A/N: NOTE #1: Agent Coulson's "death" conversation with Loki has been liberally modified for plot purposes. Given that the Type 2 Prototype weapon doesn't seem to make a reappearance in the film after Loki was blasted clean through the wall with it by Coulson, I've decided to use it for the purpose of aiding the plot. It will be important later, so please don't get annoyed at this odd little blip in the cinematic timeline.

NOTE #2: Given that the script (and what I can remember from the film itself) doesn't actually explain how Loki and the scepter get to the carrier that brought all the converted agents to the Helicarrier after stabbing Coulson and dumping Thor and the Hulk Cage out via gigantic airlock, I've added an extra scene to "fix" the apparent plot hole and give him and the symbiote a bit of reprieve before Phase 3 starts.

NOTE #3: I moved the final place for Coulson's vintage trading cards to what I personally think is a more...fitting place. I hope you don't mind too much.

NOTE #4: To prevent any possible confusion regarding the term, a weregild is/was an ancient form of reparation for injustices done by one or more people to another, usually in the form of precious metals (i.e. gold) or part of your livestock herds, or, if that wasn't possible and there was a lot of outcry, possible execution. It was arranged according to one's rank in its founding old world Germanic societies, so for someone of Loki's rank (former or otherwise, given that he was still technically a prince when he fell off of the BiFrost), he'd likely be wanting something pretty darn high up in the reparations list, and since he was raised in such a combat-oriented society, wanting an extreme form of vengeance against those who wronged you isn't exactly too far off the mark. After all, if the payment wasn't met, taking up a blood feud was usually the next course of action...

DISCLAIMER: As usual, I own nothing of Marvel or Norse mythology, be it characters, places, pop cultural references, phrases, paraphrases, etc. I also do not own the reference to BBC Sherlock. Please don't hunt me down and draw and quarter me for my stories.

WARNING: Your daily dose of gore, foul language (including one unfinished "f" word), semi-graphic violence, dark/morbid humor, and, in this case, some quasi-spoilers for Captain America: The Winter Soldier. There will be a depiction of death in this chapter (think of it as "death of a red shirt", since the character, from what I've managed to research, doesn't really play a very impacting role in the Marvel cinematic universe). This chapter is also a bit longer than usual.


The air in the lower equipment room stung with tension as they continued to tear and stab and swing at one another, flashes of blue eyes and blood-red hair flickering in and out of the half-light like candles in the wind. Punches and kicks and closed-finger jabs at pressure points were traded back and forth like oxygen for carbon dioxide. Fingers tightened into blunt fists and curled into claws with every swing at exposed flesh, aiming for whatever could be reached for the most damage. Breath came in harsh, shuddering gasps and huffs, stolen from the air like pearls with every opportunity seized.

Natasha hurtled forwards again, grasping a pipe overhead and using it for a point of stability as she kicked out with a booted foot, ramming the slim appendage into her opponent's face, the heel angled to prevent too much pressure from being inflicted on the nose. There was no sense in trying to prevent him from being attacked by S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel, only to kill him by an over-application of force that would leave his nasal bones bursting through brain matter like a spoon digging through a bowl of wet oatmeal.

The man reared back at the blow, blood streaming freely from damaged vessels and bent cartilage even as he swung a fist at her in retaliation.

But the arm's grabbed and stopped in place, her feet digging into the ground as hard as possible to keep steady as she twisted the appendage sharply out of shape, contorting the limb into a grotesque approximation, and a low, guttural groan of pain escaped at the action; instinct overrode the pain for a brief, blissful moment, and he took action with his remaining arm, tossing the knife over to the free limb to allow for a series of rapid-fire messy slashes at Natasha, jagged flurries of movement trailing razor-edged metal through the air like streaks of disappearing and reappearing lead grey paint.

Concentration and meticulous visual tracking of the knife's movements helped Natasha to avoid the jabs and slices of the blade, but a stalemate was soon reached when her attacker realized that lashing out with the handheld weapon was all but entirely useless. Fingers clamped down as their arms interlocked, muscles straining with the effort of trying to shove pack the forceful pushing on each side. When the blade's forced down after throwing her weight abruptly forward, she took the opportunity of shock to lean forward and bite his wrist, forcing down teeth in a pressure-sealed application of over two-hundred pounds worth of agonizing force.

A cry of pain burst forth to accompany the blood welling up from the new wound, and the knife's dropped like a hot coal a split second later, unwillingly relinquished by spasming fingers.

Not missing a beat, the assassin lunged again, wrapping her legs around his neck, twisting her whole body in a concert of effort to flip her partner over and pin him down in an arm lock. The moment he slammed into the ground, slender hands seized his head on either side and forcefully shoved downwards, slamming him down into a nearby pipe with a sickening crack.

Blood trickled sluggishly from the new wound as he raised his head slowly up, looking at her with pain-dulled eyes, the unnatural blue flickering for a moment, threatening to fade out entirely as senses re-calibrated to the shock of the situation.

"Natasha..."

A moment of silence passed as the two stared at each other, twin echoes of harsh breathing and the distant hiss of pressurized water escaping from overhead pipes the only sounds in this dark underworld, and then everything went dark in a burst of agonizing pain as she hit him again, this time with the butt of her pistol and a cocked left fist.


Thor would admit, even if only to himself, that he was at an unnerving loss as to what, exactly, had gone so terribly wrong.

He had tried repeatedly to reason with his brother, trying in earnest to break through the wall of insanity and delirium that fogged the younger god's mind, but to no avail. The man was lost in a state of impenetrable madness, his rambling incessant, his eyes wild and too-bright, and his mannerisms frighteningly changed from how they once were. A horrifying scent of death and musky shadow, heavy as the stench of blood and rot from the battlefield, seemed to permeate the air around him, thick and heavy as iron chains. Hair once sleek and well-tamed now resembled a thorny wreath of sable briers, wild and tangled into a sea of countless knots like the pelt of a mangy wolf, and slender, nimble fingers had thinned down to the point where bones could be visibly noticed moving beneath the strange black ooze that clung relentlessly to his rail-thin form like a nightmarish second skin, and those eerily sharp teeth, bared in the starved, crazed grin of an angered wolf with lips pulled back into a warning snarl...

What has happened to you, Loki? Where is the brother I once knew in this form so eerie and strange that you now wear like the gilded drapery of a monarch? Why did you do this?

No answer came, save for the rampant pounding of his heart and the distant howling whistle of the wind picking up about the glass vessel he was currently trapped in, his only company being Mjolnir, the mighty weapon repeatedly flung every which way to crash into the thick wall and leave a blossoming set of growing cracks like freshly trodden snow. He thought of that strange set of teeth, widening and sharpening like the cracks in the glass, and a shudder raced across his skin in instinctive unease.

The dentition did not resemble any beast of lore that he had heard of, nor ever encountered. The teeth looked almost knife-like, bone-white with the canines sharpened into needle-point pricks, proudly held in that sickening rictus of a lunatic smile. Thor felt a shivering skitter of phantom motion run up and down his spine at the very remembrance of it.

But there would be time for such a worrying contemplation later. For the moment, he had a much more important subject to focus on: getting safely out of the Hulk Cage with Mjolnir without getting cut down to ribbons of flesh and bits of bone when he destroyed the glass to escape.

Time to focus.

The air was humming with static, crackling with Mjolnir's residual energy as each burst of contact erupted into a miniature shower of luminescence and sound, white light spilling forth with each hit like the flare of candles in the dark. The world turned sickeningly, rotating and spinning like an out-of-control tilt-a-whirl carnival ride, and the sky was deepening to darkest grey by this point, rumbling ominously with power. He took comfort in the sight, feeling his powers rising in response, echoing the energy pulsing outside...

Wait, can it be..?

The buildup of power outside echoed like a mournful siren song, singing unceasingly, and he found himself yearning to answer it.

When the tumbling movements of the Cage dropped him again, he let himself fall to the "floor" provided by the wall now underneath him, landing feet first as he held out a hand in a silent call for his faithful weapon, willing the lightning outside to help channel the hammer's energy back to him.

Mjolnir flew back into his grip as if pulled by an invisible magnet, the leather handle locking seamlessly into place with the groves of his outstretched palm, and then he swung the juggernaut of power forth, pushing back with his feet at the same time as if leaping from a cliff. Outside, he can see the frighteningly close scenery of ground approaching beneath the glass prison, and he felt a sickening lurch in his gut at the brief thought spared for his would-be demise at impact with the hard surface from such a long fall.

The hammer slammed forth accordingly into the glass of the opposite side, taking him along for the ride, and he flew out into the open air in a maelstrom of shattered glass fragments and blood from newly made cuts. The sky's symphony hall of thick clouds burst apart in a supernova of noise, and then the heavens glowed a bright, dazzling blue, the barest wisps of puffy white clouds visible in scattered remnants all about.

The outside air's colder than the inside of the Cage, but the discomfort such a triviality caused could be ignored. Mjolnir had been wrenched from his grasp by the force of impact, bouncing away into the underbrush, and when he landed in an unkempt heap into the dirt and flowers of the meadow soon afterwards, he could only hope it hadn't been buried into the earth so deep that retrieval of his favoured weapon took an age and a half to undergo. There was not enough time for such a thing to do.

Brushing dirt and bits of torn grass from his hair, he pulled himself upright and got up off the ground, intent on finding his hammer.


Loki knew very well that he was quite possibly the farthest thing removed from an expert on the human race, but even he was rather certain that it really should not be possible to speak so politely and so easily when there was a great deal of blood clogging one's "windpipe".

But then, he inwardly conceded, Agent Coulson seemed so strangely ordinary that the defiance of the norm was not truly very surprising.

With Thor having just vacated the premises via a rather crude opened airlock, he pulled back the lever to close up the hatch again, the low hiss of the airtight seal realigning itself offering a welcome reminder that the damnable prison was gone, far, far away, and he and his other half were safe from the potential horrors of falling while trapped within like fireflies in a glass jar, doomed to die.

His not-brother, as far as he knew, was still trapped within it, but that was not a matter of importance. He would escape with ease, once he remembered to use the enourmous source of weather-controlling power that had been left in the Cage along with him as a sort of safety net. It might take a bit of time, but he would find the answer in the end.

Thoughts thus somewhat calmed for the moment, he turned away from the control panel and redirected his attentions to a more attention-grabbing matter.

Peering down at the shuddering form leaning haphazardly against the wall, already slumped halfway to the floor from pain and vertigo, he studied the thin face of the dying man, noting the rapid draining of what little colour could afford to be lost as ruby droplets bubbled up, spit out over and over in a spasming, choking rasp.

In and out, in and out, went the struggle for breath by the lungs in the lean chest, blood pooling under the sticky, slowly crusting white dress shirt, dampening the tie and the sides of the suit jacket with thickening smears.

"You're...gonna lose," came the low rasp, a gob of thick blood welling up to accompany it in a reflexive spitting gesture. "I c-can...see it."

Hmm, perceptive, thiss one, aren't we?

"Oh, are we?," he spoke quietly, watching a slowly widening trickle of blood drip down from a pale lower lip. "Tell uss why, then, if you deem it sso important to convey with what remainss of your sstrength."

"It's in your nature," the man said, eyes full of pain but nonetheless clear, levelling with his own with an air of oddly-placed calm, given his circumstances. "You're not...in this...to win."

Taking in the sight of the blood pooling again, choking off another vital breath, the god felt a rare, unnerving stir of pity. Even with blood crusshing every other word he forcess out, he sstill sspeakss with glib and gentility. Anyone elsse would be ussing their lasst wordss to cursse me to whatever damnationss their fading brainss might concoct in the grip of death, or even try to call for help. Yet here he iss, alone and yet unafraid.

"We don't know why you inssisst on sstating the obviouss, Agent Coulsson."

The pale eyes blinked at him, surprise briefly overriding the pain. "W-What?"

"You think uss at a dissadvantage, don't you? You sstated ssuch a thing before. You ssaid that we lack conviction. Even now, with your heroess sscattered, your flying fortresss creaking in pain while it fallss from the ssky, and you yoursself lying here, choking and ssputtering on your own blood, you sstill believe it. We can ssee it in you."

There's a sort of delight in the words that, at the back of his shared mind, he's certain was somehow wildly inappropriate for the current situation, but it's just so terribly interesting. Even now, at the edge of expiration, his Thread of Fate barely clinging together, the human still believed in it. That sort of belief was the sort that moved mountains, won or lost wars, birthed and slaughtered whole nations, and to see it in this one man, shining like a newborn star, he could not help but be amazed, and, even reluctantly, an ever so slight bit impressed.

You are indeed the linchpin to thesse people, and yet you think not of your own importance, but that of otherss. How very odd.

He leaned forward, jagged strands of ink-dark hair brushing carelessly against the bloody lapels of what was an unfortunately ruined suit. Thin lips pressed close to a pale ear, and the man jerked visibly away in surprise as not one, but two voices spoke up in perfect unison, issuing words forth like smoke from a fire lit deep in the woods. The sound was almost eerie, the words almost seeming to float in the air in a manner reminiscent of the ice crystals of a blizzard, lovely and underhandedly deadly.

"You ssaid we lacked conviction, Agent Coulsson. But conviction of thiss fallacy of conquesst itsself iss tantamount to the sstability of fire in the howling wind. We hold no interesst in ruling a realm sso wild, sso varied, sso immenssely, sstubbornly different that they cannot even govern themsselvess under a ssingle ruler. It iss...not quite to our tasstess."

A grin formed, twisted and shadow-tinted, some distant kin to the smirks he had worn so often in youth after a particularly satisfying trick had been done; the symbiote hummed in sweet and terrible glee as It regarded the slowly drying dribbles of rich scarlet blood with an almost childish hunger.

"No, Agent Coulsson, we do not want to rule you. We want ssomething more palatable for our dessiress. We want blood."

The man's eyes widened in veiled horror, and the sight of it drew forth a dark chuckle. "No, no, not yourss," the god amended in grim amusement. Though we wouldn't object to a good sstrong drink. Thiss throat iss parched from all thiss talking.

"We want their blood, they who hurt uss, ussed uss for ssport, for entertainment of their filthy, damnable rankss, forced to crawl like a wounded dog to their jeering," he spat out, "We want them raw, we want them torn to piecess, crying futilely for the thing they call their masster, we want their blood to fill the sstreetss and paint the land itsself a thoussand sshadess of red with their desspicable gore. We want them...to know...the ssick ssweetnesss of their beloved pain."

He clenched his hands into fists, drawing himself back to the situation with the brief stinging of new, shallow crescent moon cuts into flesh, the tiny injuries healing over within seconds as the symbiote flowed across the minuscule tears for automatic repair and relief.

"We want them dead," he said, the words tinged with the horrible sweetness he ached to shower upon the incoming aberrations, "Your people ssimply provided uss with the meanss to do sso."

Taking a breath in, Loki drew back from the cooling body, watching the eyes that had been so politely attentive. Now they were slowly glazing over, but the spark of stubborn life in them remained, seemingly unwilling to give up and flicker out of existence.

"Why...?," came the sputtering question, with those wide, still-observant eyes looking at him as if he were a particularly difficult-to-place puzzle piece. There was no heat behind the question, no well-deserved barb or edge of disgust. It was simply a question, offered in that incomprehensibly polite tone of voice, and the simple, unfettered curiosity in it was enough to warrant an answer.

"Why, then, did we go to all thiss trouble? Why have them go here?" Thin lips curved upward into a smile, tinged with old pain and more than a little madness.

He considered the questions for a moment, pondering how to answer.

Becausse I wassn't sstrong enough to end their crueltiess by mysself, and paid the price for it. Even now, I am not sstrong enough on my own.

Because they are like locusstss, plaguess of death, devouring worldss and livess alike to sslake the hungering lusstss of the afterlife and itss ruler.

Because I am sselfissh, and I know it, becausse I wass denied the power to prevent their damnation of me. I want them dead and dying at my feet, choking on their own blood and clawing for breath, bodiess mangled beyond repair for what I ssuffered at their handss. I will take no reparation for my agoniess in mere gold, I want my weregild paid in full with their corpssess piled in mountainss and the sstench of their defeat hanging overhead in bloodied sskiess for an eon...!

But the man was slipping away again, blinking languidly as another bubble of blood, smaller this time, burst against the corners of his mouth like a tiny dying star. Loki decided to finish the conversation and leave, before the humans searched the area and tried to ineffectually shoot him again. The symbiote still desired to find food, and, given his own hunger pains, he wasn't disagreeing with It.

Taking in a breath, he offered what answer he could give, wincing inwardly as the words dug barbs into his mouth during their escape. It didn't matter, truly, if to speak this answer was painful, because truths often were. If the only man around to hear it was on the verge of death, who was to truly know? He would likely ignore it as a pain-induced feverish hallucination, and be none the wiser.

"Becausse," he said quietly, "ssometimess the world doessn't need only heroess to fight the monssterss. Ssometimess what the world needss to fight againsst what lurkss in the dark iss another monsster."

He stepped back, watching for a scant moment more, and then turned to leave.

The air was silent, and the gurgling gasps grew a bit quieter as he drew away. The man would live, his magic had made certain of it, but for now, he had to depart before he was discovered.

A slight mental nudge from within redirected his attentions while halfway to the door; turning in response, he asked mentally, What iss it? I thought we had done what wass needed here.

Then why not take the sstrange device the human had with him? It iss sstill there. He will have no usse for it now. Too much pain.

Looking back at the abandoned weapon, he scrutinized the sleek lines of the body, the thick rectangles of pulsing amber in the sides, the surface black as the pitch of a dead bonfire. The air around the weapon hummed with an insidious energy, throbbing with an enticing alien power that whispered of flame and promises of destruction.

Can we eat it?

I don't think it will tasste very palatable, but why not? We need to conssume ssomething, anyhow.

An ignited spark of melted-butter-yellow delight at this was enough of a positive answer for him to reach out and grasp the bizarre weapon; upon contact, the object thrummed with a harsh, pounding pulse, energy racing beneath his fingertips like a the churning of a rain-swollen river beneath a low-hanging bridge, and the symbiote promptly seized It's opportunity for a meal, tendrils springing up from the back and arms of the catsuit to ensconce the weaponry prototype within swaths of glistening sable.

The low pained groan from the other side of the Detention Section dimly registered to the two of them that Coulson, still alive despite the terrible pain, had apparently been coherent enough to recognize that his organization's experimental weaponry was in the process of being forcefully assimilated. But there was nothing he could have done about it now; his injured state left him unable to so much as move away from the wall, much less attempt to pry the potential food source away.

The Type 2 Prototype having since vanished beneath the sea of sable, Loki found the experience of absorbing an inorganic weapon was much different from that of an organic material, such as the eyeball back in Stuttgart. The sharp, coppery tang of the metal components left bursts of scorching rusty scarlet and pinpricks of shimmering bronze, while the fuel cell left a thick, cloying, almost honeyed aftertaste hinting of molten amber, the taste being somewhat refreshing after the initially unpleasant, rather burnt flavour, somewhat reminiscent of charred meat, dragged hunks of slate-grey and the curdling yellow-white of bleached bone across the mental landscape.

Not bad, the symbiote murmured mentally, a thick cirrus of sable neatly carving slivers of metal off the top surface like slices of well-done meat.

Not bad at all, but we need ssomething to wassh it down with...

After a moment to savour the sensations washing over their shared mind, the god pulled reluctantly away, watching in a detached, dimly pleasant haze as the last of the Prototype weapon was dismantled and devoured, vanishing into a gaping, writhing tunnel of glistening ebony tendrils with a somewhat unsettling schlurrrkk sound. The feeling of euphoria caused by their first "proper" meal since arriving on this little blue rock was exquisite: a floating, fluttery, silken sensation interwoven with a welcome flush of warmth suffusing his limbs amid rising shades of blooming custard-yellows and poppy-bright oranges.

A pained, guttural cry arose from the far back of the room, clawing free of bloodied lips with a considerable amount of strain, and he knew that Coulson had recognized the full disappearance of the weapon.

He wondered, somewhat worriedly, how long it would take before the humans finally arrived. It had been some time now since he had dropped Thor down into the ocean...even in an emergency situation such as this, surely they were not that unorganized as to ignore the lack of reports coming back concerning one of their own Agents, an experimental weapon, an emotionally-volatile thunder god claiming to be their ally, and a prison break...

Time to go, then. We've idled here more than long enough to be behind sschedule now.

Their meal thus devoured with an almost surgical-level eradication of any remaining pieces, the symbiote retracted It's tendrils, silently flattening and smoothing back into place as It let out a mental croon of maple-gold fulfilled indulgence, and the warmth spread further, flowing across the whole of their vessel like the heat of a hot bath upon aching muscles. A sense of innate satisfaction and enlivenment bloomed in the wake of the surge of energy, and he turned and walked back to the entryway, footsteps no longer hindered by the faint tremors of hunger-induced shaking.

Pressing an ear to the door, he listened for the approaching footsteps signifying any incoming humans, but the lack of telltale thudding gave off the dismal impression that no one was coming, at least not yet. He backed away from the door, ignoring the flicker of annoyance the lack of sound aroused, and turned to study both the door and the walls surrounding it, wondering how much sound could be generated by damaging the structure.

Perhapss we could tear it apart to attract their attention...?, the symbiote offered.

Excellent ssuggesstion.

That earlier warmth fluttered again, stronger this time, coming in throbbing, heated pulses like the tidal movements of distant tropical waters, and with it, spikes of increasing energy, climbing upwards in temperature until it seemed to balance precariously on the knife point's edge dividing pleasure from pain. The symbiote coiled tendrils around his arms and hands in nervous anticipation, pressing increasing layers of glistening sable round and round in a reinforced protective barrier. The heat radiated outwards, coursing through shaking arms as power raced over the catsuit's surface in thin, branching streams of violently glowing amber, racing through each arm like a cyclonic internal tunnel of conflagration-

BOOM. White-hot bursts of energy tore out from shaking palms like the riotous blast of a pair of live grenades, shredding through the air with a violent screech of sound as the door and surrounding wall were bombarded with boiling hot energy, melting and warping the metal into a gaping hole radiating outward with wild lacerations that left the ceiling trembling and the floor gouged out several inches deep. Sparks hissed and spit as they dripped unevenly from torn open circuitry and wiring in the new openings in the walls, and a new spray of thick chunks of rubble and plaster now littered the floor. The air had been super-heated by the blast to the point that, without the safety provided by his other half and his magic, Loki felt grimly certain that he would likely have collapsed. As it was, the sensation had been blocked from being potentially dangerous, having instead been rendered to little more than an irritating, burning itch, and a wave of internal gratitude was silently offered for the support.

Both god and symbiote surveyed their handiwork, taking in the sight of the newly made destruction with a considering air. If that doessn't get their attention, they are indeed a hopelesss lot. Even the dead would have heard thiss ssquall.

Stepping over the rubble, he slipped through the ruined wall and into the portion of the airship beyond it.

Time to get back to work.

The symbiote flickered in questioning mental whirls of robin's egg blue. Can we get ssomething elsse to eat on the way?

How are you sstill hungry after what we jusst conssumed? Incredulity sprang forth in mild surprise. They had just absorbed an entire advanced piece of experimental weaponry roughly equal to half of their current body size, yet It still wanted more right now?

Want ssecondss, and you ssaid we could sstill look for food after esscaping...

Whatever faint dregs of argumentative spirit could be mustered were easily crushed into oblivion by the amusement that bubbled up at the one-track thought. Alright, I did promisse. Perhapss the humanss won't notice one of their lessser perssonel going misssing in all thiss chaoss...


Fury was not having a good day, and the knowledge of it hurt like the new migraine he'd developed in the past several hours. There were people dead, dying, missing, or panicking all over the Helicarrier, he hadn't heard a report back from Agent Coulson regarding the state of the Detention Section, Agent Barton had been apprehended by Agent Romanov but, from what he could glean from her, was currently still about as stable as an active volcano, and there was now a great deal of dead bodies and converted personnel to deal with when the day was over.

Sometimes I really hate this job...

He looked up at the few working viewscreens remaining on the bridge; fortunately, this included the camera monitoring the Detention Section. Unfortunately, the Detention Section now included a large, raw-looking tear in it due to the entry door and an impressive part of the surrounding walls being completely torn apart into a jumble of metal, plaster, and broken wiring-

The Hulk Cage was missing.

The single visible eye widened in shock and horror at the gaping hole in the room where the Cage had previously been, the hatch now swinging lifelessly back and forth like a bladed pendulum over an open pit.

Agent Coulson had been sent down there with the Prototype 2 weapon. The Cage was missing, and the man had not reported back.

Dammit. I don't get paid enough for this.

Taking his gun from its holster, he headed toward the Detention Section, knowing that Agent Hill would keep the bridge from collapsing in his absence.


The port side of the airship was, quite possibly, currently his most hated place on the planet, Tony mused as he continued to spin round and round in Engine 3, pushing repeatedly to restart the rotors. Fortunately, it seemed as if the rotors were now in working order, spinning properly at a steady, rapid pace, as the Helicarrier had, slowly but surely, began to right itself again, leveling out to into a balanced position.

If I have to do this any longer, I'm asking for a scotch when I get down from here. The cooling system of the suit was a veritable godsend in the heated space of the Engine, keeping sweat from appearing and dripping down into his eyes in such a dangerous situation.

"Cap, I need the lever now!," he called down, pressing himself against the hulking blade of the fan. "This thing's picking up like no tomorrow, throw it!"

A sharp, tinny shriek crackled through the wind battering the speakers as Steve called up, "Hold on, I need a minute here!"

"Dammit, Rogers, this thing's going to hit subsonic Mach speed here, I mean it! Unless you want me shredded like your morning Wheaties, I need the lever, now!"

Taking in a breath, he angled himself further away from the rotors before letting go, watching in satisfaction as the blades spun independently. Got it.

Unfortunately, he hadn't quite managed to fully leave the space between rotors, and the one behind him slammed sharply forward, crashing into both the Iron Man suit and the man inside it.

"Oh fu-"

Before the epitaph can even get free, the world tilted nauseatingly, jarring his sense of perception as his body was abruptly tossed about like a smoothie component thrown into an activated blender.


It had taken him some time, but Steve had finally managed to climb up the loose cable, grasp the railing, and haul himself upward, despite being unable to prevent a grimace from forming as the last of the remembered screams began to fade from his ears. Bullets whistled unnervingly close as they shot close to him, hindered only by risking falling again by leaning back out of the way.

Reaching out once he got close enough, he seized the lever and yanked down as hard as he dared; with a low, creaking groan, a vent opened up in Engine 3. Tony hurtled out of the provided exit as if shot from a cannon, dropping and halting in place several times due to the newly acquired damage to the now visibly battered Iron Man suit. The metal was now dented and scratched in several places, sparking faintly in one connective chink on the left side, and the rocket boosters in the feet portion of the suit were flickering every so often like a faulty light bulb. Steve resisted the urge to wince at the sight; even if the man wasn't someone he personally got along with, this was not something he'd wish for even in a nonlethal circumstance.

Tony flew forwards, heading for him, but the telltale click of a gun being reloaded and aimed drew attention back to one of the converted men, who apparently was still uninjured enough to wield a weapon. Automatically, Steve stepped farther out of firing range, reaching for his shield, but then the man's neon-bright blue eyes widened in almost comical shock when Tony slammed into him in a full-body tackle, knocking him into nearest wall with a sickening crash.

Hurrying over, he took in the sight of the now unconscious man propped against a pile of rubble, the gun having flown out of his hands, landing at the edge of the opened wall, teetering over the brink. Instinctively, he emptied the ammunition chamber and kicked it sharply off, consoling himself that, even though it would land in the ocean, it couldn't fire off since it was bereft of any ammunition, most marine life would likely ignore it since it wasn't edible, and the Helicarrier was far enough away from the mainland that it was less likely to end up caught in a trawling net.

A low groan of pain drew his attention away, and he took in the sight of Tony, sprawled gracelessly over the floor. A series of curses, somewhat muffled by the suit helmet, erupted as the man rolled over in place, clearly exhausted and in no small amount of discomfort.

Steve couldn't resist emitting a sigh of relief. They were both alive, Engine 3 was back in operation, and the converted men on the port side had been either subdued or eliminated.

Not bad for the little guy from Brooklyn and the man in the souped up tin can. The thought was enough to warrant a somewhat hysterical laugh.

"What's so funny, Cap?," came the low drawl as Tony started, slowly, gingerly, to pull himself upright.

"Oh, nothing," and this time, a smile formed. Perhaps working with this insufferable enigma of a man wouldn't be too bad, after all.


Watching the humans aboard the Helicarrier during an emergency situation, he decided, was a bit like watching a school of fish try to evade the talons of an incoming bird of prey. There were bouts of continuous regrouping, hurrying back and forth, dodging, taking stock of their proximity to the immediate danger, and, as to be expected, a sizable amount of stress and panic. It was all too interesting to watch such a flurry of madness while at the same time standing apart from it.

Although, the god conceded inwardly, he doubted that the mortal populace aboard would behave even slightly close to this level of partial calm, had they actually been able to notice him.

The sizable replenishing of previously depleted energy stores from their earlier meal had given Loki enough power to cast a camouflaging charm and the symbiote the opportunity to shift Itself to form a mirror-like covering, and thus they had gotten to test a new and immensely useful ability: invisibility, or rather, bending and distorting the light hitting their shared form to such an extent that the human eye no longer could perceive them at first glance. So far, the illusion had held up rather admirably. While he had performed a similar form of magic on himself before for quests and, when required for a particularly intricate feat, several bouts of mischief, he had not done so with a proper accomplice, and the novelty of it was rather amusing.

He ducked and wove in and out of the surging mass of people, scanning the labels above each door-frame. We need to find Banner'ss lab and retrieve the sscepter. With any luck, the humanss will not have moved it yet...

Despite his loathing for the accursed object that left him shackled to a delusional, merciless creature and an army of mindless, bloodthirsty drones like a dog chained to a post, he knew he still needed it for a while longer if the game were to reach a satisfactory conclusion. The Mad Titan would doubtlessly be angered if he was out of proximity to the unholy weapon, and that would not end well where he and his other half were concerned.

Unfortunately, evoking a tracking spell on it was useless, given that the Mindgem's own disruptive energies trumped his own through both sheer terrifying strength and an unsettling form of apparent sentience. For now, he had been reduced to finding the scepter while traveling on foot, and the lack of progress made thus far was extraordinarily irritating.

Taking in a deep breath the steady his simmering anxiety, he kept walking, peering into open doors as he went, but the lab was not yet in sight. The symbiote moved minutely against shared skin, brushing and stretching languidly against the inside of the catsuit like thousands of tiny downy feathers, and he took a moment to let the sensation of the subtle caress sooth his increasingly frayed nerves.

It was a novel feeling indeed, to be freely offered such a luxury, and he doubted he would ever grow weary of the warmth that it brought.

Peering into yet another open hallway, he felt the trickle of unease increase to a stream as the lab failed to come into view. Damn. Where iss it, for Nornss' ssake?

Don't know, but can we eat yet? The symbiote, at the very least, did not seem to be uneasy about the potential for horrific punishment, and far more interested in the only slightly less important present issue of procuring another morsel to consume. Given the amount of energy expended to help keep up the continuous illusion, this was a sentiment both to be expected, and shared.

He wondered vaguely if he should feel annoyance at such a blatant dismissal of the grim promise of psyche-shattering pain, but reasoned that his other half simply did not feel threatened, and, in horrifically beautiful truth, why should It? Thus far, nothing It had encountered with him had proven to be a direct, long-term, proper danger, save for the Other and Thanos, and, given the symbiote's dislike of their "employment" and It's earlier enthusiasm concerning the prospect of devouring those that insulted, attacked, or generally proved hostile towards Itself and It's host, the concept of accepting a punishment from those It shared disdain for was, for all intents and purposes, completely inconceivable. It would tear the offender apart, choking, gouging, clawing away with savage vigour, and leave nothing but a tattered, bloodied pile of guts and gristle too filthy to even consider eating, rather than bend to the will of someone wishing to do injury to Itself and that whom It considered It's own.

The thought was almost bone-achingly comforting.

Scanning the remainder of the hallway, he wondered if procuring a quick bite of food could still be established before continuing the search for the scepter. Even with the weapon still dangerously out of reach, his other half had performed admirably, and he knew that a quick tidbit was not likely to be missed in such a large facility during all this frenzied activity...

Yess, we jusst need to find a human that won't be eassily misssed...

The sound of incoming footsteps drew his gaze away from an open doorway and instead to the center of the hallway; unlike the hurried, scattered movements of S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives hurrying to their emergency positions while grabbing as much important data as they could afford, the approaching footfalls were calm, steady, sharply coordinated, and suspiciously heavy, as if the owners were carrying a great deal of additional weight.

The Hawk'ss perssonnel?

Do they have the sscepter with them?

No, they don't... Unease heightened at the realization. The aura so distinct of the Mindgem's horribly familiar blue enlightenment was markedly absent from the humans approaching; instead, the scent of incoming metal, boot rubber, sweat, and thick, stain-resistant uniform fabric came wafting forth in an invisible cloud of odours. The symbiote drew back in rolling, churning waves of greyish-purple mental disgust at the bombardment of sensation, and the god resisted the somewhat plebeian urge to wrinkle his nose in shared distaste.

The men who came into view looked somewhat similar, but the uniforms were not of his minion's designation, nor that of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s favoured dark blue combat gear or sharp suits with concealed guns.

Something was wrong, and terribly so.

Flattening himself against the nearest wall, he stared in silent scrutiny as he took in the sight of the gathered personnel. Though they wore several articles of clothing declaring an allegiance to S.H.I.E.L.D., their body language did not speak of the panic or worry common of those trapped onboard. In an almost eerie contrast, despite maintaining the alert, wary stance of their fellow mortals, underneath it was a distinct hollowness, an absence of true worry, as if reassured they would come out of the situation unscathed. Sharp eyes darted back and forth in silent communication, and every one held a gun in a manner of frightening comfort.

Who are they?, the symbiote rasped mentally, a questioning pulse of pale orange shimmering into being.

I don't know, but they aren't going by the ssame agenda their fellow humanss here are, if their sstancess are anything to go by.

Are they part of the one-eyed one'ss group?

No, too large to be part of the Avengerss' little band of the losst and the damned, and the men here all wear the ssame garmentss. Thesse oness are different, very different.

Pressing himself against the wall to avoid making contact with a somewhat ominous-looking gun strapped to the nearest man's back, Loki scanned each face, gathering as much data as he could.

Scars indicating former combat experience; deep-set facial lines from long-term exposure to harsh weather and wind; eyes hard and cold, displaying no outward emotion to potential enemies; steady, easy breathing, no unease or sign of being emotionally compromised at the situation...

Mercenariess? Ssoldierss of ssome kind, certainly, but not sstandard isssue from thiss organization, they belong to a different faction...

Sspiess?, the symbiote offered, shifting through the god's vocabulary and memories for an appropriate word to use.

Perhapss... He had never wanted to use the Mind Gem's horribly beautiful power before, despising the blanketing, numbing, subservient effect he had observed that the jewel had on exposed minds, but in this particular case, he thought perhaps, if only once, the ability to read the minds of others could be desirable on hand.

These were new, unexplained pieces, wild cards in a game already so unstable it could crack and fall apart like glass if pushed in the wrong direction. He did not know what they wanted, why they were here, or what they could do, save for the potential for physical violence evidenced by their gear, and an uncontrollable force here was dangerous. He did not want additional components if they could not be accounted for and properly utilized, and these men clearly were rats in the system.

One way or another, they had to go.

Watching silently as the men dispersed back into the surrounding hallways, taking up the guise of their fellow operatives, he looked for a potential target.

Even if it'ss only one, it'ss sstill one lesss of them.

Good for uss, not good for them, the symbiote agreed.

Sharpened teeth flashed in a wolf's predatory grin as he stalked forward, answering the siren call of the hunt.


The Detention Section was almost completely silent when he arrived, and it took a great deal of meticulous attention to what little sound remained to reveal that, somehow, impossibly, Agent Coulson was still alive.

Running over the dying man, Fury took in the dismal sight of the faintly shuddering body, torn fabric, and a face pinched and paled by slow agony. The fist-sized wound in the man's chest was a dark, gaping chasm, staining the surrounding fabric dark with dried blood.

"S-Sorry, Boss," he rasped out, "They got rabbited, I...couldn't...s-stop them."

"Just stay awake, understand?," he said quietly, keeping his eyes level with the other man's. "Stay awake, that's an order. EYES ON ME!"

Pulling his earpiece out, he spoke into the comm. "Medic, now! Agent Coulson's been injured, get down here now."

"No, I'm...afraid I can't...do that, too late for it," came the half-choked reply, and with it a grimace of a smile, tinged with blood that can't afford to be lost, "I'm all...clocked out here. Time to...turn in."

"Not an option, Agent Coulson," Fury muttered back, pressing a hand to the injury and still knowing with a sickening certainty that it's too late, far too late. "You hear me? Don't you dare."

Another pained smile; a thin trickle of blood dribbled down the corner of the thin mouth. "It's okay, Boss," -and how horrible is the situation, when the one dying is the one better at comforting?- ,"You and I knew...this...was never...g-going...to work...if they didn't have something...to..."

He trailed off and looked away, the blood tracing a slender line past his chin, down his neck, disappearing into the depths of that immaculate white shirt collar. A sigh rent the air, a feeling of blessed relief from the physical torments of a dying body becoming, for a moment, auditory in a sound sweet and sad as a wreath of freshly plucked daisies.

Fury looked on, staring silently at the good, dead man, and continued to look on as the medical team arrived on the scene.


The intercom crackled with static as the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. spoke up. Automatically, all available Agents turned their attention to the sound, hoping for a sign of increasing fortunes.

"Agent Coulson is down, I repeat, Agent Coulson is down."

Agent Hill, sitting with an ice-pack balanced on one knee while being treated for the gash on her head, got up as the words gurgled through her headset, stood up abruptly and, without a word, began to head for the Detention Section.

All the while, the headset crackled as words dripped out, dizzying and worrying as colourless gas, and she felt a sickening sense of disorientation.

"Paramedics are on their way to you, Sir-"

"They're already here."

The world crashed to a halt and restarted again.


The port side was silent, still as a graveyard, save for the two figures standing side by side in the rubble.

"They called it." The intercom seems in that moment to be a giant, washing the Helicarrier and those aboard into an unending shadow, and cold seeped in with each syllable, reaching down into bone and leaving nothing but hollow frost in it's wake.


The bridge was a cold, numb place, the artificial lighting casting the huge room into harsh outlines.

It would have been preferable to the darkness, the hollowed rawness of the Debriefing room. Everyone that could be spared from their duties had gathered in the space, heads bowed, with the same expressions of dazed, numb shock on each devastated face. The air hung with a suffocating silence, pressing down upon each person like a sack of stones, stealing breath, crushing voices, and leaving each inhalation both a slight struggle and a sickening reminder that there was one less of their own now to experience the privilege of breathing.

Following Fury in pained silence, both Tony and Steve walked into the room as if in a daze, both men still battered and filthy as they had been on the port side. Steve held one hand on Tony's left shoulder in a grip strong enough to bruise, his stance automatically reverted to that of the war that never really was left. By the look of it, the billionaire had yet to either object, or notice, the vice-grip on his shoulder, given his slight lean against the taller body due to the pressure automatically exerted through walking within the confines of the damaged suit. The Iron Man helmet was held under one arm, scratches marring the surface.

Taking in the sight of each face present, the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. reached into a side pocket of his leather duster and pulled forth a thick parcel wrapped in bloodied fabric, throwing it onto the table in Steve's direction.

"These were found in Phil Coulson's jacket. Guess he never did manage to get you to sign them."

The package, caught and unwrapped with slightly shaking hands, revealed the bittersweet sight of a detailed collection of Captain America trading cards. Despite being peppered with blood, the pristine condition of the pieces was brutally obvious, each corner and border beautifully sharp, and all the images glossy, as clear and bright as a newly polished mirror.

Fury looked up at Steve, eyes glinting with a silent order. Don't lose those.

Blue eyes stared back, battered but unflinching. I won't.

The deed done, he turned his attention back to those assembled. "We're dead in the water up here, and we've got no backups. Our communications, the location of the cosmic cube, Banner's gone, Thor's gone...I've got nothing for you. Lost my one good eye, but maybe I had that coming."

He took in a deep breath, composing his words carefully. "Yes, I admit, we were going to build a weapon's arsenal with the Tesseract. I never put all my chips on that number though, because I was playing with something even riskier."

Looking at the men and women before him with a steady gaze, he offered what little he had left in the way of hope. Perhaps, in this case, their last resort would be enough.

"There was an idea, Stark knows of it, we called it the Avengers Initiative. The idea was to bring together a group of remarkable people, and see if they could become something more, something greater. See if they could work together, so that when we needed them to, they could fight the battles that we never could ourselves."

A large, weathered hand traced the edges of the table, writing names of the long dead, calling on them for strength. "Phil Coulson died today, but he died believing in that idea, in the existence of heroes."

Tony abruptly stood up from where he had been seated beside Steve, pulling away from the shoulder grip. "Heroes don't exist, and even if they did exist, I wouldn't be one of them. I said so before, and I'll say it again, because if they were real, he wouldn't be dead right now."

Dark eyes looked at the others at the table for a moment, before he stalked off in silence.

Watching him go, Fury turned back to those listening. "Well, it's a bit of an old-fashioned notion."


It had taken him some time, and he had walked far out into the meadow by now, but he had followed the thrumming pulse of his lightning, his energy, his life essence, back to the source. The grass was waist-high now, thick with dew and wildflowers, and the sky glimmered blue like a molten sapphire.

Thor looked down, staring at the leather-wrapped handle thrusting up out of the thicket of yellow-green grass, and reached out a hand.


The sunlight streamed in like a swarm of mosquitoes homing in for fresh blood. Bruce opened his eyes, relief flooding him at the sight of his normal, smaller form, and took in the sight of his current surroundings.

From what was visible, he was lying in a pile of rubble, and, judging by the new gigantic hole overhead, he had arrived here by crashing through the ceiling after falling from the Helicarrier.

A low cough broke the stillness and silence, and he automatically turned his head in shock, eyes widening as they took in the sight of a single, aging man in a security officer's uniform, wearing a look of abject amazement on his face.

"You...you fell out of the sky, sonny."

Blinking as he took a moment to process such a statement, Bruce asked quietly, "Do you know if I, uh...Did I hurt anybody?"

The man laughed, a sharp, gruff sound a bit like a beagle's bark. "There's nobody around here to get hurt, 'cept maybe the ugly statue out front. That aside," he added, so serenely it seemed to almost be an afterthought, "you did scare the living hell out of some pigeons, though."

Bruce let out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, shuddering as the air left his body in a soft whoosh. "That's...that's lucky." Really, really lucky.

The man shrugged in response, eyes calm and bright. "Or just good aim, either one works. You were awake when you fell, after all."

That didn't sound good. "What do you...wait, you mean you saw?"

He got a nod in reply, quick and blunt. "Yeah, the whole damn thing, right through the ceiling. Big and green and entirely buck ass nude, to boot. Oh, that reminds me," the man reached back behind himself, straightening up a moment later with a mass of fabric in his hands, "Here, you can put this on..."

The clothing's tossed down and caught with ease, and he pulled it on with a feeling of relief. "Thanks."

The security guard grinned slightly at him as he took in the change in appearance. "You know, I didn't think those'd fit you until you shrunk back down to a regular size fella, nice to know otherwise."

A moment passes before the man spoke up again, this time with a bit of honest curiosity. "Are you one of them aliens?"

"W-What?," he asked in slight surprise, thrown off by the question. Monster? Yes. Monster from outer space? Not really.

"From outer space, an alien, you know?" The man gestured upwards sharply to help get his point across.

"No," he said quietly, "No, I'm not."

The man's expression flickered in thought for a moment, before his brow smoothed and he said bluntly, "Well then, son, you've got yourself a condition."


The quarantined area of the Helicarrier's medical room was quiet, sterile, and cast in half-shadows for additional privacy.

He wondered how long it would take before the straps broke. The chair was not too comfortable to begin with, and being bound in place with metal cuffs and leather straps was chafing at his skin.

A flash of blood glimmered slightly in the darkness... No, he amended, Natasha's hair.

Natasha was here. Of course she is.

They had followed each other for so long he still marveled that their shadows were not cast as one.

There was a blanketing, numbing fog, deep and thick as the slow but inevitable pressure of water when diving, all around. His mind felt sluggish, confused, every thought painfully jumbled as tangles of red yarn threaded and twisted into an endless string of knots. Every sense felt raw, stinging wildly, the ticking of the clock by the entry door loud as a ringing church bell, while the scent of antiseptic burned the inside of his nose. Blue sparks swam before his eyes, and he blinked instinctively as the fog threatened to surge back in like the incoming tide.

He wanted to get up. He wanted to get out of this chair, and then... What do I do?

He had to find Boss, break him out, and leave with the rest of the men on the carrier waiting outside. No, that was wrong. He was supposed to sit here, and fight the fog trying to coax him back into the blue embrace of numbness and peace, because...

...because...?

Natasha had said so. His fogged, overactive brain latched onto the thought like a drowning man clinging to a floating wooden beam in a storm, clutching desperately to the offered object to focus on.

Yes, Nat said to fight it. Just got...to...fight it...

The independence was slipping away already, draining out like water through his fingers, and he cast about for the anchor he needed. Eyes darted back and forth, fingers flexing and straining, clawing at the metal bindings out of need, though for what, he was still unsure.

To escape? To focus on something? To calm himself?

Everything seemed both too hazy, and too sharply focused, tunneling like a psychedelic kaleidoscope. His pulse pounded in his ears, loud and thunderous and wild as the sea. His head swam with images, quick as a camera's flash, and every one felt like a bee sting, honey-bright and razor-sharp, cutting away at his clarity like tiny knives.

He turned his head and looked for a rock to adhere himself to in the sea of tempestuous too much, too much and saw her.

Natasha was sitting beside him, her lean, spindly body curled into a ball, feet pressed delicately beneath her knees in the crouching position he knew from experience meant she was ready, if not willing, to spring off the seat and run if the situation escalated. Large, bright eyes stared at him, analyzing and slightly hungry, as if reassuring herself that he was there and not dead at her feet.

"Clint, you're going to be alright, you understand?"

He blinked, trying to grip the grounding sensation of the anchor more tightly. Alright? But...I am alright...or am I not?

The fog tugged insistently at him again, and he batted it away, trying to brush out the lingering blue cobwebs from their entanglement with his thoughts.

Nope, definitely not okay.

"You know that?," he forced out, trying to shape the sound with his tongue into audible word, "Is that...what you know?"

She nodded. He did not relax, but he still understood. Natasha lied like the best of them, but not to him.

"I got...I gotta go in, though." To raid, to raze, to remedy? What is it you want from me?

The fog wavered at the edges of his consciousness like a badly developed photograph, and he shoved at it again.

"I...I've got to," he cast about for words, and settled on saying what he could read in her face, "I have to go and flush him out, Nat."

She shook her head, ruby curls bouncing like a wave of blood. "No, that's going to take time, and we don't have that long left."

He shuddered in the restraints, fingers itching for the touch of a bow and arrows undoubtedly taken in for decontamination and lockup due to his conflicted state. There was still too much blue.

"I don't understand," and he didn't, because if he did he wouldn't be in here, "Have you ever had someone take your brain and decide to play with it? Pull you out like a puzzle piece and send something else in that they liked better? Do you know," he gasped out, struggling to control himself, "Do you know what it's like to be unmade?"

She met his gaze unflinchingly, her eyes mercifully free of anything resembling pity or disgust. There is only bittersweet understanding, and he loved and hated that it was even there at all.

"You know that I do," she reminded him quietly.

"Then why am I back?," he asked. "How did you get him...get that out?"

Thin lips quirked up in a ghost of an expression that's half-smile, half-smirk. "Cognitive re-calibration. During the fight earlier, I hit you really hard in the back of the head. Seems to have worked."

He swallowed, unsure of how to answer, and so simply offered, "Thanks."

She nodded, reaching out slender hands to unfasten the restraints. There was still a knife up each of her sleeves, he noticed, and he crushed the urge to hiss in unjust frustration at the caution it showed. Now is not the time for theatrics, Barton, get a grip.

Forcing down the ugly feeling, he rubbed his wrists in relief, offering her a quick, darting glance of silent gratitude for the freedom she'd given him.

"Tasha," he said, resisting the urge to try and swallow the sudden lump in his throat, "How many agents...?"

"Don't," she cut him off sharply, eyes flashing, "Don't do that to yourself, Clint. This is Loki's doing, you know that. This is monsters and magic and aliens and nothing we were ever trained for."

Tan fingers reached out to grip the sides of the chair, pressing down hard. "Loki, he...he got away, then?"

"Yeah," she said, eyes bright with questions. "I don't suppose you know where, though?"

He shook his head, wishing the headache would go away. "No, I didn't need to know, so I didn't ask." I'm not so sure that I wanted to know, either.

Natasha looked at him silently, waiting for him to continue, and so he did. "He's gonna make his play soon, though. Today. I know that much."

She nodded, straightening up. "We've got to stop him." It was a statement, a truth, a fact all at once, and he seized the stability it brought.

"Yeah, but who's we?" Who've we got? Who haven't I ended while tagging along on the Vegas blue party-line?

"I don't know," and the shrug she gives him as she spoke seemed a hairs' breadth too forcibly sharp, "Whoever's left now."

He resisted the urge to abruptly vomit, swallowing back the bile threatening to crawl up and out for a landing in the waste basket in the corner. Shit.

"Well, then," he offered quietly, "Whatever happens from now on, at least if I put an arrow in Loki's eye socket, I suppose I'd sleep better."

The joke seemed to do the trick, as the worry left on her face was finally smoothed away completely. "Good, now you finally sound like yourself."

Readjusting herself on the chair, she leaned in slightly, her expression calmer.

"But you don't," he shot back, disorientation still gnawing away at his mind, "You're a spy, Nat, not a soldier. Now you're telling me that you want to wade into war? Why? What did Loki do to you, huh?"

Red hair swished and bobbed as she shook her head in disagreement. "No, he didn't do anything to me," she reassured, "he's nuts, but he was in the Cage when I interrogated him. I just..."

She paused for a moment, expression contemplative. "Natasha...?," he asked warily. Don't let her be compromised, don't let her be compromised...

She gave him a bittersweet half-smirk, eyes dark with memory, and he swore his heart stopped for a second at her reply. "I've been compromised, and I need to fix it. I've got red in my ledger, remember? I'd like to wipe it out."


The Detention Section was dark and quiet as Tony stared, silent and unseeing, at the empty space where the Cage used to be.

Steve walked in quietly, taking in the sight with a furrowed brow and clenched fists.

"Was he married?" The question sprang forth before he could lock it away, and he felt uneasy at the way it hung in the empty air like a noose ready to slip shut.

"No," came the answer as Tony looked up at him, expression still unnervingly blank, "He...there was, uh...a cellist he was seeing, I think."

"I'm sorry," Steve offered quietly, because what else could he do in this unstable situation? "He seemed like a good man to me."

"He was an idiot." The words, spit out sharply as a mouthful of bitter medicine, skidded across the air like thrown rocks. "An idiot."

Steve felt anger threaten to flare up at the insult, and instinct drove new words to spring forth in retaliation. "Why? For believing in us? Is that it?"

Dark eyebrows drew together as Tony glared back at him. "No, you moron. I meant for taking on Loki alone. That's like going up against a stray cat with claws and rabies."

"He was doing his job!," he defended. "S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives all know what we're facing here, but he still tried!"

The billionaire's upset expression didn't soften. "He was still out of his league here. He should have waited, he should have-!"

He cut himself off sharply, hands curling and uncurling into fists. Steve watched the motion, wondering what to do.

"He...sometimes there isn't a way out, Tony. He knew that."

Tony walked away, running his hands along the control panel for a moment to steady himself. "Right. Just how did that work out for him?"

Wait a second... Steve walked forward automatically. "Is this the first time you've lost a soldier, then?"

The reaction was explosive: Tony whirled around sharply, his eyes bright, mouth twisted into a snarl. "We are not soldiers, dammit! I am not here to march along on Fury's fife like a drone!"

"Well, neither am I!," Steve roared back, and the sudden shock of it's enough to quiet Tony for a moment as the sound rang through the room. "He's got blood on his hands, same as Loki does, and I know it. But right now, we've got to put that aside and get this done, understand?"

For Coulson. The words, hanging in the air, are both silent and loud as a clap of thunder, and both men resisted the urge to wince at the unspoken presence it gave off.

"Alright." The answer was short, blunt, but nonetheless an agreement, and so Steve thought it was safe now to continue.

"Now, Loki needs a power source, so if we can put together a list..."

But Tony didn't answer, and so Steve looked at him, about to speak, but the words faded on his tongue when he saw the other man staring at the wall, gazing at the blood staining the surface like a sickening declaration. No more.

"He made it personal." The words, spoken as if dragged out in chains, sound like gravel scraping underfoot. "Damn him, he made it personal."

"That's not the point," Steve interjected, even though every particle of his being agreed. Aim for the Achille's heel, right? That's what the enemy always does.

"No, that is the point. That's Loki's point, that's the point of every damn thing out there that wants to kill you! He went and hit us, shot us all right where we think, we hope, we live. And you know why?"

There's a lump in his throat the size of a grapefruit, and Steve had to struggle to force it back in order to reply. "To tear us apart."

Tony nodded in grim satisfaction at the answer. "Gold star, Cap. He knows he has to take us out in order to win this, right? That's just what he wants. He wants to beat us, stomp us into the dirt, and he wants to be seen doing it, too. He wants an audience."

Ugly understanding bloomed in the wake of the statement. "Right," he said slowly, stomach rolling in sickening waves at the thought, "I caught his little act in Stuttgart earlier."

"Yeah, but that's just a free preview and you know it. This...this is opening night," and hands waved in the air, gesticulating wildly in half-horrified, half-prideful smugness at having figured it out, "and Loki, he's a full-tilt diva. He's the damn prima donna. He wants flowers, he wants applause, he wants parades, he wants a monument built to the skies with his name plastered...!"

Steve felt ice flood his veins as Tony's expression abruptly changed, a horrified, ever so slightly impressed look of incredulity bursting into view.

"That sonofabitch...!"


The wind whistled madly across the roof of Stark Tower as a frighteningly bright-eyed Selvig danced around the CMS device, calloused fingers nimbly prodding and adjusting the great machine into its proper position.

Everything must be perfect. She had said so, and the Tesseract deserved the very best.


The Helicarrier's medical room burst into a flurry of whispers as Steve strode rapidly into view, clad in full uniform and with the sharp, steady, rapid pace of a soldier about to embark on a mission.

Natasha blinked as she looked up at him from her seat next to an empty restraining chair, slightly taken aback as she drank in the sight.

Steve stopped in front of the two assassins, his stance sharp and back straight as he looked at the two. "Time to go."

The tone brooked no arguments. She ignored the glimmer of respect the bluntness evoked. "Alright," she said, "go to where?"

He shook his head, blonde bangs flopping from side to side like the shake of a sodden Labrador. "No time to explain right now, I'll tell you on the way. Can you fly one of those jets in the hangar?"

The sound of incoming footsteps drew attention to a newly-refreshed Clint, who stepped out of the adjoining restroom with a serious expression.

"I can," the archer volunteered quietly.

Steve looked to Natasha in silent askance of the situation. Good?

She offered a quick, short nod in conformation. Good.

He turned his attention to Clint, swallowing the relief threatening to burst forth into audibility at the sight of mercifully clear, dark eyes free of any hint of blue, and instead offered, "Got a suit you can use?"

A nod. "Yeah."

He gripped his shield tightly, feet already itching to move. "Then suit up, 'cause we're moving out."


The air stung with quivers of tension as lightning slammed down into the contact point between Mjolnir's head and Thor's hand, super-heating in an explosion of light and sound.

He looked up at the sky. War has arrived here, sweet and bloody.

His mother had taught him not to keep a lady waiting, and he knew not of a more demanding mistress than battle.

Thor clenched the hammer tightly, swinging it overhead in a loop, and took to the embrace of the sky. Overhead, clouds grew and rumbled in greying bursts, sodden and heavy with the promise of the oncoming storm.


Dropping the pen back back onto the table, Steve reached for the blue helmet, fingers rubbing at the scratches covering the surface from when he'd been thrown headlong into a tree in Stuttgart.

Slipping it over his head, he closed his eyes for a moment as the protective gear settled into place, and then reached for the final piece of his uniform. The small, plain-looking grey pouch that he'd added blended in with the inside of his shield with comforting ease.

A quick grazing of fingers to ensure the pouch was fully zipped shut, and he slid the shield back onto his arm.

Satisfied that the cards were safe, he set off to meet up with his teammates. He could sign the rest of the deck later.


Dropping his tools back into their kit, Tony held the repaired helmet in his hands and took in the sight of the repaired circuitry and metal with an air of satisfaction. The soldering and welding kit he'd used earlier had done its job admirably, repairing the worst of the damage to his suit.

Putting it back on, he felt a grim smile slid into place at the sight of the bright, undamaged viewscreen flickering to life in a stream of blue and red data.

Showtime.


The gauntlet, newly attached to her wrist with a fresh round of ammunition, glowed brightly with the telltale blue light of a fully charged battery. Natasha nodded to herself, satisfied, and began reloading the bullet chamber of her handgun.

Beside her, Clint slid on his quiver of arrows, servicing his restored bow with the meticulous air of one wanting optimum performance. She noted, with a feeling of silent approval, that the newly refitted arsenal included electric, blast, sonic, tear gas, and incendiary.


The hangar was rife with tension as the occupants stared at each other, three in the Quinjet, and one on the ground.

To be fair, Steve conceded mentally, having several heavily armed people come to take the most important aircraft in the hangar without presenting official permission first in a wartime situation would throw anyone off their normal perception of reality.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. pilot, young and worried-looking, wrung his hands nervously as he stared up at them. To his credit, he did not move, and instead stood in their way, blocking the exit.

"I'm sorry, but you're not authorized to be here..."

Steve let out a gusty sigh, readjusting the grip on his shield in agitation as he looked into the younger man's eyes. "Son...just don't. You don't want to get involved in this."


The bridge of the Helicarrier had fallen into a semi-calm after the veritable storm from earlier, people back at what stations they could with subdued but determined expressions as they continued monitoring the external space and internal workings of the airship.

Fury stared out of the window, silently contemplating.

After a moment, Agent Hill, a knowing expression on her face, walked over and stood beside him in quiet companionship. "Sir?"

"Agent Hill," he acknowledged, his gaze unmoving.

"Sir...," she swallowed in apprehension, wondering if bluntness was the best approach. "Sir, those cards weren't found in Coulson's jacket. They were in his locker."

He held the empty card pack in his hands, eyes challenging as they looked back at her. "They needed the push, Agent Hill."

She opened her mouth as if to object, but an understanding look flitted across her face and she nodded silently.

The moment of silence was rudely broken when a harsh, loud noise screeched through the air like nails gouging glass, and Fury's gaze snapped back around, eyes widening slightly to see Tony, clad in the repaired Iron Man suit, flying alongside the Quinjet, heading toward land.

He turned back to her, eyes blazing anew. "They've found it. Get our communications back up, the med bay ready, whatever you have to do. I want eyes on everything!"

She straightened up, eyes sharp, and nodded. "Yes, Sir."


Loki shifted in place, wishing the seats of the carrier were more comfortable. The symbiote rumbled in a slow, continuous mental purr of wheat-gold satisfaction, delighted in the gluttony they had indulged in before boarding the airship.

To be fair, the meal they'd taken part in before departure had been quite gratifying, in no small part due to the sheer size of it.

Poor Kaminssky, all gone, all gone, the symbiote crooned delightedly. Not even boness left...

He wass a rather poor pilot to begin with, Loki agreed. Couldn't even put up a proper fight, even with all thosse firearmss. Sscreamed like a josstled infant when he saw uss and fell out of the cockpit like a dropped plate.

In the man's defence, the sight of a huge, hulking mass of writhing shadows, brutal claws, and razor-sharp teeth would startle even the most hardened of agents into shooting wildly, even if that included shooting their own foot. The man had cursed like a man possessed as he'd gotten up and broken into a run, but the injured limb and trail of lost blood had left him terribly vulnerable. It had been almost disgustingly easy to catch him, and from there, absorption had been almost completely effortless as the struggling grew weaker and weaker...

While chasing their meal through the airship, he'd rediscovered the Helicarrier lab, and taken back the ill-held scepter with reluctant grace. Needless to say, without the blanketing, calming fog of the Mindgem pulsing through the air once again, he was certain that the sight of him, hair matted with gore, face smeared with blood, hands clutching the handle of the scepter as if it were a neck to choke, would not be nearly as well-received by the converted minions when they'd found him and flanked him to the hangar for departure.

One lesss of them, one more meal for uss. The thought was tooth-achingly pleasing.

"Hey Boss, just a heads up, but we'll be in the city in about ten minutes," came the call from up front.

Excellent. The god looked out at the incoming cityscape, easily spotting the almost obnoxiously large high-rise tower in the distance.

Time to begin the third act.

The symbiote shifted in place, curling pencil-thin ribbons of shadow around lean fingers; Loki rubbed the sable twists of lukewarm material almost absentmindedly, tracing patterns against the answering tendrils.

Can we get a drink there? The human wass ssalty...

He smirked darkly, eyes glittering with anticipation as the lettering on the side of the building become visible.

Sstark Towerss, hmm? The man offended uss with that horrible excusse for mussic, I do believe he owess uss.