HFTS: I am blatantly procrastinating writing any of my other stories (which are definitely in need of updates), and part of me wanted to write something about Phil Coulson's survival of his not-quite-stabbing. So, we have this.
Enjoy.
The universe pushed and pulled at him. He was scattered amongst the fabric of reality, disjointed and broken and alive. His last memories play behind his eyelids, figuratively speaking of course. His eyelids have been broken down to the molecular level, much like the rest of his body. He remembers threatening a god with a gun that could've spit kittens and ice cream for all he knew. He remembers the way his stomach crawled as the madman eyed him, measured him up like a sow at a Saturday Fair. He remembers thinking to himself, screaming to himself, "You can't do this! You're a mortal man!" And then he was in the wind, literally. Perhaps this was death. It was likely, of course. He had just been mouthing off to a deranged, powerful god with an inferiority complex. What was it he'd called them? Ants? He was smaller than an ant now. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but there was no pain. He could get used to it, as he'd gotten used to most things in his life: patience, will, and an ability to make things work that really shouldn't.
As that thought entered his mind, he felt himself surging downwards. It was as though someone had pulled the plug from his bathtub. His feet collided with solid ground and air rushed into his lungs in a great 'whoosh'. Heat was beating down on him from all sides, and he could feel the hard-packed earth beneath his faux-leather clad feet. The air was dry and sandy, punctuated by the occasional scent of wood. When he had caught his breath, he looked around at his surroundings. It was bright and clear, though he could see a wispy cloud hanging stubbornly on the horizon. The sparse plants he could see were harsh, wiry things rooted in parched soil. A lizard darted passed his foot, undeterred by his looming presence. His face twisted unpleasantly as he realised where he was. Because he obviously wasn't dead. "Loki!" he growled under his breath. As a bird cackled at him from the safety of its eucalyptus tower, he searched his pockets for his mobile phone. The device practically hissed at him when he pulled it out, sparking at random intervals. Sighing, he put it away and prepared himself for a long trek back to civilisation. Seriously, of all the places Loki could have chosen, why Australia?
