3

Loki didn't want to open his eyes. He realized that he hadn't slept in years, probably. There was too much pain for him to sleep, usually. He vaguely remembered being told that he would long for something as sweet as pain, before, but he couldn't understand quite what that meant. Pain was definitely not sweet, as far as he knew.

Sweet. He remembered sweetness. It seemed to be from long ago, but he remembered sweetness. Honey. He thought he liked honey, when he was a child. He hadn't had honey in perhaps a hundred years or so. Sleep was sweet, right now. Loki really didn't want to open his eyes.

And then, all of a sudden, he remembered why he was sleeping. The pain had made him sleep; there was so much of it. And then he remembered that he had screamed. He, Loki, had screamed because of the pain. He had never screamed before, not in front of the Chitauri at least.

He forced his eyes open and made himself sit up against the wall he was chained to. He hurt as soon as he moved, but he gritted his teeth against the pain, as he always did, and sat, leaning against the wall. He frowned. He shouldn't have to lean against the wall. He was Loki. He was strong. Loki bit the inside of his cheek and stood.

Well, now he was awake, and he was standing, and he wasn't hurting so much that he couldn't think, and so he thought. Why had Crad stopped after breaking his arm? Why did it hurt so, so much when he pulled at his chains? It had hurt before, but never so much as it had now.

Loki had a few things left. His lies-he had always had those-his memories, and his desperate hope of escape. Because of this desperate hope, anything abnormal made him curious, and he saw it as a possible way out.

An idea. He had had ideas for escape plans before, but none of them had worked. Obviously. But when he had ideas, he always used them, because what else did he have?

A slow, deliberate, deliciously mischievous, wicked smile spread across Loki's face as he planned.

Alex lay sprawled on the couch watching Star Wars, curled up in a blanket with a bowl of caramel popcorn and a cup of hot chocolate. Her dad lounged in a battered recliner next to her, dozing off as they watched the Ewoks hurl rocks at the unsuspecting stormtroopers.

In truth, Alex was barely paying attention to the movie, but was watching her father's expression as he fell asleep.

Occasionally, his fists would clench briefly and his eyes would snap open, his nostrils flaring as he breathed quickly through his nose in an attempt to avoid attracting Alex's attention.

After the third time or so, Alex paused the movie. "Dad, you should get some sleep," she suggested.

He shook his head. "It's fine. I want to spend time with you," he said.

Alex knew that quality time wasn't the only reason he was fighting sleep. Sleep brought pain and nightmares, memories confused with reality, demons of the past clawing at his heart and mind, slowly breaking him down until he shivered under the covers, sobbing silently and longing for morning...

She knew, even if he didn't want her to. She thought fleetingly, guiltily, of the day she'd snuck into his room looking for something and found his fevered thoughts scribbled down on a few pages of paper. He didn't keep a journal, but when it got too much to handle, he sometimes wrote down the memories and tried to figure out what was real and what was a lie.

Alex nodded. "Okay, but you're missing all the good parts," she smiled.

He raised an eyebrow at her, but she could tell his good mood was somewhat forced. "I know what's going on, thanks. I wasn't asleep," he protested. His voice hitched for a second, and Alex suddenly noticed that his hand was trembling slightly.

"Mm," she said, unconvinced. She stood up and squeezed in between him and the arm of the recliner. "Scoot over."

He groaned. "There's no room!"

"Sure there is," she smirked, hitting the play button and settling herself half on his lap and half on the seat, curling into his chest and letting her presence comfort the fear in his heart.

Frera snapped back to reality as she heard footsteps pass by her room; she sprang up, waiting to see if they would come in, but whoever it was continued to the end of the hall. Then she remembered what she had been intending to do in the first place-make a list. She sat down at her desk, grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen, and scratched a title onto the paper:

Summer Goals

There were 3 things Frera could not stand being called, and one of those was unorganized. The other two were ignorant and emotional. Summer was summer, but it needed a list. She thought for a moment, then continued writing:

1) Practice more magic
2) Practice w/weapons
3) Keep room in order
4) Have fun w/family

She hesitated, then added one more thing:

5) Research

Suddenly, she heard footsteps again outside the door, heavy and quick. There was only one person who walked like that.

"Father!"

Thor walked in, grinning, and Frera dropped her pen as she was enveloped in a giant hug. Then he let her go and smiled down at her with his friendly blue eyes. In Frera's opinion (and to the continued chagrin of Uncle Stark) he was the best man and the best father in the entire universe. But he was often gone, taking care of any number of things across the nine realms, and Frera was always glad to see him.

"How was the last day of school?"

"The usual," Frera replied, grinning. "Lots of parents staring at me."

"Now, don't get too carried away with yourself," he teased, ruffling her hair. Frera disliked anyone ruffling her hair, but she would stand it for Thor. He was probably the only person who was allowed to do that. He scanned her desk and spied her list. "A list? For summer?"

"Yeah, well, to keep things organized, you know..." Frera said.

"Always so scholarly. This is probably the millionth time I'm saying this, but you are exactly like your mother," he said. "What research, pray, could be so very urgent?"

"Actually, I'm not quite sure yet what research exactly, because I'm not sure where to start. But probably something along the lines of our Asgardian history," she replied, putting a particular emphasis on the last three words.

Her father almost groaned. "Not that again. I've told you everything. What more is there to know?"

"Well, that's what I intend to find out," Frera said keenly. She wondered if her father had a suspicion of what she was thinking. He probably did.

"C'mon, want to take a ride with me on Mjolnir?"

"I'd love to, really, but I want to get into this."

"If you must," he said, getting up. "I've got something to discuss with Stark, but if you change your mind, let me know."

"I will," Frera called after him as he left.

But I'm not changing my mind. There was only one place to go if she wanted to find any information, even though she had been digging here and there for years, and that was S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. She didn't know why she wanted to go there so urgently, but probably it was because she'd been wanting to all year, ever since she had realized that there had to be more to some things. I know what happened in New York. I know why Aron's here. Dad says I know more about Asgard than most Asgardians! But I've always been interested, and I won't stop now.

Aron spun around and fired a bullet into the forehead of the hologram aiming its rifle at him, rolling away from a spray of bullets and kicking the dummy flash grenade he found by his foot into a knot of holograms running towards him, shielding his eyes routinely from the grenade as it blew up in a small flash of light and a realistic sound effect. Dropping his arm, he jerked away just before a bullet hit him in the head, firing back at the opponent and dashing for new cover, reloading his gun and firing at a holographic oil drum several meters away and huddling deeper into his cover as the drum exploded, wiping out all of the holograms except three, which he quickly dispatched with his handgun.

"Training sequence complete," the AI system announced, and he stepped out through the sliding doors, sweating profusely. Clint nodded appreciatively at him.

"Nice work in there," Clint complimented.

"Thanks," Aron smiled. "Although you'll be way better than me."

Clint shrugged. "Maybe. There were quite a few things you could've done differently to make it go faster, but you can figure that out on your own."

Aron thanked him and put the guns away. Even though he'd lived for several years on Midgard, he still was Asgardian enough, and had seen enough of Asgard's and the other realms' weapons to dislike handguns to a certain extent. They lacked finesse and elegance, something Aron appreciated in weaponry, despite his pyrotechnic tendencies in other areas. (Like exploding Cheerios.) Heading to a different training area, he picked up four throwing daggers and stepped into the arena, waiting for the holograms to start up. Glancing to his right, he saw Clint firing arrows at the holograms, taking them down far faster than Aron had. Turning back to his own training area, Aron tapped the start button hovering in front of him, projected from the computer system on the opposite wall.

The area transformed into a forest with the occasional sound of gunfire; a soldier was standing in front of him. Aron crept forward and landed a kick on the back of the man's head, knocking him out. Aron caught him quickly before he could fall too loudly, then heard the click of a gun being cocked and spun around.

A scout was right behind him, finger on the trigger and ready to fire. Aron's eyes widened; there was no way out of this.

Instinct kicked in before thought, and as the bullet exploded from the muzzle of the gun, he gasped and held up a hand.

Ice exploded from his palm, enveloping the bullet and shorting it out. With his right foot, Aron swept the shooter's feet out from under him; then, without hesitation, Aron stabbed all five fingers down at the shooter, releasing five razor sharp daggers of ice that slammed through the shooter's chest and deep into the floor.

Instantly, the hologram and the scenery dissolved in an explosion of sparks as the technology shorted out, leaving Aron wide-eyed and panting in the arena, his hands tinged blue as his Frost Giant pigments covered over his Aesir form.

"STOP!"

The voice rang through the suddenly silent training room, and Aron spun to look at who had spoken, although he knew instantly who it was, trepidation growing in his chest and making small bursts of ice leap from his fingertips.

Director Nick Fury, still intimidating even as he aged, stalked forward, his eye wide and glaring at Aron.

"I thought you said you could control this," he said darkly, his gaze boring into Aron's.

"I... I can, sir," Aron stammered. "I didn't mean- It was an accident, I promise; I was just startled... sir."

"An accident?" Fury repeated, his eyebrows arching. "That would indicate that you do NOT have it under control, Lokison."

Aron's heart hammered in his chest. The only reason he wasn't always under SHIELD's surveillance, trapped in one of their cells for evaluation, was because Thor had convinced Fury that Aron really COULD control his powers and wasn't a danger. Now, though... he'd blown it. He was going to have to go back...

Fury's frown deepened. "Come with me. We're going to have a word in my office... and I want your Uncle Thor here, too."