The Cost of a Mortal's Captivity | Loki

Peppers

If it weren't for the countless demonstrations of extreme security and not wholly unjustified paranoia by both Loki and the Loki Crew, I would be surprised at the pains Johnson takes to guarantee that I don't see the exit of the compound. He goes as far as providing me with a blindfold, though he apologizes several times for it, explaining that it was on Loki's orders that I have to wear it.

Johnson takes me by the hand and carefully leads me out of HQ through an intricate tunnel system that-- just by listening-- I can tell is complete with coded and locked doors. It's several minutes before I can even hear the outside traffic and another several minutes still before Johnson removes the blindfold, and I find myself on a sidewalk in a busy city street.

The sunlight nearly fries my eyeballs in my skull. "I didn't expect it to still be daytime," I remark, trying to shield my eyes and my pride simultaneously.

"It's pretty hard to tell underground," Johnson allows. "Not to mention, you must have pretty bad jetlag. Do you want me to buy you some sunglasses?" He gestures to a little tourist shop across the street. "There are some over there," he announces, walking towards it.

I almost let him go until I catch the silver wristband-- identical to mine-- on his wrist and remember Loki's warning. Desperately, I sprint to catch his arm. "No, no, don't!" I instruct. "Loki said no shopping spree."

Johnson furrows his eyebrows. "What... Oh! You must have the 'no transaction' restriction on your band. It's alright. I can buy stuff without being zapped to death. I appreciate the concern, though."

When Johnson buys the glasses, a light on his band blinks green. I wonder why he would need a wristband to begin with. I mean, if he really is Loki's right-hand man (so to speak) why would he need that kind of supervision? Maybe I've overestimated how important he is in the supervillain hierarchy.

"Well," Johnson begins, slipping on his pair. "How do I look?"

"Like you just crawled out of an FBI compound," I answer with a smile. "But don't worry; it suits you." I take my pair and put them on. "What about me? How do I look"

Johnson appraises me and smiles. "Cute! I mean, good. I mean... they look nice. You look nice, basically."

"Thanks, I'd hate to look mean," I answer. Was that corny? I hope it's not corny. "So... what is there to eat around here?"

Corn, in your case, Abby, I tell myself.

That's not funny. Shut up, I answer.

"Well, uh, there are some fast-food places... Ditsch, Nordsee if you like seafood, Wienerwald..."

My eyebrows furrow. "I'm sorry, what was that last one?"

"Wienerwald..."

"Oh, okay..."

"It means Vienna Woods," Johnson explains.

"I believe you," I assure him. "Maybe let's try the first one instead?"

Johnson nods and walks out onto the sidewalk. "Great! Ditsch is one of my favorites. I know the owner, and if you say the right things, you can get a secret special bratwurst. It's really good."

"Sounds really good," I answer.

Before long, we're at the restaurant of choice, and I'm settled down in a booth with Johnson's super-secret special bratwurst in front of me and Johnson in the opposite booth. To his credit, Johnson knows how to order a decent bratwurst. It's got a strange flavor that's vaguely familiar but I just can't place...

"So," Johnson begins. "How did you find yourself tangled up with the likes of us?"

I shake my head. "Honestly, I was hoping you might tell me."