Who: Loki/Louis [Narrative] What: In which everyone made the mistake of letting Loki be bored and he gets the ball rolling downhill toward Chloe at a good clip. Where: Louis' place. When: After Neil's post. Warnings/Rating: Rated M for Mischief.
Heaven forbid the god of mischief get bored, particularly when heaven had promised never to let such a thing happen again.
Loki had things to look forward to, yet. He had a brother to fool into thinking he was fully and completely house trained so he could be set free to bite the hand that fed in a glorious encore, and he had a wolf to mend to pay back a detestable debt. He didn't like debts, and usually didn't subscribe to the idea that they existed, except when it pleased him and benefited him in some way. This foolish, niggling feeling of owing was a weakness. It had not been voiced, and it would not be. He had much too much trouble to stir give anyone the impression that he followed through on promises, and felt it mete to make up the measure of kindness, on occasion, when it was freely given. Heaven forbid again! The things it would do to his reputation. He had such a variety of schemes to run. It wouldn't do.
In the hissing silence of the now, the god of mischief was bored, bored, bored, and so when a nasty, revengeful streak reared its ugly head in his host on the other side of the door, he dug his claws in so deep they drew blood.
It had been some time since he'd had an opportunity to be a bad influence on the man on the other side of the world divide, and doing it again merely reminded him how much fun it was, to have no-holds-barred leverage on another creature's soul. No magic required, no, only indomitable will. It wasn't exactly hard. Louis was so angry, tiny and angry and sad, and bad things kept happening to his family - the chorus was all weeping, surely. So Loki took hold of that, and he tugged it like a bit, and he led. It didn't take long to excavate the information he needed from Louis' memory, scraps from dealing with the criminal element. Louis was a veritable goldmine of possible schemes. The dirtiest and simplest struck him as best.
Tuesday morning, the phone rang beside a bed in a crusty motel room far, far off the strip. The resident was an old contact of Louis' from the detective agency, someone he'd found in the process of investigating a missing persons case. The man had turned out to be a gold mine of useful information for a fee. The man who answered the phone with a raspy, quick, "Hello?" was thin, a little twitchy, and had blood crusted under his nose.
Loki held the phone for a moment, letting the silence stretch out. If anyone who knew Louis could see him then, they would have a hard time mistaking Loki for him. He faked the accent well enough, but the hardness to his gaze, the lift of his chin, it all spoke to something Louis was unfamiliar with at best: pride. "I need a favor," he declared, mimicking the appropriate patois of the land. His voice was heavily disguised - unidentifiable, untraceable, on a phone that would be neatly deposited in the dumpster outside a certain apartment building within the hour. The accent was continental, but not Scottish. "Just a small job. Do it neatly, and it will pay you dividends."
Possession with intent to sell struck a nice, clean bell. Such dirty substances. So tragic if some were to end up within the reach of a climbing shrew. Oh, so much yet to do.