The underground laboratory of the Malibu mansion.
Originally, this place was a sanctuary where Tony Stark's genius brain manifested mechanical perfection.
But now, it had devolved into a chaotic mess, a cacophony of the billionaire engineer's shouting and the decadent dragon's lethargic back-seat coaching.
"No, Stark. I told you. The energy flowing through that hunk of scrap metal is too stiff. This mana pathway... or I guess you call it a 'wire'? Twist it more flexibly. Like the roots of Yggdrasil."
Níðhöggr sat perched on Tony's workbench, crunching loudly on an apple.
His black hair was messier than usual today, only heightening his decadent beauty.
"Please, Nidhogg! This isn't a magic wand; it’s a high-tech flight suit! There are things called the laws of physics. That 'flexible energy' you’re talking about is a direct insult to air resistance and the Second Law of Thermodynamics!"
Tony clutched his head while hovering over a holographic blueprint.
He had been in the middle of testing the flight stability of the Mark 3, but Níðhöggr kept throwing unscientific advice at him, claiming things like 'the Qi isn't flowing' or 'the metal isn't breathing.'
"JARVIS, I’m asking seriously... if I muzzle that reptile, what are the odds of my survival?"
[Sir, considering Mr. Níðhöggr's physical durability, there is a 99.9% probability the muzzle would be decomposed at a molecular level first. For the record, this is the first time I have observed a lifeform on Earth who speaks more than you do.]
'Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean! I’ve never seen a guy talk more than me in my entire life!'
Tony fiercely cursed Níðhöggr under his breath while picking up the soldering iron again.
"Hey, tin-can maker. Don't strain yourself. Should I just pull out one of my scales for you? If you mix that into an alloy, it’ll survive a collision with a planet. Though, I’m quite expensive, so you’d probably go bankrupt."
"Forget it! I’m going to prove this with my technology, so go watch TV or something!"
"Hmph. Human pride. Let’s go, Ratatoskr. I’d rather go sight-seeing in the city than listen to this tin-can clanging."
Níðhöggr stood up without a shred of lingering interest.
Ratatoskr—who had been shouting profanities at JARVIS’s holographic panel in the living room, screaming, "You piece of junk! Do you have any idea how much vision there is in the acorn trade?!"—brightened up and followed him.
"Oh, we’re finally leaving? I’m starving after eating everything in this house’s fridge. Let's go get some of that 'steak' the Midgardians eat! It better be as thick as my fist!"
The two entities stepped out onto the sunny streets of Malibu, armed with the unlimited black card Tony had provided.
Níðhöggr walked the streets wearing a black leather jacket and sunglasses. Every time he passed by, every woman on the street—and even a few men—stopped in their tracks, staring at him in a trance.
"Hey, Nid. Dial back the gaze. You're going to cause a traffic accident."
"A villain is supposed to enjoy being the center of attention, you rat."
They were passing near a luxury shopping mall when a woman's urgent cry and a man's rough threat echoed from the entrance of a deserted alleyway.
"Hey! Let go! I'm calling the police!"
"Shut up, lady! That bag looks pretty expensive, so why don't you just hand it over quietly?"
A masked mugger brandishing a sharp knife was cornering a beautiful woman. She was none other than the sharp-tongued journalist who had been investigating the corruption at Stark Industries, Christine Everhart.
Ratatoskr frowned at the scene blocking the path to the steakhouse.
"Hey, you son of a bitch! Stop blocking the way and move! There’s a war going on in my stomach!"
The mugger, startled by the sudden appearance of the large man, aimed his knife at him.
"Wh-what? You, get lost! Or else this woman’s life..."
"Oh, look at this guy?"
Ratatoskr’s eyes flashed.
He moved with lightning speed, lightly tapping the mugger’s wrist.
Crack!
With a sickening sound, the knife dropped to the floor, and Ratatoskr slammed a knife-hand strike directly onto the mugger’s head.
Thwack!
"Gah-ack!"
The mugger faceplanted into the pavement, blood spurting from his nose like a fountain. It was a miracle he didn't die instantly from that superhuman strength; instead, he blacked out on the verge of death.
"This is what happens to anyone who blocks my way. Got it?"
While Ratatoskr stood there huffing, grabbing the mugger by the scruff of his neck, Níðhöggr approached the terrified, gasping Christine.
He lowered his sunglasses slightly and gazed at her with his decadent eyes.
"Are you alright, beautiful lady? You look quite shaken."
The moment Níðhöggr’s voice reached her, Christine's fear melted away instantly. Níðhöggr's 'Charm' skill seized control of her brain cells. The cold, analytical reasoning of a journalist vanished, replaced by a searing craving for the lethal man before her.
"Ah... You are..."
Christine's eyes glazed over as if turning into heart shapes. She reached out unconsciously, grabbing Níðhöggr’s shirt collar.
"Um... I’m shaking so much. Could we go somewhere quiet... and help me calm down?"
Níðhöggr wrapped an arm around her waist with a languid smile.
"That public restroom over there looks quite deserted. What do you think?"
Instead of answering, Christine buried her face in Níðhöggr's chest and nodded.
As if in a trance, the two of them walked into the well-maintained nearby public restroom, leaving Ratatoskr behind.
"Wait, is he insane...?"
Ratatoskr stared at the restroom door with a dumbfounded expression, still holding the unconscious mugger by the collar.
"Hey! Nid! Aren't you going to eat? You lizard in heat! How are you going to start banging right here?!"
Inside the restroom, muffled moans and heavy breathing immediately began to leak out. Níðhöggr's 'Charm' was more than just simple attraction; it was a primitive amplifier of pleasure. Christine, swept away by intense sensations she had never felt in her life, clung to Níðhöggr, while Níðhöggr drove her forward with the tenacity of a villain.
Listening to the sounds from outside the door, Ratatoskr spat on the ground in genuine disgust.
"Disgusting, seriously. He's going to wreck that girl's hips at this rate."
Ratatoskr grumbled, yet he loyally stood guard. When passersby tried to enter the restroom, he blocked them with a fierce, threatening glare.
"Hey, pops. The Dragon God is descending inside for a sacred ritual right now, so go somewhere else. Unless you want to die."
Terrified by his savage aura, the pedestrians fled. Ratatoskr, still holding the bleeding mugger in one hand, pulled an acorn from his pocket with the other, chewed it, and called the police.
"Yeah, back alley of the shopping mall. Some idiot mugger blocked my way and knocked himself out. Come collect him. Oh, and don't worry about the screaming in the restroom. They’re just being blessed."
A short while later, Níðhöggr emerged from the restroom looking refreshed, adjusting his clothes. Behind him, Christine stumbled out with weak legs, her eyes filled with ecstasy as she watched him go. She tucked her business card into Níðhöggr's chest pocket and whispered.
"Please... please call me. Please."
Níðhöggr gave her a wink and walked over to Ratatoskr.
"Kept you waiting? Alright, let’s go get that steak."
"You reptile, if you have a conscience, you're paying for the meat. That girl looks like she’s about to appear on the news, her face is practically blooming!"
Hearing the sirens of the police cars, Ratatoskr dropped the mugger onto the pavement and disappeared into the crowd with Níðhöggr.
In the evening, after devouring ten servings of steak, the two returned to the mansion to find Tony Stark had finally finished painting the Mark 3.
"Oh, look who’s back. The Stamina King. JARVIS told me. You 'interviewed' a journalist in a public restroom?"
Tony laughed incredulously, tapping the helmet of his suit.
"What are you guys exactly? Dragons or Incubi?"
"A villain is supposed to be kind to women. More importantly, isn't that suit color a bit too loud? Gold and red? It looks like it’s begging for attention."
Tony responded confidently to Níðhöggr’s sarcasm.
"This is a 'discreet' color. Now, it’s finally time to take to the skies for real. Don't get in the way and just watch."
Níðhöggr lay back on the sofa and thought to himself.
Life in Midgard with this tin-can maker was proving to be quite entertaining.
And he could already smell another 'villain' approaching who would soon shatter this peace.
"Well, it won't be boring."
Níðhöggr’s crimson eyes flashed as he took a sip of wine.
The first chapter of the bizarre chronicle of the Calamity of Yggdrasil intertwining with Earth's heroes had just begun.
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