Alayne wakes with a start, her heart is thrumming in her ears as her vision settles on the bright light in front of her. She blinks continuously, attempting to make sense of her surroundings. The bright light turns into the form of a window. Her eyes blink at the harsh light, the silhouette of her hand stands out against the dazzling backdrop. She focuses on her hand, furling and unfurling on the pillow. The closer she looks, she sees pale bruises on her knuckles and grime caught beneath her nails. She continues to wriggle her fingers, feeling the familiar tingles of pins and needles throughout her body. She twitches, moving her hips off the bed and winces. Her body sinks back into the mattress, weak and exhausted. Her fingers are the only thing she can move easily. What did I do last night? She asks herself as her eyes dart around the room trying to piece everything together. This was not her first time waking up in a strange place, she could count the weird hungover mornings she experienced on both hands. However, as she continues to search the room for clues as to where she is, her mind continues to be blank. Only her current thoughts fill her mind, not an ounce of last night. She blinks, hard in attempt to jog her memory. Nothing. She moves her hand, the muscles crying out, and touches her temple. She feels hotter than usual, a damp mist of sweat covering her face. Her eyes water as the loose particles of last-nights mascara fall into her eyes with each blink. She can taste the bitterness of alcohol on her tongue. Her hand moves to her hair and becomes stuck in the tangles and curls. God knows what kind of substances are intermingled in her hair. She grimaces at the thought and pulls her hand as quickly as she can manage out of the tangles. The longer she looks around the room, less and less make sense. The room is easily twice the size of her own room, however, unlike her own room which is filled with trinkets and items which bring her happiness, this place is completely empty. Besides an obscurely large arm chair that is seated in the corner by the window, and an ornate golden table which is right by its side. She squirms in the bed to get a better look. There is positively nothing else in the room. All she can see is two black doors, a few meters apart. The room itself resembles a cell, with plain white walls - and from what she can see - cold looking granite floors. Tingling heat tracks her body, misting her skin in the form of a cold sweat. Her breathing comes quicker as she tries to push herself off the bed. She tries four times, panting heavily with sweat tickling her skin. Her hand braces the side of the bed as she tugs herself into an awkward sitting position. Her breath exits her mouth in large puffs making her look like she is smoking a cigarette. Her tongue licks the top of her mouth, it sticks to the dry skin. How she wishes she had a cigarette right now, anything. She swallows slowly, her throat burning with the action. Her saliva moves against her throat as if it is sand paper. Her eyes brim with tears as she grasps her neck, trying and failing to soothe the pain. She gags against the taste of dry saliva and alcohol in her mouth.
"Good. You're up." A deep voice speaks, causing Alayne to jump in the bed with a loud screech from the springs beneath her. "Well, awake at least." He counters.
She hears his footsteps but can't see him. Her eyes widen as she tries to look into the darkest part of the room, half curious, half petrified of who may be lurking there. Another footstep and a man appears from the shadows. He's young and tall, so tall. He looms over her making her arch her neck to see his face. Hidden behind dark black curls is a smirking face. Deep set blue eyes are shaded by long thick lashes, and white sharp teeth are moulded into a tiny smile. She pushes herself further into the bed away from him, her stomach muscles tightening in fear. She knows from a long history, never to trust a man by his appearance. Although he has the face of a foreign Prince, she knows he is probably the farthest from it.
He can see the blatant confusion in her eyes; she resembles a terrified cow being sent to slaughter: bloodshot eyes, mouth drooling, and heavy breathing. She is quite the sight. Sight being a complete mess. He has never seen such a specimen before. Her dark hair is long and knotted on her head, her face - of which he knows can be considered 'pretty' - is sculpted into the expression of contempt, and her golden skin is damp beneath the black dress she wore last-night. She sneers at him from the bed, crawling slowly back until she reaches the headrest with a clang. The gold headrest bangs against the wall startling her, she whips her head around to inspect the area. He stands there for a moment watching her frighten herself. He can hear her heart beating faster and faster with each second. He's sure if he doesn't do anything she will go into cardiac arrest sooner rather than later. He steps forward once more, loving the affect it has on her. He can hear her breathing fast from her nose. "Oh pity, you don't seem to remember me, do you?"
His voice is composed, slowly annunciating each word. She wants to look away from him but she can't. Her eyes search his suit for any pockets, bulges where keys should be, or any weapons which may be hidden. But, he has nothing. His suit looks skin tight, his arms are crossed over his chest, and his legs are spaced apart making him look predatory. Her lips are trembling as he comes closer.
"Not even our little dance?" He says with a faux light-hearted tone, and walks towards the seat in the corner of the room, "hmm?"
Alayne's hands hold onto the golden railings of the headrest, the cold metal biting into her sweating palms. He takes a seat in the armchair, using the armrests as support while he slowly lowers himself into the leather chair - all the while never breaking eye contact. She swears he hasn't blinked once since he entered the room. His leg rests over the other in an elegant position while his eyes roll up and down her body. She self consciously looks down at herself, the covers long gone from her hasty scramble to get away from the stranger. She is clad in a tight black leather dress leaving her cleavage and thighs heavily exposed. She grabs the white cover as fast as her hands can move, and clutches the thin sheet to herself.
"My, my, you are so modest this morning." He croons, slumping slightly in his seat so he can lean his chin on his palm.
Curiosity eats into her brain, she pictures all the scenarios where the two of them would meet. However, her creativity is limited. All she can summon is a late bar where they may have drank together and ended up going home with each other. Looking at him, and the way he holds himself, she feels that situation seems a bit outlandish.
Loki watches her from his palm, he can see the cogs turning in her puny brain, the strings trying to reattach themselves. He knew he was hard on her last-night but he never thought it would take this long for her to come back to her senses. From their brief encounter she left quite the impression. Long nails, and flailing limbs - yes, she was quite the feisty one. It took him more than ten minutes to restrain her which was more surprising to him than her. She clawed at him and kicked like an angry toddler in their parents' grasp. It pulled a tiny smile on his face at the thought. He focuses on her once more, her chest is rising and falling against the sheet as her eyes move quickly from one spot to the next. As if she's trailing an annoying fly around the room.
He clears his throat, bringing her attention back to him. Her hazel eyes are wet under their clumped lashes. "I don't want to be here any more than you do, dear, but it seems our paths have crossed ways."
She stares at him with no expression on her face. Her skin is paler than last-night's, as if a restless sleep wiped all the glow from her features. Pity, he thought to himself, he liked a good fight. When she does not respond to him, he stands. He eyes follow his movement as he approaches the bed, blocking out some of the sunlight streaming through the large window behind him. His clasps his hands together. "All I need is one little thing - tiny really - and you can be back to the streets in no time," He claps his hands to reinforce his point, "sound good?"
"W-where am I?" Alayne manages, her voice low and breaking in the middle.
Loki stops for a second, not expecting her to speak so soon. Her voice sounds like a baby bird, that tiny annoying chirping you can't stop unless you find the nest and kill it. His smile widens. "You, little one, are in my penthouse. Well, temporary living situation is what I like to call it." He says as he steps closer, merely a few steps from her bed, "But you can call it your prison if you like. That's only if you don't co-operate."
Alayne glares at him through her long lashes, her hands squeezing the sheet so hard her knuckles turn white.
He sees her contempt yet continues. "I can be quite benevolent you know, to those who do as their told." His eyes narrow slightly with his words, "But those who disobey? Well…" His knees hit against the mattress and cause it to skid backwards slightly on the granite floor. Alayne gasps, her body moving sideways with the movement and her hand bracing the side of the bed for support. He leans downwards so he is merely inches from her paling face, his eyes darkening from blue to black, "If you are not willing to co-operate, your time here will not be pleasant."
He snaps back as quickly as he leaned forward. His dark glare vanishing and leaving his bright blue eyes behind. "So, little one, what will it be? The easy way, or the hard way."
"Depends," she croaked, "what do I have to do?"
"Good question, you are a clever girl." He smiles and turns from her to sit down once more. She heaves a sigh, feeling sudden relief from not being exposed to his harsh stare.
He plops down on the seat and crosses his legs, mirroring his previous position. "Give me what is mine. Give me the Tesseract and I will pardon you."
Tesseract? Alayne thinks, her hand reaching for her temple to massage it. A sharp pain infiltrates her mind as flashes of last-night return to her. She remembers the blue cube, its beauty that called to her, she remembers Tate and the incident… she remembers him. The dark haired man. Her head aches and she groans as she recounts the events of last-night, and the many nights before.
"Shall we begin?" He says, clasping his hands together and watching her intently as she writhes in pain against the headboard. "I'm afraid my patience is running very thin."