelled like freshly-poured wine and burnt leaves. Warriors traded blows as they practiced their forms in the courtyard. Gold seemed to cover every last decorative feature. Asgard as its peak. Shining and perfect. Mobius smoothed down his robe and opened the heavy double doors that led into the vast library.
“You’re late,” said a small voice.
Mobius chuckled. “I am right on time, Loki.”
The boy-god had recently turned eight-years-old, gangly but still fine-boned and pale as the full moon. His black hair was short and swept back from his forehead. He had clearly been waiting for Mobius this time, moody from having to stand right at the entrance where anyone could see him. He liked to hide here, Mobius learned, when he needed to process difficult episodes with his family.
Loki crossed his arms. “Grab a book, if you must.”
Mobius bit his lip to stop another laugh. He moved with deliberate slowness to the history section, where he ran his fingers over the spines until he found what he was looking for. He pulled the leather-bound book and almost opened it right then and there.
Loki plucked at his sleeve. “Come on, hurry,” he hissed.
“Okay, okay,” Mobius murmured. The corner of his mouth betrayed him and ticked up.
Loki rolled his eyes. He dragged Mobius forward and they moved swiftly through the stacks. Dust motes danced in the streaks of sunlight pouring down from the stained glass ceiling. The knowledge stored here was in the process of being replicated by the TVA, preserved in case the branch itself died out. There was no need for him to crave this knowledge—time enough, at the TVA, to read everything and more—but actually being on the branch gave him a different feeling. One of excitement. Of gravity. He could get his hands on the real books right now.
Loki had set up a hideout of sorts deep in the stacks. He found a corner housing science books that had either been so dull or antiquated that no one came back there to look at them. Cobwebs even formed in the corners of the shelves. A small, round window looking out upon a lonely corner of the Queen’s garden was there only connection this deep to the outer world of the palace. A few books on magic had been haphazardly spread out on the table in front of the window. There was a pitcher of water, two cups, and a bowl of grapes.
“Ah, the secret base,” Mobius said gently. “No Thors allowed, right?”
“Under pain of death,” Loki threatened.
“I swear I’ll never tell,” Mobius said. “You can trust me.”
Loki stilled. Then, slowly, his small hand fisted in Mobius’s robe. “So you keep saying.”
“Because we’re friends.”
“Not many people want to be friends with me,” Loki said solemnly.
Mobius’s heart squeezed. This was progress. He could scarcely believe it was happening so soon. “They don’t realize how special you are. Thor isn’t the only prince of Asgard. You need to remember your worth.”
Loki hmphed and let go. He folded himself into a chair, knees up to his chin, and pulled the bowl of grapes closer.
Mobius took the hint and pulled up a chair next to Loki. He popped a grape into his mouth and chewed. No matter how many times he snacked in Asgard, the freshness and vibrancy of the flavors still stunned him. Perhaps there was a reason why his Loki had looked down on processed sugar.
Time passed blessedly soft and slow. Mobius opened his book and poured over Asgardian mythology. He shouldn’t have picked books like these, or read stories that cut up his insides until he bled, but he couldn’t help it. Part of him would always hunger for answers. He turned a heavy page and sucked in his breath. A gorgeous illustration of Yggdrasil covered both pages. The tree of life. All worlds nested among its branches and roots.
Loki made a disapproving noise. “Why are you always looking at Yggdrasil?”
“Because it’s beautiful,” Mobius rasped. He cleared his throat. Tried again. “Because it makes me sad.”
Loki’s brow furrowed. “Sad? Why?”
That wasn’t something he could tell the boy. “I don’t know.”
“Then stop looking,” Loki said, slapping his hands over the pages. His brow puckered.
If only it were that easy. Mobius gently moved Loki’s hands off the book. “Sometimes sadness isn’t bad. It’s just a feeling. Like anger and happiness. If I push my sadness down and ignore it, it’ll only get worse. It’ll grow, kinda like that tree outside.”
Loki shoved his chin back on his knees. “What happens to the tree?”
Mobius frowned. He hadn’t thought his metaphor through. He bought himself some time by glancing at the window. Then it came to him. “That tree? Right outside there? Well, it’s bending already. It’s branches would grow long and gnarled with pent-up sorrow, and it would stretch until it shattered the window glass and knocked over shelves on its quest to outgrow its sadness. That’s a lot of destruction, Loki. And it wouldn’t help anyone, least of all the tree.”
Loki nodded, uncertain, and Mobius knew the boy really didn’t understand. How could he? He was so young, with so much life left in him to live—if Mobius had anything to do with it.
Something hit the window. Mobius and Loki jumped and turned to look at the flurry of leaves crashing into the window thanks to an errant wind. The leaves should have been red and brown, but they were green—green as the grapes in the bowl. Mobius watched. Something deep in his gut stirred. Some knowing…
“Why do you grow your hair only over your lip?” came Loki’s voice. “Father says a warrior can’t be in between. Either grow a beard or have nothing at all on your face.”
Mobius huffed a laugh. He ran his fingers over his mustache. “Are you saying you want me to get rid of the ‘stache?”
“No,” Loki said quickly. “I just want to know.”
Mobius covered his mouth with his hand, repressing another laugh. Which was what he found himself doing most of the time with this specific Loki, who was insatiably curious. Mobius welcomed the questions; they kept the silence at bay.
Neither Loki nor Mobius made it much further in their books before it was time to depart. They emptied the bowl between them. Loki asked a few more questions, Mobius tried his best to provide satisfactory answers, and the torches on the walls flared to illuminate the dimming library.
Mobius rubbed his thumb along the curve of Yggdrasil’s trunk before shutting the book.
“Will you be back tomorrow?” Loki asked.
He smiled. “Of course, Loki. It’s a promise.”
The boy smiled back, stiffly, as if he had little practice with guileless flashes of teeth.
“I’ll be right here,” Mobius said. Which was his role in this time and space. A visiting scholar who had used the Bifrost to further his knowledge. He wasn’t the first nor the last to use that excuse as a way to sneak into Asgard, but it was close to the truth. Besides, he was here to get this Loki past one hurdle that had wrecked the trajectory of his life on this branch.
Tomorrow, L2078 would discover his true heritage. Earlier than the Sacred Timeline, but no less destructive. If the boy only had a friend. If he had someone to confide in precisely when the wound was most raw, then maybe…
Maybe L2078 could be a Loki Who Wins.
“I need Lokis who win,” Mobius whispered to the darkening library. The flames flickered. Pages rustled.
The light from the window turned green as it spilled across the floor. He rubbed his eyes, feeling tired, and called up his TemPad to go home.
Before he turned in for the night in his bungalow, Mobius stopped for one last look at the the branching timelines on the big screen at the TVA’s control room. A compulsive habit. Maybe bad for his indigestion. But without fail, he craned his neck at the screen and noted how much fuller the multiverse looked with all those new branches.
O.B. found him there. The smaller man carried the latest edits for the newest edition of the TVA Handbook. He kept a pencil tucked behind his ear that set his glasses at the crooked angle. “Mobius, hi! You’re here late. How’s it going?”
Mobius hummed and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Do you think he’s still in there?”
O.B. gave a little shrug. “‘Course. He is the multiverse now.”
“Yeah, but is he still himself?”
“You mean, did his body break down to pure energy and he’s running through all those branches like electricity—round and round, never stopping, because if he does, then we all die again?” O.B. rubbed his chin with his free hand. “Or perhaps he’s still separate from it all, watching over the branches on what? A mighty throne? Now that sounds like science fiction.”
Mobius grimaced. “Neither of those possibilities brings any comfort.”
“There is no comfort,” O.B. said softly.
No, there’s no comfort. Every muscle in his body stiffened. Those words. He knew them. Had heard them before. But when he searched his memory, it was like turning out empty pockets.
“What Loki did was nothing short of a sacrifice,” O.B. said. He set down his edits and looked up at Mobius. “We’re here because of him. But you already know that. So what’s really eating you?”
Mobius huffed. “It’s just that…lately, I’ve been noticing strange things.”
O.B. waited. Patient. Trusting. A true friend.
“I’m not sure what they are. I worry that I’m just delusional. Looking for signs my own mind is supplying me with.”
“What exactly are you seeing, Mobius?”
“Green.” Mobius took a shaky breath. “Green in the morning light. Green haloing the corners of my vision, like something’s just out of sight. Then today, on the branch—green leaves hit the library window. In the dead of autumn, O.B. I wanna believe that all of this means…”
“You don’t have to say it. I know.” O.B. said.
“What do you think? Am I losing it?”
“This is a fiction question. Do you know what a fictional character would do in your shoes? He’d test the waters.”
“What does that mean?”
“Have you tried talking to Loki? Out loud?”
Mobius’s eyes flicked up at the screen. Nothing changed. He couldn’t see a drop of green the screen wasn’t already producing.
O.B. nodded, pleased with his own conclusion and said, “Try it. See if anything happens.”
Mobius felt heat crawl up his neck. He had a habit of talking to himself when he was alone… which was an awful lot these days. Would it be that much of a stretch to talk to someone specific? Someone he missed with a terrible ache?
“You never know, Mobius. He may have found a way to communicate. It’s more than we’ve discovered. The End of Time is still unreachable for us. We haven’t found even a hint in the records of how to get there. So in the meantime, maybe this is the way he’s finding us. Or, well, you. You’re on the branches more than anyone these days.”
Mobius’s hands shook when he punched in the coordinates and stepped into his living room. The dull roar of the ocean at night filled his ears. The moon didn’t glow green. A horned apparition did not manifest while he scraped dinner together.
He slipped between the sheets and in the silence, tried to talk to the god. His throat shut like a steel trap. Tears slid down his face and he turned over, burying his face in his pillow.