Chapter Three: Trickster’s Gambit

In the dusky halls of New Asgard's library, silence reigned—except for the occasional shuffle of turning pages.

Loki sat on a high-backed chair, the dim candlelight dancing over his pale fingers as he flipped through a treatise on liminal thresholds. He didn't really read it. His mind wandered. These days, it often did. No schemes to run. No throne to steal. No purpose that didn't feel borrowed.

Then the candle nearest him began to glitch.

Not flicker. Glitch. Its flame stuttered like corrupted code, folding into cubic fragments before vanishing altogether. A second followed. Then the book dissolved into flat color polygons and faded.

Loki stood instantly.

But before he could summon a spell or weapon, the world around him shifted—folding into a billion fractal mirrors, trapping him in a spherical dome of glass.

A soft digital chime rang.

"Player Two: Loki Odinson. Enter the Field."

And there he was.

Descending slowly, like a bored god of user interfaces—the Fieldmaster, shimmering with game code, dice orbiting his form, that maddening coat of checkerboard tiles flowing like liquid glass.

"I'm not interested in your games," Loki snapped.

"Then you'll make a wonderfully reluctant contestant," the Fieldmaster purred. He twirled a glowing six-sided die between his fingers. "Tell me, God of Mischief… do you enjoy puzzles?"

"Only the ones I write."

The Fieldmaster smiled. "Today's game: Face Thyself."

He clapped once, and the mirrors pulsed. Each one began to ripple with images—versions of Loki, fragmented across time and possibility.

President Loki, grinning maniacally with a blade behind his back.

Classic Loki, gaunt and noble in faded yellow, eyes full of regret.

TVA Loki in a drab jumpsuit.

Kid Loki, standing on a throne of bones.

Even Croki, the gator with a crown, floated idly in one pane.

Sylvie. Watching. Silent.

The Fieldmaster opened his book, and the rules inked themselves into existence in curling digital font:

RULES OF THE GAME:

Each mirror is a version of you.

Each presents a lie you've told yourself.

Face it. Admit the truth. Or lose something.

Complete all rounds. Survive.

No illusions. No clones. No possession.

"I'll know if you cheat," the Fieldmaster whispered, "and you really don't want to know what I do to cheaters."

Round One: The Sovereign

President Loki stepped forward, flanked by dozens of cackling followers with mismatched armor and knives. He raised a goblet and shouted, "You were always meant to lead!"

Loki rolled his eyes. "You were meant to serve yourself."

"You wanted their applause. Admit it."

The real Loki sighed. "I wanted love. But I thought rulership would be easier to steal than affection."

The mirror-Loki stopped laughing.

And burst into pixels.

One mirror gone. The Fieldmaster nodded. "Good. Brutal honesty. Now… keep going."

Round Two: The Martyr

Classic Loki shuffled forward—robes flowing like parchment, eyes heavy with millennia of solitude.

"You believe you will always end up alone."

Loki hesitated.

That… stung.

"I used to," he said quietly. "But I don't anymore. I learned… I can choose to reach out. Even if I fail."

The elder Loki smiled, bowed once—

—and vanished in golden butterflies.

A rush of cool energy surged through Loki's veins.

Round Three: The Pretender

A young Loki appeared now—adorned in armor, standing beside a half-destroyed Bifrost. Blood on his hands. Eyes wide. This was the Loki who fell.

"You are not a hero," the younger self spat. "You are a villain pretending."

Silence.

"I'm neither," Loki said after a long pause. "And pretending is all anyone ever does until they believe it."

The younger version screamed in defiance—and shattered.

Loki fell to one knee, gripping his head. The toll of honesty was building.

Round Four: The Variant

Now came TVA Loki—calm, composed, deeply tired.

"You fear you'll backslide. That all this progress is just performance."

Loki looked at him. Himself.

"That's the truth."

The variant didn't move.

Loki clenched his fists. "But I'm going to perform anyway. Until I stop pretending. Until I become the man I want to be."

The TVA variant smiled.

And stepped aside.

Round Five: The Mirror

And then, only Sylvie remained.

But this Sylvie wasn't aggressive. She held no blade. Her posture was soft—almost sad.

"You can't love anyone," she said gently. "Not without twisting it."

Loki froze.

He stepped closer, trying to feel if this was real. Her presence—it felt warm.

"No," he said. "I can. I just don't know how… not yet. But I want to learn."

Sylvie reached forward—

—and touched his chest.

Loki blinked.

And she was gone.

Final Stage: Judgment

The Field cracked.

The mirrors dissolved into falling stars, and the arena reformed into a floating platform overlooking an endless sky of shifting pixels and dice.

The Fieldmaster floated above Loki, smiling.

"You win."

Loki stood trembling, but unbowed.

"Then give me my wish."

The Fieldmaster plucked a glowing, ethereal six-sided die and tossed it underhand.

Loki caught it.

It pulsed with violet light. Inside, a single flickering rune: Truth.

"Whenever you lie from this day forward… something will happen. Your illusion will flicker. Just slightly. Only those who know you well will notice. But the more you lie, the harder it becomes to hide."

"A curse?"

"A seed. A challenge. A path. You wanted to change. Now… you'll have to mean it."

The Field vanished.

Meanwhile…

Sam Wilson stood atop a repurposed S.H.I.E.L.D. training facility just outside D.C., watching the sun rise over a field of makeshift platforms and obstacle courses—not unlike the one he'd survived in the Field.

But this wasn't a simulation.

This was real. Sweaty. Messy. Human.

Below, a small group of recruits—some former soldiers, others survivors from Sokovia, Harlem, and the Blip—were catching their breath after drills. Not all of them were powered. Most weren't. But they were trying. He was helping them try.

Sam exhaled.

His eyes drifted to the wall nearby, where a symbol was scrawled in white chalk—an open star surrounded by six smaller ones, like a new constellation.

His own.

Inside his chest pocket, the coin was gone.

Used.

His wish had been simple: "Help me give people what I was given—a shot."

It wasn't power. It wasn't resurrection. But it was potential, wrapped in leadership, charisma, clarity of vision—and something even more rare: hope that spreads.

And every time one of these recruits picked themselves off the floor, pushed harder, aimed higher, he could feel it working.

The Fieldmaster's voice still lingered in his mind:

"Not perfection. Not power. But the seed of both. Let's see what you do with it."

Sam smiled quietly to himself.

And jumped off the edge of the roof.

The wings snapped open midair.

This time, by his command.

The Fieldmaster, alone in his glitching realm, flipped his book open.

Player Three: Peter Parker.

He smiled.

"Let's see how many lives the spider can save when the game is rigged."

End of Chapter Three