a late night mission train ride with loki | marvel ambience

ambience includes dialogue from Disney+’s Marvel series Loki (season 1), soft ambient train sounds, soft pen writing, soft paper flips, soft glasses clinking, soft talking ambience, and more! Listen on spotify! https://open.spotify.com/show/4397z8B...
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~~~the story~~~

A stewardess comes up to your table. She holds up a bottle, “Champagne?”
“Ah, yes! Thank you very much.” Loki looks at you expectantly.
You shake your head, “I don’t drink.”
“Oh, I'll take theirs,” he shrugs, “Thank you.”
The stewardess leaves with a polite smile. Loki clinks the two drinks. “Cheers. To the end of the world.
You shake your head. It’s a late night out in space and you had no choice but to join him on this little mission of his to run away from the TVA.
“A pity the old woman chose to die, don’t you think?”
You blink out of thought. “The old woman? Well, she loved her husband.”
“She hated him.”
“Maybe love is hate.”
He pauses, sets his drink down and summons an inky feather with his magic. “Gotta remember that. What was that? Love is hate?
You roll your eyes. He smirks. He likes that he’s gotten under your skin. Satisfied, he erases the feather with a flick of his hand and takes another swig. “So, on the subject of love. Is there a lucky beau waiting for you at the end of this crusade?”
You fold your arms. It’s awfully cold on this train all of a sudden. “I don’t…do that. I think it’s a sign of weakness. It hurts too much, and all I ever want to do is strike back. But that only breaks more than fixes anything.”
“And with charm like that, who could resist you?”
“They’re the problem, not me.”
“I'm sure they are.”
You reach over and grab the glass that was meant to be yours and gulp half of it down. “What about you, prince of asgard? I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of princesses at your feet. Or princes.”
He scrunches his face, “A bit of both. I suspect the same as you. But nothing ever…”
“Permanent.”
“No,” he idly traces the rim of his glass. “Love is a dagger,” he summons one and turns it over, “It's a weapon to be yielding far away or up close, you can see yourself in it, it’s beautiful, until it makes you bleed, but only after you reach for it.”
“Hm,” you say, grabbing for it but it disappears in swirls of green, “It isn’t even real. It’s an imaginary dagger.”
He cringes, “It doesn’t make sense does it?”
You shake your head, “Nope.”
“Damn!” He leans back and watches the stars pass in the window.
You watch him for a moment. There’s an itch in the back of your throat, something anxiously waiting to be said, but never courageous enough. In this moment between conversations, it crawls back into your mind and settles to be unsaid and to be facing the barrel of the gun of truth that is his green eyes, but to be forever thought: It makes perfect sense.

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