and of course it's fancy dress, and they're all looking quite full on in bunny ears and devil horns
tonight there'll be a ruckus, yeah,
regardless of what's gone before'>
It's startling, really, the rapidity with which Loki Laufeyson stopped toeing the line after his release. First he'd slipped off the radar with what he hoped was frankly irritating ease, taking up residence -- or rather, residences, since one would never be sufficient to keep him hidden for long -- on Earth. And then, once that storm had calmed?
Well, then he'd started with the fun. Mischief and mayhem. Plots plotted, enacted, thwarted; all in a day's fun, really. It had, of course, been tense at first. It wasn't as though anything were going to entirely erase what he'd done, that frankly atrocious lapse in judgement which had lead him to think it not only clever but actually desirable to conquer and rule an entire planet. It hadn't been mind control. He couldn't blame that. Someone had knocked his internal gyroscope out of balance ages ago, most likely. He just hadn't managed to jump the tracks until then.
And now? Now he's mostly his own man. Mostly.
He's a pretty cozy deal cut out for himself, actually, the whole thing utterly implicit as it necessarily must be. Putting such a thing in writing would be unwise on so many levels. Nevertheless there's now a comfortable stalemate between himself and SHIELD's crack, possibly cracked-out team of walking weapons. Loki doesn't try too hard to kill any of them, which naturally implies that he not try to hard to win, and they don't try too hard to find him. It's a comfortable enough situation for all involved that he and Barton can frequent the same coffee shop, generally without incident. The one time there happened to be one Loki had made up for it by delivering some slightly outdated plans for Victor von Doom's latest doppelgänger robots to Stark Tower. He'd made up for that by delivering to Doom a very powerful and very ancient artifact, and he'd conveniently neglected to mention that the man had no hopes of learning to harness it within this lifetime. Everybody's happy. Everybody wins.
Well, except Victor, but frankly he's long needed that blow to his ego.
The point is, it's all rather nice. Nicer than Loki has had in a long time.
Currently, in fact, it's particularly nice, as he's in the plotting and reconnaissance stages of a new bit of mischief, which at the moment mostly means following Tony Stark (information filed under codename "Egobot, The") from venue to venue for expensive gala after expensive gala and copious amounts of alcohol. He's careful, mostly. Wears a new face every time. Never orders the same drinks or engages in conversation with the same people, though the latter has mostly to do with the fact that they're all boring.
Quite a lot of them are bored, too, and yet they show up to these events night after night after night. Well, soon enough he'll give them all some excitement. Next time. Next time.
For tonight he's had his fill, slips into the restroom to slip his skin, to put his own face back on, and slips out into the lobby of the ridiculously overpriced hotel (roaches and nonhumans both in the kitchens -- if only the guests knew; he'd love to watch their petty outrage, as though there's not a thing worse in the world than insects and fae) and sucks in a breath of air, the chatter fading behind him and a faint, confident smirk on his face. Like Stuttgart, but better. Tonight he won't end up in a cage. Loki straightens his scarf and his jacket and makes for the door, out stand on the steps and take in the filth and the din of a New York night.
regardless of what's gone before'>
It's startling, really, the rapidity with which Loki Laufeyson stopped toeing the line after his release. First he'd slipped off the radar with what he hoped was frankly irritating ease, taking up residence -- or rather, residences, since one would never be sufficient to keep him hidden for long -- on Earth. And then, once that storm had calmed?
Well, then he'd started with the fun. Mischief and mayhem. Plots plotted, enacted, thwarted; all in a day's fun, really. It had, of course, been tense at first. It wasn't as though anything were going to entirely erase what he'd done, that frankly atrocious lapse in judgement which had lead him to think it not only clever but actually desirable to conquer and rule an entire planet. It hadn't been mind control. He couldn't blame that. Someone had knocked his internal gyroscope out of balance ages ago, most likely. He just hadn't managed to jump the tracks until then.
And now? Now he's mostly his own man. Mostly.
He's a pretty cozy deal cut out for himself, actually, the whole thing utterly implicit as it necessarily must be. Putting such a thing in writing would be unwise on so many levels. Nevertheless there's now a comfortable stalemate between himself and SHIELD's crack, possibly cracked-out team of walking weapons. Loki doesn't try too hard to kill any of them, which naturally implies that he not try to hard to win, and they don't try too hard to find him. It's a comfortable enough situation for all involved that he and Barton can frequent the same coffee shop, generally without incident. The one time there happened to be one Loki had made up for it by delivering some slightly outdated plans for Victor von Doom's latest doppelgänger robots to Stark Tower. He'd made up for that by delivering to Doom a very powerful and very ancient artifact, and he'd conveniently neglected to mention that the man had no hopes of learning to harness it within this lifetime. Everybody's happy. Everybody wins.
Well, except Victor, but frankly he's long needed that blow to his ego.
The point is, it's all rather nice. Nicer than Loki has had in a long time.
Currently, in fact, it's particularly nice, as he's in the plotting and reconnaissance stages of a new bit of mischief, which at the moment mostly means following Tony Stark (information filed under codename "Egobot, The") from venue to venue for expensive gala after expensive gala and copious amounts of alcohol. He's careful, mostly. Wears a new face every time. Never orders the same drinks or engages in conversation with the same people, though the latter has mostly to do with the fact that they're all boring.
Quite a lot of them are bored, too, and yet they show up to these events night after night after night. Well, soon enough he'll give them all some excitement. Next time. Next time.
For tonight he's had his fill, slips into the restroom to slip his skin, to put his own face back on, and slips out into the lobby of the ridiculously overpriced hotel (roaches and nonhumans both in the kitchens -- if only the guests knew; he'd love to watch their petty outrage, as though there's not a thing worse in the world than insects and fae) and sucks in a breath of air, the chatter fading behind him and a faint, confident smirk on his face. Like Stuttgart, but better. Tonight he won't end up in a cage. Loki straightens his scarf and his jacket and makes for the door, out stand on the steps and take in the filth and the din of a New York night.