The Purging of Asgard

Chapter 2

            You've tried writing your stories out in an acceptable, coherent, literary form half a dozen times already, but for some reason these dreams refuse to flow as readable stories, everything you write, though it's been helping slightly, just comes out as confused babble. You’ve decided you need a break from the endeavor, so now you're reorganizing the Marvel racks, trying to undo the havoc that was wreaked by a bus load of school kids. They were far too young to have true regard for the property of others, and demonstrated this deficiency in so many ways. If they weren’t playing tag between the racks, they were sneaking into the back room. When they noticed the place was full of books, they ran from display to display pulling a comic out of the middle of the rack, glancing at it, and if you were lucky, they would toss it back onto the stack in a random spot, several ended up on the floor. So you decided: no more field trips. You had a word, or a few words, with the two adults who were suppose to be in charge, stating as nicely as you could manage, watching the carnage unfold, that maybe next time they wanted to have a Super Hero day at school, they should take their own comics into the classroom. Because no way in Hel, Muspelheim, Purgatory, the Underworld, or Limbo, were you ever having two dozen raving, possibly rabid, six-year-olds in your store again. Not if you could help it. As you watched the squawking children get wrangled back into their yellow tin prison, you were reminded how grateful you were that you didn't have kids. 
            Now your attention is on the racks of jumbled comic books, Spider-Man suddenly showing up in the middle of an X-Men series, an entire stack of Iron Man books had been transplanted to another rack and they were currently mingling with Wonder Woman. Frustrated as you were, the thought of that cross-over made you giggle. After some consideration, you decided Tony couldn’t handle her. The poor guy would be eaten alive.
The bell on your door jingles, your musing coming to a halt.
            "Oh, hello, sir." The Collector nods a greeting, meeting you at your front counter, "did you have a new title for me to find?" You loved when he came in requesting issues and sometimes even full series', none of which you had ever seen or heard of before, it almost felt like a treasure hunt,
          "Not yet, I actually come bearing gifts." You look slightly confused and more than a little wary. "Oh, I just remembered what you were saying about not having anything on hand to help you off to sleep, so I put this together for you, consider it an early Christmas present." He says with a smile, he pushes a basket covered with a cloth across the counter to you. You lift the cloth to find an assortment of tea, a Dickens book, Shakespeare's sonnets, a few candles, a couple of CDs of soft music; you lift the cloth higher, and there in the back is a crystal tumbler between a modest bottle of Brandy, and a monster bottle of Whiskey, both of which looked like top-shelf brands. You look at him, wide-eyed, trying not to chuckle, "the way you were talking sounded like you were dealing with insistent boogeymen," he winks lightly, 
            "This is very thoughtful, but it's so much, I don't know if I can accept it." You drop the cloth back in place,
             "Oh, nonsense. It's a gift. You do so much for me, I wanted to help you." You smile in thanks and tuck the basket under the counter, "that help extends to a talk if you ever feel the need, sometimes it's just what the doctor ordered to really decompress."
             "I'll keep that in mind, thank you so much." He tips his hat as he leaves, and you're alone with your disorganized books. 
School bus of goblins aside, it has been a really quiet day, so you get back to your organization. Captain America is done, the Hulk is back in order, and you think everything is done but the Thor shelf. The kids didn't get to too much of this one, it seems to have been almost out of their reach.
            You shuffle around the few books that were out of order, spotting one of your favorite issues. Glancing at the front door, you figure no one seems interested in new reading material today, so you lean against the rack, flipping through the glossy pages. You're about to start reading when something catches your eye. 
            A single panel, but something about it nagged at you. That balcony looks so familiar. 
            You look closer, wanting to see the courtyard beneath it, but whatever lie below was blocked by a high stone wall, so you flip to another page, hoping to find another vantage point. Instead you find a close-up panel of Loki. His eyes determined, jaw set, brow furrowed in his stubborn glare. A pain crawls from the back of your head, over your ear, across your forehead, as you're about to consider it a delayed migraine caused by the children, there is a shooting pain in your eye; so sudden, you actually cry out, dropping the book. You pinch the bridge of your nose, press the heel of your hand into your closed eye, rub your forehead, nothing helps. The migraine feeling gives way to a feeling of constriction. As though something is pressing in on your head from all sides, then your chest tightens. What is happening to you?
            "Y/N..." You barely hear the whisper over the pounding in your head and try to open your eyes, the store is still empty, fear adds to the tightness in your chest. Something has changed. Something is very wrong. Something is coming.
            You try to get to the counter where you left your phone; you need to call an ambulance, but just two steps and the world tips. Your legs crumble, the ground rises to meet you as your vision goes dark.
.
.
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           On the other side of the city, a man exits an alley way and strolls alone down the street, looking for everyone around him like a middle aged, well to-do man, window shopping, perhaps for his girlfriend or wife. A man like this, perhaps he has both. Each passerby is totally oblivious to the presence of royalty, or the purpose of his arrival. For anyone curious enough to tarry, the severity in his eyes quickly had them scurrying along, head down. He was on a mission, looking for someone in particular, and when he found them, he would not be repeating past mistakes. They would not be returning with him. Unfortunately, due to his past experience in a city nearby, a city these Mortals had christened as New York, he would have to stay under the radar, allow these swine to maintain the illusion that they are safe, that they are free. He would be back at a later date to rectify this. For now he had to secure his place on the throne of Asgard as his and his alone. So he walks the cobbled streets of Boston, following a near-cold trail. He will find his only remaining rival. And they will fall.