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#8

[The recording flickers on to the ground, and the toes of red and white skater shoes, flanked by the tattered hems of a pair of jeans. The camera sways, the recorder's attention elsewhere, and there's a peek at a pair of sleek stiletto high heels on a woman's feet. Off-screen, Travis sniggers –– he just can't help it. When he speaks, he's thoroughly self-satisfied:]

Play nice, okay?

[When the camera is finally pulled up, it drags along a pair of long, stockinged legs until it's fixed on a beautiful young woman with long blonde hair. Rouged cheeks, long lashes, the whole package –– she pouts for the camera like a pro. She's wearing a blouse with bishop sleeves and what would normally be a pussybow collar, but it's worn open to the ribs, low enough to reveal the gore of her bra. (It might be a little familiar.)

She is flesh and blood and bone. No foam to be found here.]

What do you think of the ship so far, Sylvia? Sweet digs, right?

[Sylvia tosses her hair over her shoulder, rolling her eyes. When she speaks, it’s with a French accent and an attitude.]

It is a prison. I’ve seen worse. One of you had better be a trained manicurist!

[Travis scoffs and wheels the camera around so he's in the shot, too. He reaches an arm out to her. She checks her nails and sighs before stepping under Travis’s arm, wrapping her own around him and resting her head against his chest. She pouts, turning big doe eyes up at him.]

At least I have you, darling. You’ll protect me, right?

[Travis's eyes widen briefly, but he doubles down to declare:]

Of course, baby. Best ten tickets I ever spent.

[Yes, this is the most obnoxious video the network will ever have. Fortunately, it is over: the feed cuts off there. Just be glad Travis isn't into PDA.

 And no, Travis has not become a VFX specialist. Sylvia, a flesh and blood human being who is totally not someone else, can be found with Travis around the ship. Maybe you'll catch them eating lunch together with food taken from the mess hall, with Travis waving down anyone who shows even a glimmer of interest to introduce his wife. Maybe you've stepped into the observatory and found them on a weird little "date", arguing about the multiverse –– Travis seems to approach the subject from a purely sci-fantasy approach, while Sylvia's take is more grounded in reality. Or you've just stepped into the gym, and here's Sylvia bored as Travis lifts increasingly heavy things in an attempt to impress her. Or just around!! You do you!! In-person meetings may happen before the network post because William is gonna come down on Travis' ass ASAP after this post.]

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Sylvia coos but somehow manage to make it sound sarcastic, "You always take such good care of me."

He should probably be discouraging, uh, killing people for money, but then again that isn't inherently a bad thing, right? Loki can't judge without context. He thinks. This is a moral question to ask the other wardens when he's wearing something less revealing.

"In my experience, humanity is always more concerned with itself than anything else." He likely wouldn't have gotten so far with New York if anyone other than SHIELD had any awareness of life beyond Midgard. "They'd probably put a little team together. One for each country, or something. Then those teams would probably end up fighting each other more than the robots."

Such good care. Woof, what a statement. Travis nods, and his gaze settles somewhere around Sylvia's cleavage. That's allowed, right? He's looking at his wife's tits, technically.

"Yeah, sounds about right," he replies. "That's fucking grim, though. We'd get annihilated because we were too wrapped up in politics. And that goes for anything, right? Aliens, zombies, mole people..."

Something about it rubs him the wrong way. No, besides that.

The full face of makeup, impeccably applied. The use of Travis' communicator—to be honest, the fact that she'd let him hold it. When William checks the ship's manifest she's nowhere to be found; when he checks the dorms there's no newly arrived selection of designer clothes. (There is, however, a familiar foam form laid out on Travis' bunk behind a drawn curtain.)

As he follows the tracker—showing inhumanly fast movements in rigid lines reminiscent of, well, a video game—he reflects that he should have skipped the footwork, gone with his gut. The post had been smug. There'd been none of the happiness—stomach-churning as it had been—he'd glimpsed when Travis first introduced Sylvia.

He enters the storage facility quietly—not that it matters much, humming as it is with activity. The machinery drowns out most of what's being said, though he catches the cadence, the lilt of it. He watches the tracker a moment, gauging how fast Travis is moving, what direction. Entertains for a short, pleasurable moment the idea of bringing the machine to a smoldering halt with a stun bolt.

Who does he know who's fucking smug?

He calls Loki.

"Funny you should mention aliens--" she observes just before getting cut off by an alert from her CommLink. His CommLink. "Hold on."

He plucks it out from where'd tucked it into his bra (which thank God he was able to conjure that for himself, at least), frowning when he sees who it is. On the one hand, it isn't Jack so he's not obligated to answer. On the other, curiosity and cats.

Switching fully to his own voice, he answers, "Yes, William?"

Travis winces. Not because of William –– William is inevitable –– but because hearing Loki's voice coming out of his wife's body breaks the illusion a little.

"Come on, babe, you're taking a call now?"

Like he can course correct.

Oh dear God he hopes William doesn't hear that. He's talked too much about his own desire to have some kind of moral code around here and sleeping with an inmate (and Travis, of all of them?) is a really bad look.

Glaring, he slaps a far-too-small hand over Travis' mouth. Shut! Up!

The background noise is confirmation enough.

William's voice is—well, it's competing with a similar ambient mechanical rumble, but it's even and toneless to the point of severity. "I have a message for you. From the Navarch."

The pause is deliberate.

Loki sits up more fully, eyes wide. "What? Why? What?"

His mind is racing with possibilities, none of them good. Shit, she probably heard about him threatening Malekith. Shit shit shit.

William steps forward, past the crates lining the entrance—supplies for dinner, probably—and peers out into the wide aisle machines zip up and down. Maybe they'll catch sight of him, if they happen to be sharp-eyed, attuned to movement.

"Get the fuck off that forklift." He enunciates carefully, the words grim. "And if he's hurt coming down, on your head be it."

Travis turns at the voice, lifting himself up off his elbows to sit up.

“Huh?” There’s a note of confusion as he adds: “Hurt?”

Somehow that feels more pressing than getting caught sitting on a forklift with a warden “dressed” like his wife.

Loki closes his eyes, wincing. This might be worse, actually. If only because he's pretty certain this is just William enacting his own judgment.

When he opens them again, he looks like himself. A nervous version of himself, but still. Lifting the CommLink once again, he says, "You'll have to be more specific about which 'he' you think has been injured."

But he's already moving to drop down onto the ground, disappearing his CommLink in favor of looking for wherever William is. When he spots him, he shouts over the din, "It was just a bit of fun."

So Loki folds like a house of cards. Travis rolls his eyes and hauls himself up his feet.

The jump off the machine is hardly graceful, and he ends up jogging a few steps after the landing just to not trip on his face, but he recovers quickly and jams his thumbs in his belt. He’ll let Loki make the excuses —- he doesn’t have any for a bit of fun.

The forklift continues on its way; William eyes it a second before turning his gaze on Travis, looking him over. Watching him walk a few steps until he's satisfied he's all right. Loki receives a cursory once-over.

He leads them out of the warehouse, away from the noise and rumble. A bit of fun grates on him—a schoolboy excuse, well-worn. At least Loki isn't smiling. “Fucking up is one thing. Needing someone to explain how—that's inmate shit.” His voice is contained. There's some trouble along the line of his jaw—he studies Loki a long, long moment.

“What was funny about it?” Barely a question. He tips his head toward Travis. “Tell us both.”

That stings. He knows he's less of a monster than he once was, and the implication that this is enough to send him back in that direction means much more coming from someone who knows.

At William's question, he raises his gaze from where he'd unconsciously dropped it, glancing between Travis and William. Then does it again, confusion furrowing his brow.

Is this a trick question?

"I mean, this we did together. This-- the last broadcast. People thought the foam figure came to life." That's what is funny. Does William not get that? Really?

But then he considers Travis. How he could have taken it. The point he had been trying to make.

"Oh..." Pause. "Shit."

He's such a condescending asshole.

Travis has never had a good poker face in these kinds of low-stakes situations. It got him hauled out of class for his attitude as a kid and into his teens, and has lost him plenty of gigs into his adulthood. As such, he just stands there with an openly confused look on his face, pondering why this is such a big deal.

He looks between the two of them.

“What? We had a good time, and look at her. She’s—” Travis gestures at Loki, which occurs to him as a rather useless gesture, given its visibly Loki. He forgets what he’s about to say. Okay, redirect. “People can’t seriously be bent out of shape about this.”

Loki clears his throat. "Yes, well. I'm not sure who all knows, at this point. But if they do, this is perhaps not the best way for them to find out that there is a warden who can shapeshift into other people."

For starters. The more immediate thing is a little harder to admit in present company.

He turns a little to face Travis more directly. "As...fun as the joke was, I did intend to teach you a lesson with it. Initially."

His eyes cut to William, not sure if this will make him less or more annoyed.

"I meant to remind you that there are people back home who would want you to focus on getting back to them. And that they-- and everyone else here --aren't objects for your amusement." Even if teasing Rhys was really amusing.

"But that was...very obviously deceptive and manipulative. Now that I say it aloud." He inclines his head, contrite. "I apologize, Travis."

Loki's a talker; sometimes it's best to let them talk themselves out. It helps that there's no attempt to lay on the charm or gloss over what went on. As the explanation goes on, though, William's expression becomes increasingly pinched. He blinks—glances to Travis, as if to confirm they're hearing the same thing. When the whole thing's over he takes a step back. Like Loki's a piece of modern art and he's not sure what the fuck he's looking at.

He has a strong desire to put his head in his hands, or turn and walk away.

“You thought,” he says, his voice low and precise, “that by letting him feel you up on the network and go for a joyride, you were teaching him to focus on the reasons he's here? You thought that by playing everyone on the ship for fools, making them witness an inmate cuddling up to a warden in lingerie, you were teaching him not to use people as objects for his amusement?”

His tone doesn't dip into sarcasm, tempting as it is. He regards Loki levelly, flicks a look to Travis. “Is that what you got from this?”

Travis listens to the explanation with raised eyebrows, caught somewhere between surprise and acceptance. Every time William looks at him, he tries to put on some sort of show of deeper consideration, if only because he gets the vibe this should bother him, but hey, he's been fucked over worse before.

"Dude, I didn't get any of that," he says, "I thought we were just having some fun."

No harm done, right?

Loki winces as William reads it all back to him, teeth gritting.

"That's how it started. Then Travis suggested we play a prank and it-- it sounded harmless enough."

The defensiveness in his tone shifts a little, going melancholy as he thinks through it all. He shrugs, crosses his arms across his chest.

"I suppose I missed my warden, a bit." His eyes stay resolutely on anything but either of the other men. "And I was looking for a distraction from...recent developments. Selfishly. So it got out of control."

His brow furrows as he continues, mostly to himself. "And it's been a while since..." He clears his throat, glancing up again. No need to get into that. William might understand the complexities of gender expression but he gets the feeling Travis would make it, well, weird.

"I'm not the God of Role Models, alright? I've got some...bad habits. And this hasn't been the best couple weeks." He blows out a breath. "So. Thank you. William. For jogging me out of it."

He licks his lips nervously. "Are you going to ask the Navarch to demote me, or...?"

He stops himself from running a hand through his hair. Waits for Loki to work up the courage to meet his eyes. There's nothing comforting there, no reassurance—William frowns and cocks his head, indicating they should step out of Travis' earshot. “Stay right here,” he says to Travis.

This is the second time he's ditched him to talk to a warden.

Once they've shaved off a sliver of privacy, he sighs. It's guarded, his gaze fixed on Loki. “None of them know what it was like. But you were there.” He swallows, works his jaw as if around a broken tooth. “You can't—this isn't about you. You know how many times I saw inmates forgotten because some warden decided it was time for their bullshit to take center stage? You have to handle your shit. You can't make them answer for it. Talk to someone. Hell, talk to him”—a vague gesture in Travis' direction—“but you can't decide to mask your bullshit with someone else's. I don't care if you're a god where you come from or a fucking mailman, wardens don't do that.”

He shoots a glance in Travis' direction, lets out another sigh. “Tell me why you should be here. What you have to offer.”

Travis opens up his mouth to protest, and even starts taking step forward to follow, but he doesn't. Instead he meanders, never straying out of eyesight, but occasionally stopping to look back at the two, like a dog waiting outside a shop.

As Loki follows William away, he's struck by how similar this feels to getting a scolding from his mother. Norns, he really regressed, didn't he?

He listens attentively to William, which is clear in the myriad emotions passing over his face at every word. This is humiliating. William is right-- he shouldn't need to be told to be better than the wardens on the Barge.

But maybe he isn't.

When William asks what he has to offer, that's where his mind lands. Maybe nothing. Maybe this was a mistake, just as much as Malekith's presence feels like a mistake. He scrubs a hand over his face, takes a deep breath to try and force himself to think of something. Something that makes him worthwhile.

William really couldn't have asked a more difficult question. Honestly, the thing that begins drawing him out of the self-loathing spiral is the fact that he feels ashamed rather than insulted and enraged. That's...something. That's proof that he has become less of a unrepentant asshole, at the least.

Tentatively, eyes flicking between William's and the floor, he starts, "Well. Experience, like you said. Knowledge of the worst I've seen, both in inmates and wardens." He licks his lips. "And with how floods and ports can go, I can fight. I can get people out of the way of danger." A hesitation, then, "And, respectfully, though this--" He gestures vaguely around the room and back at Travis. "--was misguided, perhaps a sense of humor is exactly what some inmates need. You know how self-serious some of them are. It's...good, to laugh at yourself, sometimes. It humbles you."

He's not going to be laughing about this anytime soon, but it was part of the initial idea. Tease someone into recognizing their faults when pointing them out directly would only lead to defensiveness. It worked. Sometimes. He's certainly feeling humbled, particularly given he had been so dedicated to ignoring Malekith's presence that he hadn't really considered how he would react if Loki was caught doing this.

"I think...I think that might be the main thing, actually. For both of us, really. Proof that you can improve enough to get your second chance, but you still fuck up and have to try again. So if you fuck up while you're an inmate, it doesn't mean you're a lost cause." He meets William's gaze more steadily, now. "I didn't think I was capable of graduating, at first, but I managed. So, maybe not a role model, exactly, but. An example."

He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow as he points out, "Besides, if wardens were meant to be infallible, I doubt the Navarch would have hired the literal devil."

William tries to keep Travis in his periphery, but his gaze doesn't waver from Loki—let him fucking squirm. His expression yields nothing as he listens, clamping down on his impatience with every nervous tic and hesitation. If there's consolation to be found, it's in the fact that he does listen, absorb what's said.

He doesn't agree with some of it—most of it. But it's an argument, better than Loki telling William what he thinks he wants to hear. Far better than a warden who doesn't think about these things at all.

“They're not the joke,” he says, his voice tight. “And you should try talking to them before you go playing Lear's fucking fool. It's not as flashy and you don't get anywhere near the attention, but who cares? If it means they spend one less month here.” He breathes out, looks over to Travis.

“Okay. In the name of fucking up and trying again, I want you to go to Warden Command”—he points down the hall—“and write a report on this shit you pulled. I'm gonna talk to the Navarch about your powers.”

He almost turns to go, stops himself at the last moment. “I know it's a lot of pressure, but it's invaluable, what you can give them. It could make all the difference.”

Edited 2022-03-27 13:03 (UTC)

Loki's eyes widen. "My pow--" he begins, but stops when William speak again, immediately feeling chastened. This isn't about him. He takes a deep breath and nods.

"Understood." And then, hesitantly, he adds, "Thank you, William."

It's sincere, but it's all he can manage at the moment.

William nods—it's slight—and flicks a glance toward Warden Command. Then he turns away and paces toward his inmate, his attention shifting to Travis; no need to watch Loki slink off with his tail between his legs.

“I didn't tell him to apologize, so if he does...” A shrug. “It's from him.” He eyes Travis a moment—stymied as ever by the omnipresent sunglasses. How the fuck are they still on?

“I'm taking it away,” he says without relish. Subdued. “This is lunacy.” He looks Travis over again, mouth twisting into something between a wince and a frown. “It didn't bother you? What he did?”

#8

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