"I guess you're going to want to bet on Sparkles, now."
It takes Loki a moment to realize he's been spoken to, but he's able to catch on quickly enough, and drag his thoughts back from where they've wandered. He smiles, turning his attention back to his drinking companion, sat across from him. "How can I bet against your champion when he comes so highly recommended? No. I'll put five hundred thousand units on your champion."
He feigns hurt. "Only five?"
"Fine," Loki concedes, grinning. "Make it an even million."
The Grandmaster grins, with an approving clap on the back that devolves into an enthusiastic squeeze of his shoulder. "Good man."
He isn't. He really, truly, isn't.
It's impossible to focus on the party after the interruption, and despite his best efforts his attention keeps drifting back to his brother's current predicament. Loki's fairly certain he knows where he's being held, he could check in on him briefly. He wouldn't even have to leave the party, just excuse himself for a moment, find someplace private, and drop in by magical proxy. The temptation to do so is getting the better of him, and at the first opportunity, he'll make some excuse to leave the room, if only to get it out of the way.
The man sitting opposite him studies the contents of his glass intently as he swirls it in his hand, before finally speaking again the moment Loki moves to stand. "I have a brother," the Grandmaster confides, in a stage whisper that most of the room has likely heard, "not crazy about him either." He raises his glass, and his eyebrows. "Good riddance to bad brothers," he announces.
"Good riddance," Loki echoes, mimicking the toast before throwing his head back to down far, far more of his drink than even he should at once.
Loki reaches for a bottle on the table between them and pours himself another glassful of the bright green Sakaaran liquor. If he can't drown out his conscience with his usual means, then he means to drown it in alien booze.
The grandmaster offers his own glass for refilling, and Loki obliges. "You know, you Asguys are really coming out of the woodwork recently—"
Loki's about to respond, something caustic about how he's never had much luck escaping his perfect brother's orbit, that of course once he finally settles somewhere Thor would be here to ruin it all, but the words die in his throat when the Grandmaster continues.
"—that's the second one 142 has brought me in as many days."
He pauses, stopping just short of overflowing the cup. "Second?"
"Aw," the Grandmaster waves his hand dismissively, twisting in his seat to the unimpressed woman always attending him. "Damn it, I've ruined the surprise, haven't I? I'm always doing that, I get excited and I just blab, don't I Topaz?"
"You're very enthusiastic, sir," his bodyguard drones.
He stands, suddenly, slippered feet padding across the floor, fingers steepled carefully, and waves for Loki to follow him as he starts for the other end of the room. "Well, if the surprise is already ruined, might as well show of the little Gingersnap. Come on, come on."
Ginger…? The nervous chuckle welling up in his throat passes the uneasiness creeping down his spine on its way by. "You're being ironic, I imagine? Please tell me it's actually a big fat fellow with a beard."
"Nope. Though, that would be hilarious," he says brightly, leading him to a series of monitors mounted on the far wall, partygoers languidly parting for them as they pass. "Real cute little thing; come see," he strides up to one of the screens, and taps insistently against the glass. "Doesn't look like much, but 142 was adamant."
Please, he thinks, let it be Lorelei. He can deal with Lorelei.
It isn't Lorelei.
There's no audio, but the figure the grandmaster indicates is sat on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, beside where his brother has likely knelt in prayer, and they seem to be speaking eagerly. Curled in a ball of copper hair and an uncharacteristically scant amount of eye-watering yellow fabric, he's almost able to convince himself that this is some alarming coincidence, and he isn't seeing what he's seeing— that his brother has made friends with some other auburn-haired ásynja, but she just happens to glance upwards towards the camera, and there's no mistaking her then.
Loki more than enjoys chaos. It's home. It's his element. It is the condition under which he does his best work, and thus far, Sakaar has proven to be the perfect medium. He's never been one to orchestrate. It's not about arranging specifics as much as it's always been about sending the game board toppling and trusting himself to make the best of however the pieces land— and in that upheaval, indifference is his greatest asset. Fortunately, he cares for very little, but today has been one laser-guided strike after another, and he's beginning to suspect that the Norns really do hate him, personally, and that even he, Loki, God of Mischief, must have a limit to the improbable bullshit he can tolerate in a single day, because it's rapidly approaching.
What is undoubtedly Lady Sigyn Helgaottir of Asgard, Lady-in-Waiting to the late Queen Frigga, is being kept prisoner in the Contest of Champion's 'involuntary accommodations,' clawing desperately at the obedience disk embedded in her neck.
This is not his problem.
Loki can only begin to fathom the myriad ways in which this is not his problem.
Still, he feels the words on his tongue before he can bite them back, and the impulse slips free unbidden.
"That's my wife."
The declaration, hastily stammered, hang in the air and he gapes, horrified— partially for the sake of the act, but also genuinely at himself, because what is he doing and there's no going back now. Beside him, he sees the Grandmaster's bewildered gaze slowly turn to him, and in the time it takes, he's able to corral his expression into flustered relief, a palm pressed flat to his heart, fingers splayed. "This is— When I landed here I never thought I'd see her again, oh thank goodness you've found her."
The Grandmaster's eyebrows arch towards his hairline, eyelashes fluttering as he blinks in theatrical disbelief. "You're married? You? Really," he says, scandalized. "I uh….wow, I have a hard time picturing that."
"We..." Loki falters for an instant, with a nervous chuckle, before recovering his winning smile. "Sigyn and I have a… an understanding. I like my freedom, certainly, but I truly am fond of her, so if you could—" he gestures hopefully towards himself but the Grandmaster isn't watching.
Instead, the Grandmaster hums critically, not looking away from the monitor. "You sure you want her back?"
"Yes. Yes, absolutely—"
"Because, I mean, there's 'understanding,' and then there's… you know, your brother." He motions towards the screen with a sharp jut of his painted chin and Loki can see that Thor's pulled her tiny form into his arms, trying to console her with reassuring pats on the back as she weeps against his chest, face in her hands.
He watches, transfixed, a cold pit settling in his stomach.
"I mean, adopted or not, yikes," he Grandmaster hisses through his teeth and winces in maybe-feigned sympathy as he glances back from the screen. "Do you want me to get rid of them? I mean it. Just say the word and I can make them fight each other to the death." He smiles, with a quick series of encouraging nods of his head.
"No. No, no, no," Loki assures the alien, smiling easily despite the guilty knot in his gut. "We're all just very close. As a family. She's very…. Affectionate. That's normal."
"You claimed not to know Sparkles, earlier."
"He and I don't get along, but the rest of us, in other combinations. My mother adored her, how often does that happen?" He shrugs, chuckling, lays it on as thick as he can, and swoops in for the kill. "Now— my dearest friend— if you could be so kind as to return her to me, I would be immensely grateful."
"I mean— for you? I would love to, but," the alien hums to himself again, making a halting sound in the back of his throat and an equivocating gesture with his hands, expression rueful. "Lord of Thunder's challenged our champion, and I need an opening act. I've sold tickets. Sooooo…." He shrugs, features contorting into an exaggerated regret. "Kind of in a bind, here?"
Behind them, the general muffled din of the other partygoers continues, but their discussion has caught the attention of a few nearby, and Loki spots a number of turned heads, drinks forgotten in their hands, as they eavesdrop.
"Look," he changes tactics and lowers his voice, palms held out, appeasing, "whatever your scrapper told you, Sigyn is no warrior."
"142 knows what she's talking about; she's never let me down. If she says your little— Cygnet? — is a fighter, she's a fighter."
"She's… she's shy. I'm sorry, but I really have to warn you, this isn't going to go well. You won't get much entertainment out of her."
The grandmaster hums again, another reluctant sound, and clucks his tongue. "That's a shame. Yeah, there wasn't much of a gimmick there— I mean, we tried, but she wasn't giving us much to work with. I mean, everybody that fights the champion dies, but usually the other matches aren't to the death—I mean, it's allowed, but not required. People like watching storylines, you know? One week a triumph, the next defeat, rivalries, alliances, all that great stuff— but if the people are bored they're going to want, uhhh…" he shrugs, "blood."
Blood. He keeps nodding, centuries of practice schooling his face into a calm mask despite the cold horror like a knife stabbed into his gut. So Sigyn hasn't held a weapon in a thousand years. Fine. The average ásynja could hold her own against nearly any creature in the universe, really. Asgardians are sturdy, and Sigyn is clever, and she must have some recollection of what to do with a sharp object— the Grandmaster speaks again and his stream of rationalizing screeches to an abrupt halt.
"I mean," the other man's lips pull into a wry, knowing smile, and it's an expression Loki recognizes all too well— he's usually on the other side of it. "Unless you can suggest something more entertaining, she's fighting that Kronan."
Loki's mouth goes dry. "Kronan?" A glance over at the screen confirms it, he can see creature just at the edge of the frame. Diminutive, by Kronan standards, but that still makes him at least twice Sigyn's size, powerfully built out of living stone, and bearing more than a passing resemblance to the Trolls that killed her mother. He catches himself wringing his hands.
This is, absolutely, not his problem. It isn't hard to summon up a millennium of resentment, each perceived slight since childhood bubbling eagerly to the surface— for the past thousand years Sigyn has barely been able to stand breathing the same air as he does (and he has this intense suspicion that he knows precisely why, and that fosters ice cold fury all of it's own). She hadn't visited him once in his cell, couldn't even meet his eye as his brother had marched him to the bifrost after his discovery.
He owes her nothing.
His traitorous eyes flicker back to the screen, and back to Sigyn, trembling, shoulders heaving with the force of her sobs. She's terrified.
It's a sickening display of frailty; he thinks he might be sick.
Loki's smile is a bit too tight as he swallows hard, meeting the Grandmaster's expectant gaze, the self-satisfied look of a predator watching prey wander blithely into a trap. "What did you have in mind?" he asks.
As if he wasn't already sure.
The door to the freaky circle opens with a pneumatic hiss, and the imposing figure of the Grandmaster's bodyguard appears in the doorway. Thor springs to his feet, Sigyn scrambling to her own beside him, impeded by the flowing skirts they've dressed her in.
"Alright," she orders, gesturing brusquely to the ásynja. "You, come with me."
"Sigyn, keep behind me," Thor orders, levelling a challenging glare at the woman as he places himself between them. "You're not taking her anywhere." They both flinch involuntarily when she produces the remote, but it's not enough to deter him, and he's calculating how best to knock it out of her hand before she can press the button and incapacitate him. Perhaps working together—
The guard has it held high, thumb at the ready, as though she were threatening them with a detonator, but a familiar figure steps from the hallway behind her, and very carefully eases his hand over the guard's to lower it. "Now, now. Shouldn't be any need for that."
"Loki," Thor growls low in his throat, but he stops at his brother's expression. Loki meet his eyes, unblinking, and very slowly, deliberately, nods his head, careful to place himself so the guard can't see it. It's a well-practiced gesture, shorthand developed over a thousand years of adventuring together, and though he understands it immediately, Sigyn doesn't. Which is why Loki turns his attention to her, and very carefully mouths: Play along.
Thor still eyes him carefully, jaw set tight.
When he's certain that she's gotten the message he steps past Topaz, a few long strides carrying him across the short span of the room, and with a graceful sweep of his arms, pulls her into an awkward embrace. "There you are, Darling. Oh, I've missed you terribly." To her credit, she doesn't pull away, but he can see every muscle go taught as she fights the impulse.
"I told them you were my wife," he whispers quickly against the shell of her ear, just loud enough for Thor to catch as well, the words blurring together in his haste to expel them all in a single breath. "I thought it would help— it didn't— and if anyone asks you are incredibly forgiving, because I have not been conducting myself like a married man." He takes in a deep breath and a step back as he releases her, and flashes Topaz a smile that she does not in any way reciprocate.
"Alright, My Love. Go with the ….nice lady."
"No," she says haltingly, taking a step away from the bodyguard and the open door, and glancing nervously back at Thor, trying to arrange her hair to best hide the swath shaved down by her temple before instead crossing her arms protectively over the bare skin of her midriff. She shakes her head, shrinking back, and the look in her eyes when she turns to him is of profound mistrust. Loki looks hurt by it.
"Sigyn, I'm trying to get you out of here," and then, so quietly that it's more shape than sound, "please."
That gives her pause, and she looks back up at him, studies him intently. The look in her eyes when she finally nods isn't relief, it's resignation. She doesn't trust him, but she'll give herself up to whatever it is Loki's done to her. "Okay," she says quietly, to the guard, but then turns back to Thor for a moment, and forces a smile. "What was the expression you used...? Kick his ass, your Highness."
Thor returns the weary smile, nodding resolutely. "I will. And then we get off this miserable scrap heap, and back to Asgard to kick Hela's," the smile wavers for a moment, leather of his bracers creaking as he clenches his fist. "Somehow."
"Somehow," she echoes, she almost looks to Loki but seems to reconsider, and then timidly lets Topaz lead her away.
Loki stops the bodyguard with a hand to her shoulder, ignoring the dangerous way her eyes trace from the point of contact up along his arm, to finally level her glare at his face. "Aren't you forgetting something?" He gestures expectantly. "The obedience disk. If you wouldn't mind."
"Nice try, but that wasn't the deal," Topaz replies, expression stony and eyes narrowed as she indicates Thor with a curt nod of her head. "It comes out if you win, same as his. Now let me go, or you get one too." He lifts his hands, palms out, placating. A glance in her direction finds Sigyn watching him again, this time her look of caution and confusion tinged with something like concern.
Thor takes a step closer, scrutinizing the collar of his brother's alien leathers. "Hey, why don't you have one of these infernal things?"
Loki smiles tersely. "Because I'm here voluntarily."
At that, Topaz lets out a quick, humourless laugh. "Nobody's here voluntarily," she says dryly, shoving Sigyn forward and hauling her away.
The bodyguard has just about made it from the holding facility when her captive stops abruptly, catching herself in the doorframe like a cat avoiding a bath, and turns back to the room. "Wait! Wait, I just—One last thing," she assures the bodyguard, who rolls her eyes at yet another interruption as Sigyn pulls away, and rushes back towards, and then…. Right past both of them.
"Wait— what?" And Loki can do little else but stare in slack jawed disbelief as she flits over to the Kronan, standing on her tiptoes to throw her arms around his torso in a quick hug,
"Bye, Korg," she says fondly, as Topaz grabs Sigyn roughly by the shoulder and starts to tug her towards the door. "Good luck with your pamphlets!"
"Thanks, Sig! Bye!" The Kronan waves a massive, rocky hand as she's dragged out the door. "She's nice," he says brightly as it slams shut, turning to the brothers. "I was looking forward to our match. Just a bit to warm up the crowd a little? Always nice working with people you've got a good rapport with, but ah well."
Loki blinks, numbly staring off into the middle distance in the general vicinity of the door through which she's disappeared. "She made friends," he starts, stunned, eyebrows raised, "with the Kronan."
Thor grins, clapping his brother on the back with one massive hand, and gesturing broadly to the creature with the other. "Yes, this is Korg. Korg's great."
"No, no, I saw her crying. She was beside herself. I was certain that thing—"
"Hey, man, that's not cool? I may be made of stone but I've got, like, feelings? Hi, I should probably introduce myself, name's Korg—"
Loki ignores him completely, brows furrowing as his dazed confusion becomes the frustrated kind, "—was going to slaughter her!"
Thor ignores him, his grief and resentment temporarily nudged aside by the giddy relief of having an ally, of having this particular ally back at his side. "Loki you diabolical bastard, I knew you had it in you. Come on, what's this plan of yours?" He clasps him by the shoulder, eyes intent. "Someone on the inside? Some magic to get us through that door? We could always do 'get—"
"Thor, that was the plan. This is the plan," he gestures between them then indicates the holding area with a distasteful grimace. "You and I defeat this champion: you're freed, we both gain a great deal of favour with the Grandmaster, and Sigyn's under my protection. Works out for everyone."
Thor's grin widens, and he gives Loki's shoulder an enthusiastic squeeze. He'd been furious, before, but despite Loki's earlier reluctance, his little brother has come through for him, and is here to help. He's almost proud of him, and that tempers his earlier ire, a hopeful spark lit in him now by this return to the feeling of their happier days. "Yes! Like old times. You and I take down whatever this bastard is, then the three of us get the Hel off this garbage heap and save Asgard."
Loki takes a slow, careful breath, mouth pressed into a thin line, and says nothing. It's the kind of silence that replaces an unfavourable answer.
"Loki…?" Thor begins, brows furrowing, and then, warning, "Loki."
"You," he begins, voice clipped, "are free to do whatever you want, afterwards. I'm staying right here."
"Loki."
"You should really consider it. It's not bad, here. The Grandmaster's a complete lunatic, but I've managed my way into his inner circle. I make some introductions, we establish ourselves, maybe one day something terrible and indisputably accidental befalls—"
Thor's expression hardens as Loki goes on, that eager flicker of familiarity fizzling out like a soggy match as he starts back towards the wall and slides down it to sit on the floor, fixing his brother with his most unimpressed scowl as he continues. Loki just keeps talking, detailing his suspiciously detailed plans for their proposed takeover. "She was in the Observatory," he says, finally. "That's why she was crying."
Loki quiets as the implications sink in.
"Within a minute of arriving, Hela, she…" Thor presses his knuckles to his mouth and exhales slowly. "She murdered Fandral and Volstagg, and threw Sigyn off the Bifrost. I suppose… this is just where whatever kind of a current it has was headed, at the time. She says she's been here two days. Which makes absolutely no sense."
"I've been here three weeks. It's like he said: time's funny. More like non-existent. There's a day-night cycle, but it never seems to go anywhere," Loki crinkles his nose again as he considers the spot on the floor next to Thor. He waves his hand over it, his magic blasting away the dust and debris. Somehow, the grimy concrete beneath looks even worse, and with a longsuffering roll of his eyes, he deigns to sit. "For all we know, Hela's had Asgard for years."
"Or seconds. You're really just going to leave all of Asgard's people to her mercy?" he shakes his head, a humourless, dark chuckle signaling his disbelief. "After you're the one who stranded Odin, powerless, on Earth? You're the one who let her out of Hel, you're the one who let her in to Asgard, and you won't even help me fix it," Thor fumes, temper rising as he speaks, his earlier hope making the disappointment all the more bitter. "I can't believe I actually thought you were going to do the right thing."
Loki at least has the decency to look uncomfortable. He sighs, tips his head forward to rest his head against his fist. "Look, it's beyond us. Our sister is Death incarnate; she crushed your hammer like it was made of glass. All we'd accomplish is pissing her off, and then we'd die. Exact same situation, but now she's angry, and we're dead." He looks over, head still resting in his hand. "You were really going to bring Sigyn back there?"
"I still am. She wants to go," he says, curt, hands folded neatly in his lap, "because she isn't a filthy traitor coward."
Loki rolls his eyes again with an accompanying sigh, slumping against the wall, arms crossed, and one leg thrown over the other. A long, terse silence falls between them, interrupted only by Korg's uneasy attempts at whistling as he tries to pretend there's anything like a private conversation in this tiny looping room.
He refuses to acknowledge the sounds his brother makes beside him, noisy melancholy breaths, or the drumming of nervous fingers against the leather of his strange alien armguards. "I didn't know," he admits, just as the droning of one of the overhead lights threatens to drive Thor mad. He quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing. "About Hela, any of it. I would never have… I didn't realize what he was contending with. I thought…" His head hits the metal wall with a ringing thud, "I mean, we knew it was coming, but decades, not…." He pauses, reigns his voice back under his control. "I thought he had more time."
When Thor glances over, the look in Loki's eyes is troubled, conflicted, and he can't help but remember him, genuine, baffled, vulnerable, Silvertongue completely at a loss, as they sat together on that grey cliffside. If it were anyone else, Thor would call it remorse.
That look fades, though, shifts to something more familiar: pensive, brow furrowed, fingers drumming away against the leather. "Why didn't he tell us?" he muses. "He was always the one going on about how weren't immortal, why tie something so important to his lifeforce? If that was the only measure powerful enough, why not warn us about it?"
Thor mirrors his posture, letting his own head loll back. "I wish I knew. Strange said he chose to stay…"
"The Midgardian Wizard?"
Thor nods, with a deep thoughtful hum. "If he'd broken free of your spell, and knew this was coming, why not return?" He scrubs at his face with his hands, tries to swallow down the lump in his throat before his brother notices it in his voice. "Mother always said Father had a reason for everything, but I can't make sense of this."
They grow quiet again, but it's a more comfortable silence. Not rooted in bitterness, this time, but a shared mystery, at least on the same page. "I know how it feels, you know," Loki is the one to break the silence again. "Thinking you're one thing for so long, then having the rug pulled out beneath your feet. Looking back on things that suddenly make sense and realizing that you've been kept in the dark, that people you've trusted lied to you." Loki faking his death comes to mind, but Thor thinks better of saying it. He's suddenly very conscious of the black hair braided into his blond.
"Having the things that make you yourself stripped away…. I mean, finding out you're the son of our single greatest enemy as a people is one thing," he continues, the tone growing a familiar kind of playful, the kind he dips into when he's shown to much of himself and needs to steer a conversation somewhere safer, "but a middle child?" he mouths the words and winces, theatrically.
A smile tugs at Thor's lips despite himself, and he gives his brother a little shove, which Loki returns, and when the Sakaaran guards slide the door open to collect them, they're slapping half-heartedly at one another like unruly children.
It's not unlike a zoo, he thinks, as he takes in the holding area, bars of red energy allowing spectators at the nearby bar to gawk as they make their final preparations.
"Loki, take something," Thor says as he tests a short sword. "Or is your plan to stand around and look pretty while I fight this champion by myself? He's said to be formidable."
Loki rolls his eyes. "Oh please, I'm supposed to worry about you? Three weeks ago you walked into Muspelheim and came back with Surter's skull."
"For me that was this morning."
"Even better," Loki crosses his arms across his chest, eyeing the weaponry with disinterest. "So you killed Surter this morning and you'll undoubtedly crush their Champion tonight. What else is new?"
None of the clunky weapons (most looking to be cobbled together from bits of scrap) appeal to Loki over the many fine blades he owns, concealed by magic in a pocket of space. This leaves him plenty of time to survey the crowd and stare longingly at drinks he can't have, such as the one being purchased by a familiar figure. They've never interacted, but he recognizes Scrapper 142 well.
"That's her," Thor says, eyes narrowed in challenge as he sidles up beside his brother. "The one that got us. Knocked me out with an electrified net—"
"I still can't believe that works on you."
"—and shoved this stupid zappy disk thing in my neck."
"Again. It boggles the mind."
"Sigyn, though, she overpowered with her bare hands." Loki's eyebrows arch upwards, turning towards his brother in surprise. Docile as she is, she's still an ásynja. There are few creatures in the universe of comparable size that rival Asgardian strength. "And besides that, who the Hel meets Sigyn and immediately thinks 'Gladiator'?"
He can see where his brother's train of thought leads, and nods, returning his attention to the scrapper, watching her carefully for something very specific. "Sigyn would have tried to speak to her first. When she introduced herself, did she say if she used her full name?"
"As a matter of fact," Thor begins with a meaningful look, "she did. You and the Weirdo both said there's no time here…"
Their suspicions are confirmed a moment later when she reaches for another drink, revealing the tattoo along the inside of her forearm: a Valkyrie. Thor approaches her as best he can through the bars, an attempt to win her over to their cause, now that he knows what she is. Loki slinks back, recognizing a lost cause when he sees one. If Scrapper 142 was willing to sell Sigrun's daughter into slavery, the Valkyrior must mean nothing to her.
"Hey, man," Korg approaches him, waving a massive rocky hand. "Just wanted to say good luck out there. Since it's your first fight and all, and everyone who goes up against the champion dies? But I've got faith in you Dougs. So, I hope you win, and get your… you know, you're not-wife back? Sorry. Didn't mean to eavesdrop, but it's really hard in a room that small? Anyway, if you live, I think maybe you might want to consider what kind of unresolved feelings would make you go right to wife and not… you know… sister? Or cousin. Or anybody else you might have had a special kind of relationship with that would maybe lend them some of your status by association?"
He blinks at the Kronan, and his onslaught of unwanted and extremely personal soul-searching. He's fairly certain he'd heard equally impassioned rambling about Mjolnir and grief while Thor was looking at weaponry. He wants to tell the Kronan to go fuck himself. "Childhood friend," he finds himself confiding, instead. "Only friend," he amends.
"Yeah! That would have been a great one." Korg beams. "Anyway, hope you haven't made any enemies, or that could put a real target on Sig's back if you die. Ah well, you seem like a real nice fella, I bet you don't have any." Korg pats a stunned Loki on the shoulder, wishes him luck one last time as he lumbers away. "Bye, other new Doug!"
Thor stalks over, fuming, muttering to himself about being betrayed by one of his childhood heroes, surrounded by traitors and cowards. Evidently, Thor is still on his own regarding his plan to save Asgard. A moment later a warden calls them forward for 'processing.'
Thor turns to him, suspiciously as the guards approach, "What exactly do they mean by 'processing?'"
Loki shrugs, indicates his brother's Asgardian attire, then sweeps a hand to indicate the rest of the room. He runs a hand through his hair by his temple, then prods his brother's armor. "What they did to Sigyn, I'd imagine."
Thor's eyes go wide in horror as the guards close in, roaring in fury that fizzles into a stuttering whimper as the obedience disk is activated. Loki steps over him on his way towards the indicated chamber. "See you soon," he tells Thor's groaning form as he's hauled away. \
They meet by the door into the arena, Thor still fuming. He's armored, painted, his flowing blond hair hacked away like a humiliated lion.
Loki's armor is very much like his earlier clothing, leather, the same deep teal and purple, accented by bright yellow along the edges. It's lighter armor than Thor's, sleeker, but he has sleeves, no skin showing between the shoulders and vambraces. His hair appears shorn down at both sides, what's left pulled into a knot at the back of his head,
Thor's nose crinkles as he takes in his brother's appearance, and his grim expression lessens as he chuckles to himself. "I see they did quite a number on you, as well."
"I certainly let them think they did." A flash of green light restores his hair to its previous state for an instant before he slips the illusion back into place. Thor pouts visibly, and runs a hand through the short, buzzed sides of his stolen hair. "Unbelievable."
"It's not my fault you didn't think of it. Hm… wait," he considers his brother for a moment, then the light of his magic passes over him again, and curling, serpentine shapes appear into the short sides, not unlike the jagged cuts into Thor's. He adds a slash of teal war paint down the opposite sides of his face and neck, then some runes in yellow across the blue of the leather for good measure. Protective charms, because why not, but mostly it's for the look. "There, now we match."
Thor's frown deepens as he looks him up and down. "Loki what is this? Change to your own colours, at least."
"These happen to be preferred colours of the Grandmaster," he replies, more than a little degraded by the admission. He clears his throat, indicates backstage. "They were… adamant, I not wear green." Thor gives him a questioning look, but he can only shrug in reply. He's long since given up trying to make sense of anything on Sakaar— best to just take things as they come.
The doors gape open and they're pointed into the ring. It's massive as they step out into the open, a massive hologram of the Grandmaster projected into the middle by the drones that flit around the ring. The stands are teeming with all manner of creature, ships hovering overhead where even more spectators watch. Judging by both the bloodstains splattered across the arena, and the Grandmaster's commentary as he announces the main event, it seems he had no shortage of opening acts, the conniving bastard. Being outfoxed doesn't sit well with the Trickster god, especially not…. Well, he knows exactly how it happened, and he let it happy anyway. He's meant to be smarter than this kind of vulnerability.
"And now, our double-header this evening: a sibling act, isn't that something? Exiled princes from the far reaches of the universe, all the way from Assburgh—" The hologram's attention flickers to something beside him for an instant. "Ass-guard? Assguard, huh, that's uh…. That's really what you went with? Anyway, maybe two against one will finally give our Champion a decent fight, huh folks? Sakaarans, I present to you, the uh—" he glances away again as though for a line, "give it up for the Sons of Udon." They're blinded by the sudden flash of spotlights as the overwhelming roar of the audience's booing crashes down into the arena like a wave, thousands of voices melding together.
"Sons of….?"
"Honestly, that's closer than I was expecting."
The crowd's jeering dies down as the Grandmaster motions for quiet, and continues his introduction. "First: the up-and-coming, fresh out of the wormhole, his first and likely last appearance at the Contest of Champions: Lord of Thunder!"
"GOD," Thor bellows upwards, completely drowned out by the crowd's emphatic booing.
"And our second challenger joining him, the other half of this pair, the little brother, prince number 2, the second son, the second pea in this adorable fraternal pod," could he perhaps say 'second' a bit more? Loki's not sure the audience has made the association, "Our very own— Some of you know him— some of you've loved him," there's a suggestive pause, Loki tries not to react, "I have his wife here with me today, how crazy is that?— Say hello, Loki's wife,"
Oh no.
There's a screech of feedback as the hologram of the grandmaster passes something beside him, and through the arena's speakers comes a very tentative, "Hello, Loki's wife." Even scared out of her mind, she can't resist. More importantly, though, it's the only honest way she can reply without answering to a false title.
A ripple of pitying laughter passes through the crowd, and the Grandmaster gives a patronizing chuckle, the scrutinizing look he's giving her translated into the massive hologram. "Huh. Well, if any of you in the audience just felt their hearts— or whatever equivalent organ you've got— flutter, she's, uh… well, she's about to be single. Real stickler for pronunciation, though, just warning you." Oh norns, the pauses. She's been correcting a mad despot.
The look on Thor's face is intense as he glares up into the Grandmaster's booth. They can't see her from here, but he's very clearly looking to someone sitting farther from the edge of the box.
This whole stupid charade was supposed to protect her, not throw her into the thick of things. There's a panic settling into his gut at the thought: gentle, honest Sigyn thrown into a pit of vipers— home for him, catastrophe for her. The Grandmaster already knows that he can use her against him. What other incriminating details could he get out of her? Loki lets out a frustrated little hiss from between his teeth, and mutters, "why did I have to stick my neck out for the worst liar in the known universe?"
Thor grins at him. "Aww, come on, Loki. Was that not one of the reasons you married her? They do say opposites—"
"I hate you," he says flatly, reaching out and bracing himself against Thor's shoulder as he takes a steadying breath, eyes rolling back into his head. "Watch my body for a second; I've got to get up there before she gets herself melted."
But it's too late. Something heavy is approaching as the Grandmaster launches into the introduction of their champion and the crowd goes wild with excitement, banners waving, a few clouds of green dust popping into the air. Even above the fevered pitch of their cheering they can hear the thunderous footfalls approaching the arena, gaining speed. Thor and Loki exchange a look, and with a final moment to ready themselves, Loki draws twin daggers, Thor slides a facsimile of his typical helm into place.
He misses his helmet, suddenly, misses his green and gold. He feels less himself, without them, but tramps down the thought as it arises. He doesn't want to be himself, he wants to be whatever best wins him the Sakaarans' esteem.
The Grandmaster's introduction reaches a crescendo. "…He's the reigning… He's the defending, Ladies and Gentlemen, I GIVE YOU, THE INCREDIBLE—"
A roar shakes the arena as the Grandmaster's champion erupts through the massive door, rending it from its hinges, and there it is: Loki's bullshit limit. "No," Loki breathes in cold terror, panic flooding his veins like venom.
"YES!" crows Thor in delight, as an armored and heavily armed Hulk charges into the ring.
Author's Notes: Nevermind, THIS is the silliest, most self-indulgent thing I've ever written. This was a goofy thing I'm writing for fun between UF chapters, as they become non-spoilerey xD. For example , I'm going to have to get a bit farther in UF before I can post the next one, I think. Without spoiling anything, Endgame (and infinity war, really) both have me really missing Ragnarok, where things were bleak but there was still optimism? Anyway, I sincerely hope you get a kick out of it. I'm going to try and avoid typing out scenes or conversations that would happen the same way, though we do sometimes get like, altered versions. And I don't want to rip those off word for word, but at the same time, the way it is in the movie is usually perfect, so. IDK. Thank you to anyone reading, I sincerely hope you enjoy, and if you're looking for a more serious canon-adjacent Logyn fic, Undying Fidelity is the main story. Thank you!
