The rain annoyed her. It smacked in her face, dampened her cloak, limited visibility. A battle should be fought on a clear field under the open sun, not under skulking gray skies that poured this foul rain on and around her as if they had nothing better to do. She paused on the walk and gave a moment’s thought to it. The rain stopped, and the clouds began scudding away. She smiled in satisfaction and walked on.
And here’s Pete Billings with our top of the hour forecast! Pete, any break from this rain we’ve had all week?
Well, bad news, Dan, the low pressure area that’s been causing that is still sitting right over us so unfortunately we can expect at least a couple more days of…hang on… excuse me, Dan, we’re getting some new reports in… uh, actually, it looks like everything’s just cleared up. We now have clear skies throughout the metro area, Dan.
Huh. How about that. Guess there’s no accounting for good old Mother Nature, huh, Pete?
Guess not, Dan.
When she tried to walk into the city museum, naturally someone asked her for her ticket. “What?” she said. Partly she was genuinely confused; the language had changed much since she’d been here last. Partly, however, she was affronted by the question.
“I can’t let you in until I see your ticket,” the museum employee explained. He wasn’t really annoyed; whoever this was, they had mad cosplay skills. It’d been a minute since he’d looked up that particular character; there wasn’t much in the material to begin with, but they’d gotten everything perfect from what he could tell. He wondered what the occasion was. Was there a con in town?
“You deny me entry?” she said, her voice rising.
“It’s the rules, ma’am,” he said, noting with relief that a pair of nearby security guards had heard the disturbance and were nonchalantly heading over his way. “I can’t let anyone in without-”
All units, all units, proceed to Third and Graham Streets, Third and Graham, active hostile situation, multiple injuries reported, fatalities possible, proceed with caution, over.
All units, all units, be advised, air support is on the way, Chopper Two is en route, repeat Chopper is in area and en route, proceed with caution-
Dispatch, Chopper Two, they’re airborne! They’re in the sky! Oh my God they can fly they can-oh my God they’re coming in they’re breaking the-
She’d almost begun to be disappointed, until the flying machine arrived. Their fighters on the ground were slow as nursery babes. She’d knocked down the museum guards like so many pathetic dolls, and she was halfway to what she sought before she heard the telltale crack of their projectile weapons. There were more of them now, she’d observed, and they looked determined. Even then, though, she knocked them down and moved through them with almost casual contempt, until she took a breath and realized that she was now outside the museum again, and what she wanted was on the inside. She swore; she’d forgotten herself in the battle, even a paltry little fight such as this.
Then she saw the flying machine. Finally, she’d thought, a worthy foe. She’d know the mortals had such machines but they had all been large clunky things, like the great ships of old: this was small, this darted around the sky, this was-
Well, it had almost been a challenge.
Now, she had to go back inside and claim her prize. She strode past the groaning security guards and the whimpering tourists, paying them no heed. There it was, mounted on a display along with a few other artifacts, preserved in careful ignorance behind glass. They’d written something underneath it: she could just make it out, different though it was from the mortal tongues she knew.
Authentic Norse farming implements, ca. 793 A.D.
“Farming implements,” she said, tasting the low words. The gall. The arrogance. They had Mlrning, the Shovel of a Thousand Freezing Breezes, within their grasp, and they used it to farm? They ranked it as worthy of preservation as … as a mere plow?
Lightning split the sky. Thunder roared in its wake. She grasped hold of it and waved it over her head. She was not happy.
“General, be honest with me, you think you can take her?”
“Mr. President, sir, I don’t know. She’s in an urban area, highly populated, which rules out any kind of targeted missile strike, but short of that-”
“You must be kidding, general, a missile strike for one wacko in a Viking outfit?”
“Sir, that wacko not only took out half the city police force with her bare hands, she grounded a police chopper, and my intel’s telling me she may have a connection to the meteorological anomalies we’re seeing over there. The only reason I haven’t sent in a missile already is because the only one I think could do the job would also take out the whole downtown area.”
A short pause.
“General, launch it. Take her out.” The order was short, decisive, to the point. Blunt and unemotional. The general would’ve thought bloodless, except for the irony of it.
He protested, nonetheless. “Sir, there’s I don’t know how many thousand people down here-”
“Do it. That’s an order.” Click.
“Yes sir.”
Oh, she thought, as she emerged from the museum, the object of her search in hand, that was new. Some sort of firework, perhaps? She laughed; they really must be desperate if they’d resorted to throwing mere fireworks at her.
She raised Mlrning, the Shovel of Thor, over her head, swung it about, and hurled it at the oncoming firework. Its sharp edge connected with a loud thunk. The firework exploded in a sheet of flame.
“Well, now what?”
“Sir, I don’t know: the only escalation from here involves mass civilian casualties, and-”
“Sir, she’s in the area!”
“What?”
“Look!”
They rushed to the windows. There she was, hovering in midair, the Shovel raised high. “Hear me!” she said, so loudly that they couldn’t possibly not hear her. “I am Thrud, daughter of Thor, wielder of Mlrning, Strength of Valhalla! I have returned!”
“Who?” the president said, though not nearly so loudly which meant she didn’t hear him.
Most assumed she meant Thor like in the movies. Thrud hadn’t been in the movies though, so the reference went over their heads. A rapid debate ensued between the president and his close advisors over whether they should surrender or send in a special forces team. In the end they sent out the press secretary to offer greetings and organize a welcome party while they deliberated what to do next.
Thrud found that human party skills had improved rather a lot since the eighth century. “This bouncy castle pleases me!” she cried. “Oh, damn, I’ve punctured it. Another!”
“Certainly,” said the White House ad hoc Norse party planner wearily, wondering how this was going to go down in the budget. A Defense line item, perhaps?
Note: this story was written for Scoot’s Flash Fiction Friday, which, like Thrud, has returned!
brought to heel by a bouncy house