Doors

[After this.]

CALLUM

[After hemming and hawing upon receiving the folder, he decides to make some moves.]

[locked to bianca s.]

He sent me something. About the people he's had [...] taken care of.

[sent to the separate residences of raegan h., hunter w., callum w.]

[Tracking down the Westerberg clan isn't hard when you have the resources the Mumfords do, but he does it quietly and without alerting too many people. Each of the clan gets the same delivery: a plain envelope, each personalized with their names and slipped underneath the door. In it, there is a letter, handwritten, with an untraceable phone number at the very bottom.]

I am so sorry about your sister, Maren. I know what really happened to her, if you'd like to know. Tell anyone else who wants to know.

[Locked to Silver M]

[Right after this conversation.]

I might have a job for you. Short term, low profile. Interested?

[Encrypted communications: Scott C]

How do you feel about South America this time of year?

[Text: Sam A]

Hello, sexkitten.

[Locked to Shailee T]

I know we're leaving soon, but got news today.

My sister Maren disappeared. Any chance of putting some feelers out for her? Just want to make sure she's safe, no need for contact if she doesn't want it.

[Kellan Z., Peggy C., Callum W., Raegan H.]

Maren took off.

[Locked to Hunter W.]

Going out of town for a while for work. Can I ask you to watch Max?

[Text to Shailee T, Sunday afternoon]

Dinner?

[Westerberg lock]

You've got a new sibling. He demands gifts.

[Locked to Shailee T]

I need some help finding a place that'll let me have a dog.

His name is Max, and no, he's not going back to where he used to be. Fuck people who can't take care of their animals.

[Public]

Looking for someone needing a roommate. Don't need much other than a bed and someplace that's friendly to dogs. Drop me a line here.

[At 9 sharp, Thor puts his ear piece in and instead of bellowing into it like the first time, he remembers to speak quietly.]

Hello? Who is here?

[Locked to Bruce B]
Back from your visit, or do I have to embark on a rescue mission?

[Avengers Lock]
Everyone turn their radios on tomorrow night at 9. We're going to chat with Thor about the situation with Loki.

[Locked to Natasha R.]

Leaving in the morning on assignment.

Thought you should know.

If I'm not back in a week.

Well, you know the drill.

-B

[Public]

I need other options besides getting drunk for when I receive bad news.  Otherwise, I'm going to end up an alcoholic.

[Westerbergs + that Raegan girl they're related to]

Any of the dogs come back, Maren?

I sent that horse out to a rescue with that check money, but I think your crazy sumbitch uncle is trying to buy me, Raegan. Tell him I'm not for sale. Unless the [...] apakalyps spent all his money.

I think it's probably fucked up that I enjoy living in my shitty studio apartment more than the high roller suites they comp me at Caesar's and the Bellagio. Is that fucked up? I vote yes. But there's something about the grotesque opulence of a hotel suite that would normally cost about a kajillion dollars per night that just makes my skin crawl. There's the way that the plush carpeting matches the velvet drapes which match the color scheme of the dust ruffle on the bed - ugh. What exactly is a dust ruffle for, exactly? How does one ruffle dust? Anyway, I digress.

It's the whole package that just creeps me out. There's something much more soothing about coming home to a mattress on the floor, a stack of books instead of a giant headboard made out of teak or mahogany or something other fancy kind of wood that I wouldn't be able to identify if my life depended on it. I like my bare white walls. They're simple. Easy to understand. No fuss.

I prefer my tiny little kitchen, even if the last occupants chose to paint it the most truly awful shade of pink that has ever existed. At least it's functional. Practical. I've got everything I need, I know where everything is without having to fumble through a dozen dimmer-fader-clapper light switch settings before I can just turn the fucking lights on to take a piss at night. No fancy claw-foot tubs to stub my toes on, or chrome bathroom fixtures polished to a blinding sheen and reflecting my pores to the size of dinner plates. No nosy maids rap-tap-tapping at ten in the fucking morning despite the very obvious 'DO NOT DISTURB FOR THE LOVE OF GOD' sign swinging from the door handle. Just peace. My space. My stuff.

And my cat. She's the best part of coming home to that shitty hole in the wall on Fremont Street. So maybe it is fucked up, but I'll take my cat and my own boring life over the five stars of the Strip pretty much any day of the week.

[Locked to Natasha R]

We should talk.

When you have the time.

-B

[Locked to Loki]

It seems we're not quite on the same page, you and me.

[around 3am Friday morning]

Ring!

[Group Lock]

This is about a decade too late, but I hope the lot of you are fine.

[The Avengers, Spider-Man & Agent Coulson -- and their alters, I guess, if Tony or Silver knows them?]

Evening. I am Tony's alter, if you did not know. He thinks it's better if we lie low and heal up for a while on this side, and I'm inclined to agree. He wants to make sure you're in one piece, even if he would say something more flippant.

I don't suppose anyone managed to nab Loki.

[Pepper P./Felicia F.]

Hiding out in Vegas, but I haven't been to the garage. Hope you're both okay.

[Bruce B./Anton S.]

Tony has deduced that Anton Sparke is probably the only person capable of making those communicators outside of government contracting, so here's hoping I have the right person.

[Text: Sam A]

Tell me you're not dead.

[Secure communication: Scott C]

Were you around in this mess?

[Secure call: Callum W]

Ring, ring.

[After sunrise. 'Loki'.]

No need to thank me. You are all welcome.