Lionheart
A superfluous prologue
"Hang on, we'll be there in no time," Loki comforts his companion by patting his injured shoulder.
"Don't do that again," croaks the extra-terrestrial from the co-pilot's seat, and Loki doesn't find it in his heart to contravene.
His goodwill is mostly evoked by the tremendous explosives implanted into the alien's body. And the countless wires connected to them, all coiling into the good hand of the Althkvuurgreg, or as a certain sardonic earthling prefers it, Greg. Greg's bad hand hangs limply at the end of his bad arm, which has been partially separated from his shoulder by the miscalculated course of an arrow. The aim was the central nervous hub through his left eye, but it got diverted by another projectile.
Loki, while piloting the earthen aircraft among governmental missiles and jets, chews his own lips ragged from the agonized twitches of that good hand. He plays it cool nevertheless, as required in his currently chosen role. Though he's sure he's faced worse than an up-face explosion, it isn't a fate appropriate for the infant travelling secretly among the crates way behind them. Even if tiny Sidra survived the scorching hurricane, the Norns would most likely not care to make her fall pleasant.
"Pick up that one," Greg warns.
"It's too risky," Loki tells him, guiding the vehicle away from the line of rooftops where a dark figure is leaping to keep up with them.
"It's not. You'll live, too, the Mother will fix you up."
Loki shivers at the thought: the vast existence in question connecting to his mind and revealing all schemes amidst the army of its servants. It wouldn't be the first time-
The missiles occasionally aiming at them don't make his job easy. Eventually, the persistence of the hitchhiker pays off; the sorcerer can only feel the hit at the back of the plane and the swing as it is knocked off course, potentially into any of the objects zooming past them. As they approach death in the foolish manoeuvre, a much unsettling film of his life starts playing in front of Loki's eyes. He is desperate to clamber out of it before it could fulfil its purpose; the attempt manifests on his lips as nononononogodogodogodogod. The carelessly bound crates slide about in the storage area in clusters, and Loki knows that the moment the infant is awake, hell is to break lose, he'll foil everything, face predetermined death and save Sidra. Either that, or he'll fail at both and Sif will be the one to tear him apart afterwards before anyone else.
Luckily, the fearful thought jerks him back into reality. And the newcomer's black voice as he lets himself in through the side door he tore off like the uncaring, clueless, single-minded, dumbass creature he is.
"Another waiting ahead."
Loki turns in his seat to glance back for a moment, needlessly catching sight of the heavy boxes racing towards them. But a violent quake in the vehicle gives a clear indication of his priorities, so he returns to piloting immediately.
"From the hub?" his friend responds meanwhile, careful not to move and agitate the wound further.
"No. Those are doing well, the tower is taken."
The note sends a clench into Loki's stomach but he forcefully ignores it. Nevermind that tower right now. He reminds himself that he is not doing this alone. Recalls the machine, the cogwheels. The body, the cells. All with their own sole task. What matters now: the aircraft is obedient again, the boxes got stuck far in the back at the storage door, and his hopes for the infant's survival are soaring once again.
Until the third Greg appears on top of the next skyscraper and splats himself onto the windshield, sending the vehicle into a lengthy mid-air waltz, and the suppressed memories gush forth.
