2550/Bibliophiles in Babel

Bibliophiles in Babel
Date of Scene:	23 September 2017
Location:	West Harlem - Mercy's Garage
Synopsis:	A box of books contains some surprises for Loki and Mercy.
Cast of Characters:	Loki, Mercy Thompson

---

Loki has posed:
A jaw-cracking yawn announces someone arriving from the dregs of a nap. Was he here all along, ensconced on a couch in what seems to be his home away from home in multiple dimensions? Well, yes. Asleep with a sword and a pillow made out of a rucksack that smells strongly of oil and a particular camphor blend doesn't mark the typical situation for Loki, but then he trusts being stowed away in a corner causes no trouble for anyone.

Besides, after some of the things he's done, he needs that nap. It's been a while.

His dark hair is mussed, he needs a comb, and it still looks remarkably lovely. A slant of his golden crown, curled golden horns, gets a flat glare in the reflection of glass. "Oh, bother, go away. Not now." A wave of his hand banishes the crown away.

Don't need to broadcast to everyone what and who he is.

"Mercy," he raises his voice to a rattling call, "I'm hoooome!"

Someone has seen I Love Lucy. Dread!

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Home away from home.

The garage has been the 'home away from home' for several people of late. It's only now, with everyone rescued, that the garage has fallen back into its regular rhythms. Solitude and silence has nestled within its hallowed walls, with only a cat's meow and the occassional clang of metal upon metal disturbing the peace. Thankfully, that 'quiet' won't last too long, not when a particular Trickster arrives.

Between one second and the next, Mercy and Medea find themselves no longer alone. A familiar voice unexpectedly saying a well-known line causes the coyote to straighten from her current task. The task of digging through a very large gray shipping crate full of books.

A handful of those books are then grabbed and tucked beneath an arm, as the mechanic now moves between work benches and cabinets, toward the sound of Loki's voice.

When she finds the tousled hair prince, there is of course a welcoming smile, and then a quirk of a grin, as the coyote says. "Never took you for an I Love Lucy fan. Please tell me you also liked Candid Camera?" As she draws closer the hint of magic intensifies, with the motes of long completed spells, enchantments and cantrips clinging to the leather and paper tomes.

Her gaze lifts briefly to his mussed hair, "I like what you did with your hair. It's a very laid-back and relaxed look."

Loki has posed:
"It should be. Holiday is a time for relaxing." The irony indicates without fail Loki has been doing anything but a holiday, and probably explains yet another abandonment after the use of the Mind stone. Bad man, him.

He mustn't be seen on the side of the victors too many time, or it might draw out his brother to equalize the balance. Yes, well, Thor never did like it when Loki achieved anything shinier than Mjolnir.

Fingers dabbled in front of Medea provide the essential greeting for her discerning tastes. He carelessly takes several steps forward to the coyote, and takes in her, the books, and everything in a single burning emerald look. "Taken to reading to replace me in my absence? Not the worst way to handle the pining, I grant you. Better than all the other ways you might take matters into your own hands to remain amused."

It's impossible to resist sniffing the aural spectrum and taking in the magical signatures, a moth to the flame on that front. His pupils dilate slightly as he peers into the myriad magical fields thrown about, taking to it naturally as one can. "That is rather... Dusty. Have you taken up collecting?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
At his words about holiday, Mercy's head cants slightly to the side, that head-tilt very reminiscent of the coyote that hides within. It's both a curious and skeptical gesture upon her part, with both of those opposing emotions holding equal parts within that motion.

The wiggle of fingers provides Medea with a moment of interest, but only that. Enough that she'll open reflective green-gold eyes for a second, evalute the offered greeting, before the cat ultimately closes her eyes again. Cats, such fickle creatures. Which is something Loki is likely familiar with.

When he moves closer, Mercy will likewise step nearer as well. It's enough that she'll reach out a hand for a light touch to his arm, though perhaps her touch stalls midway at the words he speaks. His words are enough to bring an eyebrow high upward upon her forehead, as she says with playful humor. "Right, because there's only so many ways to amuse yourself when you're all alone."

A flash of a grin is back upon her lips with those words of hers, before the conversation turns towards those books she holds. Automatically she'll look down at the four or five books she holds. "No, not collecting. It's more along the lines of research." And now her expression turns slightly grim, "Hydra found something magical. Something old, powerful and terrible, and they got away with it when we were rescuing Claire. Now we're trying to figure out what it is. I had the pack send some books up. I'm hoping it'll be in one of these."

Loki has posed:
He ought to show better restraint than he does, but he's a creature of impulse on the whole. Forget the cat, forget the box of books.

Mostly forget the box of books. He'll get back to those. A casual spell executed by twitching his fingers in a round pattern, twisting his wrist to unleash telekinetic force.

There. Let it float. He'll care about that after he sweeps the coyote up into his arms if she permits that violation of her personal space. Mercy gets a say in things, after all, and it might be awkward if she yelped or bit him. Honest, he'll get around to causing that one day. But not for the moment, when re-establishing connection by scent and touch and sound matter greatly.

"You're deliberately baiting me. Is this how you go about dangling catnip in front of your trusty sentry? Cruel game. Wolves may play it, but..." He trails off, laughing. Oh, it's Hydra, yes yes yes. Bad and terrible. But.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Those books float and Mercy now finds her arms completely free.

For a moment, at least.

Then she finds herself in Loki's arms and while there might be a flicker of surprise, at the Trickster's speed, there's hardly any other protests from Mercy.

His words (and actions) lighten Mercy's expression considerably, going so far as to pull a grin from the woman. Those momentary thoughts of Hydra forgotten for now.

Even as her expression still holds that playful note to it, and that grin, Mercy will rearrange her expression to something thoughtful. "Maybe -" She begins, her arms moving to encircle his neck, "It was slightly deliberate. Yes, there's a real possibility it was." And while he offers those other words of catnip and trusted sentry, and games and wolves, Mercy's initial response is to lean upward to place a light kiss upon his lips.

And whether he deepens the kiss or allows it to stay light, when it ends, Mercy will add, "Besides, you're not the only mischief-maker around here. Clearly, I should get in on the fun every now and then."

Loki has posed:
Once upon a time, there was a very naughty God who did terrible things. That god deserved little but trouble for all the awful things he did, like occasionally invade New York or try to usurp his cattle prince of a brother. And it was not a happy time.

Gladly //that// bad god ended up conveniently reborn by a previous incarnation - or a future one - to be the Trickster of the moment, able to appreciate such things as cats, lattes, and tanned women of aboriginal extraction able to pursue wonderful things with a wrench or a gun or a magic book.

Life will eventually try to kick him in the teeth. He's counting on it. But Loki also has the joy of actually holding something in his arms that isn't a priceless artifact and believe it may actually give a care about him, without strings attached or Odin making his life miserable. He'll take it.

So much for scooting a few steps to a seat or wall or workhorse, for that matter. He merely assures she's quite stable up there, that mercury maid of Mercy, and tilts back a bit to assure she's fully visible. "Research is the first step of collecting. The third is admitting what you are doing," he chides her, shaking his head.

"They found something old. Fortunate that you know someone who remembers time before there was time, and happens to have a few debts owed to older things than us. Might be worth pursuing if your father isn't playing nice." Cause that worked out so well last time. "Have you read into any of it?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Such is life. Moments of peace disrupted by disorder. It's the lot in life for everyone; including trickster gods.

Chaos is something that can rarely be controlled. It doesn't matter how much a person thinks they're in command, in reality they're not. They're only there for the ride, however brief or long it is.

Tucked safely in his arms, Mercy contents herself with being held, even as she tilts her head slightly to likewise keep him in view. Or at least, his face.

His mussed hair finally brings one of Mercy's hands upward, a pause with that gesture, to make sure he's okay with it. If he is, then she'll tuck a few strands away from his face. If not, then she'll simply slip her hand back down. His chiding words are met with amusement look from Mercy, "I'll take your word for it." She states, even as she continues with, "But I'm sure I'll be in deep denial about any new bad habits I may or have recently acquired."

His last words bring Mercy back to the present, or rather, back to the subject of Hydra and their terrible-no-good-magical item. Her expression flattens again, to something of dark worry and concern. "We should talk with Claire, she actually had direct experience with the thing. She mentioned the shard was broken. She said the shard wanted to burn and explode through the humans. They actually had to contrive a liquid medium to allow them to touch the thing." As she speaks, Mercy twists slightly within his arms and looks towards those floating books; one in particular. "She said it was glass-like. I've been looking for mentions of artifacts that are glass, crystal, or stone. There's a few that I've earmarked as possibilities -"

The book she's reaching for might give the impression of an old world bible. The leather and bindings are thick and aged and while an echo of brown can still be seen upon the front cover, the book is mostly black now. Like the other books this particular one gives off a hum of magic. Something long and forgotten, something that's been dormant for a very long time. Just waiting, biding it's time for something to reawaken it.

That awakening happens now. Specificaly when Mercy's hand touches upon the spine of the book. The link between her and Loki seems to be the catalyst. There are now two people within the room and something within the trappings of the book senses that stirs.

That stirring might give Loki a second of warning, but only that, as suddenly a spell activates from the aged pages. It unfolds like a flower, a deadly thing, tightly rolled in itself, before it blossoms and reaches out to the two within the garage. The spell itself moves to wrap tightly around both, ensnaring them in its grip.

A grip that immediately puts pressure upon a person. To talk. To tell. To speak. To confess.

Far in the past, when the Spanish Inquisition was alive and thriving, a few of the more unscrupulous and insane members created a spell. A spell to be used to easily identify heretics. Yes, using magic was likely heretical in its ownself, but for the pious and the righteous any and all 'tools' needed to be used were used, and surely that made it right and 'godly'.

It was justified.

Loki has posed:
The world can go preoccupy itself with men who wear iron masks or have orange hair and a penchant for shouting at everything.

Loki simply contents himself to hold Mercy for a few minutes. They can still talk; he would be devastatingly dull if he couldn't manage those two things at once. Wrapping his arm protectively around her shoulder, he holds her fairly close and refamiliarizes himself with everything about Mercy Thompson, favourite human, coyote's daughter and best of bakers.

He's not fool enough to shut his eyes entirely, nodding. "Most of those relics have poor records at best. Though something that would unleash fire? I can see the appeal of glass or crystal as a likely medium." Certainly it's what Asgard would do. Nope, doesn't have a pile of murderous stones, him.

It's when the book awakens that he frowns, his head snapping up and those dark locks he let her tuck behind his ear -- always welcome, that -- swing free again. A frown carves out a hard line, and he doesn't bother shouting about that presence. Not really.

But godly according to //which// god? The multitudes in the world and creation at large may have something to say about that. He'll have a personal statement when wrapped up in the tight rings of confession that force truth, in a way only experienced truly once before. And nothing to do with Wonder Woman.

Confess, confess, you wretched thing, confess //what//?

"Ares would be better than my brother at hammering things, he at least had a respectable construction job" is probably not exactly what it had in mind.

"I want to recklessly ride a lawnmower over the posh estates on Long Island," also not especially confessional.

Then, for the record, "I filched the last baked cookie so Bucky couldn't have it. He did not //deserve// it."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Which god. Why the one and only true God.

At least, to the people of that era, that religion and that particular mindset.

The two within the garage surely realize there are many more gods, and goddesses about. That inherent knowledge, however, doesn't seem to aid them against the spell's pull.

Like Loki, Mercy feels the sudden flare of the spell when her fingers touch the book. Her immediate response is to drop that book and unless snagged by that telekinetic spell of Loki's again, it'll drop with a heavy thud. While other spells might have stopped, once she let go of the book, this one doesn't. It continues to grow, to unfurl, to exert that pressure upon both.

That pressure brings Mercy's gaze back around to Loki, a warning forming upon her lips. Not that he needs it, but there she is. Striving to warn Loki against the spark of a spell appearing. However, those words of hers are silenced. That doesn't stop the coyote from struggling to say them. Her eyebrows knit with the force of her concentration, but soon enough her attention is pulled away and to Loki again. When he speaks. His words cause her expression to turn surprised and if this were any other time, she'd likely laugh at what he just said. As it is, all the mechanic can do is try to say, 'What's going on'.

What really is said, however, is, "Cookies - I like to eat raw cookie dough."

And then, "And sometimes I double-dip the spoon too."

Anger (and possibly embarrassment) colors the coyote's expression now. It's almost enough to cause the woman to want to stomp her foot in irritation. Instead it earns a noise of annoyance.

And when the two confess they'll feel a momentarily lightening of the pressure upon their minds, their tongues, but after a second that pressure rears back again. Doubly-so. The spell is looking for more. One confession doesn't equal all their sins, it seems.

Both Loki and Mercy will find the longer they try to resist the harder the spell tries to force them. It starts as little needle pricks upon their skin, within their minds. Little daggers of magic, to 'encourage' the person to continue to tell all.

Again, the coyote struggles to say something more, but no, it's not happening. Not just yet. "A spell -" She edges out, but then, "I wish I could do magic like you. Being a coyote isn't always that helpful."

Mercy Thompson just grimaces and throws in an eyeroll for good measure.

Loki has posed:
Confess, screams the spell, and bids them do it. Some part of the Trickster, whose nature is storytelling, can endure it. So is he the father of lies, the Trickster, the teller of half truths and bombastic claims.

How dare this try to judge and accuse? A construct of dead and vanished priests to a god that hasn't been around in any sense for aeons. How dare it?

"My favourite colour is green."

"Blue?"

"Maybe a nice chartreuse?"

"It could be jade, I'm not sure. Let me think."

"Violet _is_ rather pretty."

"Copper, though, delightful. Is it finer than -- yes, bronze is not superior."

"Auburn is overrated."

"I have contempt for costumes of full yellow."

"Gold is not yellow."

"But is buttercup?"

He's going to drive it insane. Changing his mind multiple times is an essential facet of what and who Loki is. Maybe it ends well. Maybe not.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy's expression briefly brightens at what Loki says, or does. She understands what he's doing and as such, she goes with something similar. "Volkswagens are the best brand of cars. Everything else is sub-par. In fact -" Mercy continues, warming to her subject, "I find other cars brands boring. Though I never tell my customers that. I need their business."

For both Mercy and Loki, that pressure eases with the amount of 'sins' they confessed, but - because there always is one - that lightening of the heavy hand of 'God' only lasts a second. Then it intensifies.

It can't be said that the spell is aware, but there's something within its long chain of sigils and symbols that knows Loki and now Mercy is attempting to thwart it. Circumvent its intended use. That the two are playing a game with truths and half-truths. Half-confessions. It's similar to a lie through omission. And the spell in some way understands this.

The magic rears, like a snake, and with sharp fangs it latches upon both. Those pinpricks of pain that were scittering up and down their arms vanishes. Not for long, however. What replaces it is something harsher. The sharp edge of pain will flare brightly behind eyes, within the head. Similar to a terrible migraine, but all throughout. And with that constant need to speak. The Inquisitors knew there would be those stubborn people who wouldn't speak. Not with just the spell putting pressure upon them. So, the pain was twined in with the compulsion to confess.

Along with the pain, a mantra begins -

'Tell your secrets!'

'Say them!'

'Only then will you be cleansed.'

While Mercy is a demi-god of some sort, she has yet to learn of any real protections against this type of magic. So, it's enough that the coyote gasps a strangled sound. Then her mouth closes with an audible click. Her light-brown eyes have narrowed, as she tries not to bend to anything more than the frivolous things they've currently admitted to.

And while her words aren't necessarily a confession (just yet) it's close enough that the spell allows her to say, "I'm going to burn that book and then lie to the wolves. Lie and tell them I never received it! It was lost in transit!"

Loki has posed:
One of them /is/ a god. The lock, stock and barrel sort and doubly royal, twice anointed to a position he simply isn't meant to have. The Odinforce rides through Thor, true. But Loki isn't without his options, or his means to foil a plot.

Pain, on the other hand, is an old friend. He can endure the discomfort for a while, but Mercy is another matter. She doesn't have the blessing of his Asgardian fortitude supplemented by the other hidden quality of his origins, nor the sorcerous means to stagger on through a splitting headache. He knows she has reserves, but where they end or begin? So soon after so great a test?

He's in a bad mood. "Mercy," he hisses, long and sharp. Does the spell react to the word forced? Surely a thousand adherents of the Inquisitors' hospitality asked, sought in the name of the Lord.

He is the Lord to himself, of course, so that might be valid. It might not. The burning view of the spell sigils gives some pause to try to read them, if not forced to speak. "I hate buses. I put up with cars to keep her happy. The ombre dress deserved to be torn from her, and put in a shrine. The Nazis were foul, the Spanish were foul, the Pope means no good, I hate broadcast television, one day I will yank the darkness from Sam Winchester, leaving her behind was the worst of sensations."

Every word a nail. Laevateinn is bound to him, answering with a single call, though making space for that call means rapid-fire confessions. One lightening, and then the metal should be in his hand.

"I /will/ paint her one day. I resent the popularity of sausage, it's vile. No one eats hot dogs unless they are uncouth." A spin of the sword and then he hurls the point with a giant's strength at the damn book.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy.

Mercy is always given.

That singular hissed word of Loki's causes the spell to retreat for a micro-second. An allowance for the repentant person. For the remorse voiced, for the inherent succor asked for -

Only. Does he mean that in that way? Whether he does, or doesn't, the spell continues on its way. Forcing the confessions, forcing the man and the woman to speak words only found within their minds. Words meant only for them.

Whether the simple white lie of telling a friend their haircut looks good, or their outfit, or whether they look fat or not.

Those petty thoughts and also the other ones swirl around the world. Then there's the other thoughts. The blunt and honest truths. The true secrets of past actions, things people like to bury within their minds. To pretend they never happened. To keep them hidden away.

The sigils themselves are easily read. A simple command. Cause a person to purge all their secrets. If they resist cause pain. If they continue to resist cause death. The spell would have steadily ratcheted upward until the person's body gave out from the pain. A heart attack, a stroke, or something along those lines would have occurred.

For Mercy, she continues to fight against the compulsion. No longer are the more light-hearted secrets coming forth, no. What wants to be said is something more. Something that lingers within her heart, but is rarely given voice. Her hands fist and are brought before her, as she strives not to say the words that want to be told.

For Loki, there is that moment when Laevateinn can be called forth. He'll find the sword in hand and when the weapon is stabbed downward, to that book, the spell sings for one long moment.

SECRETS!

"I stupidly still want a -"

And then the sword shatters the magic within the book, the rope and chain trying to force the two to speak suddenly dissolving. The pressure eases. The pain fads. The heaviness within the garage leaving; lightness returns.

Loki has posed:
"I'll say a tall, dark, handsome stranger in your life will be that." Loki goes down onto one knee as the pressure on his skull evaporates, and the force knocks balance out of the running.

He doesn't seem to care that his knee is on the ground, that his back is shaking, or his limbs feel like they're made of marmalade, pipe cleaners, and spaghetti. Toes curl in his boots and he digs deep enough to find those resources to breathe, exhaling and pushing out a long gust of breath. Hard to remember how to taste the air, the way Mercy's garage has more than magic filtered in it.

Laevateinn sings, quivering point down, probably making a certain gouge in the floor. He'll repair that later.

Battle thorn, he can be more than thankful for the blade.

Mostly now he'll just stare over at Mercy, his eyebrows raised slightly. "Well. Not like I didn't gut a few of the frocked sorts of their dignity in their time."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
And the words stop.

Thank god.

Crescent marks, welts really, will appear upon both palms from the bite of her short nails. Carefully, Mercy relaxes the clench of her fists. An ache can be felt within her fingers, from the force of her excertion.

Along with the tension lessening within her hands, Mercy's eyes likewise open. She looks first to Loki and then the book. Well, the sword and book. Whatever damage is done to the floor beneath it is ignored. It can be fixed and that's enough for the coyote.

His words, both those first ones and then the last ones, pulls forth a half of smile, half grimace. It's not the best of expressions, but it's something, as her attention turns back to the kneeling man. Mercy managed to maintain her upright position and from that, a hand will be extended to Loki. There's a shakiness there, but the tremors won't take long to subside. If he takes her hand she'll helpfully pull him to his feet, using whatever meager coyote-strength she has to aid him.

And when she speaks, it's with a vague croak to her voice, "Loki.", then she's clearing her throat, to say in less rough voice, "Guess they tried to get the last laugh?" Meaning those poor fools who had their dignity so taken away by the Trickster.

And then, lastly, with a hint of her typical humor, "I suppose, going forward, I'll need to put everyone's cookies into individual bags marked with their names."