A/N: This little crossover was created out of a "review the material" session of watching the Spiderman films, The Avengers, and the first Thor film again one night while on a Marvel spree, and wondering at the origins of the original Venom symbiote. After some research (in particular concerning the symbiote's species' abilities and origins), I was left with both a gnawing feeling of disappointment that the symbiote wasn't actually shown onscreen for over half of the film (and actually didn't seem to have several of It's more interesting attributes, unfortunately), but also a rather odd question or two at the back of my mind: The Venom symbiote was ostracized and deemed insane by It's own species because It wanted to commit to It's host instead of draining the new vessel to death, and was left trapped in a prison module on Battleworld to ensure It couldn't "contaminate" the rest of the gene pool, so if the symbiote managed to escape instead of ending up hitching a ride back to Earth on Peter, would It float about deep space for a while and then encounter something? If the Marvel universe has both the Avengers and Spiderman in contact with S.H.I.E.L.D., and the Nine Realms are indeed confirmed to exist, then would the symbiote drift until, possibly, It encountered the edge of the universe...and by that, the Void, and those within, including Loki and the Chitauri? Given the "emotion-feeding/feeling" scenario, logically the symbiote would seek out something not endlessly hungry, crude, savage, and essentially a drone, nor would It want to be stuck with Thanos, as he's aggressive, dangerous, too self-concerned to agree to symbiosis, and (I think) rather insane, so that really leaves only one other being as a host candidate...
NOTE: This particular version of the Venom symbiote is being based, with several characteristic exceptions from the Ultimate Marvel and Planet of the Symbiotes Universes, on the first Marvel portrayal: that is, a mute, lonely symbiote craving the company of a host, rather than the far more dangerous, on-and-off abusive, talking scary badass shown in the more recent comics and films. After all, the symbiote works off of the host's emotions. If It never made it to Earth (and thus never encountered Peter, and never had that entire fiasco happen), I think that It likely wouldn't be bitter, angry, or murderous like how it was while bonded to It's Earth hosts (although being bonded to people who all feel bitter hatred towards Peter/Spiderman could account for some of those negative emotions). Please assume, for the purpose of this story, that the symbiote has indeed escaped and is floating about in space when this story begins (also, I have no experience prior to this concerning writing from Venom's perspective, so I hope you aren't too confused or annoyed if the poor thing's OOC. I also have no writing experience for the Mad Titan, so please take the unpleasantness of his character at face value.).
Also, if any of you have read any of my other stories containing Loki, you will understand the stance I take on him. If not, please note that I am part of the "Torture/unwilling agreement/mind-control-due-to-constant-close-proximity-to-the-Mind-Gem led to trying to subjugate Earth for Thanos and the Other" party, and if this offends you, please leave and seek a story that is more to your tastes.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Marvel's The Avengers' characters/phrases, Spiderman's Venom, the heavy reference (with liberties taken) to the old Norse gods mythology of one of Loki's various punishments, or the old Norse fairytale Why the Bear Is Stumpy-Tailed.
WARNING: Descriptions of varying torture. Some foul language. Lots and lots of Loki-whump. Alternate take on what happened in the Void, and what came afterward.
Was there a word for complete darkness, an unending terrain of floating, empty blank canvas, drenched in shadow and bereft of so much as a single glittering jewel of a star?
A word for a frigid, piercing cold that burrowed down into flesh and gnawed through bones like an army of parasites?
A word for this sickening feeling of ceaseless, horrific unmaking?
He did not know how long he had been here; time passed differently in the Void. Days could be seconds, hours could be weeks, minutes that passed into decades, months changing into years. Temporal alignment had long since mutated from a quiet, orderly flow into a confusing jumble of displacement that could wobble, solid but gelatinous as molasses, and easily melt and twist into aching parodies of what could once pass for reliable continuum.
They were creative, he would give them that.
He had fallen to this place, landing in a shattered heap of bone and skin upon unforgiving ground, and awoke in the arms of agony. He had met them down here, with their jagged, dark weapons and blank, dead, hungry eyes, and had reached for his magic.
There had been an empty well where there was once a steady, comforting stream, and panic and fear had surged upwards to join the pain from his fall. He had no physical weapons with him, having lost his daggers in the descent to the dark abyss of space. Gungnir had long since returned to the Allfather's grasp.
They had not appeared hospitable, though he had wanted to leave.
He had tried to speak, channeling what scraps remained of his strength into cajoling, coaxing, persuading, words armor-plated in silver and coated in stardust, pouring in as much energy as he had left to make desperate use at the only aid he could find.
They had not been convinced. Not when the charms had turned to threats, and the threats to pleas, truth and lies and everything in between spun into silver and gold and bronze words forged from worry, self-preservation, and fear that knotted his tongue into choking silences.
His armor had been stripped from him, his clothing torn and studied with no more care than if he were a specimen under a microscope. Hair was pulled, mouth forced open to stare at teeth, every inch of his being examined and assessed, searching for something that he could only fear.
Weakness, he discovered, was not tolerated. Words were useless, falling upon ears that were not deaf, but took them in and tossed them aside as bereft of benefit.
It had been a long time since anyone had fallen into their realm, and they would seize any outsiders that dared to enter, taking them apart as was deemed fit.
Struggling had been no use, he was still too injured, emotionally and physically, to resist the pull of so many. Taken to the center, he had met the only other being upon this barren moonscape, a huge, lurking figure with skin like violet and eyes that lacked pity.
A set of choices was offered, but he had no intention of agreeing. To work for the one who commanded the things he had met down here was too hideous to contemplate, and the aura of the creature before him was malignant, oozing a poisonous, filthy air that made his skin crawl and his spirit shrink in on itself in cringing fear, every instinct screaming at him to runescapegoandhidesomewherefarawayfarawaybeforehetriestokillhim-
The insanity that perforated the air around him was even more worrying. Death...he courts Death? He courts a supposed entity, a whisper! There is nothing to speak to, to offer such brutish sacrifice. He makes sweet whispers to a mouldering illusion.
The offerings he had seen had been sickening to witness. Limbs and heads torn off bodies, a dark liquid (blood? acid? he knew not what it was) dripping, spraying, drenching. Claws and eyes littered the ground like gemstones from a dragon's hoard. Chitin sloughed off in shreds, pieces of what passed for an exoskeleton shattered and blasted apart into shrapnel fragments to fall like snowflakes. Organs lay in scattered piles, steaming bags and ropes of greyish flesh that smelled like rot and burst when stepped on.
He had vowed not to be added to that uncounted number of carnage, but survival, he found, was much more difficult than anticipated.
Thanos had ordered him broken in, with all refusal and thought of rebellion stamped out accordingly, and the endless mass of skeletal, greyish soldiers were all too eager to comply with the command.
Knives were blunt and sharp and serrated in dizzying alternations, dust and rock shards rubbed into open wounds, into his burning eyes, poured down an aching, bone-dry throat to create an agonizing frenzy of coughing, cuts and bruises bestowed like kisses from a lover one starless, black night. Clawed appendages and sharp blades ripped into armor-stripped flesh to cut out ribbons of tissue like wrapping paper. Bones were broken like playing piano keys by a master musician: one alone was not enough to produce a sweet sound, and thus many must be taken by the hand and manipulated in turn for the correct crescendos, diminuendos, the proper melody to offer to a willing audience.
But the audience was a seething, boiling armada of insects massed under a sunless canvas of eternal night, and their jeers and high, ungodly shrieks and demands of more pain, more pain, bend it, bend it until it breaks in a language comprised of harsh, grating, gutter-speak warped the air to a heated bloodbath. The conductor was a master at his art, and left the stage a patch of ground stained with blood and gore again and again in answer for a morbid encore.
Fighting back was only partly satisfying enough to try. One man, even a god, could not compete with what seemed an endless wave of destruction. He struck one down, they broke an arm. Breaking the necks of five left him with his hands burned, fingers shattered one by one as nails were torn loose before his horrified eyes to leave throbbing pinpricks of stinging agony. Kicking and strangling several gifted him with a dislocated jawbone and the loss of several teeth, and pressing it back into alignment was painful enough to leave him shaking, fighting not to black out as blood dribbled from between thin lips.
Healing, once a trait that his magic surged through with ease from years of battle-honed necessity, had been slowed down to the barest trickle. Their blades had been coated in something, he knew not what, but it burned like acid and stifled his magic to the barest minimum, forcing it down to where he could not properly grasp it. Skin grew back frighteningly slowly, bone knitted back together even less quickly, and he was unsure of how much blood he had been relieved of, only that it streamed down like melt-water one hour, then soaked battered skin to scarlet the next. Nausea, aches, and blackouts become as commonplace as the rattling gasps for air. Screaming made the situation worse, but he did so regardless, trading in cries of pain for poisoned barbs, howling insults and curses as pain rebounded again and again across his body.
Once, when he had been struck hard enough across the jaw, the bone had shattered and left him spitting out mouthfuls of blood and teeth, nearly biting off his tongue from the mind-melting agony. Growing such parts of himself back left his magic but a mere spark deep down, a constant aching pain, bruising his insides mottled shades of sapphire and amethyst, the delicate structures jarred and mangled.
There was no water, no food. Hunger was a constant, brutal force that chewed away at his mangled form, consuming him with an endless need for something, anything, to ingest; his throat was a column of desert masquerading as flesh, gritty and stinging with what seemed eons without the sweet embrace of water. Space rock was unproductive in growing vegetation or grazing grounds for a meat supply, and tasted bitterly of volcanic ashes, raw and unappealing. The sky held no sun for warmth and light, no stars to gleam upon the bleak, barren moonscape, but instead was a screaming maw of ebony, smearing and blurring like an old photograph developed incorrectly.
There was no air. Air gave much-needed oxygen, offered scents, carried sounds and messages on a set of invisible wings borne aloft upon the wind.
What he took in for breath could not be properly called air. It was fouled by the stench of gore, of the iron-tinged, copper-tasting reek of blood, of cold stone and dead, burnt skin. It was marred by the stink of filth, by blood, by bile and, perhaps worst of all, of defecation. Inhaling even a mouthful left his lungs burning and his throat raw.
The ground beneath was hard, unyielding, leeching out any meager remnants of warmth, and dotted with pores that left bones broken when he'd had the strength to run. Scattered overhead, rocks and dust floated in clouds of grey, a strange reminder that this was not home.
What was home, anyway? What was safety, comfort, assurance of reciprocated affection, even kindness? If not acceptance, tolerance?
Home was far, far away, a stretch of distance that could have been a million miles, or even a thousand footsteps, a hundred heartbeats, a handspans' worth of spellwork, a breath's worth of words.
Home was silken hair and a gentle pair of pale, feminine hands on his shoulders, home was blue eyes and a smile bright as Asgard's golden palace, home was the scent of lightning's kiss of ozone, the feeling of books in his hands, the sound of clanking tankards of mead, the chime of his daggers as they sang through the air to meet an enemy's throat.
Home was beyond his reach, a glimmering star seen from the bottom of a deep well. He had no hope of finding it, returning to it.
Did he even belong to it, anymore, if he ever did at all? A trickster, a mischief-maker, a wielder of magic, of finesse, of words and blades, among a kingdom of gold, of brute force, of bluntness and no secrets?
Or rather...one secret. He had paid to learn of that one, paid for it in loss, in anguish, in horror, and now, trapped beyond reach of the Gatekeeper's view, in blood, in bone, in breath, in pain.
You will long for something as sweet as pain...
How long must he wait, before pain was craved, if only to drive him so deep into the embrace of madness that he would never resurface?
How long before he lost himself?
You're a fool if you ever had that in the first place, your very existence was built upon a lie, and now it's crumbled around you like the temple you were found in. You're nothing but dust now, dust, dust, dust...
There was no wind here to blow dust away. Loki wondered idly, through the red haze of semi-consciousness, at the unfairness of it.
The wind, if it ever would come, might offer a brief reprieve from this heat.
The burning had been going on for days now, it seemed (or was it months? He could not tell), and the fallen god was a writhing mass of pain, nerve endings alight with throbbing, bleeding sparks of agony as he drifted in and out of mental lucidity.
Their tortures varied far more than their faces; Loki could not differentiate between the horde of clicking, grunting, greyish faces that made up the Chitauri, being far more focused on the instruments of death and agony being used by them to turn his body into a sounding board of white-hot agony.
There was nothing to make fire with in this cold, dead landscape, but by no means was that a deterrent. They did not care, so long as it hurt enough to bend him into what was wanted. If that meant breaking him over and over again, until he was in the right shape for their means, so be it.
He had been left in a shallow pit; if he had had the strength, he would had tried to pull himself out of it. The pit, he had discovered to his horror, was one of many used to ferment the substance that had been used to burn him. His skin bubbled and smoked as the vile concoction oozed over the pale, bruised expanse, blood trickling forth sluggishly in a futile attempt to clot and scab over.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
One part of the hollowed ground dripped the burning liquid, drop by drop, a slow, sizzling pain, overhead. His eyes no longer felt pain.
He could only assume that was what happened, when one no longer had them at their disposal to see with.
As it was, he no longer had the strength even to scream.
He had done so before, until his throat was raw from his cries, his voice reduced to a raspy, paper-thin whisper to beg with, words once as plentiful as the gold that gilded the palace walls now as scarce as fresh air in this inhospitable place. Rage at being left here had been crushed into fear, the horrible worry that they heard and still left him here niggling at the back of his mind, his crumbling, pain-crazed psyche scrambling for answers.
Perhaps I am being punished with this?
That had to have been why they did not come, right? He was being punished for his actions with the BiFrost and the Destroyer. He simply had to endure, until he had been satisfactorily chastised, and then they would take him back, back to the warmth and the light.
Yes, that must be it. When they deem that I have suffered enough, I will be allowed to come home...
He couldn't bear to think of the other idea. He did not want to listen to the voice that said that they would never find him and bring him back.
So he waited. It was all he could do now.
Heimdall did not open the Bifrost in a burst of rainbow light. No search party appeared with weapons drawn and at the ready. His mother was not present, bandages in slender hands and a look of worry in her lovely eyes. Thor did not soar down, lightning crashing down in an unforgiving rain upon his torturers, red cape held out to wrap around his too-thin figure with the words Let's go home. Odin did not materialize, Gungnir unleashing a long-restrained power to end the torture of his youngest, a hand held out in silent askance of Come back to us.
No one had answered, not even when he had shouted until his voice gave out.
Green eyes, dulled with pain and the crushing thought that he would be left here, lay shut in a quiet acquiescence to unconsciousness.
At least while he was not awake, he could dream. Nightmares had been rampant since his arrival, twisted floods of sharp blades and skittering feet to cloud his mind with rumbling echoes of the agony of his waking state, but perhaps, in light of his failing body, he could get one dream.
Cold. Sso cold. Dark, dark, dark, sso much darknesss here-
Freezing and blank out here, but-
Better, sso much better than the lonely sspace-
Prisson sso ssmall, trapped, trapped forever-
No, not there anymore, free now, ssafe now-
But cold, very cold, want warmth-
Warmth and hosst-
Yess, want hosst, hosst ssafe-
Since It's escape, space had not been kind to the symbiote, but not cruel, either. The mass of black, semi-liquid organism floated through the empty reaches of space, twisting and coiling in on Itself. Asteroids, varying planets, and stars loomed in and out of It's path irregularly, compounding the sense of aching loneliness.
The pressing want built up further, becoming a physical ache, a mantra, a need.
Want hosst, want hosst, want hosst!
Frigid silence was the only answer, as It continued the slow, painful way forwards, past the slowly tilting celestial marbles of planets and chunky moons.
The ache become worse, bleeding through It's entire being, a ceaseless demand.
Want hosst, WANT HOSST, WANT HOSST-
A sudden burst of energy echoed across It's senses from far to the left, a rippling explosion of Hungerwantneedconsumekillkillkill that stung like biting flies and made It feel filthy, sickened. Twisting in place, It began attempting to float further away from the source of the vile sensations, when a sudden, sharp burst of warmsafecontent slipped through.
The feeling was intoxicating, and It found a want for more.
Coiling and uncoiling in on Itself, the long, uneasy trip towards the emotional well began.
Loki knew he was dreaming.
He felt no pain, no discomfort, as he had been forced to endure for so long. There was a gentle, content feeling in the air around him, a cocoon of safety that wrapped around his whole being and suffused him with warmth. He was small again, small enough that he could still sit upon the lap of his mother (if it's a dream, he thought, perhaps it's alright to call her that) and listen to her as she read a story for the night, something done only in their youngest days, the time before growing up on a regime of battle was the norm. Thor was already asleep, leaning against their mother's right side, one hand still clutching a small tankard containing a half-drunk pint of slowly cooling goat's milk.
"So the Bear had a mind to learn to fish too, and bade the Fox tell him how he was to set about it..."
He remembered snippets of this scene from his childhood, pieces of the tale floating like a warm drink of cider, and wondered for a moment when his recollections would run out.
He did not want to wake up. Waking up meant returning to the horrible reality he had endured for what seemed to be eons. Waking up meant pain.
Shivering, he curled up further, clutching the front of the Queen of Asgard's dress and letting the sound of her voice wash over him like waves over beach sand, steady and reassuring.
Back and forth, back and forth...
The gentle, steady heartbeat beneath his ear was very soothing...
"Oh! it's an easy craft for you," answered the Fox, "and soon learnt. You've only got to go upon the ice, and cut a hole and stick your tail down into it; and so you must go on holding it there as long as you can. You're not to mind if your tail smarts a little; that's when the fish bite..."
Thor was snoring now, a low, ceaseless droning that grated on the ears. Loki found that a small bit of himself had missed the sound, having heard it for years when they had shared quarters in their early years.
Frigga shifted slightly underneath him, and he felt unease creep up as she took hold of his arms and turned him to face her. Gentle eyes stared down at him, their expression saddened, and Loki felt his heart beat wildly, he suddenly felt so very small-
"Loki, whatever happens, know that your brother and I love you, and miss you."
He opened his mouth to reply, when the words sunk in. The unease grew stronger.
"Mother," he whispered, fear tinting the word, "What do you mean, you miss me?"
A soft smile was the only response, as gentle hands tucked a lock of black hair behind his right ear. Fear bubbled up within him, stealing away the warmth of the arms wrapped so sweetly around his body.
"Come home, Loki."
The arms around him vanished, darkness bleeding across his vision, the sound of Thor's snoring cutting off as abruptly as if a candle had been snuffed out.
Loki screamed.
The Void was a blistering valley of grating noise and stone, a festering cesspool of grimy sound and dark lusts that left It cringing, shuddering in pain.
Too much, too much, too loud-
Where iss nice feeling?
Where iss hosst?
Slithering across the cold rock, the symbiote twisted in and out of the pores of the cold, filthy ground, struggling to avoid the stomping appendages of the Chitauri and the bursts of raw heat from their weapons, the dank, unclean feeling pouring out of the storm of thrumming bodies and that terrible creature with the violet skin.
The army was amassing, a million shades of ash-grey and bone-white and shadow-slicked ebony surging about, preparing for the approaching time of departure. Marching appendages shook the porous ground and left unheard echoes vibrating upwards. The Other had found a suitable realm to offer up as a gift to his absent lady love, the little blue marble a million stars away, with a melting pot of beings whose souls would paint her realm with colours and light enough to deck the afterlife in spiritual songs and silk for a millennium. An invasion, a conquest, a slaughter baptized in the ashes of every life that walked, flew, or swam about on the tiny, backwater world at the other side of the universe.
Where iss Host?
Where? WHERE?
The unfeeling darkness that hung overhead like an executioner's axe felt claustrophobic, seeming to press inwards until the symbiote wanted to curl up in one of the dark crevices littering the ground and never come out. It hated this place, this place of festering, half-dead dreams that gnawed endlessly at the hive mindset of the drones clamoring for blood. Blood, and souls, and the dreams of the soon-to-be sacrifices to the woman who ruled the dead, the queen of the damned and forgotten.
But It had to try and search. It's host was out there, somewhere among this wasteland of rock and decay, and It would find it, no matter how much It had to scour this filthy nest of death-
An explosion of sudden feeling burned through the Void, a crackling, burning feeling of fearpainanguishsorrysosorryhelpsomeonehelp that reeked of old wounds and too many unanswered pleas.
The Chitauri took no notice. The symbiote did.
Swerving in and out across the dips and cracks of the broken moonscape, It hurried toward the source of the emotional blast.
It's host had been found.
Loki did not know how long he had been trapped here. He only knew that every particle of his body was saturated with agony, all of varying degrees, and that his mouth tasted strongly of copper, and he still couldn't see.
Darkness. Darkness, everywhere.
So cold...so very, very cold...
Look at yourself, his mind hissed back at him, you can't even withstand the cold. Not even a proper monster, are you? Still too weak, even after all these years, to even cling to that.
He wanted to protest, but his tongue was held silent by the ugly truth in the unwanted words, and he found nothing in his depleted mental stores to refute them.
Why else, after all, had he been left abandoned in the snow all those years ago?
Why had he lived so many years, known for doing battle with what the folk of Asgard regarded as a woman's art, a healer's craft, a series of shiny parlour tricks?
Why had Odin said no?
Why had Thor not caught him, when he first fell down here, thrown down from grace and light and home?
Why had no one come for him yet?
Because no one will.
The thought was horrifying, but it was the only logical explanation he could find.
No one would find him, because no one would look for him, if they ever did at all. His actions on Asgard and Midgard would have given the people a perfect excuse to "forget" to look for him. The royal family would be consumed by their duties, too busy to keep a search for someone thought dead.
There would be no funeral pyre, there was no body to burn. Valhalla would be barred from his grasp in death. He would be left to the afterlife, disgraced and forgotten.
The fallen god shuddered in the darkness, feeling the last vestiges of his hope of rescue flicker, sputter, and die.
You are alone.
But hadn't he always been?
An unnoticed or unwanted presence, save for when his skill set or his knowledge held some convenient use.
No one ever noticed the shadow. The attention was always focused on the one casting it.
Loki shivered, but it was no longer from the bone-biting cold that had long permeated his blood from the frigid rock around him.
I'm never leaving here.
The solidity of the statement was awe-inspiring, frightful in its power.
He had once been told that truth offered freedom.
Was this freedom a welcoming embrace from death?
There did not seem to be another answer. His body was failing him, innards mangled, skin ravaged, magic all but torn out entirely. No use could be gleaned from him, wasting away as he was, mind torn apart and held together by mere scraps of willpower.
He was alone, and no one was coming, not even to collect his soon-to-be-corpse for a burial rite.
There was no use in fighting against his captors any longer, save perhaps personal pride, and that too had finally faded in the wake of repeated bouts of torture.
Lost among a sea of emotional upheaval, sinking beneath pain and a horrifying new sense of understanding, he let himself drown.
A small consolation, pathetic as it was, remained: the darkness now could be embraced, offering permanent sanctuary from his captivity and his fall. If no one would take him, perhaps death would be more welcoming.
It's host was not in good condition, It found in dismay.
The shallow crater the man lay in was full of something that smarted and stung, glistening like slime when It initially tried to cross. Burns carelessly littered the pale skin, along with an artist's painting of violet, royal blue, and smudges of ash grey and volcanic black decorating the remaining flesh.
Fingers, once thin and elegant as a philosopher's, were now left crooked, bent into grotesque shapes like gnarled tree roots, the tips stained with fading red blood from raw cuticles. Hair previously well-groomed and sleek was now matted with dried blood and dust, tangled into a web of knots across too-thin shoulders and falling in a ragged curtain to half-obscure a pale face.
The visage of It's host was thin, gaunt from the long periods without nourishment, cheekbones sunken, brow furrowed as if from a nightmare. The eyes appeared shadowed, ringed with faded lavender-blue blooms of bruises. Thin lips mouthed half-formed words that sank through the air like falling dreams, left unintelligible save for the occasional grunt of pain.
Breath came in slow, painfully short rasps, a low, rattling sound that hurt to hear.
It slithered forward carefully, slowly, advancing bit by bit and spreading across the rim of the crater to avoid the stinging solution.
What to do?
The crater was still half-full of the burning liquid, to touch it would doubtlessly bring pain.
But It's host was in trouble. It had to do something, or the host would die.
It surveyed the languishing creature before It, noting the injuries one by one and taking care to remember each of them.
The things with the sharp, pointed weapons and the eyes like the dead had done this to It's host, marring the elegant structure into painful contortions and leaving a broken, shivering being left to wallow in filth until they came back to begin anew, until they were satisfied.
It would not let that happen.
Kill them, kill them all now, rip their flessh from boness, tear out their eyess, carve out inssides and bleed them dry-
KILL THEM END THEM DESSTROY THEM-
THEY HURT HOSST THEY HURT HOSST THEY HURT HOSST-
THEY MUSST DIE-
Shivering, the symbiote's rage percolated in a vicious brew of hatred, bubbling up inside like hot tar over asphalt.
They would pay, all of them, for every last cut and bruise, for every single burn and broken bone done to It's host.
But first...first the host must be saved. Slaughtering the filth that had done this could wait.
Ssafe, keep ssafe, help, fix-
It had witnessed little while trapped within the containment capsule that had been meant as It's prison, and eventual tomb. But the years trapped within the cramped space had nonetheless bourne witness to countless injured combatants heading to and fro from healing-tanks while on Battleworld. Words had been picked up, memorized subconsciously, from the numerous beings, whether villain or superhero, that had wandered the halls in search of food, supplies, healing, or company, until bits and pieces formed a patchwork set of skills that could potentially be used to aid in a host's recovery from injuries or illnesses. The thought of someday being able to put such knowledge to use had been the only thing of comfort.
Now, It's host was here, real and alive, albeit barely, and It would finally be able to put the secret store of knowledge to use.
Slowly, It oozed out into smaller streams, forming a thin web of netting to be suspended over the shallow pit in the rock. It had to be careful; the makeshift structure had been rendered thin as gossamer to stretch over, and if It fell into the hot burning oily substance...
Once stretched taut over the small dank crevice, It began the painfully slow, calculated descent down the center.
If It could get directly above the host, successfully land, and then spread out and encompass the entire body, the merging process would be fulfilled, and It's host would be protected from the burning, the stinging, the awful pains caused by this godforsaken rock.
Careful, musst be careful, sso careful-
Ssafe ssoon, promisse, ssafe ssoon-
The first contact was tentative, tinged with worry that the body below might be hurt further by the additional weight.
It felt It's senses become overwhelmed by the shock of the first sensation of contact: the mercifully clean feeling of quiet, safe, cool that seemed like a tiny oasis among the burning, searing, filthy feeling emanating from the other beings encountered in this dark pit of a realm.
Sslow, musst be sslow, or hosst will panic-
In truth, the body beneath It seemed very unlikely to be in any fit state to work into anything resembling panic. It decided to be careful regardless.
Slowly, the mass of semi-liquid organism flowed over the battered torso, the touch featherlight as It carefully moved over bruised, burnt flesh, soothing old injuries and glossing over gashes.
Ssafe now. Promisse...
Loki opened his eyes a crack, a sense of surprise washing over him at the ability to see again.
I must be dead.
He was certain he would not otherwise feel so oddly free of so many of the numerous pains he had grudgingly become accustomed to.
Blinking, he looked at his body, drinking in the sight of the black, dully shimmering mass languidly streaming across his body, a faintly shining slick of oil with a sheen the moon-pale glow of raw white diamond.
The sight did not alarm him; it was only logical to assume that, in death, he was no longer as alone as he was in life. The dead had always outnumbered the living.
Perhaps I will be consumed by this strange creature, my body reduced to a feeding ground.
The thought was not as nearly as alarming as he thought it was supposed to be. At least there will be some use for me, then.
Lying back, he let his head rest against the hard rock beneath him, hair brushing against his gaunt face like nettle clusters, dust powdering his cheeks from marble to grey. Overhead, the black smudge of sky rippled and twisted like oil frying against metal, warping into new nebulas as tiny bubbles of dark ink.
He could no longer feel any part of himself beyond a faint tingling, but the pain was going away, so he decided to leave such thoughts be.
The oil slick moved slowly, he noticed, as if being careful not to jar any injuries. He wondered at such consideration.
At least there is no pain brought with it's movement.
The god flexed his fingers and toes, silently relishing the lack of pain, and watched as black liquid slowly covered each digit, gently encasing each pale appendage in what could only be described as a lukewarm balm, cocooning damaged tissue in a soft, fluid-like layer that cushioned him from the biting cold of the Void and the stinging heat of the pit.
The slice of shadow moved upwards again, having completed the job of wrapping around the lower half of his body, and proceeded to bind his torso and then flow past his arms, cradling flesh like a well-worn summer blanket, and then slowly, delicately, creeping upwards about the column of his neck.
He did not resist as the dark semi-fluid washed over him, moving gently up his throat; swallowing instinctively in some lingering remnants of what could, in life, pass for worry, he felt a faint tickling sensation in response as it slid past his neck and finally began consuming his head.
Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes and waited in calm acceptance as the strange mass flowed over his skull, sliding smoothly over hair and wrapping around each strand as the lukewarm tingling sensation delicately curled around and over the shell of each ear.
As it slid over his face, he inwardly marveled at the fact that, even as he was absorbed by this odd creature, there was no pain, no fear, no worry at the fact that he had experienced what those in Asgard would look upon with contempt as no true warrior's death.
There was only peace, and acceptance, and safety.
He exhaled, and let go. The darkness surged down his throat, numbing, soft, achingly careful.
The symbiote felt exhilaration flood every particle of matter It possessed as the host relaxed, pliant and willing in It's hold.
The bonding sessions It had seen at the hands of It's species were often horrifying, a blunt, savage union that robbed the hosts of energy and left them gasping for breath and contorting in agony as their adrenaline-fueled sprees of action left them dying all too fast and their symbiotes endlessly searching for fresh meat to adhere to. Draining the hosts dry was all too common a practice, leaving an ugly mental remembrance of gruesome parasitism.
This..to It's knowledge, was an entirely new response. The host was calm, accepting It with ease and even apparent relief. There was no struggling, no screaming, only placid acquiescence.
Ssafe, It crooned in satisfaction, hosst ssafe now.
Fitting Itself carefully around the thin body, It spread out and tucked Itself around the host's frame, sealing any gaps between skin and the dark recesses of the Void, blocking out sound and cold. Tendrils thickened, widening into a solid, dark mass. The internal transformation continued, sinking into skin, saturating organs, coating and repairing damaged tissues and bones with meticulous care, rewriting cell structures for strengthened regeneration and durability. The meagre amount of tainted, foul-smelling air that had been inhaled into the lungs was purified and recycled continuously, maintaining a steady, slow rhythm to allow the damaged respiratory system a period of healing during sleep.
Nutritional intake needs plummeted as It fused to the spinal cord, wrapping securely around mending vertebrae and sending out restorative energy for replenishment in place of long-denied food and drink. Reaching upwards, It hummed in amazement as neurons fired off rapidly in response, the mental link blossoming and stabilizing as the two minds mingled.
Nourishment, whether mental or physical, was so scarce as to seem entirely depleted on this barren rock, but It would not let It's host perish for the sickening lack of such necessities.
The cocoon complete and the transformation well underway, It settled in for the long wait.
Safely tucked behind the protective, living barrier, Loki slept, and dreamed, the symbiote alongside him.
Thoughts whirled and twisted into new, exotic shapes, no longer confined by the centuries-old mindset of Asgardian upbringing, as the more primal, instinct-driven mental concepts of the symbiote fused and grew into more complex forms, aided by years of books and hunting and lengthy political discussions.
What are you-
What is this, what did you do-
Hosst ssafe now, ssafe from cold, dead sspace-
Why? Why save me? I'm broken, I'm useless, left to die-
No! Hosst important, sspecial-
I'm not special, I'm a monster-
What...iss...monsster?
I am-
No! You are hosst, hosst!
Host? Are you a parasite? Am I to be food?
Hosst, you are hosst.
That was the end of it. The symbiote would not accept any other label or identification for It's vessel, and the mad god could not dissuade It and convince It that he was anything other than that one, simple, all-consuming, life-defining word.
For the symbiote, the host meant safety, survival, companionship. The word host meant everything, an entire universe of meanings revolving steadily on an axis around the four important letters.
For Loki, the symbiote meant company, and, in the darkness of the makeshift organic chrysalis, understanding, and comfort. Everything he had lacked in a sufficient quantity had been found, here on this pathetic little gash in space, in the arms of his own demise. Underneath what had once been ill-fitting skin was a being who shared memories, thoughts, feelings, the same heartbeat, a sense of newly made familiarity so warm, so welcoming, that it ached.
Memories began to bleed and run together with dreams, times of hunting trips and feasting halls and evenings by the fireside practicing spells blending in with half-formed images of dark, shadowy figures, a sickening feeling of claustrophobia in a tiny container, the freezing expanse of deep space, an all-consuming need to find a vessel.
Breathing slowed in sleep, becoming deeper, more relaxed, until it synchronized into a slow, continuous, single dance of inhalation, exhalation.
Loki breathed in, heating the interior for a brief moment.
The symbiote breathed out, and the chrysalis seeped out air, wreathing the denser air around it into a bubble of fog, the cocoon a tinted foil-glass with a single, dark outline within, cradled in a layer of permeable shadow.
The chrysalis grew stronger, a thick, uneven mass of foreboding purple-tinged black that loomed out of the shallow crater like a nest of briers, the surface jagged and rough as torn sandpaper in a silent warning not to approach or touch.
The air grew dense around it, a slowly solidifying shield to keep out the noxious fumes and endless, unnerving chattering of the beasts that made up the bulk of the invasion force.
Thanos sent out an order to the seething mass of greyish soldiers.
"Find him. I will break him one final time, and the invasion shall commence. My lady must not be kept waiting..."
The Chitauri scurried across the barren moonscape, surging forwards like a plague of locusts.
Halfway across the bleak world, the chrysalis began to split.
The Mad Titan stared at the enormous structure, blue eyes analyzing the hulking cocoon of jagged sable material gleaming dully as an oil spill in the dim light of the Chitauris' weapons. The army shifted and chattered nervously, the looming mass's presence exuding an unsettling feeling as they regarded the single, hazy figure within.
A low growl escaped him as the soldiers remained hesitant to approach. "Break it open, our...visitor's...presence is required."
The chrysalis was approached slowly, weapons drawn and at the ready to rip into the contents at the slightest hostile movement.
The butt of a gun pressed up against the exterior of the dark surface, the sound echoing across the otherwise forcibly silent moonscape.
Several feet deep inside, movement fluttered.
The inhabitant within the protective case of the chrysalis shifted, stretching long, coltish limbs from an instinctive curled up position, fingers and toes flexing and rubbing together, testing limits, examining new thin, sharp claw tips that had grown in place of the lost nails. Muscles were flexed, rippling like wind over water under the skin-tight layer of semi-fluid organism, lean strips of flesh bunching and relaxing.
Eyes flickered open, blinking languidly in the dim interior, the pupils dilating to let in more light for better vision; a pale tongue darted out, wetting thin lips and running over sharpened teeth as a breath was taken in.
Letting out a groan, the figure twisted in place, unlocking knots and stiffened vertebrae as bones popped back into position.
They are outside. We need to act.
The once-god did not question if the symbiote could hear the unspoken thoughts. The bond had been established, the link anchored securely into both minds, connecting into an interlocking weave of mental processing as smooth as the untouched surface of a frozen winter lake.
Loki no longer existed as an independent entity. Every atom of matter and spark of magic had been infused with the secure, clinging embrace of the symbiote, becoming a hybrid of roiling shadow and intergalactic essence, cold and pure as fallen snow, deadly as a drink of hemlock.
The concept of I no longer existed, because the concept would require solitude, and he was no longer alone.
He would never be alone again. They would never be alone again. Blood and breath and bone and magic were bound together in liquid shadow and gnawing hunger, a union of morbid compliments and a promise of companionship until their shared vessel rotted into nothing more than dust and half-remembered legend.
His other half answered eagerly, conjuring images of broken, bleeding Chitauri corpses to flood the mental link with gloriously gruesome scenes of vengeance.
They will bleed, bleed dry into dusst, dusst! Crussh their boness, devour them!
Had he still been a single entity, untouched by his time in the Void and with his body's fellow passenger, Loki might have felt a twinge of apprehension at the violent thoughts, based on instinct and lacking a proper plan...although the reason behind such blood lust was nonetheless appreciated.
But the time of being a single life form had passed, and considering the circumstances that brought about their combined state, his companion's ideas sounded as if they had a good deal of merit.
However, it did not do any harm to have a backup plan. Running in with weapons raised and a battle cry upon one's lips did not always end with all of your opponents dead and cooling at your feet; the victor was not always the one with the greater strength, but the intelligence and standing to ensure success. The trip to Jotunhiem, in what seemed to be a lifetime ago, had proved that clearly.
We will end them...but in time. We must be careful, tear them down from within. Let them believe they broke us. We will devour them from the inside, steal the breath from their lungs, stifle them into defeat.
The symbiote shifted in place, rippling, resettling over flesh and pressing in closer, flattening Itself against the lithe body to reassert It's preferred, all-encompassing position.
We will gift Thanos with his mountains of corpses...he never did say whose corpses he wanted for his love.
Dead? Filthy, rotting creaturess gone? All of them?
Achingly strong agreement bled into the shared link, the concept of so many tormentors left as bloodied husks of bone and flesh a glittering prize. As many as we like.
The dark glee echoing across the telepathic link was so similar, Loki was not certain if it came first from himself, or from his companion. Perhaps it was done simultaneously.
Let them come knocking, they will fall. They will sscream, and beg for ssweet pain.
The thoughts bubbled up from both mental wells, reassuring and solid.
The sound of a weapon banging against the outside of their refuge echoed, reverberating within the cozy space. The interior began dissolving, globs of the symbiote reaching out to wrap further around It's host and mold to the lean form, re-amassing in anticipation of future combat.
A cold smirk blossomed into place as both minds poured back and forth across the mental link, opening further and mixing into a combined consciousness. Ah, the guesstss have arrived. Time to greet them.
The collected congregation surrounding the ebony mound stared at the place where the gun had struck, weapons drawn, with the Mad Titan standing to the side, face an expressionless mask.
He approached the breakage in the chrysalis, clutching the handle of a long, thin scepter in one huge hand, the top glowing with an unnatural bright blue light.
The puppet-king needed to look the part, if the invasion was to continue.
The impact point burst open with a splattering of black sludge-like material, a single thin hand thrusting outwards, fingers curling, extending the ends of sharp, curved claws. The appendage was entirely coated in black.
Thanos recoiled slightly, eyes widening as the hand retreated back into the chrysalis, silence filling the air for a moment. Several of the nearest Chitauri were commanded to open up the chrysalis, and, if necessary, pull out the owner of said hand by force.
Pulling apart the edges of the sizable tear in the protective shell, they moved aside accordingly, parting to allow their leader to press the top of the scepter into the entryway. Contact with the Mind Gem would ensure compliance.
The scepter stopped abruptly, held fast in an immobile, iron grip. Thanos stared in veiled confusion, resolutely pressing the scepter forward again, only to encounter the same result.
The scepter's body broke in two with a sharp, echoing crack, blackness flooding over the golden length like an oil spill across water; Thanos released his grip on the weapon, stepping back and regarding the change with mounting rage and uncertainty.
"What trickery is this?," he hissed coldly. "You putrid worm, show yourself, you worthless mass of slag!"
A low chuckle issued from within the chrysalis. "Well, if you inssisst."
The weapon was pulled fully into the small cavity with a sharp tug, the chrysalis splitting apart like rotting fruit in boiling heat. Chitauri aimed blades and guns at the skinny figure that knelt in the wreckage of the shredded remnants, clad in what appeared to be a form-fitting catsuit sewn as if from night itself, the surface rippling dangerously, forming ridges and spikes and barbs when the soldiers came near. A crooked smirk danced across the thin slice of mouth, eyes glittering with madness, ringed with dark circles, and full of nothing the Titan could understand. Pitch-black hair, the ends jagged and curled like a raven's claws, tumbled down to a pair of narrow shoulders in a wild tangle, nipping at protruding shoulderblades, looking slick as an oil spill and casting the wan visage in a personal half-mask of darkness.
The scepter was clutched in one hand, elongated, covered in that strange black ooze like a coating of varnish, the metal form warped into taller, crooked proportions from where the breakage point mended together. The Mind Gem pulsed steadily at the top like a universal heartbeat, seated in a throne of thin ebony branches, glowing brightly as a stolen star.
"Stand at attention," growled the Titan, eyeing the kneeling form warily. "Your skills are needed."
"Oh, they are, hmm?", came the mocking reply, teeth bared in a wolf's grin. "What do you want from uss, then, that we are to be ussed?"
Thanos regarded the being before him, noting the odd form of address. "The invasion is about to commence, you are to lead the main forces into combat. The realm of Midgard has something I want, an artifact of great power known as the Tesseract. Bring it to me."
Sharp eyes stared back, gleaming with a strange black tint at the edges in the light of the drawn arsenal surrounding the area. "And if we don't want to do thiss for you?"
An agonizing power flared out from the Titan, eyes narrowing in rage at the reply. "You dare question your orders? I, who put the scepter in your hands, who offered you a place at the head of this glorious crusade for the Lady Death?"
A hoarse laugh, sounding more like gurgling water from long disuse, bubbled up. "We are to be king, then? The realm iss ourss, if we give you your dead?"
The answering nod was the only reply. Wordlessly, Thanos pointed towards the horizon, where a seething body of greyish-white waited impatiently, the sky hung with great armored beasts, swollen with ranks of soldiers and writhing in the air like a series of heat mirages.
"Take your position. If you succeed, Midgard is yours, I have no use for it once the souls have been harvested. If you should fail..."
Trailing off into dangerous waters, he looked at the wide, sharp eyes, satisfying himself of the telltale unnatural blue tint. The unspoken threat of death will be too kind to take you in, pain too sweet for your filthy hide, you will be found and you will pay hung in the air between them, an ugly promise.
Loki clutched the weapon in a white-knuckled grip, settling into place at the head of the invasion forces. The portal opened up before him, a huge, circular rip into the wavering reality of the Void. The air hummed with tension, movement buzzing like flies crawling over the dead. His tongue felt leaden, a heavy weight in his mouth with all the lies he knew he would soon need to speak, and he swallowed, feeling his shared body, taut as a violin's set of strings, quiver with energy.
Gratitude for his link to his companion welled up, holding fast to the security offered by the shared mental processes; It didn't have any intention of sharing It's host, be it with the Mind Gem, or with anything or anyone else. The scepter had thus been seized and assimilated by the symbiote immediately upon the entry into the chrysalis, a bit of magic was done to assure the Mad Titan that the scepter still "worked", and all had gone as planned. Both minds glowed with the dark satisfaction that they could not be controlled by the Mind Gem's influence, no matter how She whispered, and the feeling was a cloak of warmth as, together, they began moving.
A world a million stars away glittered like a jeweler's collection from within the frame of the portal: inside, people could be seen, rushing about like ants, trading papers, typing away at computers, babbling hurried directions, all the while studying a strange-looking bright blue cube in the center of a large room. Thick coils of wire and cables snaked about the floor like ribbons of silk in an old sewing basket.
He stepped through the portal, scepter in hand, his companion nestled securely within his mind and cradling him from the cold vacuum of the portal link through space and time. Voices could be heard from the other side, dim and unsteady, as if from an out-of-tune radio, but becoming more and more audible by the second.
Only a few were of any real value, but they held just enough importance to merit attention.
Tesseract. A prize? Thanos had demanded it, perhaps it was another gift for Death? Or, quite possibly, a power source, if the sensation of energy building up on the other side was any indication...
Project Avengers. The opposing side? A potential defense force against the filth he had to bring to them?
Wormhole generator. One outcome of many?
Space travel. A way home? A way anywhere?
A mere handful of syllables became the die cast in a new and dangerous game.
Time to put on a sshow, he thought in grim satisfaction, his companion's voice echoing the words in ready agreement. They wanted death, let uss give them what they assked for.
If it was not the death Thanos had intended, who was he to take the blame? If the army perished, it was the army's fault for being incompetent against the very backwater planet they wanted to consume. If the ants decided to devour the anteater, it was nature rising up in revolt against being crushed into submission. He would not accept blame for it. He did what he wanted, and obeyed none.
But in the meantime...
If it'ss trickss they want, let'ss give them their duess.
A low gurgle of laughter reverberated across the link, a babbling brook of lilting cadence. Yess, together.
Together, he agreed.
