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breakinglight11Forever Captain:
“Roads Less Traveled”
By Phoebe Roberts
~~~
Summary: Agent Mobius stands at a crossroads, unsure whether to continue his work at the TVA or see what the life he left might have had in store for him. He decides to ask for advice from the only person he can think of with similar experience-- a variant in a case that came across his desk just before all this craziness got started.
~~~
1. The Test Case
Before Mobius decided, he had to look into one last thing.
He wasn’t the type to act on impulse. Indeed, his one real failing in his work was his tendency to hesitate, to want to consider all the angles before committing to a course. But in this case, he thought he was justified doing a little extra due diligence. It was, after all, a momentous possibility he was contemplating.
Before he did it, he was going to have to make a consultation. And thanks to a case that had come across his desk around the same time the whole business with Loki blew up, he had found somebody who had the rare first-hand experience he was looking for.
Mobius didn’t kid himself into thinking he had much in common with the man in question. If Mobius’s own path had been strange, this guy’s was downright epic, involving super science, a World War, alien invasion, the rewriting of reality, and not one but two kinds of time travel. Next to all that, it made Mobius’s little jaunts through the timeline look like kids playing cops and robbers. But it wasn’t as if there were many folks who could say they’d had the experience of stepping out of his current reality into another branch of the multiverse in hopes of starting a new life there. And that made him the only person Mobius could think of who could tell him what he needed to know.
When he took a real look at the file, he had to admit, his eyes bugged out. This guy should have been pruned ages ago. Not just for starting a new branch, but using a bespoke time travel device to leap decades back into the past and live out a life there in doing it. Honestly, it was one of the more egregious shifts Mobius had seen, in all his term of service. But he’d made the jump out of the same continuity that Loki had come from, when Loki had stolen the Tesseract and attracted the attention of the whole of the TVA— firing off the whole mess they’d only just finished dealing with. There hadn’t been a lot of bandwidth to focus on a guy who, at least at first, hadn’t tried to do anything bigger than becoming a househusband and a stay-at-home dad. He’d sure lucked out at that particular proximity. Timing, Mobius, supposed was everything.
With all that in mind, Mobius chose his entrance point carefully. 1972, he decided— twenty-five years since his man had made the jump. Long enough to have a fair view of things, and enough perspective to be honest about it. Mobius dressed for the occasion, in a long coat over a knit tie and a wide-lapeled suit. As usual, things would be easier if he blended into things, particularly for making a soft approach.
It was a crisp fall day in November of ‘72, and his target was out and about in his hometown of Schenectady, running errands and visiting around the neighborhood. Mobius found him by spotting his pickup truck, street-parked by the row of shops on the main drag. He waited there until he actually laid eyes on him. As he emerged from a bakery with a little white bag in hand, Mobius got his first proper look at the man he needed to speak to.
Mobius followed him as he went about his business around town, not too close, not too far— just observing him, trying to get a sense of who he was. Mobius had seen glimpses of variants of him in other realities— as a brainwashed assassin, president of a nation, the wielder of the Infinity Gauntlet that saved the world. But this was a version of a very different sort.
He presented himself unassumingly enough, avoiding the more extreme stylistic excesses of the time in faded jeans and flannel. But at even a glance you could tell he was special, the heft of that super soldier frame beneath the brown leather bomber jacket, and the kind of square-jawed good looks they used to put on enlistment posters behind a pair of wire-rim specs. He was clearly a regular at these places, from the way he so often paused to chat companionably with folks as he browsed the shelves or took his purchases to the register.
Mobius was struck by at ease they all were with him, how clear and casual their friendship was. Mobius didn’t know what he was expecting, but somehow it wasn’t this— as if folks at Robert Redford’s neighborhood hardware store got used to him coming in on Sundays in low-heeled walking boots. Mobius wasn’t sure how he knew that name, but he found his brain conjuring it up while watching people react with such casual affection toward a man who practically made his own light.
As dramatic as his departure from the Sacred Timeline had been, he didn’t actually branch the events very far— at least, not for the first few years. He hadn’t tried to drastically change history, or use his knowledge of the future to shape the past. As far as anyone could tell, all he’d wanted was get to married, have a few kids, and start a quiet new life. It sure stood in contrast to the rest of the man’s history. Most people would never live through even one world-changing event, let alone be the one to do the shaping of it— and he’d done it six or seven times. Shifting the course of World War Two, repelling alien invasions and robot rebellion, reversing the deletion of half the universe. And yet, there he was, leaning on counters and holding open doors, chatting like his biggest concern in the world was whether or not the snow was going to hold off. He fit in. He’d made friends. He belonged.
Even Mobius, who had wrangled gods into submission and headed off a dozen world changing events before breakfast, had to admit he was impressed. How could anyone think he was that man, when he seemed so clearly ordinary? How could anyone think he was ordinary, when he was so clearly that man?
For two stops along the main street, Mobius managed to keep nonchalantly on the man’s trail. He was clearly in no hurry, with all the folks he stopped to talk to, which should have given Mobius plenty of time to see what was what. But he found himself weirdly hedging, unwilling to commit to a tactic. Keep on observing? Make an approach? Lay his cards on the table, or learn indirectly through the cover of conversation? What was it that he still needed to know, before he could make his decision?
He was berating himself for the cold feet when suddenly his target made a turn. He crossed the street and, instead of heading into another shop, headed briskly toward where the buildings gave way to an open park space, where paved footpaths wound around stands of rusty-leafed trees and dormant but well-maintained grass.
Mobius swore under his breath. He’d screwed around too long and now he was losing plausible deniability; there was no way he could stay close anymore without making it obvious he was following. He risked a few more steps in the same direction, affecting nonchalance as he tried to get a bead on where the man was heading. But just as he was building scenarios in his head of how to eventually catch up with him, Mobius’s target stopped, turned to a bench just off to the side of the path, and sat down.
Mobius let out a breath. Well, at least he could keep him in sight. Mobius attempted to look absorbed in a widow display as he kept focus on the man in the glass’s reflection. For all he’d seemed so purposeful a moment before, now he appeared unhurried, almost bored, like he had nowhere in the world to be except on that bench.
Spotting a newspaper box across the way, Mobius decided to chance another movement. He dug around in his pocket and was relieved to find he had a nickel. Eyes on his target, he put the coin in the slot and extracted a paper, opening it in an excuse to linger. From over the edge of the page, Mobius could see his target had taken off his glasses and was methodically polishing them on the handkerchief from his breast pocket.
He was debating what to do next when the man lifted his gaze and locked those blue eyes straight on him. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Damn. Spotted. He should have expected as much; with this guy’s history, he wasn’t going to be an easy mark, even after decades of civilian living. After a moment, Mobius folded the paper and tucked it up under his arm.
“Sorry,” he said at last. “I’m usually a little better at this.”
The man regarded him steadily as he approached, sweeping over Mobius with a critical eye. “Wouldn’t have given a second glance to the suit. But the haircut gave you away.” The corners of his mouth turned up, just a little. “Not groovy or square enough, I’m afraid.”
Mobius had to chuckle. “Guess I’m a little off my game.”
“So. Care to explain why you’re following me?” The other man slid the wire-frame glasses back onto his face. "Let me guess... covert ops recruiter? Interstellar spy? HYDRA assassin?”
Mobius blinked. “Not your first rodeo, eh?”
“You could say that. So might as well cut to the chase, don’t you think?”
He drew in another deep breath, and let it out slow. “I’m really sorry about all this. But just let me say, it’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Captain Rogers.”
Steve Rogers dipped his blond head at being recognized, but whether in amusement, modesty, or relent, Mobius wasn’t sure. Then he lifted it back up and met Mobius’s gaze. “Call me Grant. I go by Grant Carter, these days.”
“All right, then. Grant.” He swallowed hard, gathering himself. “I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?”
Captain Rogers— Grant —looked him over hard, one last time, before sliding over on the bench and nodding. “Why don’t you have a seat, son?”
~~~
Next chapter: 2. Expert Advice
“Roads Less Traveled”
By Phoebe Roberts
~~~
Summary: Agent Mobius stands at a crossroads, unsure whether to continue his work at the TVA or see what the life he left might have had in store for him. He decides to ask for advice from the only person he can think of with similar experience-- a variant in a case that came across his desk just before all this craziness got started.
~~~
1. The Test Case
Before Mobius decided, he had to look into one last thing.
He wasn’t the type to act on impulse. Indeed, his one real failing in his work was his tendency to hesitate, to want to consider all the angles before committing to a course. But in this case, he thought he was justified doing a little extra due diligence. It was, after all, a momentous possibility he was contemplating.
Before he did it, he was going to have to make a consultation. And thanks to a case that had come across his desk around the same time the whole business with Loki blew up, he had found somebody who had the rare first-hand experience he was looking for.
Mobius didn’t kid himself into thinking he had much in common with the man in question. If Mobius’s own path had been strange, this guy’s was downright epic, involving super science, a World War, alien invasion, the rewriting of reality, and not one but two kinds of time travel. Next to all that, it made Mobius’s little jaunts through the timeline look like kids playing cops and robbers. But it wasn’t as if there were many folks who could say they’d had the experience of stepping out of his current reality into another branch of the multiverse in hopes of starting a new life there. And that made him the only person Mobius could think of who could tell him what he needed to know.
When he took a real look at the file, he had to admit, his eyes bugged out. This guy should have been pruned ages ago. Not just for starting a new branch, but using a bespoke time travel device to leap decades back into the past and live out a life there in doing it. Honestly, it was one of the more egregious shifts Mobius had seen, in all his term of service. But he’d made the jump out of the same continuity that Loki had come from, when Loki had stolen the Tesseract and attracted the attention of the whole of the TVA— firing off the whole mess they’d only just finished dealing with. There hadn’t been a lot of bandwidth to focus on a guy who, at least at first, hadn’t tried to do anything bigger than becoming a househusband and a stay-at-home dad. He’d sure lucked out at that particular proximity. Timing, Mobius, supposed was everything.
With all that in mind, Mobius chose his entrance point carefully. 1972, he decided— twenty-five years since his man had made the jump. Long enough to have a fair view of things, and enough perspective to be honest about it. Mobius dressed for the occasion, in a long coat over a knit tie and a wide-lapeled suit. As usual, things would be easier if he blended into things, particularly for making a soft approach.
It was a crisp fall day in November of ‘72, and his target was out and about in his hometown of Schenectady, running errands and visiting around the neighborhood. Mobius found him by spotting his pickup truck, street-parked by the row of shops on the main drag. He waited there until he actually laid eyes on him. As he emerged from a bakery with a little white bag in hand, Mobius got his first proper look at the man he needed to speak to.
Mobius followed him as he went about his business around town, not too close, not too far— just observing him, trying to get a sense of who he was. Mobius had seen glimpses of variants of him in other realities— as a brainwashed assassin, president of a nation, the wielder of the Infinity Gauntlet that saved the world. But this was a version of a very different sort.
He presented himself unassumingly enough, avoiding the more extreme stylistic excesses of the time in faded jeans and flannel. But at even a glance you could tell he was special, the heft of that super soldier frame beneath the brown leather bomber jacket, and the kind of square-jawed good looks they used to put on enlistment posters behind a pair of wire-rim specs. He was clearly a regular at these places, from the way he so often paused to chat companionably with folks as he browsed the shelves or took his purchases to the register.
Mobius was struck by at ease they all were with him, how clear and casual their friendship was. Mobius didn’t know what he was expecting, but somehow it wasn’t this— as if folks at Robert Redford’s neighborhood hardware store got used to him coming in on Sundays in low-heeled walking boots. Mobius wasn’t sure how he knew that name, but he found his brain conjuring it up while watching people react with such casual affection toward a man who practically made his own light.
As dramatic as his departure from the Sacred Timeline had been, he didn’t actually branch the events very far— at least, not for the first few years. He hadn’t tried to drastically change history, or use his knowledge of the future to shape the past. As far as anyone could tell, all he’d wanted was get to married, have a few kids, and start a quiet new life. It sure stood in contrast to the rest of the man’s history. Most people would never live through even one world-changing event, let alone be the one to do the shaping of it— and he’d done it six or seven times. Shifting the course of World War Two, repelling alien invasions and robot rebellion, reversing the deletion of half the universe. And yet, there he was, leaning on counters and holding open doors, chatting like his biggest concern in the world was whether or not the snow was going to hold off. He fit in. He’d made friends. He belonged.
Even Mobius, who had wrangled gods into submission and headed off a dozen world changing events before breakfast, had to admit he was impressed. How could anyone think he was that man, when he seemed so clearly ordinary? How could anyone think he was ordinary, when he was so clearly that man?
For two stops along the main street, Mobius managed to keep nonchalantly on the man’s trail. He was clearly in no hurry, with all the folks he stopped to talk to, which should have given Mobius plenty of time to see what was what. But he found himself weirdly hedging, unwilling to commit to a tactic. Keep on observing? Make an approach? Lay his cards on the table, or learn indirectly through the cover of conversation? What was it that he still needed to know, before he could make his decision?
He was berating himself for the cold feet when suddenly his target made a turn. He crossed the street and, instead of heading into another shop, headed briskly toward where the buildings gave way to an open park space, where paved footpaths wound around stands of rusty-leafed trees and dormant but well-maintained grass.
Mobius swore under his breath. He’d screwed around too long and now he was losing plausible deniability; there was no way he could stay close anymore without making it obvious he was following. He risked a few more steps in the same direction, affecting nonchalance as he tried to get a bead on where the man was heading. But just as he was building scenarios in his head of how to eventually catch up with him, Mobius’s target stopped, turned to a bench just off to the side of the path, and sat down.
Mobius let out a breath. Well, at least he could keep him in sight. Mobius attempted to look absorbed in a widow display as he kept focus on the man in the glass’s reflection. For all he’d seemed so purposeful a moment before, now he appeared unhurried, almost bored, like he had nowhere in the world to be except on that bench.
Spotting a newspaper box across the way, Mobius decided to chance another movement. He dug around in his pocket and was relieved to find he had a nickel. Eyes on his target, he put the coin in the slot and extracted a paper, opening it in an excuse to linger. From over the edge of the page, Mobius could see his target had taken off his glasses and was methodically polishing them on the handkerchief from his breast pocket.
He was debating what to do next when the man lifted his gaze and locked those blue eyes straight on him. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Damn. Spotted. He should have expected as much; with this guy’s history, he wasn’t going to be an easy mark, even after decades of civilian living. After a moment, Mobius folded the paper and tucked it up under his arm.
“Sorry,” he said at last. “I’m usually a little better at this.”
The man regarded him steadily as he approached, sweeping over Mobius with a critical eye. “Wouldn’t have given a second glance to the suit. But the haircut gave you away.” The corners of his mouth turned up, just a little. “Not groovy or square enough, I’m afraid.”
Mobius had to chuckle. “Guess I’m a little off my game.”
“So. Care to explain why you’re following me?” The other man slid the wire-frame glasses back onto his face. "Let me guess... covert ops recruiter? Interstellar spy? HYDRA assassin?”
Mobius blinked. “Not your first rodeo, eh?”
“You could say that. So might as well cut to the chase, don’t you think?”
He drew in another deep breath, and let it out slow. “I’m really sorry about all this. But just let me say, it’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Captain Rogers.”
Steve Rogers dipped his blond head at being recognized, but whether in amusement, modesty, or relent, Mobius wasn’t sure. Then he lifted it back up and met Mobius’s gaze. “Call me Grant. I go by Grant Carter, these days.”
“All right, then. Grant.” He swallowed hard, gathering himself. “I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?”
Captain Rogers— Grant —looked him over hard, one last time, before sliding over on the bench and nodding. “Why don’t you have a seat, son?”
~~~
Next chapter: 2. Expert Advice
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