Chapter Text
Z's reviewing the manifest on her tablet when I notice the crystals.
They're wrapped in artisan cloth. Handwoven pouches with some kind of woven closure. Definitely not the sterile medical packaging I saw in Bruce's lab last month.
"Bruce wrapped sixty units in four hours," Z says, not looking up. "Tony designed the pouches. There was a brief argument about whether cosmic gifts should have ribbons."
"Ribbons?"
"Dr. Cho voted yes. Fury vetoed. We compromised with the woven closure." She swipes to another screen. "Took twelve hours. All available personnel. JARVIS has footage of Tony arguing with a research assistant about 'divine aesthetic principles.'"
I'm trying not to smile. "We repackaged medical technology to look like—"
"Gifts from the cosmos." She finally looks up. "Which they ARE. We just removed the barcode."
Fair point.
She sets down the tablet and reaches up, pulling pins from her hair. The practical updo she's been wearing all morning comes loose.
"What are you—"
"Harvest goddess doesn't arrive with a bun." She shakes her hair out, then starts... fluffing it. Aggressively. Trying to make it look windswept. Ethereal.
It's working. Objectively, it's working. But watching the process—her literally roughing up her own hair, checking the flow with a head tilt—
"You practiced this," I say.
She's still adjusting. "Sixty-three lifetimes of women arriving as divine harvest. Yes, I practiced."
One more fluff. Now it looks effortlessly divine. Like she just emerged from some celestial wind that doesn't exist on the transport.
"How do I look?"
I'm honest. "Like you're about to bless a field."
"Perfect." She hands me something small. "Put this in. Translator. Their dialect is archaic."
I fit it in my ear. Static, then a soft hum as it calibrates.
Then she looks me over—cargo pants, cargo jacket, Thor's cape doing its best to cover the situation—and her eyes land on my head.
"The hat stays on the ship."
"What's wrong with the hat?"
"Fertility deities don't wear trucker hats with freight company logos."
I reluctantly take it off. Set it on the console. "It's a good hat."
"It's a GREAT hat." She's already moving toward the airlock. "Leave it in the cockpit."
She said something then—their name, I think—but the engine chose that exact moment to cycle too loud, and by the time it quieted she'd moved on to protocol briefings about offerings and ceremonial responses and maintaining formal distance.
Now we're descending and I have no idea what these people are called.
Can't ask now. Too late.
The landing gear engages. Soft thump as we touch down.
Z takes a breath. Closes her eyes for just a second.
When she opens them, something's different. Her posture. Her expression. The way she holds herself.
She starts hovering. Just six inches, but suddenly the boots aren't touching the deck anymore. Holographic and shimmering.
"Don't trip on the cape," she says.
Then the airlock opens.
The dress is pink. That's the first thing—pink with patterns that catch the light wrong. Carousel horses, I think. Stars. The kind of thing that should look playful.
Then she floats forward—boots glimmering, hair impossibly perfect—and suddenly the dress reads different.
Not carousel horses. The CYCLE. Going round and round, never stopping. The stars aren't decoration—they're marking time. Celestial order. The tiers in the skirt... generations, maybe. One feeding into the next.
She's wearing a cosmological diagram.
Meanwhile I'm trying not to trip on Thor's too-long cape that smells like ozone and mead.
The translator kicks in as voices rise:
"The Harvest hath descended upon us! Blessed be Her arrival!"
A crowd's gathered. Maybe forty people. Agricultural colony, clearly—the settlement's all wood and stone, fields stretching to the horizon. They're dressed simply. Practically. All staring at us with expressions I recognize from old paintings in churches.
Reverence. Awe.
"And She hath brought Her consort!"
Someone's looking at me now.
Oh no.
"Look upon his vigor! His fruitful countenance!"
I maintain absolute dignity. I'm a professional. I've stood at attention through worse. I can handle someone referring to my "fruitful countenance."
Z speaks. Her voice carries, and she's doing an entire voice—matching their formal cadence perfectly:
"We bring unto thee gifts from the cosmos, that thy elder may be restored."
The crowd parts. An older woman steps forward—their leader, maybe. She's holding her hands out in some kind of ceremonial gesture.
"Blessed be thy arrival, Great Harvest. Our elder faileth, and we have prayed for thy intervention."
"Thy prayers have been heard," Z says, still hovering, still perfectly in character. "The cosmos provideth for those who honor its cycles."
I'm just standing here. Cape not tangling. Cargo pants hidden. Trying very hard to look like a divine consort and not a guy who was checking manifest logs three hours ago.
Someone brings forward a cup. Offers it to Z first, then to me.
I take it. Sip. It's... actually pretty good. Some kind of fermented grain. Sweet.
"Behold!" someone calls out. "The deity blusheth!"
My face is heating up. Great.
"Such rose in his cheeks—truly he is in his prime!"
I'm trying to swallow. Trying not to choke. Maintaining knightly dignity while someone discusses my "prime" like I'm livestock at auction.
"His vitality doth shine forth! Surely blessings flow from such a consort!"
Z's eyes flicker toward me. Just for a second. There's definitely amusement there.
I'm going to have words with Thor about this cape later.
The elder woman gestures toward the settlement. "Come, Great Harvest. Our elder awaiteth thy blessing."
Z inclines her head regally. Floats forward.
I follow. Cape flowing. Cargo pants hidden.
Somehow—despite everything—this is working.
The villagers see: Harvest incarnate and her divine consort.
What they're actually getting: cosmic diplomat in a carousel dress and a space trucker in borrowed formalwear.
But the performance holds.
Even though I still don't know what these people are called.
They lead us through the settlement. Fields on either side—actual crops, growing in soil. No hydroponics. No automated systems. Just sun and earth and labor.
The villagers follow at a respectful distance. Reverent but not afraid. They believe Z is what she's presenting as.
And in a way, she IS.
Harvest. The cycle of growth and consumption. Mother and meal.
They see blessing. Abundance. Life from death, seeds from the earth.
She knows it as something else. Primordial consumption. The first predator. One cell eating another, forever.
Same cycle. Different understanding.
The elder's dwelling is at the center of the settlement. Simple but carefully maintained. Clean. Organized. Everything has its place, its purpose.
He’s lying on a low platform bed, covered in quilts, actual fabric, hand-stitched patterns. There's a window nearby letting in natural light. Someone's been keeping vigil. There's a chair pulled close, a cup of water on a small table, worn smooth from use.
The man is dying. I can see it, the way his breathing's labored, the pallor of his skin. Whatever he's got, it's advanced.
Z kneels beside him. The performance drops slightly. Not gone, she's still Harvest, but there's something genuine underneath now.
"May I?" she asks, hand hovering over his chest.
He nods. Can't speak much.
She places her palm over his heart. Closes her eyes. I watch her face, concentrating, assessing. She's reading something. His condition, maybe. How far it's progressed.
When she opens her eyes, she reaches for the pouches. Selects three specific crystals. Not random. Deliberate.
"These channel Time and Reality," she tells the elder's family, still in that formal dialect. "They will slow the degradation. Allow thy body to heal what it could not heal alone."
She shows them how to position the crystals. One over the heart. One at the base of the throat. One at the solar plexus.
"They must remain thus for three cycles of the sun. Then thou may move them, but keep them close. Wear them, if thou wishest."
The family's watching with desperate hope.
The elder's daughter asks, "And then he will be restored?"
Z's honest. "The cosmos provideth tools. Thy father's body must do the work. But these will help. Significantly."
She places the crystals. I watch them start to glow, soft and steady. Not dramatic. Just... working.
The elder's breathing eases. Not immediately healed, but the strain visibly lessens.
His daughter starts crying. Relief.
Z stays kneeling. Explains the care instructions. How to clean them. When to reposition. What signs to watch for.
She's not performing anymore. She's just... doing the work. Making sure they understand. Making sure the elder has the best chance.
The family's not paying for this. The crystals are free. Distribution.
Getting power to those who need it.
The elder's daughter insists. "Thou must break bread with us. 'Tis the least we may offer for such blessing."
Z accepts gracefully. Declining would insult them.
They set up outside. Long tables, simple but well-made. The whole settlement gathers.
The food appears in waves. Pies with latticed crusts, golden and perfect. Roasted root vegetables, caramelized at the edges. Fresh bread, still warm. Everything's earth-toned. Browns and golds and deep oranges.
My stomach actually growls.
This isn't fancy. It's not exotic alien cuisine. It's just... home-cooked. Real food, made with care.
Z's still hovering slightly, maintaining the performance, but she accepts a plate. Takes actual bites. The goddess eats.
Someone pours drinks, a light pink liquid in simple cups. Fermented something. Lightly carbonated from the process.
I try it. Sweet. Tart. Goes down easy.
Z's cheeks start getting rosy after her second cup.
She's still in character. Blessing the food, thanking them in that formal dialect… but there's something relaxed underneath now. The mission's done. The elder will live. This is just... sharing a meal.
A young couple approaches us. Nervous. Hopeful.
"Great Harvest," the woman starts, then glances at me. "And... thy consort. We have been trying for a child these past two years. Might we... might thy consort offer blessing?"
Z's eyes flicker to me. There's definitely amusement there now, enhanced by the pink wine.
I stand. Because what else am I going to do? Say no?
"Of course," I manage.
The couple kneels. I'm standing here in Thor's cape, cargo pants hidden, trying to figure out what a fertility deity blessing even LOOKS like.
I place my hand on each of their heads. One at a time. Try to look... divine? Benevolent?
"May, uh—" I clear my throat. Try the formal dialect. "May thy fields prove fruitful. May the cycle bless thee with abundance."
Did I just bless their fields or their fertility? Both? Is there a difference to these people?
The couple looks up with shining eyes. "Blessed be."
They return to their seats, holding hands, clearly moved.
I sit back down. Z's trying very hard not to smile into her wine cup.
"Nicely done," she murmurs. Still in character, but barely.
My face is definitely heating up again.
When it's time to leave, the elder's daughter appears with a basket. Wrapped pies. Three bottles of the pink wine.
"For thy journey," she says. "That thou may remember our gratitude."
Z accepts with grace. "The cosmos thanks thee for thy hospitality."
Back at the transport, hovering stops. Hair gets pulled back into a practical bun. The goddess disappears.
The basket of pies sits in the galley. Proof that the mission worked. That distribution matters. That meeting people where they are gets results.
"Bruce is going to be so jealous," she says, normal voice returning. "He asked specifically about authentic colony baking."
I'm taking off Thor's cape. Finally. My shoulders feel lighter immediately.
"We're bringing Thor pie," I say, folding the heavy fabric.
"We're definitely bringing Thor pie." Z opens one of the wine bottles, takes a sip straight from it. Makes a face. "It's better warm."
I hang the cape on a hook. "Why didn't Thor come? Isn’t he literally associated with harvest and fertility in Norse mythology?"
"The livestock incident makes his presence diplomatically complicated," Z cuts in quickly.
I stare at her. "So I'm wearing his cape—"
"Doing his job, yes."
"In cargo pants."
"You did very well." She takes another sip. "Very convincing fertility deity."
The absurdity hits me. The actual fertility god can't show his face here because his brother did something unmentionable with their livestock two hundred years ago. So I stood in. In cargo pants and borrowed formalwear. Blessing couples and accepting pie.
"Your cheeks are still pink," I point out.
She touches her face self-consciously. "Just practicing for my wine mom era."
The joke lands different than she probably meant it to.
Because she will be a mom. That's not a maybe. It's guaranteed.
I should probably leave it alone. This is too personal. We're colleagues. Friends, maybe. Not—whatever level of closeness you need to ask someone about their cosmic reproductive coercion.
But I've been thinking about it all day. The Cycle. Harvest and consumption. Fundamental forces that can be distributed.
And she just made a joke about it like it's already decided.
If it's a fundamental force, there have to be parameters. Rules. The crystals work because we understood the mechanics well enough to manipulate them.
Maybe the same logic applies here.
"When does it happen? The daughter."
Z shifts in her seat, sitting up straighter. Crosses her legs. The casual posture from a moment ago, wine bottle, pink cheeks… gone. This is different body language. Defensive, maybe. Or just... braced.
"I have about a decade and a half left before I have to conceive." She doesn't look at me when she says it.
Fifteen years. That's the timeline.
"And if you don't?" I ask. "By then?"
I'm pushing. I know I'm pushing. But if there's a window, I need to understand it.
"I have plans for IVF," she says, almost too quickly. "But if it doesn't take... then I will figure it out."
The vagueness in that last part tells me more than if she'd explained outright. Figure it out means something she doesn't want to detail. Something worse than clinical intervention.
"Has IVF worked before?" I ask. "For the others?"
I'm thinking about her mother. Her grandmother. Sixty-three generations of women facing this same timeline. Someone must have tried the modern solution.
"We've..." She exhales. Takes another breath before continuing. "Xandar has had this technology since before Earth developed it.” A pause. “We've tried it for the past couple generations. Didn't work."
So they've already tested the safe option. Multiple times. Across generations with access to technology more advanced than Earth's.
And it failed.
Which means the curse doesn't accept the workaround. Won't let them engineer their way out of whatever mechanism it requires.
I'm quiet for a moment, thinking. She's still not looking at me. The wine bottle sits forgotten in her hand.
"So it has to be..." I stop. Try to find a way to ask that isn't invasive. "Is it like a miracle birth? Virgin Mary situation?"
I just watched her play Harvest goddess. Saw how the villagers treated her as divine. Maybe the curse works that way too, something cosmic and incomprehensible.
"No." Her voice is quiet. She shakes her head twice. Still won't look at me.
The weight in that single word tells me everything I was hoping not to hear.
I just blessed a couple's fertility while wearing a god's cape. Watched her perform divine Harvest for people who believed it.
But her curse isn't divine. It's primordial.
There's no immaculate conception. Just biological imperative and cosmic compulsion.
Traditional conception. Because the Cycle won't accept anything less.
Which means she'll have to find someone. Or wait until the curse finds someone for her.
I don't know which option is worse.
The transport hums around us. The basket of pies sits on the counter. Evidence of a successful mission. Of distribution working. Of meeting people where they are and giving them what they need.
And she's sitting here explaining that her curse won't accept any equivalent mercy.
I should leave it alone. Let her sit with whatever she's not saying.
But I can't.
"Has anyone tried to break it?" The question comes out rougher than I intend. "Loki, Thor, or even Strange... they've known about this for how long?"
"My predecessors have known Thor and Loki since they were boys.” Her lips quirk. “Thor's magic doesn't work that way, he's no sorcerer. And Loki's tried everything. He's written peer-reviewed papers on my curse. Plural." She almost laughs, but it's hollow. "He's the foremost expert on the subject."
She continues, "As for Stephen, yes, he tried when he first became Sorcerer Supreme. His predecessors have all tried."
Peer-reviewed papers. Multiple Sorcerers Supreme across centuries. Loki studying it since he was young enough that boys was the right word.
And nothing.
The weight of that settles. This isn't something no one's looked at. It's something everyone who could possibly help has examined from every angle. For generations.
"So it's..." I'm trying to find the right word. "Really unbreakable."
Not a question. Just processing out loud.
The crystals work because we understood the fundamental forces well enough to manipulate them. Dilute them. Distribute them.
But if Loki's spent a thousand years on this and come up empty…
"I don't want to be a puzzle. I just want to—" She doesn't finish. Looks down at the wine bottle in her hands. Her knuckles are white around the glass.
The sentence hangs there, incomplete. Want to what? Live without the countdown? Make her own choices? Not have every magical expert in the universe treat her curse as an intellectual challenge?
I've been doing exactly that. Treating it like a tactical problem. Running scenarios. Looking for exploits.
Because that's what I do. What I'm good at. Find the angle. Solve the mission.
But she's not a mission.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I shouldn't have—"
I stop. Because what? Shouldn't have asked? She answered. Shouldn't have pushed? She explained.
Shouldn't have immediately started calculating solutions like she's a problem to fix instead of a person sitting across from me who's lived with this her entire life?
"No, it's okay, I get it. It's... morbidly fascinating."
"And I know you're just trying to help." Her voice softens. "But it can't be helped. Only endured."
The finality in those words. Only endured.
Not solved. Not fixed. Not escaped.
Just... survived. For however long she has left before the Cycle demands its continuation.
I think about the villagers today. How they saw her as Harvest incarnate. Blessing and abundance. The eternal return.
They weren't wrong. She is the Cycle.
But they see it as divine. Beautiful. The natural order.
She lives it as a countdown. Fifteen years until she has to conceive a daughter who'll consume her twenty-something years after that.
Only endured.
I want to argue. Want to say there has to be something. Some angle nobody's considered.
But Loki's spent a thousand years on it. The Sorcerers Supreme tried. Thor's known since he was a boy.
What am I going to figure out in a transport ship over leftover pie that they couldn't solve in centuries?
"Hey," she says. "Put that long face away before Steve thinks I did something to you."
I look up. She's trying to smile. Trying to lighten it.
"He'd believe me," I say. "You bent my rifle in thirty seconds. He knows you could take me."
"I absolutely could." The smile's a little more real now. "But I won't. You're useful for carrying pies."
She's pulling us back. Away from the weight of it. Back to something manageable.
I should let her. Should take the exit she's offering.
"How long until we're back at the junction?" she asks, already reaching for her tablet.
Back to logistics. Back to the work. Back to what we can actually control.
"One and a half hours," I say. "Give or take."
"Good." She pulls up a manifest. "That gives me time to coordinate the next convoy route before—"
And just like that, we're back. Mission complete. Distribution successful. Elder saved.
The curse sits between us, unspoken now. Only endured.
But the pies are real. The work is real. The crystals healing people across the galaxy… that's real too.
Sometimes that has to be enough.
I pull up the navigation panel. Plot the return course. The numbers are straightforward. Simple.
My mind keeps circling back anyway.
Fundamental forces. Distribution. The Cycle.
Fifteen years.
I force my attention back to the nav display. Enter the coordinates. Check the fuel levels.
She's reviewing convoy schedules on her tablet. Professional. Focused. Already compartmentalized the conversation and moved on to the next problem.
I should do the same.
I'm going to think about it anyway.