Summary: AU – Loki knows there's nothing more satisfying than the moment of the steal. Everything is on the line. There's no room for error or doubt. It's you and the object of your desire. If you're good enough it's yours. If not, it's fifteen minutes of fame and a quick drop in the slammer. There are only two options, well usually. See, some say the world is black and white, a clear cut line in the sand. Those are the kind of people who haven't really lived because life is full of colors and sometimes they leave you seeing ruby red. - Loki/OC - 40s Noir Setting - Obviously a bit OOC

Authors Note: Don't really have an explanation for this one. A strange idea struck me and, though most are ignored, this one found its way to paper. The idea has been fully realized so I don't suspect it will go on long, but it was too complicated for a one-shot. Multiple viewpoints, but mostly from Loki/OC. There will probably be some guest appearances or at least mentions of other Marvel characters just because. :) And if anyone's interest chapter titles are taken from noir movies. Anyway, enjoy and thanks for reading.

prologue

~ the thirteenth hour ~

It was just after midnight and it was dreary, a slow drizzle of rain on a warm summer evening. A thin fog clung to the ground mingling with the hot humid night. The air was still, too still in fact, as if the world sat in anticipation. It was the big night, the night of the score. One way or another Spectre was going down, but sometimes when it rains it really pours and that's not just a statement about the weather.

Detective Phil Coulson walked across the street, barely making it to the other side before he was lit by the beams of an oncoming car. The driver blared the horn as he hopped onto the sidewalk, missing a puddle, but getting sprayed by the wheels as they rolled through the murky water. He shook his leg trying to ditch the droplets, but the damage to his heather gray tweed suit had already been done. He stared at the drying water on his shoes. He'd just had them shinned and now they were once again dulled by residue. That was life though. A detective with shiny shoes wasn't doing their job. It was a dirty profession, cleaning the streets of two-bit crooks, and there was no coming out the other end without some grime.

As he came upon the black unmarked panel van he glanced around, adjusting his gray homburg, which sent a cascade of water that had pooled along the brim. He was making sure he hadn't been tailed. The streets had eyes and the second they noticed they'd send whispers through the alleys. He gave pause as another car drove by, with windows cracked as a manicured hand flicked cigarette ash on the street. A thin line of smoke billowed up against the paint job of the sleek white LaSalle convertible. Phil let out a silent whistle at the beauty of forged steel. A soulful tune by The Ink Spots rang out from the radio, belting a few lines before the car disappeared in the maze of city streets.

"Into each life some rain must fall; but too much is falling on mine..."

He watched the red taillights for as long as he could before finally turning back to the van. As he opened the back door and slipped inside two men turned to stare at him, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. They were sitting at equipment and listening with headphones. Both had taken off their jackets and loosened their ties. It was hot and humid in the tiny interior and he cringed at the sickly sweet smell of body odor in the air.

"What's the chatter like?" he asked as he took a seat nearby and shut the doors.

"On and off. They keep talking about the Ruby...drat, sorry, I know, I keep getting confused."

Detective Coulson nodded his head as he sat back in his chair. The big moment was almost upon them. Everything was in place and they were just waiting for Spectre to make his fatal move. Phil was set to relish in the biggest criminal takedown of his career and it was long overdue. So many sleepless hours and tormented nights were about to be worthwhile.

As he ran through the details again, making notes and checking them twice, he realized something was bothering him. Facts were mixing up and certain pieces were somehow interchangeable. Suddenly he slammed his fist on the table, taking some twisted comfort in the harsh sting that numbed his fingers. He should have seen it sooner. The signs were all there staring at him, clear as day, but he'd been blinded. His sights were so set on Spectre that he hadn't seen the entire chessboard. It was the disastrous flaw that had fixed the game.