(This story is a part of the general sub-universe of a fanfic series called The SHIELD Codex, but it is possible this is the first story you have come across. As for some reason you might be very up for reading about Nazis eventually being punched. If you are new, all you really need to dive in is this: what with surviving one stupid idea and then many others, the Agents of SHIELD have adopted the strangest of allies - An 'Agent' Loki that has successfully and slowly managed to pull his head out of his ass, earning a place among them.

The story following is based on fictional concepts and is not intended to represent any existing group or organization, except for the bits where there are Nazis, and SHIELD agents are going to fight them.)

. . .

Generation of Animals

"Someday, he thought, I would like to meet a monster that looked like a monster." ~ Ira Levin, The Boys from Brazil

. . .

1. Alexi-Songbird-Carter

. . .

"Don't start." Loki glared at Coulson from where he was looming over the body at his feet. For his part, Agent Phil Coulson was half-slumped against the steel reinforced doorway of the creaking old warehouse with the modified icer weapon clasped in his hands in the down and ready position. "Just don't even begin with me right now."

Phil opened his mouth despite the slight but evocative narrowing of Loki's irritated stare, then settled for a tired grin. He'd dropped his own last assailant and walked in on the last half second of what had probably been about a two second thorough beatdown, as only a trained warrior and sorcerer of Asgard could offer. "Is he breathing, at least?"

Loki glanced down at the near-corpse he'd neatly created out of a smuggler gone attempted criminal mastermind. Fourteen broken bones, three of which were his ribs, the rest in the legs and arms. And, well, fingers. No harm to the skull, and none of those wounds would be impacting the lungs within the abused cage. More importantly, the idiot would not be running again, and most certainly, he would not be using stolen Hammer tech on another batch of surprised SHIELD field agents anytime soon. To his own annoyance, Loki reckoned the fool was yet in better shape than the four badly damaged humans still laid up in the medical facility attached to the Maine office. Good enough. He would survive through his coming interrogation by SHIELD staff. "Technically."

"Can you expand 'technically' into the about three hundred odd words at minimum the Director will want in that section of the after-action report we gotta file tonight?"

"I've plenty of words that would work for Mace," muttered Loki, strictly for himself. He snapped the cuffs of his dark shirt under the darker suit jacket back into proper place, sparing a glance for the small golden links buttoned at his wrists. In a fit of draining fighter's fury, he kept going. "Walking, talking, cheap suit wearing, color-coded bureaucratic disease of the sensible mind, that one."

"What was that?" Coulson cocked his head, still amused, having a pretty damn good guess what his friend had said without being able to actually hear it. "Come on, at least fake some professionalism on the topic."

"I'm saving it for the ever so important after-action report, obviously." Loki sniffed, acid rolling hot in every tone and gesture, and took a step away from the prone figure, sweeping a glance around at the wooden crates lining the walls. "Does this count as securing his stolen cargo?"

"We need to call in the backup team to help take inventory and mark it all for cleanup." Coulson holstered his weapon, ignoring the ever-theatrical roll of Loki's eyes. The phone in his pocket vibrated softly in an odd pattern, some incoming message. Didn't hit him with the emergency pattern, so he settled for the simple reflex of patting his pocket and remembering to check it over some food. "Can get them moving on the scene within the half hour and go for some fries."

Loki didn't actually say the words kill me, but the sentiment got across via the wounded, disgusted look that contorted his face. "It's very nice how you're enjoying getting out more again, but must I have to suffer for it?"

Phil laughed, unable to help it. "The only thing I was ever kinda sad about taking the Director's chair just as you started being less of a career jerk was that we didn't get to go roadtripping much together. You got to go have all the fun with everyone else in the crew."

"Yes, I'm very sure it's all been just terrible for you." Loki droned his apparent lack of sympathy in a voice as flat as a crepe. "Why, you've missed your chance to be shot at continually, stabbed, nearly eaten by eldritch things a ridiculous multiplicity of times, chased out of that bizarre excuse for a despotic country, upset a full coventry of ancient witches-"

"How's Harkness doing, anyway?"

That forced him to pause. "Analytics adores her. Meanwhile, she texts me constantly with decent questions about the source materials I've been handing over. Half-tempted to furlough her to Strange for a few months, get her into the library I'm aware they have at Kamar-Taj. Fairly suitable for her skill level." Loki snapped his fingers. With almost disappointing mundaneness, a set of disposable plastic zip-strips appeared out of seemingly nowhere, finishing the job of hog-tying the unconscious captive. "Nice tactical segue, Coulson."

"I let you go, you'll rant for a half hour. Don't you start."

"You enjoy my rants."

Phil quirked an eyebrow. Mostly true. They were usually better entertainment than the AM band in the car, especially lately. However, he was approaching being genuinely hungry, and he wanted to get this scene sealed up and them moved off onto another job ASAP.

Back when he had been a particularly wiggly seven-year-old, he had been informed one night by his weary parents that he had been inflicted with the dread disease 'Ants in Your Pants,' or, if he wanted to be more fancy-Latiny about it, Formica tua Braccae. At this older age, now freed somewhat from the role of Director for reasons he understood, if not always agreed with, he realized, yep, that was going to be a lifetime illness. "I'm hungry and I just now got a text I need to get eyes on. Probably got another job lined up already."

"Oh, stars and dark Gods forbid we get an hour's worth of downtime where we might parcel out our own thoughts within it. Apt to look upwards to the sky and forget this nonsense set of 'security restrictions' he's got in place to keep everyone in line." Loki spread his hands with a dramatic shrug.

"You forgot to mumble that one."

"I did not forget." Loki visibly relented, dismissing his own antics with a look of more casual assessment. It would be a jarring change in attitude, if Phil wasn't exhaustively used to it at this point. "Certain your text is no emergency?"

"Wrong pattern." Phil frowned. Come to think of it, the vibration alert hadn't taken the form of any of his usual signals. He pulled out the phone, figuring he needed to call in the backup squad anyway, so it wouldn't hurt to take a moment to glance at the name of the new message's sender. Nadine Roman. Then he nearly dropped the device, recognizing the alias. "Loki."

He was silent, all business in the aftermath of Phil's stunned look. Sharp eyes now watching him patiently for whatever was needed.

"Do me a huge favor and get that backup on its way in for me. I gotta call this back."

. . .

Phil kept looking out the alley, knowing Loki would handle the vans when they pulled in. Five proxy connections before he actually managed to get the original caller back on the line, and he was surprised it was that few, considering. The connection on the other end clicked into life, soft white noise. He took one more glance around, making sure he wasn't being overheard. A gadget in his synthetic wrist would kill any other recording devices in a fifteen foot circle around him. He figured the contact would appreciate that. "Alexi-Songbird-Carter. Verified."

He could hear the tension ease on the other line. Natasha Romanoff's low voice replaced it, warm and friendly. "Coulson. Agent again, I hear."

"You hear right."

"Bet you're happier that way." He listened to leather shift against thick fabric. Romanoff was on the move, in a vehicle she'd no doubt 'borrowed' from somewhere. Distant noise, a handful of honks of a kind he recognized. The scene was an easy one to visualize. Cheap, boxy cars, dashcams, and what Clint Barton liked to call the 'tracksuit vampires.' Back in the old turf again. Eastern Europe definitely. Ukraine itself, perhaps, keeping an eye on the big boys while the rest of the world was in turmoil. She kept busy on her own terms, even with half the Avengers currently underground. A twinge hit him. Thanos might not be a problem any longer, but ordinary human fear was a tougher fight. "I got a data hit from a contact I think someone should check on."

"And you didn't want to feed it into the main SHIELD channels."

"I never trust much, Coulson. But I'll trust you as a professional. If this is something that's got fruit in its branches, it should stay hanging low until you know more. Don't want to tempt the wrong people with this."

Natasha was never florid in her speech like that without a purpose. He pieced together keywords, going from the loose biblical visual all the way to the image of a pile of snakes. He blinked. Hydra. He responded in kind, reminding her of fairly recent events. "And you don't think it's old news."

"The classics never die, Coulson. Not all the way. You guys shot down most of the big squad, some of the little fry got caught up next, but the idea is still out there. Kind of their thing. Ask the Germans. Hell, ask our other old mutual friend. If you can find him." Another code, a tip on where to possibly go for further information on whatever she thought she had. He realized his hand was clammy around the phone. Natasha Romanoff never gave social calls, and she hadn't even met with May in months. That he'd known about, anyway. This was big enough to get her to make contact. That was its own code to break, and an easy one.

"You got a drop?"

"Check your spam filter, timeframe thirty-nine minutes ago for the hashed .tor address. You'll need a password. Ask your good bud about the peace treaty he brokered and bribed with me a while back, bearing in mind Clint was not a party to it. He'll know what I mean."

Loki would know the password, something do with the Latveria job he and Natasha had been on together. Phil arched an eyebrow. He had a tor browser package installed on his burner phone, no connection to the SHIELD grid. That would do the job for him. "Can you give me a hint before I play script kiddie with the spooky darknet?"

"I put together a brief at the start of the info packet. Beyond that, I think you should read it for yourself and draw your own conclusions. It's not a long read, Coulson, but I think that makes it more concerning."

"Okay. Thanks for the call. You take care of yourself out there."

"Always do. Punch the weirdo for me. Hard. And say hi to May. I'll get with her soon."

The phone went dead in his hand. Phil looked up in time to see Loki ambling towards him, hands in his suit pockets and SHIELD agents working like bees in the background moving the volatile crates of stolen ordinance out of the warehouse. Hard to say whether it was the usual efficiency of the local field team, or, equally probable, the literal fear of a God. "Quick question."

"Mm."

"How'd you bribe Nat into not trying to murder you for giggles anyway after the whole Latveria thing was over?"

The answer was immediate. For a mind like Loki's, the memory was swiftly accessible. "I acquired a bottle of starka, granting it freely to her as a sort of peace offering. Wouldn't say she was touched, exactly, but it bought me some consideration."

"Nothing for Barton?"

Loki shrugged. "She indicated he was the cheap beer sort. I have no choice but to concur with the sentiment, based on my own observations."

"Bingo," said Phil to his phone and the spam email folder he was pulling up, ignoring the puzzled look he got. Starka. A rare type of Polish vodka. That was his password, or at least the core of it. "So, those fries? I like to eat while I figure out what new hell is about to drop in my lap."

"Gods, please, let it not be actual Hel for once. I begin to miss the thwap of ordinary mortal bullets. Made today almost pleasant."

"At least they don't hurt?"

"Stingy little tickle, typically." Loki watched Phil continue to meddle with his phone, his human friend quickly disappearing into another level of mental focus. One that wasn't going to allow him to respond with more than mutters for a few. "I suppose I'm driving."

"Hng."

There it was.

. . .

Coulson was dimly aware of the larger black shape draped silently and, somewhat amazing, patiently across the red chair on the other side of the cheap tabletop. His own burger, half eaten, was congealing on its tin foil wrapper in a mess of admittedly delicious grease and cheese. The fries, a ridiculously large portion that spilled into the paper bag like a pond of high-caloric earthly delight, were mostly gone.

The self-styled 'God of Change' was also something of a patron of the hypocrites. Pale fingers popped into his view and snagged one of the remaining deep fried survivors. Phil's stomach gurgled, reminding him he should probably keep eating, even while his mind kept trying to absorb what Romanoff was telling him. His thumb flicked back to her initial brief, picking out the bits where her static words became conversational with him, highlighting how careful she wanted to be.

I can't stress enough the caution I believe we should take going forward with this information. This is the stuff of urban legend, but I guess it's one of the logical endpoints for the old organization. A way to congregate again, strike up the banner under a new, 'safer' symbol they can create instead of the obvious old one. Make it all real again. The new Inhumans have been a good place to start for them to build that base in the public eye. And the worst part is, it'll happen easier and faster than most people will ever realize. Fascism has always been seductive to the right people.

I grew up in the fog that kind of hate builds. You know that much. It shapes us. It leaves holes behind in that fog, and new people seem to always walk in to fill them back up.

SHIELD is monitoring the Watchdogs and other supremacist organizations, aware of their roots in 'simple' racism and how they're being normalized by certain public factions. Always a good start for the wrong people who want to be in charge. I'm telling you things you helped write the historical briefs on during the early Cold War, when we needed to remember what came before. But I think this is deeper than that - not a conspiracy, but a recognition of something that's always been with us. I've been watching Norsefire get scary legs in the UK through a few friends. And Odinsrage has their political wing making real inroads in Eastern Europe. Think they turned a few CIA guys. I'll let you know if I find out for certain. But some of it comes back home to the old red, white, and black.

If this intel bears out… someone has to kill this piece of it. This head above all others. Fast. And cauterize the stump to show we will not forget the past like this ever again.

Phil licked his lips, not tasting the salt of the fry he was mechanically eating, and went back to the data dump itself. Scientific holdings, scattered and coded across multiple possible locations. Genetic information. Threads of connection between politicians and corporations, some of which were hauntingly familiar. It didn't seem possible, the conclusion she'd drawn, and yet, after all his years with SHIELD, that meant he believed it utterly. But they were going to need that corroborating information from the source Natasha hinted at, and worse - she was right about the rest. This was going to have to be handled cautiously, hidden well under the wire until he was damn sure no remaining cracks in their system could get their hands on this.

The last thing the remaining scales of that Hydra needed - much less this latest rise of hard-line racism - was a new leader. Not this one.

That meant just him and whatever resources he could pull together off-grid and short-term, relying on his own judgement, and playing as fast and loose as possible until he had no choice but to cut in Mace. A good chance he got discovered and bounced out of the system for the stunt, but what the hell. Some things were worth the risk, because the alternative was a lot worse.

Phil had learned a lot from Nick Fury. Including just how to keep that one eye blind. He thought about that for a moment, until it clicked into place just how he was going to get at some of that corroboration. He put down his phone and looked up at Loki, still silently watching him. "I need to send you on an odd job just about immediately."

He arched a black eyebrow in response.

"We've been sitting on a bunch of small diplomatic missions that got clogged up in the system because of the Accords. You're gonna go clear one out, totally above board. I'll shove it through the system through Simmons. Just a simple messenger job, one of those mini-vacays you keep complaining you never get because we've been running you ragged for a while."

"Of course," Loki said, his voice smooth as silk as his eyes narrowed and darkened at Phil's undertones, sharply calculating. "Where am I going?"

"Wakanda."