An Anti Social Person Is Not A Bad Person

Steve cleared his throat, his face a mask of diplomatic panic. "I would, Thor, really, but I have a... a meeting with the... Smithsonian. Very important. Can't be late." He moved with super-soldier speed, offering a weak, apologetic salute before vanishing down the hallway.

Bruce, having just recovered from his near-fatal coffee inhalation, began patting his lab coat pockets with frantic energy. "My... my allergy medication. I feel a... a big one coming on. Hulk-level sniffles. Must go... isolate. For everyone's safety." He practically ran for the elevator, muttering about pollen counts and gamma radiation.

That left Tony. Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, philanthropist, and now, sole guardian of a demi-god, half-fire-demon, princess infant. He stared at the baby. The baby, Laussa, stared back with wide, curious blue eyes that held a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of orange deep within.

Thor, completely oblivious to the true reason for their mass exodus, beamed and thrust the baby into Tony’s stiff arms. "Excellent! I knew I could count on you, Stark! She has been fed, she should sleep soon. There is a list of her needs on this scroll. Thank you, my friend! I shall return by sundown!"

And with a crack of thunder that shook the entire tower, Thor was gone.

Tony stood frozen, holding the baby as if she were a unstable arc reactor. Laussa cooed, grabbing a handful of his goatee with a surprisingly strong grip.

"Okay," Tony said to the empty room. "Okay. Don't panic. You've defused bombs with worse wiring. How different can this be?"

He looked at the scroll Thor had given him. It was elaborate, written in glowing ink on what felt like vellum.

Item One: Laussa must be sung the ballads of the First Sunrise every two hours to strengthen her connection to the light. Item Two: Do not, under any circumstances, let her near open flame. She will try to eat it and her diapers are not flame-retardant. Item Three: Her teething ring is in the pouch; it is a cooled fragment of a dwarf star. Do not lose it. Item Four: If she begins to glow, she is either happy or summoning the Eternal Flame. It is usually the former, but be vigilant.

Tony stared from the scroll to the baby, who was now attempting to chew on the repulsor node on his wrist. "FRIDAY," he said, his voice slightly strained.

"Yes, boss?"

"Cancel my everything. And initiate the 'Oh God, There's a Baby' protocol."

"Protocol not found."

"Then make one up! I need a sterile, non-flammable environment. Baby-proof the entire common floor. And get me... I don't know... something from the gift shop. A onesie. A rattle. Something that doesn't require knowledge of ancient Norse lullabies."

He carefully sat on the couch, holding Laussa out in front of him. She giggled, a sound like tiny bells and popping embers.

"Alright, Your Highness," Tony muttered. "Let's lay down some ground rules. No forging weapons of destiny, no realm-destroying tantrums, and absolutely no setting the drapes on fire. We clear?"

Laussa responded by blowing a perfect, tiny smoke ring.

Tony's eyes went wide. "...Cool. Okay. That's... that's actually kind of cool. FRIDAY, did you get that?"

"I did, boss. Analysis suggests a 0.0001% concentration of cosmic particulate matter in the exhalation."

"See? We're science-ing already." He adjusted his hold, bringing her a little closer. She snuggled into his chest, her tiny body surprisingly warm. He tentatively patted her back. "Don't get used to this. Your uncle Thunderbrows is coming back. I am not dad material. I'm fun-uncle-at-a-distance material."

Laussa sighed contentedly, her faint glow pulsing in a soft, sleepy rhythm.

Tony sighed, a slow smile spreading across his face despite himself. "FRIDAY?"

"Yes, boss?"

"Order the biggest, most ridiculously expensive crib you can find. And see if we can get a onesie in black and gold. If I'm babysitting a princess of Asgard, she's going to have style."

“Nothing, bud,” she muttered, sighing. “Not a single text, not a glimmer of a Wi-Fi signal. Dad is probably losing his minds.” The mysterious music box that had brought them here four months ago clearly hadn’t come with a roaming data plan.

A shadow fell over her. “Sister! What grim business occupies the brilliant mind of Hiccup the… the Very-Thoughtful on such a glorious day?”

Hiccup flinched, nearly dropping the phone. Dagur the Deranged loomed above her, his grin wide and unnervingly manic. Before she could even process a response, his hand shot out and snatched the device from her grasp.

“Hey! Dagur, give that back! It’s not a weapon!” Hiccup scrambled to her feet, her heart rate spiking. The sudden loss of her familiar object, her one fragile link to home, sent a jolt of panic through her.

Dagur held the phone aloft, turning it over in his hands with the curiosity of a cat who’d found a new, shiny insect. “What strange, smooth obsidian is this? Is it a soul-catcher? A war-club? It’s terribly light for a war-club.” He tapped the screen with a grimy fingernail, and it lit up, causing him to yelp and almost drop it. “BY THE GODS! It holds lightning!”

“It’s a phone! It’s for talking to people who are far away! Now please, give it!” Hiccup pleaded, making a grab for it.

Dagur danced away, holding it out of her reach. “Talking? To faraway people? Sorcery!” His eyes gleamed with delight. He brought the phone closer to his face, his nose almost touching the screen. Then, with a sudden, unpredictable impulse, his tongue snaked out and he gave the screen a long, definitive lick.

“Eww! What is wrong with you?!” Hiccup recoiled in utter disgust, her face contorted in horror.

Dagur threw his head back and laughed, a loud, unhinged sound that echoed through the hall. “Oh, lots of things! The list is long and gloriously deranged!” He licked his lips, contemplating the taste with the seriousness of a wine connoisseur. “Hmm. Tastes like cold metal and captured lightning! And possibly… yes, a hint of dragon skin!”

“I really don’t want to know how you know what those things taste like,” Hiccup groaned, feeling slightly nauseated.

“Practice!” Dagur declared proudly, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. He poked at the screen again and his thumb accidentally swiped across the photo gallery icon. Dozens of pictures fanned across the screen. Dagur’s eyes went wide as dinner plates. “Ohh! Picture stones! You’ve trapped their souls in here!”

“They’re not souls! They’re just photos! Stop it!” Hiccup tried to lunge for the phone again, but Dagur spun away, holding the device protectively to his chest.

“Don’t worry, tiny, trapped souls!” he cooed to athe pictures of Hiccup’s parents. “I will free you with the might of the Berserkers!” He shook the phone violently.

“No! You’ll break it! That’s the opposite of helping!” Hiccup’s voice was reaching a desperate pitch. The sensory overload of his shouting, the panic of losing her phone, and the sheer absurdity of the situation were closing in on her.

But Dagur was lost in his own world. He began pacing, waving the phone around like a holy relic. “This changes everything! We can take the souls of our enemies! A whole army, trapped in this little black slab! We’ll start with Alvin the Treacherous! And his mother!”

His mother? Hiccup thought, sinking to her knees. Alvin had a mother? She shook her head, trying to dislodge the bizarre image. She didn’t want to know. She really, really didn’t want to know.

“And Mildew, the hideous crone! Him too!” Dagur cackled, stabbing a finger at the phone. For the next hour, he proceeded to run rampant through the Berserker village, howling with laughter. He’d shout random words he’d glimpsed on apps—“EMOJI! SELFIE! HASHTAG VICTORY!”—with a conviction that suggested he believed they were powerful war cries. Hiccup was now lying face-down on the dusty ground near the hall entrance, her hands over her head. Toothless had settled his head on her back, rumbling a deep, soothing purr in a valiant attempt to block out the chaos.

Dagur’s energy was, as ever, boundless. He sprinted back over, skidded to a halt, and scooped Hiccup up from the ground as if she weighed no more than a pillow.

“Dagur, put me down!” she squeaked, flailing helplessly.

He ignored her, carrying her outside to the main training grounds where a group of his tribesmen were drinking and sparring. He lifted her high above his head like a trophy. “Fellow Berserkers! Heed my call! This is a historic moment for our people!”

The Berserkers stopped what they were doing and turned, their expressions a mixture of confusion and eager anticipation for whatever madness their Chief was about to propose.

“After many years and many glorious battles—which will hopefully continue, who are we kidding? Of course they will!—my sister, Hiccup of… of…” He trailed off, lowering her slightly to peer at her face. “What was it?”

Hiccup, dangling precariously, sighed in defeat. “Norway. On Earth.”

Dagur’s face lit up. He thrust her back into the air. “Hiccup of Doorway Eat Dirt!”

Not even close, Hiccup thought miserably.

“She has given us a way to defeat Viggo Grimborn and Drago Bludvist once and for all!” The crowd erupted in cheers, banging their axes on their shields. Oh, boy, Hiccup thought, her stomach sinking like a stone. That’s not good. She had a sudden, vivid mental image of Dagur trying to defeat the two most dangerous warlords in the Archipelago by throwing her dying iPhone at them. It ended with a lot of Berserkers, most of all Dagur, dying in frankly ridiculous circumstances.

“Finally, we shall claim our victory!” Dagur bellowed, his voice ringing with zealous fervor. “We shall show them all what it truly means to cross the Berserkers! We shall have our justice! Our REVENGE!” To emphasize his point, he tossed Hiccup lightly into the air. She landed with an “Oof!” on a thankfully soft pile of hay.

She barely had time to get to her feet before he’d grabbed her again and hoisted her back up. “All hail! Hiccup the Horrible! HICCUP THE UNWASHED!”

“Unwashed?” Hiccup muttered, deeply offended.

The Berserkers took up the chant, pounding their weapons in rhythm. “HICCUP! HICCUP! HICCUP!”

“We strike at dawn!” Dagur roared. He laughed again, that same terrifying, joyous, unhinged laugh, and then, as abruptly as he’d started, he ran back inside the Great Hall and deposited a very dizzy, very disheveled Hiccup back onto the stone floor.

He paced in front of the fire, staring at the phone with wide, awestruck eyes. “It’s all just as the prophecy foretold!”

Hiccup blinked, straightening her tunic. “Prophecy? What prophecy?”

Dagur stopped and pointed a dramatic finger at the ceiling. “Beware the setting sun on the day the silent dragon-stone bleats! The Chieftess from the world of Doorway Eat Dirt shall deliver the Soul-Slab, and with it, we shall smite our foes and paint the seas with their… lukewarm soup!” he psychopathically shouted, making grand, sweeping gestures.

Hiccup stared at him, deadpan. “You just made that up.”

“The prophecy is never wrong!” he insisted, then looked down at the phone. His grin faltered. The screen had dimmed, and a red battery icon flashed a warning. Dagur’s eyes widened in terror. He gasped, dropping his voice to a horrified whisper. “No… the soul-slab! It fades! The magic dies!”

He held it out to her, his hand trembling. “What dark sorcery is this? What must we do to appease it? A sacrifice! Yes! We must sacrifice a sheep to restore its power!”

As if on cue, a single sheep chewing on some hay near the doorway lifted its head. It turned and stared directly at them, its expression one of profound confusion and mild concern. “Baa?” it said, sounding slightly worried.

Hiccup finally snatched her phone back from Dagur’s limp hand. She clutched it to her chest, watching as he began urgently trying to negotiate with the sheep.

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s for a great cause! A noble cause! You’ll be remembered forever in song! Probably!”

Hiccup sank back down against the wall, sliding to the floor. Toothless immediately plopped his head in her lap. She looked at her phone—2% battery—and then at Dagur, who was now attempting to reassure the increasingly alarmed sheep about the honour of being a ritual offering.