Mandela Effect: Prologue

An inter-dimensional One Ring?

"Explain. Now," Fury growled, his grip still tight on the handgun at his side.

Loki sighed and glanced at Steven, who was staring at Fury in obvious irritation. Loki had heard them out in the hallway and the sorcerer didn't seem to be very happy about the weapon being pointed at his guest.

"It is a lengthy tale," he said, turning back to Fury, "but you deserve to know why and how this whole situation came about. I would suggest seating yourself." He waved towards the large armchair behind Steven and the small, uncomfortable plastic chair behind Fury and he saw the director frown. The man was most likely wondering how the chairs had appeared in the middle of their conversation.

Steven seated himself in his plush seat and examined the other chair with a smirk. He turned his gaze towards the ceiling with a slightly exasperated smile, his eyes twinkling with fondness.

"Come now, that's no way to treat our guest," he chided and Fury's eyebrows knitted in confusion. No doubt, he probably felt that the other man is going insane. "Give him a proper seat, please."

What Fury couldn't feel was the magic of the house as it twisted, swirling and rumbling like far-off thunder. Loki chuckled as the houses' grumbling brought memories of Tony calling his staff to clean up one of Clint's pranks or Steve complaining about the lack of good music nowadays. With a jolt, he realized that the people that he was working to save were probably completely different from the friends that he had come to know and care for. For all he knew, this universe's Natasha could be unrepentant about the people she had killed or their Bruce could be a crass, angry man. For all he knew, Steve and Bucky weren't, in fact, dating and Pietro had never been healed in time to save his life.

Loki gave a small huff. The personalities of this universe's heroes were not a concern. They were needed and that's all that mattered.

Steven gave the ceiling another pointed look and the house let out a lower roll of thunder before it curtly twisted its magic. The air around the plastic monstrosity distorted and it smoothly morphed, growing bigger and plush as its white plastic thickened and red spread through it like roses blooming in the snow. Within the space of a second, a more threadbare version of Steven's armchair was sitting where the plastic chair had once stood.

Fury's eyebrow shot into his hairline as he slowly holstered his gun, leaving it unsecured as he prodded the arm of the chair. His other eyebrow joined the first as he felt what had once been plastic give way under his fingers.

"Please sit down, director," Steven said, gesturing to the chair, "It won't bite. Probably."

Fury shot him a venomous glare and sat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in front of him. He intertwined his fingers tightly, as if the cage that they made could contain his anger towards the man that had (temporarily) killed his second in command and turned one of his best agents against him and his allies. Or at least, the man who looked like the one who had done all that.

Fury stared at the trickster across from him as the god organized his thoughts, his eyes pensive as they gazed through the impossible window at one end of the room. Fury's own thoughts swirled as he pondered the other man's claims of interdimensional travel and impossible friendships. He had seen a lot of strange things, from men that grew to three times their size and turned green when angry, to women manipulating red energy with the power of their mind, to androids and 99-year-old young men and everything in between. He'd seen robot insurgencies in Novi Grad and alien invasions in New York. After all of that, alternate dimensions weren't such a hard thing to wrap his mind around, and yet it all still seemed so fantastic.