There is a sharp whistling as an arrow is released from its taut string and sails through the air—a dull thud as it embeds itself into the faceless dummy's blue target-chest, right in the center. Loki smirks, running a thumb over his lips absently as he watches from his perch above the gym on the running track. He makes a noise of amusement, leaning slightly over the railing of metal and glass. "Practicing, I see." He is pleased by Clint's sudden jolt at his voice. "Good, good. Your aim needs improvement."

Clint's jaw clinches. His bare arms are slick and shining with sweat, and he wipes his face on the front of his shirt, exhaling harshly. "Nothing wrong with my aim." He jerks his chin up, gesturing to Loki. "How's your shoulder healing?"

"Fine." Loki laughs lightly, hands gripping the metal till his knuckles blanch. "Ah, but you merely wounded me, Agent Barton. I would have thought, given the acts I've seen you commit while serving me, that you would have gone for the kill."

Clint chuckles, drawing another arrow. His muscles tense with rage. "Well, I thought about it. I thought about letting loose an arrow in your throat—but then I decided against it. Part of me wanted to end you—to save your family the trouble-"

"For what? As an act of mercy?" Loki scoffs. "There is no such thing as mercy. Punish a man, and the other is victorious. Spare him, and the other is victorious still—because he has made him weak, lowering him into a position that requires base and unwanted grace. An insult—no, a grotesque mockery—disguised as virtue."

Now it is Clint's turn to laugh. "No. Mercy had nothing to do with it." He lets the arrow fly, landing it so close to the nestled arrow that it shears a layer of metal from it. "I wanted to kill you—to get revenge. But then I thought it'd be too merciful of me to put you out of your misery—that I wanted to watch you suffer a little longer."

There is a moment of silence. Loki sneers to himself. "You are different from your team members, Barton. An outcast. You do not follow the same moral code—you are not bound by it. That is why I chose you as the slave to my vision—for I knew, even as the tesseract whispered dark commands in your ear, that you would not be going against your nature to obey them." Yes—he was different from the others—but not in a pleasing way like Stark—but an entertaining, thrilling way.

Clint shakes his head. "You really are a sick, crazy bastard. Maybe I should have let my arrow find your heart—if you even have one."

"Yes—perhaps." Loki smirks. What fun. After Stark and Thor had been alerted by S.H.I.E.L.D of a possible threat somewhere in the City, Loki had decided to roam the tower for something to occupy his mind—some sort of entertainment—a distraction from the constant roaring in his head. The ravens have yet to return—at least not as far as he knows—for Stark had commanded his disembodied robotic voice to cover most of the windows with metallic blinds that activated at his command. And so Loki had slept—fitfully, until he had awoken and grown so restless, so tense, that he had to find something—anything. He had wandered around the floors of Stark Tower—pried in Tony's belongings, searched for something to amuse him, a book perhaps. And so he had found Hawkeye—a little mouse to toy with.

Loki releases his hold on the railing, hissing through clenched teeth. "But taking my life might have eased your mind."

Clint shrugs. "I guess." He grimaces, turning to look up at Loki. "I still have nightmares sometimes—about what you made me do. But I've moved past it. Way I see it, we're almost even now."

Loki's eyes narrow. "What ever do you mean?" His tone is dry.

"You got what you deserved—maybe more. You did your time—you got what you asked for."

Loki's fingernails dig into his palms as his fists clench, his heart throbbing in his temples, his vision darkening at the edges. Thor—a traitor, a liar, a pitying fool. Loki bites his tongue until he tastes blood.

Clint examines the tail of an arrow absently, a smile tugging a corner of his mouth upward. "Thor didn't tell me anything—neither did Stark—" he says, as if reading Loki's thoughts, and twirls the arrow between his fingers. "Didn't have to. I've worked at S.H.I.E.L.D long enough to know a tortured, shattered head-case when I see one." He smirks. "Like I said—look's like we're even. Or at least we will be—once your frienemies get ahold of you."

Loki keeps his features blank, his pale eyes locked on Clint's. "To which enemies are you referring?" He quips with a dismissive flourish. Loki has grown tired of playing with Barton—bored, uninterested. He turns to leave—thinks of going to find Stark's bookshelf and reading one of his science manuals.

"The list just keeps growing, doesn't it?" Clint reaches for his water bottle and drains it in one breath. He swallows, still breathing hard from his training session. "What's your plan?"

Loki halts mid-stride. He exhales. "Why does everyone always assume I'm plotting something?"

"I mean to get rid of Enchantress. Or are you just going to let her take you back to your cell on Asgard—Drag Me to Hell style?"

Loki freezes—eyes going wide—a flicker, mask falling. And suddenly he is not in a gym in Stark Tower anymore—suddenly he is somewhere else, somewhere dark and damp and reeking. It is a brief moment—a silvery flash. "Oh—I see. You're trying to manipulate me—to frighten me?" His snicker is forced—one that makes his chest ache—that builds into near hysteria.

Clint smiles, but it lacks humor. "Looks like the God of Lies has been lied to for a change. Stark hasn't been honest with you. How does that feel—getting a taste of your own medicine?"

"You think I know nothing of lies, Barton? You think I have never been lied to?" Loki's voice echoes wildly through the large room—practically screaming the words, raw. "You know nothing."

Suddenly Clint is backing away, nearly falling over the weapons rack as Loki is in his face, advancing on him, towering—all bared teeth and malice. Loki watches from his perch as his hastily conjured clone invades Barton's space—clasping his arms, a breath away, so horrifyingly intimate—before vanishing. Loki grits his teeth as his usage of the little magic he possessed starts to turn his skin blue—an added kind of punishment from Odin, that he only had enough sorcery left to keep his dignity—his Asgardian appearance. But the trick was worth it. Loki darts into the shadows of the room, edging his way to the exit. "Who is frightened now, Agent Barton?"

Loki can no longer see Barton from his hiding place, but he expects the mortal to be greatly shaken. "Just tell me one thing—" Clint calls, his tone firm, "Do you regret any of it? Would you take it back if you could—the horrors you've committed? Or do you just regret getting caught and punished? Just so I know—just so I can make the right call, given the chance."

Loki presses his back against the doorframe, fingers splayed. He frowns, eyebrows pulling together. What a ridiculous question—surely Barton merely speaks in jest. Loki no longer feels regret—not truly. Perhaps he regrets joining alliance with those horrible, useless, monstrous creatures from that cursed realm. He flinches—sharp flashes of that place—of the Other—of the fall—of the horrors of that realm and the beings in it. He despises them. Maybe—maybe he regrets it—not the ruling of the mortals—but perhaps making a deal with the Chitauri's leader—one that he has failed to complete. Maybe he regrets tricking Thor and venturing into Jotunheim that day. No, Loki hisses to himself. No—you lived a lie. You exposed the truth—Odin's lies—Thor's lies—the truth that you always felt, but never knew. But maybe he would have been content with the illusion still intact? The illusion of home—of his brother? No. The voice—the answer is not as sure as it should be. He is exhausted by the question—the pondering of it. Maybe he regrets more than he realizes.

His fists clench. "No. I regret nothing."

"You would do it all again? The attacks? Even if it meant facing the same punishment?"

He twists his fingers into his hair, closes his eyes. "I don't—" He pauses, moistens lips. He shakes his head. "No—no, I regret nothing."

"That's all I needed to hear."

Without another word, Loki leaves through the sliding metal door, the sound of Clint's arrows striking the dummy ringing in his ears. He curls his fingers against his palms, letting out a choked giggle at his trembling hands. His heart races—breathing labored—and wades through the symptoms of anxiety—some bothersome and annoying bout of illness that Stark had called a 'panic attack'— something that Stark apparently has much knowledge about, and experience with.

He smiles cruelly at his body's betrayal—this display of weakness, and hisses curses and insults under his breath. "You are not so pathetic and base as all that, are you?" He asks himself with harshly imitated tenderness, as he walks along Stark's empty halls, past garish modern art and furniture—his gaudy palace. "Will you let them win so easily? Will you let Thor see you in such a feeble state?" Oh, how they would crow and howl and gawk at him—the fallen star—Asgard's sore, made into the weakling they always treated him as. No—he would not give them the satisfaction.

He flexes, watching as the blue fades from his skin—taking the pleasant chill that cools his burning forehead with it. Loki hasn't realized how much he has wandered around—looking up from the floor to find himself at Thor's door. Strange, that he should find himself there, not even thinking about where he was going. With a roll of his eyes, Loki grudgingly addresses the ceiling. "Open the door." He commands the robotic voice that Stark is so very fond of.

"Mr. Stark requires me to inform you that you must say 'the magic word,' in order for me to take orders from you, Sir."

Loki swears that he can hear smugness in the mechanical voice. "Please." The door slides open with a satisfying click. He makes a mental note to think of some way to make Stark regret playing with him in such a way—having to lower himself to a machine. But at the thought of Stark, darkness seeps in. If Barton was not merely lying—then Stark is not to be trusted. Loki does not ask JARVIS to turn on the lights, but walks into the dim room, the windows still blocked by the metal covering, allowing no light to enter. The door slides shut behind him, and he hesitates—listening, sight strained. Making his way to the center of the diminutive room, Loki eases himself into a sitting position on the floor, gritting teeth.

"Enchantress," He beckons her with his mind, hoping that she would enter and communicate like she had Skurge do at S.H.I.E.L.D. Nothing. "Dearest Amora, tell me—do you intend to drag me to Asgard, trusted up—stolen goods returned? Do you honestly believe that the All-father will reward you?" He waits. After a minute or two of sitting and focusing, anger fills him. "I have information that you crave—I can tell you the location of Thor's darling mortal—where Fury's agents have hidden her away. I know you want her slaughtered—I can assist you in this quest. I merely want to be left alone—to escape, to leave this place and venture to another realm." He doesn't realize that he has started to shout. "Surely the All-father would accept that I slipped your grasp—that I vanished, untraceable? Why do you ignore me when I could give you what you desire—revenge—Thor, broken and ripe for the taking? Is that not what we both want?"

Loki is on his feet, and in the darkness he finds something heavy to throw against the wall. The dull thud does little to sooth him. When he hears himself shudder back a small sob, he laughs at himself—reminded of the poor, deluded Asgardian Prince who had once been affected by such emotion. That boy was long-gone, buried—snuffed out. If there was anything he learned during exile—during punishment—it was that pleading and begging and crying was useless—pointless. No matter how loudly he screamed, no one ever came. Not until Thor. Thor. "Fine." He growls. "Do what you will, but I swear to you that you will suffer for this betrayal."

Tony is in a good mood—great, actually. The alert that had sent the Avengers out of the tower had just been a basic robbery attempt at a weapons tech facility about an hour away—and when the crooks had spotted Tony in his Iron Man suit, and Thor with his intimidating hammer, he and his ski mask-clad buddies had given up right then. That was a surprisingly smart move for a bunch of hoodlums. Generally the City police could handle something like that—but the owner of the tech hadn't wanted any officials involved. And so Tony and Thor took the quinjet back to the tower landing strip. He removed his armor, and strode into the main room of the building, glad that he did not have to exert himself with his injuries still healing. He was also relieved that Enchantress had not been heard from—that it was not her who the Avengers had been contacted about. Maybe they would get lucky—maybe she would just pack her bags and head back to Asgard.

"JARVIS, put my mp3 file collection on shuffle, low volume, please—oh, and make sure you don't accidentally play any Shikira this time—I swear, I don't know how that got on there, must have been Pepper's playlist." Tony spins on his heel, busying himself with pouring drinks—one for Thor, should he desire one, and a few more for either Clint, Bruce, or Loki, should they venture tentatively out of their respective hiding places; if not, Tony would simply have to drink them all himself—as not to waste anything, of course.

"Right away, Sir."

"I really need to get out of here—get back into the swing of things, you know?" He grabs a glass of Jack Daniels and addresses the room, not talking to anyone in particular. "I'm losing it, being trapped in here with the world's most extreme recluses. I need the nightlife—I need—" he pauses, snaps his fingers, looking for a word, "Fun."

When Thor enters the room, Tony hands him a drink while humming along with the Black Sabbath song that plays faintly in the background. "That was a lucky break, huh?" Tony asks, leaning against the counter.

Thor stands awkwardly before taking a seat on the leather couch. He glances around, as if looking for someone, and Tony's stomach drops. There was always the possibility that, one day, they would return to find the tower completely empty—to find Loki gone, vanished. Tony only hoped that, should he leave, it would be on his own terms, not captured by some thugs who fancied a reward from Asgard's golden halls. Then again—magic or no magic—Loki was more than capable of putting up a fight. Thor nods slowly, a grin spreading across his face, however forced it is. "Indeed, it was an easy victory—though I rather craved the thrill of a good battle."

"You're just the god I wanted to see—if there's anyone in this building—besides me—who knows how to have a good time, it's you, Sparky," he says with a smirk, "Go get your bro and let's go out."

"You've had a lot of stupid ideas, Stark—" Tony turns, his lips puckered in a pout, as Clint appears in the doorway, a towel draped around his sweaty neck. "But taking Loki into the City to go clubbing—that has to top everything on the stupidity level."

Tony pointedly cups a hand to his ear. "I'm sorry—did you hear something, Thor? It sounded like a little, annoying chirping sound—or whatever it is that birds do?"

Thor looks confused. "I hear nothing—"

Tony rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Thor, obviously there are a few mortal phrases and expressions that Jane still needs to fill you in on." He eyes Clint, who gladly and purposefully takes a drink from the bar beside Tony. "Who said you were even invited, bird-boy?"

"It's just not smart to take a psychotic, genocidal lunatic to a party, that's all. I mean, the guy's barely hanging on—he's about to have a meltdown right now."

Tony can't help but grimace at the adjective choices. "Come on, you hang out with unstable psychos at S.H.I.E.L.D all day long." Tony points out. "You know what your problem is, Clint—well, one of them? You don't know how to have fun."

"Oh, I know how to have fun." Clint shrugs, downing his glass of alcohol in one gulp. "Just not with you."

Tony bites his lip. "Not thinking dirty thoughts about you and Tasha. Nope." Clint exists the room with a groan of annoyance. "Fine—we don't want to hang out with you anyway." He glances down at Thor. "You in, buddy?"

Thor's eyebrows knit together, his smile fading. "I have been thinking about you and Roger's suspicions, and I fear that they might be correct. If that is true, then perhaps I should take Loki from this place and find somewhere safe to keep him."

Tony feels like someone has punched him in the gut. He can feel his energy draining at the mention of Loki—of everything that has happened. "No—no. If taking Loki is really Amora's game plan, then we'll track her down and stop her before it comes to that." Selfish, selfish, selfish. Tony ignores his inner monologue. "Look, Thor—that's not a good idea. We need you here—the team—and Loki needs you, even if he won't admit it. There is no way Amora gets to him here, in the safest place there is, protected by the Avengers."

"But if the All-father truly has sent warriors and hunters after my brother, then there will be more, even if Amora is stopped. When I freed Loki from his prison—usually my brother can hide himself from the gaze of Asgard's gatekeeper—but not in the state he was in. Though there is a possibility, I do not doubt that Heimdall saw us leave that realm and journey to Midgard—and he is sworn to obey Odin's commands, so it is likely that my father knows of Loki's escape."

Tony swears under his breath. "Damn—and I thought my relationship with my father was bad." He nearly chokes on his drink when he spots Loki by the elevator, leaning against the wall. "Oh, hey, kiddo. Don't worry—mommy and I weren't fighting, just having a disagreement."

Loki strokes his chin thoughtfully as he walks forward. "Barton was right, it would seem. You have been keeping information from me."

Tony shrugs. "That's a little hypocritical, isn't it? I mean, you've been lying to me about the stone this entire time."

"Brother—" Thor interrupts, standing. "Do not worry—"

Loki turns on him with a snarl. "Be silent, Thor. I will not speak with you."

"I will not leave you, brother." Thor stands firm, arms folded across his chest.

"I'm guessing you just heard that entire conversation?" Tony asks.

"Enough to know that you think me a cowering child, in need of coddling and protective lies." Loki's jade eyes are narrowed with rage. "You swore to me that you did not think me lesser than yourself."

Tony blinks, taken aback by Loki's anger and, more interestingly, what he was saying. The fact that Loki is so upset tells him something—that Loki actually cares about how Tony views him, and that—however little and fragile the trust was—Loki had trusted him. There is something very off about Loki—more than the normal off—and Tony knows that something has changed in the few hours that he and Thor have been gone. Was Loki afraid? Or was it more of an acceptance? Loki has been in a state of denial about his situation since he came to Stark Tower. Now the wall was down—momentarily—leaving Loki exposed. Tony shakes his head. "Look—Loki, it's not like we weren't going to tell you. I wasn't sure if Amora was after you or not, or if she was just interested in Thor like you said—and I still don't know if she really is after you."

"You need not involve yourself in this. If she means to come for me, then so be it."

Tony steps forward cautiously, reaching out. He places a hand on Loki's forearm, tense, but willing to show that he is physically there for him. Loki glares down at Stark's hand, but does not recoil. "Don't say that. Don't even think about that, okay?" Tony pauses, unsure of what to say. If Loki really was suggesting that he would let Amora take him back to Asgard, then there was something seriously wrong. "No more lies. From now on, I'll tell you everything I know, and you'll at least try to be more honest with me about anything you know. I know you don't want our help—but Thor dragged us all into this, and we're involved no matter how much you don't want us to be. There, I said it."

Loki eyes him, half curious, half suspicious. "Why?" He asks, a humorless smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "If the All-father is so desperate to return me to my prison, why should I not allow it? It would only serve to prove me right in my allegedly false reasoning—in my so-called deceitful, deranged crusade against Asgard and its lying king. If the people desire a sacrifice, a wicked frost giant for Asgard's golden son to slay, then why not give it to them? That is what I want."

Thor's face twists in pain over his brother's words, but he does not dare to approach him. "Loki, how can you say such things? How can you resign yourself to an eternity of torture just to spite Odin and to nurse your own misery? You may have deserved imprisonment, Loki, but never that. I will not let you return—I saved you—"

"I never asked for—"

"Stop it—just stop. Jeez, I feel like I'm watching one of Pepper's Soaps." Tony is going to explode if he hears anymore—he's going to explode and beat the crap—and hopefully the pigheadedness—out of the Odinsons until there is nothing left and they are so disoriented that they suddenly get along with each other. That was totally plausible. He lets out an exasperated cry. "Way to kill my good mood." Tony turns back to Loki, looks him dead in the eyes, searching for some sign of recognition. "I know you don't believe that. We can still fix this. I swear on my life—I promise you that you will never go back to that place, not as long as we're around. I won't let that happen. I promise."

"How can you possibly expect me to trust you? How can I believe what you say?"

"You just have to. We can find a way to stop Enchantress, and we'll just have to figure out our next step from there."

There is a rare moment of silence between the three. Tony glances from Thor to Loki, taking an awkward step back when he realizes that Loki's arm is still in his grasp. He clears his throat. "Now, back to business—" Tony folds claps his hands together, "Dinner and a casino? No—wait—that's a little too weird with just dudes. How about a musical? I bet you'd like a musical, Loki—you seem the high school drama club type. Okay, scratch that—that's worse. We need some females to balance this out." He thinks of inviting Natasha. Pepper is out of the question—there is no way he will allow Pepper anywhere near Loki, especially when there is a deadly sorcerer and her ax-wielding bodyguard after him.

Loki's eyebrows rise at the suggestion, as if he is confused. Thor looks mildly interested—always eager to experience more Midgardian culture. Tony wonders absently how long it has been since Loki has been invited anywhere. He groans. "Screw it. Let the tabloids think I'm experimenting with brooding Asgardian male models. I don't care—lets go somewhere."

Loki leisurely buttons up the front of his indigo silk shirt—the one that Stark had an assistant of Pepper's personally pick out from a rather expensive Midgardian shopping district. His fingers fumble over the buttons, eyes glazed, distant. Thor stands off to the side, waiting. He appraises his own choice of Midgardian garment—a plaid flannel shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans—searching for something to say to ease the strained silence. "This is appropriate attire for an evening out, yes?" Thor inquires gruffly, gesturing to his clothing.

Loki does not bother to give him a passing glance, his back to Thor as he leans over the bathroom sink. "You are the one who is so infatuated with the mortals, not I. You should know." He twists his neck to give Thor a scathing look. "Why do you look at me in such a way?"

Thor is genuinely baffled. "In what way, brother?"

Loki's tone takes on a bitter, irritated edge. "That oafish, idiotic expression—like you have just defeated some foul enemy in battle and search for approval."

"I suppose I am merely pleased that you are in good health, and that we are together."

"This changes nothing."

"I do not understand what you mean, brother."

Loki lets out a low, condescending chortle. "Is that not always the case with you, Thor—not understanding?" He grips the porcelain sides of the sink as the automatic faucet roars to life with a rush of water. "Do not mistake this momentary truce—this outing with Stark—as anything other than what it is—a standstill, until I recover and find some way to escape this damned realm. Nothing has changed."

Thor's brow creases, a tightness filling his chest. "Why do you feel the compulsion to constantly remind me of your resentment at every meeting?"

"Obviously I must repeat myself, seeing as how my words do not seem to penetrate your thick, empty skull. That, or you refuse to listen. You have never listened."

He clenches his jaw, striding over to the bed and sitting down stiffly. "I listen, Loki—perhaps I did not in the past. I listen, but I will not accept your ranting as truth."

Loki growls, turning his face away from Thor. "Then you are a bigger fool than I thought."

"Why?" Thor questions, yearning to understand Loki's reasoning, the pain and conflict that hunches his shoulders and makes him shudder with hatred. "Why cannot things go back to the way they were? Surely there were moments of fondness, of brotherhood between us that have not been marred by your grudges? We have fought many foes together, Loki, and we fight together still—until Amora is vanquished."

"That life—those childhood memories are nothing more than a pretty lie. I have never been a brother of yours. You just expect me to fall back in line behind you—to return to being eclipsed by your shadow, forever your subordinate—your lesser—the great contrast to your inherent goodness? I would rather die than return to that hollow illusion."

"That is not true. Loki, you are my equal—"

Loki nearly doubles over with his sick laugher, baring no humor or light. "Oh, how

you mock me. How simple you make it sound."

Thor sighs. "It can be simple—you just overcomplicate everything."

Loki does not respond. Thor watches, seething, as Loki cups his pale hands under the running tap and collects water, bringing it slowly to his face to wash. The sink shuts off—several drops of water plop onto the drain stopper. Loki flinches, body going rigid.

"Loki," Thor jumps to his feet, rushing to the doorway, "What—"

A ragged cry interrupts him as Loki backs wildly into the opposite wall, sliding to the floor. He claws blindly at his skin as water droplets roll down his face.

"Are you hurt? What is wrong—has Amora—"

"Thor—" Loki twitches, clasping his brother's arms violently, "Make it stop—please." His breathing is ragged, hitching with anguish.

"Be at peace, brother. You are safe." Thor helplessly grasps Loki's shoulders, giving him a firm shake, trying to snap him out of whatever fit has taken hold of his mind. "I promise you, you have been saved."

Loki tentatively reaches up to feel and prod the flesh on his face, over his eyelids—along his neck and further down still. He breathes in deeply, swallows hard. "I felt—" He frowns. "I thought I was—"

"I know." Thor, mindful of Loki's space and embarrassment, releases him and steps away, allowing him room. He looks away. "I will leave you to collect yourself." When he turns to exit, he is shocked by Loki's movement—his hesitant reaching movement, as if wanting to call him back.

Loki opens his mouth to speak. "Thor—" He stops himself as Thor halts, his jade eyes suddenly narrowing.

"Yes, brother?"

"Nothing." His voice is cold.

When Thor finds Stark waiting impatiently on the main floor, he considers informing him of loki's disturbing fit, and calling off the outing into the City. Before he can begin forming the sentences, however, Loki emerges from behind the doorway, looking a little shaken, but relatively in his right mind.

"Okay, losers—to the limo."

Thor exchanges a look with Loki, relieved to see that Loki is just as confused as he is as to what a 'limo' is. It is not long before the group is headed to the lobby of Stark Tower, greeted by a driver, and headed out into the City streets. Stark is pointing out the theater district—the lights, the giant posters—when the limousine is struck with such force that all three passengers are sent into the floor, the limo swerving and screeching—sparks flying, metal tearing and shredding as Skurge's ax plows through the glossy black hood. The last thing Thor sees before his vision goes blurry and dark from the impact is the passenger door being ripped off of its hinges, and Amora's silhouette against the flashing lights.

Cliffhanger! That was a little cruel of me-but this chapter was getting far too long! Aah, are you as nervous/excited as I am about the last chapter? Don't forget to review, if you want to :)