How long would this story take to tell, and how would it end? The Revealer awaited answers.
His book was open to the last page of text. He tried deciphering Loki's chaotic scribbles, as ugly as his twisted personality—jumbled, serpentine words slithering away.
Not a metaphor—actual snakes. Loki turned words into serpents that bit readers, their deadly venom a kind reminder.
Don't peek at the story. Don't peek at the future. When you glimpse the incomprehensible, it gazes back.
Better to die quickly and be done.
Loki once thought he was that terror. But unable to finish the book, he found the true horror.
He was a character in someone else's story.
Comedy? Tragedy? Serial drama?
This realization made Loki laugh. He sent the black magpie to deliver his half-written book to the Revealer, waiting for someone to reveal its ending.
The Revealer toiled for his master, but this was a riddle even Loki couldn't answer.
"Trapping oneself with a question—how amusing."
He muttered, turning to the window's view. He'd told all he could; only chaos remained. He didn't notice the book's garbled doodles spreading like ink in water, swallowing future tales.
The future had changed.
Then, a figure appeared in his castle, materializing abruptly. A white blur flashed before him.
A gleaming sword arced smoothly, severing his head. The book fell.
"Who are you?"
The head, rolling away, strained its pupil-less eyes to see the figure reaching for the book.
"Ciri of Cintra, a witcher."
The white-haired girl picked up the thick tome. It felt like the monster manuals from Kaer Morhen, but in English.
Wasn't this a novel?
"I've never heard your story. Impossible."
The Revealer wasn't dead, but his mind reeled. How could someone other than Loki find this place and steal the story?
"Monster tales? Not interested."
Her silver sword swung again, slicing his head like a melon.
Initially, when Slade approached her about a strange, immortal monster for practice, Ciri, engrossed in TV, didn't believe him.
This world differed from hers. After years here, she knew monsters were scarce.
Vampires and werewolves existed, but in a city of millions, they were rare. No bounties were offered.
Geralt taught her: no coin, no job.
Family eaten by werewolves? Sorry. No payment, no deal.
But Slade offered a new car for retrieving a book and killing a monster. She eagerly agreed, curious.
Her first job in this world. Though bored, she'd joined Geralt, slaying dozens of "Ember Dragons."
Those dragons were weaker than her world's griffins. Pull their spines, and they'd flail helplessly, more pet than threat.
Why were these giant carnivorous dragons so common in one area? More plentiful than Novigrad's rats—illogical.
Geralt had changed too. Gluttonous, leaping from terrifying heights, and… keeping a cat?
That cat was the worst. It doted on Geralt—fetching, harvesting, serving him flawlessly.
But it ignored Ciri, treating her like air, scampering off when she needed help.
Geralt hadn't found an "Ember Dragon Gem" in days; his hunt continued. Ciri left him to enjoy it.
Live with that cat forever, hmph.
Slade's sketch matched the scene perfectly. She teleported to the Revealer, completed the task without even oiling her sword.
The creature seemed odd but not monstrous, reading a book—a sign of intellect.
Slade swore it was evil, teaching her what to do.
When she beheaded it and it still spoke, Ciri knew it was a monster.
No normal creature lived like that—not even the Wild Hunt's King.
She gouged out its eyes with a dagger. Their sight might be valuable.
Brains and nails were useless for potions she couldn't drink. She tossed the head through the question-mark window's lower circle, perfectly sized.
Outside was a white void. This space was warped. Only her talent let her reach it; others knowing of it was a miracle.
After disposing of the body, she wandered the castle. Nothing but storybooks.
No food, no water.
She flipped through a few. All similar—tales of a handsome Loki pranking his foolish, arrogant brother Thor.
A page or two was fun, but they grew repetitive.
Ciri read fast, with little patience. Pouting, she touched her nose, grabbed Mystic Journey, pictured Deathstroke, and returned to him.
In a plane called Hell's Border.
Earlier, lounging in the break room watching TV, Slade's head popped through a portal, startling her.
Now, three figures sat by a campfire in a cliffside hollow, talking.
Slade looked the same. Monarch was a male sorcerer.
Garth—Slade's trusted aide—was a woman. After years, Ciri hadn't noticed. Awkward.
"Got the book?"
"Yeah, but the monster's unkillable. I only managed to separate its head."
"No worries. The book's what matters."
Su Ming waved her to sit by the fire. The Revealer was a narrator—comic text boxes, cartoon voiceovers. Death didn't apply to it. A man-made outsider, above even Observers, because it could speak.
"My car…"
Ciri gave a shy, gift-wanting-girl look, staring at her toes. She knew not to expect Slade's reward, but she craved that car.
One with an engine, burning fuel—not pulled by grass dragons or cats.
"Easy. Garth, write a note for the factory chief." Su Ming instructed. Garth pulled a notepad from her pocket, scribbling.
"Feels like I'm back on Earth. Thinking of the work piling up, I don't wanna go back," Garth grumbled, signing the note.
Su Ming poked the fire with Godslayer, wood he'd brought from Earth. "Old plans are obsolete. The one I bargained with wasn't Odin. Reviving your sisters to ease your load might not happen. Prepare yourself."
"I know. Still better than leaving them in the Underworld."
"Good. Now, let's see what the 'God of Stories' scripted for me."
Su Ming took the thick book from Ciri, curious how this dictionary-sized tome shaped everyone's fates.
Seeing it began in 1925 Hawaii, he sighed. He knew his past was orchestrated, but Kang was one thing—Loki another.
The question: which Loki was this?
No answer. Forget guessing which future Loki this was—he didn't even know if Loki was male or female now.
Disrupting the Revealer and stealing the book reduced those in the know, buying Su Ming time.
A story needs a medium—ink on paper—to take shape.
With the book gone, everything became uncertain again.
This plan was meant for DC's Dream, whose library held future tales and unfinished poems.
Dream had botched things twice; Su Ming's contingency was necessary. Batman likely had one too.
But it was used on Loki first. Life's unpredictable.
To break this story, an outsider was needed. If it was a trap, only someone outside could pull you out.
Su Ming had a mental list, cross-referencing as he flipped pages.
Named characters needed unchanged paths—past, present, future—to avoid butterfly effects.
Unnamed ones were perfect for disrupting Loki's plan, beyond the author's foresight.
Ciri was ideal. From another world, her story was a tangled mess of countless timelines and worlds. Loki couldn't continue that.
Too many past stories, too few new ones—her inertia would carry her as scripted.
Sadly, his cousin was out.
Loki marked Deadpool with his red-and-black emblem, those sneaky eyes screaming sleaze.
Su Ming shook his head. No cheap labor this time.