Chapter Text
Chapter I - The Arrival of the Space Vikings
The situation is so utterly surreal, so far removed from everything he ever thought possible - and that is saying a lot, what with the whole being a superhero thing and having a big green rage monster for a best buddy - Tony Stark would have laughed if the three bearded, armour-clad and weapon-clasping men hadn’t looked so serious about their quest.
“So, let me get this straight,” Tony says slowly, trying to summarise the events of the past ten minutes into a few coherent sentences that don’t sound completely mad and ridiculous. Which turns out to be harder than expected because, frankly, everything about this entire scenario is absolutely mad and ridiculous. “You’re telling me that, for his actions against the people of Earth five years ago, Loki has been brought to trial and sentenced to a lifetime of slavery to be served under me? That about right?”
His attempt to put emphasis on the most ludicrous parts of the three Asgardians’ message in order to point out just how not on all of this is seems to fall flat, going by the expression on the face of the guy holding the parchment, the fucking contract of ownership, for Tony to sign.
“Yes, Man of Iron, that is the reason for our visit to your realm,” he nods, pushing the document at Tony who takes a step back and very pointedly does not accept the damn thing. The black-bearded Viking frowns at him, obviously perplexed by the blatant refusal.
Tony holds up his hands, palms facing away from himself, and gives a vigorous shake of his head. “Yeah, no. Absolutely not.”
“We do not understand, Man of Iron,” the Viking ventures carefully, staring down at the parchment with a slight frown creasing his bushy brows. “Are the conditions lain down in this contract by the Allfather not pleasing to you?”
“No, of course they’re fucking not!” Tony explodes at them. The Asgardians look taken aback by the sudden outburst and Tony groans, heaving a heavy sigh and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Only him. Why him? “Here on Earth we have these fancy little things called human rights which apply to every single person on the whole planet. Granted, you might not technically be human, but slavery is not something we do here in America. It’s a big no-no, okay?”
“The will of the Allfather carries more weight than Midgardian law,” pipes up Viking Yellow-Teeth, as Tony immediately, and with a slightly disgusted nose-wrinkle, dubs him after he opens his mouth.
“Well,” Tony gives an indignant, final sniff and a little shrug, petulantly crossing his arms over his chest, “I refuse. You can’t just beam your asses into my living room and expect me to be all jolly and cheerful about your weird, twisted ideas of justice and punishment.”
Yellow-Teeth gives a shrug of his own in return. It’s Bushy-Brows who speaks up again. “It is in your rights to refuse this offering, although we are instructed to inform you of the consequences should you decide to do so.”
“Yeah, whatever. Lay it on and let’s get this over with,” Tony says and makes an impatient ‘get on with it’ motion with his hand. This is not something he’s equipped to deal with first thing on a Sunday morning before his first cup of coffee. No, scratch that, this is not something he’s equipped or willing to deal with ever.
And what if some feathers get ruffled by his noncompliance? He can live with some old alien king having a grudge, big whoop. He’ll let Fury and his S.H.I.E.L.D. monkeys deal with whatever repercussions his actions might have. No one can honestly expect him to go along with this insanity.
“Very well,” Bushy-Brows begins, breaking Tony out of his thoughts and bringing him back to the present. He unrolls the parchment and clears his throat, apparently going all in for the full dramatic reveal. Tony merely rolls his eyes at the display. “Should the Man of Iron refuse to accept the offering of slave tveir-fjórir-níu-níu-fimm, formerly known as Loki Odinson, being passed over into his servitude, the Allfather, ruler of all nine realms, wishes to express his sincere regret for having burdened the Man of Iron with the sentence he bestowed upon slave tveir-fjórir-níu-níu-fimm. In case of refusal, the handover committee will return the prisoners to Asgard for execution. The Allfather wishes to-“
“Wait! Okay, stop it right there, big guy,” Tony cuts in sharply, eyes having grown impossibly wide. “I can’t have heard that right. Execution?”
Bushy-Brow gives an unperturbed nod. “Failing to be of further use to their master for any reason whatsoever results in the termination of the prisoners. Should you not wish to keep the prisoners, they will be taken back to Asgard for execution and we leave you with our apologies for having wasted your time, Man of Iron.”
Tony narrows his eyes, throwing the three Vikings a highly suspicious look. “You keep saying prisoners. Like, plural. More than one.”
“Indeed,” agrees Bushy-Brows, turning the parchment over for Tony to see. He stabs one huge, fleshy finger at a line of writing which is, curiously but thankfully enough, in English. “The contract of ownership involves slave tveir-fjórir-níu-níu-fimm plus one female child.”
“Whose child?” Tony blurts and immediately gets the feeling of having asked a tremendously stupid question as he takes in the identical frowns suddenly forming on all three Asgardian faces.
“The slave’s child, of course,” says Yellow-Teeth in what is apparently his normal, monotonous and highly bored tone of voice.
‘Ah, yes, of course,’ thinks Tony and just barely manages to suppress the frustrated sigh threatening to escape him. “What does a child have to do with any of this?”
That seems to be deemed another moronic question. “The child was born to a slave and is, therefore, such by birth,” Bushy-Brows explains, starting to sound a tiny bit annoyed by Tony’s incomprehension.
Tony gapes disbelievingly, mouth opening and closing soundlessly a few times before he’s able to produce actual words. “That’s... wrong on so many levels, I don’t even...” He rubs at his eyes again when the Asgardians don’t appear at all disturbed by the mention of a child slave. He gives in with a resigned huff. “Fine, whatever, I don’t even... yeah, I don’t even know what to say to that. So who’s the child’s mother? Also a slave?”
It’s the most logical explanation that comes to his mind. Of course, it is entirely possible that separating a mother and child is a normal thing in Asgard, he’s already been witness to just how different, to put it mildly, their customs are. Or the mother is dead and the child remained with the father. Or, which is most likely, that Tony has no idea how the whole family situation works under the condition of, you know, fucking slavery!
There comes a disgusted snort from the third Asgardian, causing Bushy-Brows to throw him a silencing glare. Snorty grumbles into his beard in what must be some Nordic language. The only word Tony can make out between all the gibberish is ‘ergi’, which does not really help with his initial question since he has absolutely no clue what it means.
“Silence yourself, brother,” Bushy-Brows orders loudly and Snorty complies after another round of probably very offensive muttering. Bushy-Brows huffs at him before turning his attention back to Tony. “The specifications can all be found in the contract. You do not have to worry, Man of Iron, the child’s parentage is of no importance to you.” He gestures to Yellow-Teeth who nods and makes for the hallway door. “We will take the prisoners and escort them back to Asgard. The Allfather will be informed of your decision.”
“Hold on!” Tony interrupts again and yes, now he can see the irritation in all three of the Vikings. Well, it’s not his fault their barging into his tower and confronting him with this lunacy has him confused, so they’ll just have to deal with his inane questions. “You’re going to kill Loki and a child, whom I assume to be innocent and simply born under not so ideal circumstances, if I don’t sign your contract and accept this creepy offering?”
Bushy-Brows gives a quick, curt nod. “It is what has been decided by the Allfather and the council.”
“Just to clarify, you’re going to kill a child?” Tony asks again, unable to wrap his mind around that particular concept.
Yellow-Teeth’s “No, two slaves!” is dripping with impatience and exasperation.
And that does it.
No matter that no one on Earth has seen or heard of the God of Mischief in half a decade or that Tony hoped for the same to rot away in the deepest, darkest dungeon available or that all of what transpired since the Asgardians arrived in his tower is downright, bat-shit crazy; in this precise moment, it doesn’t matter in the slightest.
Tony is not a man who follows many rules or places value on strict morals. He is an egoist, a narcissist, one of the most self-centred people on the planet - something many of his enemies and friends alike would wholeheartedly agree with. But Jesus fucking Christ, he’s human down to a fault and the crap that’s going on here, right now, in his own living room, is just plain wrong. Every tiny last bit of it.
He briefly closes his eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath before squaring his shoulders and holding out his hand for the parchment. “You got a pen?”