a/n: guys, i'm really sorry. i've been having a rough go of things lately and i haven't had time to write. i wrote an extra extra long chapter to make up for it! ahaha in fact...i hope it isn't too long. whelp.
so, yeah. i'm sorry again!
please read and review :)
The landing is not graceful; instead she tips sideways, staff digging into the ground, tumbling to her knees in earth that is more dirt than sand. She rights herself, quickly, because she knows that they have no time—
"Fandral!" She tries to catch her breath, but the journey on the Bifrost always leaves her a little dizzy and she can't stop picturing the Observatory, the blue, the cold, the statuesque figure of a mighty Heimdall frozen in the corner, so it makes the whole thing rather difficult.
"Hel. Midgard looks worse than the last time we came here."
Leave it to him to feel no sense of urgency at all.
"It's so hot. I don't remember it being this hot."
"By Odin's beard." She hisses, turning and grasping his forearm, pulling him forward firmly. Frustration lines her voice. "We must move!"
"Loki could be anywhere on this godsforsaken planet, you realize this?"
"Yes!" She snaps, blinking rapidly. "But your optimism is not helping matters!"
She knows they have no time because, as she was sucked into the void she heard it, saw it—
Two frost giants following them. "Kill them, and bring King Laufey the casket!" echoing in the air.
Fandral grips the hilt of his sword, fingers padding against it forcefully. He looks at the sky. "We have company."
The blue turns gray at the edges; a great cloud of dark cosmic energy is coalescing above them. "Damn."
They are really, truly out of time.
She scans the wasteland quickly, looking for signs of a Midgardian civilization—they were always primitive, but no doubt one was nearby—
"Sif!"
She hadn't noticed him wander off. She looks sharply at the sound of the voice, thunder cracking overhead, and she knows that the Jotuns will be here any minute. "What?"
"Look." He's several feet away, tracing a black, burned area with the sole of his boot. She hurries over, watching as the desert fades from sand to charcoal to intricate, interlocking patterns.
"The mark of—"
"A son of Odin, yes—"
"Which means he's nearby!" She's never been so happy at the though of having Loki near. "Do you see a city? A palace, maybe? Some sort of vanguard?" There is hope, yet, hope for Asgard, hope for Thor—
"Is that one? Over there?" On the horizon there is a line, wavering in the heat, of what could be buildings but could also very plausibly simply be a mirage—
Thunder, and a wind from behind them; an earth shaking explosion that sends her to her knees; and a cloud of dust and dirt and grime and whatever else the soil on this damnable planet consists of.
The Frost Giants were on Midgard.
"Run!"
She is sick to death of running.
Soon, she will turn and fight.
"Are you ready, brother?"
What a stupid question. Of course he's ready. He's been ready since the day the brat was born. Loki raises a single eyebrow, looking in the boy's direction. Baldr stands at the other end of the room, beneath the light from two torches, hair shining, eyes gleaming, adopting a cheshire grin. Loki says nothing, turning instead to the table next to him. He's never been one for weapons; there is a spear, some arrows. He knows those will not harm Baldr—only what he covers the tips in will.
"Please, Loki, stop this madness." Thor is the only other one in the room, standing close to him, fingering the dull wooden shaft of the spear. Loki thinks, faintly, that for once his brother is speaking the truth and that he is the one taken by rage, but ignores this thought, ignores everything, and says:
"It's only a bit of fun, really."
Thor shakes his head, turns, and takes long strides towards Baldr's position, intent on talking the other out of this insane plan now that the older wouldn't budge. Loki licks his lips, wondering what to try first. There is something coiled in the pit of his stomach. Anticipation, nerves, excitement—he can't tell.
"You two are both idiots!" Thor rages after a moment, smashing a fist into the golden wall. Loki frowns up at him.
"Try to be quiet, Thor." He drawls, deciding on the spear and dipping the edge into a small bowl of poison that he crafted himself. "You don't want to wake Mother and Father."
"Actually, I do."
"Move out of the way." Loki snaps, stepping back, readying his throwing arm. The weapon is odd and heavy in his unpracticed hands.
"For once I agree with Loki." Baldr smiles a winning smile, the smile of a boy who knows nothing can hurt him, and Loki hates it. "It's only a bet, Thor. And I am to win."
"We'll see." Loki's brow draws downward and Thor steps to the side.
He throws.
"Sir, we just got high readings from a spot in the desert."
"Really?" He's only vaguely interested, mostly because he just received an email from Fury practically condemning Tony Stark to whatever proverbial hell the director could think of. Damn kid this and can't believe that and really, Coulson knows he's an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D, that Fury's his boss, but what is he supposed to do about everyone's favorite problem when he was trying to figure out why a hammer had landed in the middle of Puente Antiguo, New Mexico, a.k.a nowhere?
"Several miles south of here."
"Near the other crater?" The empty one. The one he is sure Jane Foster got to first.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then, we'd better check it out."
The spear had been useless. He pulls an arrow from the table and dips it in the next concoction he prepared, but when he pulls back and lets it fly towards his brother's leg (he might accidentally be aiming for his heart) it bounces harmlessly away, as if repelled by some greater invisible force.
"That's not—ok, ok, wait!" She reaches across his lithe form and pulls the egg from his hand before he can bring it smashing down rather roughly on the side of the plastic bowl. She feels his disapproving gaze on the back of her neck and frowns up at him. His eyes are very, very green. "You were going to make a mess."
"You told me to crack the shell."
"I meant gently break, not smash over the counter."
"Can you two hurry up? Please?" Darcy drags out the please into several more syllables than is needed. Jane looks back, toward where the intern is sprawled over the small kitchen table in the lab, and holds out the egg expectantly. "You want to cook?" The sunlight is filtering through the open window and Jane blinks, her eyes still sticky from staying up late and hardly sleeping. Darcy shrinks from the proffered item.
"No." She pushes her glasses up her nose and crosses her arms under her chin, looking like a wounded puppy. "But even going to Isabella's would've been faster than this."
"Well, blame Loki. He's a horrible cook."
"We have servants who cook for us. I hardly thought it would be a necessary skill to learn."
"We can't all be rich aliens, ok man?" Darcy groans, burying her head in her arms. Jane shakes her head, smiling a little smile, and turns back to cracking the egg on the side of the bowl, tossing the shell into the trash as she finishes. She is suddenly, acutely aware of how Loki's arm is pressed against her own. She feels a blush rising to her cheeks, unbidden and stupid because, well, he's Asgardian and she's not, and besides that is the last thing she needs right now, so she moves quickly to grab a fork, shoving it roughly into his hands. "Stir." She orders, stepping sideways, pushing the bowl towards him. He examines the fork like it's a foreign object. After a moment, when he still hasn't moved, she glances at him expectantly. Then:
"Hurry up."
"Patience."
She rolls her eyes, turning on the stove and getting the frying pan ready. Behind her she hears the door open, scraping over the concrete, and Erik walks in, looking incredibly tired and sleep-deprived. "Hi, Erik." Darcy sing-songs, with a vague gesture in their direction. "If you wait an hour we might have breakfast."
The older man grunts. Jane notices the bags under his eyes and makes a mental note to call the bar and tell them to stop letting in Dr. Selvig, please, he drinks too much. She reaches up toward the cabinet above her.
"Here." She tosses him a bottle of Alka-Seltzer but he misses, watching it hit the floor and bounce oncetwice rather forlornly. It rolls across a near non-existent grade towards the door, and she purses her lips because there is no movement whatsoever to get it. "Sit down, Erik. Get that." She nudges Loki's side with her elbow, and the man hisses thickly. She winces. "Oops. Sorry. Forgot that you had that bruise—"
"You enjoy this." He snaps, setting down the bowl, face blank, eyes blazing. "Ordering me around."
"You make it too easy." she shrugs, picking up where he left off and smashing the fork roughly against the plastic. "Besides, I need to fix your mess before Darcy has a heart attack."
"More like, dies from starvation." The other girl moans unhelpfully.
The presence at her side disappears and she tries to ignore the fact that she even just picked up on that. God, Jane, what are you, sixteen? Just as she starts to pour the thin, yellow liquid into the hot pan, avoiding the yolk-splatter as it sizzles, Darcy says, "Hey, man, what are you looking at? Not that I mind you staring out the window, it's a good view—"
"Darcy!" Jane looks back sharply, berating, exasperated, but then she sees Loki.
His form, tense. In one hand he's holding the small pill bottle. The other is stretched out toward the front of the lab, two fingers pressed against the glass.
"What's going on?" Jane tips the bowl back, liquid sloshing, trying to peer past his pointed shoulder because what the hell, it was Puente Antiguo at ten in the morning—the biggest thing that she can think of that would be happening involves a break out at the local pet store.
But then she sees it, in the distance—
The bowl slips from her hands, liquid splattering across the counter.
Dark clouds, forming past the town. And she knows in her gut that something is wrong, because that has all the signs of an anomaly, and another one wasn't due, she hadn't predicted it, which means it couldn't be happening, especially not in the middle of the day—
There is a sharp crack and the tablets from the bottle Loki is holding spill across the floor, sharp, broken pieces of plastic following after, and then, colored with something she's never heard from him, maybe fear, apprehension—
"Something's wrong."
He tries another arrow, but he's running out of substances to dip the tip in. Baldr's stance has become increasingly haughty, Thor's increasingly lax, but he will let neither affect him, because he will find a weakness in this pledge—
Everything has a weakness.
"This is stupid."
"What?"
"What do you think?"
"Well, yeah, this job sucks."
"Sucks? Sucks? My suit is sticking to me in all the wrong places, and this town's about as lively as a cemetery."
"Maybe Foster will move."
"They are—" Pause. "Still making breakfast. As of now."
"Spying on them through the window and a pair of binoculars seems overkill."
"Talk to Coulson then. He seems to think that something is up here."
"Like what, aliens? Please. We all know Roswell was a joke and aliens don't exist."
"Ok, Garrett, you are the only S.H.I.E.L.D agent who would say that. Seriously. Were you not around for the Kree and Skrull emissaries?"
"No."
"Well, do your research."
"Psh." Silence. "This burger is good."
"I'm happy for you."
"Mhmm—" He breaks into a coughing fit, and Agent Jackson looks sharply over at him.
"You ok?"
No. No he's not. He wipes the back of his mouth with his hand and places the burger on the lip of the roof; then he points. "Is there a Renaissance Fair in town?"
Jackson follows the line of his finger. "Call it in."
He reaches for the walkie-talkie on his belt and hits the talk button. Static fizzles over the air and he licks his lips, because how is he supposed to describe this?
"Yeah. Uh, base, this is Agent Garrett, and we've got, uh, Xena and Robin Hood."
He's almost out of options.
There's a small mistletoe plant he picked from the garden—it's the only thing he hasn't tried, because mistletoe had seemed like the least likely solution. He still doubts it, but he also knows that Baldr can taste victory, so he picks a small leaf and smears the sap over the tip of his last arrow.
"You don't happen to have a scrying stone on you, do you?" Fandral furtively looks side to side, out of breath, and Sif shakes her head slowly, trying to calm her own breathing and ignore the scores of mortals staring at them. Fandral snorts as one almost walks into a large, metal monster because they are not watching where to place their feet. Sif shakes her head again, taking a quick glance the way they came, down a long street and open sand, but the desert is calm, now, and she can only see the mountains in the horizon.
"Something held them up, or they would have followed us more closely." She bites her lip, pausing beneath the shade of an overhang. Her hair is sticking to her neck and her armor slides uncomfortably because of a thin layer of sweat that is steadily increasing in the growing heat. Her heart is finally calming, but the Midgardian atmosphere is doing her no favors.
"I should have brought a scrying stone." Fandral laments. He looks behind him, then does a double take and turns around fully. She continues to survey the street, only half paying attention.
"Perhaps we can ask one of these people."
"Mhmm."
"They will have to have noticed the arrival of an Asgardian—one of them at least."
"No one noticed our arrival." He points out rather absently, and she turns, wondering at the tone, to find him peering at his reflection in the glass-front display of one of the mortal buildings. She slaps him on the arm and he frowns back at her, but all she can think about is Thor, back on Asgard, bloody and hopefully alive but knowing Laufey—and nobody did—who knew, really? To calm her senses and regain some composure she tries to puzzle out the strange, Midgardian script that is to be painted on the window, above and to the right of the reflection of Fandral's cocky face.
"Is-a-bell-a's Di-ner." She sounds out, but learning the mortal's language did not help her nerves. She taps her foot on the ground, and the metal of her armor shifts and clanks, attracting more stares. Then she hears it—
"Loki, wait!"
She's sprinting towards the noise before she can even really process which direction it's coming from, tumbling out to the middle of the street and into the path of one of the metal monsters—the thing screeches angrily and she jumps to avoid impact but does not slow, and all she can hear is the echo of Loki's name and Fandral behind her shouting:
"Sif!"
She runs up a slight incline and finds herself at the highest part of town. There is a circular building there, with more glass windows and a metallic structure out front. To the far left one of the metal beast's doors are flung wide, and there, in front of it, arms flat at his side—
She slows, because if she had not known him so long she wouldn't have recognized him.
"You want me to get the artifact?" A voice from inside the belly of the beast.
"Yes."
His hair is slightly mussed, and there are dark circles underneath his eyes. His clothing is mortal, and his bearing speaks of injury. In fact, if she didn't know better, she would say that he was mortal—
But that was impossible.
Wasn't it?
"Loki." She doesn't want to get closer to him, for many reasons. Her voice dies in her throat and she starts again, stronger. "Loki."
He looks up, sharply, and it takes a moment for his eyes to focus on her figure.
She must look just as bad as he does.
He recognizes her instantly, eyebrows shooting downward, and his frown is deliberate. She watches as his fists tighten at his side.
"This thing. I almost forgot about it." The voice again, female, from the monster. After a pause a short, mortal girl jumps from the back, holding something rather gingerly in her hands, obscured by her elbow. The Midgardian barely reaches the middle of Loki's arm; Sif watches as she pushes her mousy brown hair from her eyes, and can't help but think that she looks incredibly plain, but the way Loki's eyes move directly towards her, the way he is staring—
No.
Impossible.
"What's wrong?" The mortal turns, following his gaze, and when she sees Sif her eyes widen considerably. "Oh."
"What are you doing here?" Loki says at last, looking at the mortal but addressing her.
"Well, hello to you too." Fandral walks up from behind, and Sif imagines he is trying to be intimidating; his tone is sour. "Nice to see your little lesson hasn't taught you much."
"Obviously you did not come here to argue." Loki finally meets her eyes, disdainfully. "What is the matter? Did my father come to lift my punishment?"
"Your father is in the Odinsleep." Sif grits out through clenched teeth, trying to ignore the urge she has to punch his face in. "And Asgard has fallen."
He doesn't say anything but his body becomes more tense, if that's even possible. Fandral points out rather blandly from beside her, no hope, no inflection, "Well, not fallen, not yet—"
"You're from Asgard too?" The mortal breathes out, interrupting, and for a moment Sif thinks the Midgardian is going to drop whatever is in her hands because the look on her face is awe and wonder and excitement and ambition all rolled into one. Sif can finally see the 'artifact,' now that the girl has turned, and it has ornate handles and a porcelain finish and—
"A Midgardian should hardly be holding the Casket of Ancient Winters." She hisses, stepping forward, only stopped because Fandral lays a hand on her upper arm. "Let's not let past grudges get in our way, shall we?" he whispers in her ear, and she counts to ten to calm herself.
One. Two. Three. Four. I want to kill him.
Nobody moves. The silence is heavy, uncomfortable, broken only by the gravel rolling to a stop after being disturbed suddenly by her advance.
"Hey, what's going on? Do you want me to call the police? Is it a bad drug deal or something?" A new voice, and Sif almost welcomes it, would welcome if it were someone who could help them. Instead it is another mortal girl, this one taller, with longer, darker hair, coming toward them from the right, entering the no man's land between herself and Loki. Fandral, spying an opportunity, immediately steps forward with a debonair grin and takes the mortal's hand, laying a light kiss over the knuckles with a, "Well, hello."
Sif can't tell if he's just trying to ease the tension or if he actually meant it.
Either way.
"Woh." The girl starts back, blushing. "Hi. Ok. Um. Who are you?" She looks rapidly between Fandral, Sif, and Loki. "Is that one your girlfriend?" She asks, pointing at her, and Sif frowns.
"Hardly."
"You seem to be here on some sort of emergency." Loki's voice is cool and low, and he swings the topic back to things at hand. He steps around the first mortal, in front of her, and his stance would be called protective if anyone but Loki had taken it. "I suggest you inform me of its nature, before time takes the opportunity from you."
Sif swallows, straightens, grips her staff tighter in one hand. When she speaks her voice cracks. "The Jotuns found a way into Asgard. A secret way. Not of the Bifrost." She wonders if he can hear the suspicion in her voice, see it in her eyes. "And Thor, angered, decided to finish Jotunheim once and for all, but as Heimdall opened the gate they stormed the Observatory. They are moving to attack the palace as we speak—"
"I cannot help you. Why did you leave?" His voice is cold with anger. "Why are you not helping?"
"Why can't you?" She counters, feeling frantic. "The Jotuns look for the Casket." She looks pointedly at him, trying to spy the Midgardian behind. "Thor sent Fandral and I to warn you that the Frost Giants come, for it can not fall into their hands."
"You came to warn me just of this? I can imagine I could have puzzled that out on my own."
"Two Jotuns came down the Bifrost directly behind us. I suspect they are on their way here as we speak."
"Jotuns?" The second mortal is still rubbing her knuckles, smiling dreamily. "What is that? More of your friends?"
"Loki." And she meets his eyes. They are very, very green and hard, like ice. "You must come back with us. Thor—" she chokes on the name. "Thor was taken, by Laufey, and your father, he is in danger—they need you."
Something strange and unsure passes across his face but it is fleeting. He shakes his head. "I am powerless." He looks at one pale, graceful hand. "I would be of no help on Asgard."
Something in her dies, shrivels, withers—
Hope?
He looks back at the mortal girl behind him. "But I will not let the Jotuns touch the Casket."
"How are we to stop them?" Sif's voice is bitter. Fandral is silent, still standing close to the second Midgardian. The two mortals are watching all in fascination. "Without your sorcery—"
"I will think of a way." He looks straight at her, chin tipping up, defiant. "Lest you forget, not all battles are won with strength of arms. Now, you say the Jotuns advance. If it is not beneath either of you, you will help me evacuate the town."
He settles the feather of the arrow against his thumb.
When they pull up the dust is still settling. He throws the car into park, skidding a little on the dirt, and squints through the windshield. Sighing, he takes a placid sip of his coffee, wincing as it scalds his tongue. On either side, through dark tinted windows, he sees cars pulling to a stop.
"Well. Looks promising." Agent Cale unbuckles his seatbelt but doesn't move. He yawns, and Coulson is of the same mindset that there are a lot of better things he could be doing with his time.
He reaches behind him, groping in the back seat for the megaphone. He finds it and opens the driver's side door with a sigh. "Let's get this over with."
The New Mexico air hits him, hard; he adjusts his glasses, breathing in lungfuls of dirt and grime. Of all the places he's had to go, New Mexico had been his least favorite.
By far.
Malibu would have been nice—
If it wasn't for Stark.
Through the heavy dust he finally starts to see a dark outline. The figure is roughly humanoid, thank God, but also rather large.
"What the hell…?" Cale's out on the other side of the car, but Coulson only notices the giant, blue thing coming forward with steps that shake the earth.
"Is that one of Stark's?" Agent Cale asks, unsure.
"I don't know. Guy never tells me anything." Coulson licks his lips, puts the megaphone to his mouth. "Excuse me, but I'm going to have to ask you to come forward with your hands up—"
The breeze finally takes away the last of the sand and he almost starts back at the pair of eyes, red, demon-like, looking straight at him, and only then does he notice that there aren't one, but two of the things, giant and blue with scars and—
What in the hell—
"We're going to have to ask you to put down your weapon." He says after a moment in which he tries to regain some semblance of composure. It's standard protocol to say it, but he doesn't see anything on the monster, no gun, no sword.
Maybe it's a mutant? Two with the same mutation, brothers, chances of that would be about one in a billion.
He takes a step away from the black sedan so he can unhook the gun from his waist holster, mostly because he wants to feel safer, but as he pulls it upward—
"Coulson! Duck!"
Training kicks in, and he rolls to the floor automatically as a neighboring sedan sails up and over his head in a high arc, whipping his suit jacket forward. It crashes to the desert ground several feet away with a small explosion and he pulls himself up enough to look through his open door at Cale's face, hunkered by shotgun, mouth hanging open. He adjusts his glasses, then:
"Did they just throw that car?" He asks.
"It would appear so." Cale nods, closing is mouth with a snap.
He looks back at the vehicle, and there is a sharp shard of what looks to be ice protruding from its center. He inhales quickly.
The man, from last night.
"Where is the Casket?"
It takes him a moment to realize that one of the monsters is talking, because the voice is a million insects crawling over his skin and he shudders and wheels away from it. He pulls the safety on his gun.
"Call for back-up."
The bow creaks.
Baldr smiles. Thor shifts.
"Take the residents of the town and get them as far away as possible."
"With what? The mortals cannot run like we can."
"Of course not. Prepare the cars."
"Excuse me?"
"The metal monsters, Sif, they are transportation. Gods, I did not take you to be such an idiot."
"Shut your mouth, brother killer, or I'm going to change my mind about helping you."
"That is hardly a heroic thought. You seem to be turning into me."
"We do not have time to waste on these mortals—Thor could be dead!"
Jane holds the artifact loosely in her grasp, watching as Loki's hand clenches tightly at his side. He turns slowly to face the new comer—Sif—and there is a sour look on his face. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but then abruptly turns towards her. "Move." He snaps, and before she really knows what is happening his hands are tight over her upper arms and he is pushing her back toward the Pinzgauer.
"You'll have to leave the Casket with me." He's saying as they walk, and it takes her a moment to process—
"Excuse me?" Her legs, pliant before, lock up, and she leans backward, boots skidding on the gravel. She looks over her shoulder angrily. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Honestly, Jane, now is not the time to finally develop any more mortal stupidity."
She shakes off his slender grip and steps back. Behind him Sif is surveying the town, eyes focused on the desert in the distance. All Jane can think about is how much she would like to examine that armor the other girl has on, because it has to have some special qualities to be able to survive inter space travel.
"I'd be an idiot if I let this opportunity pass me by!" She needs to try and collect some sort of hard evidence, because this, this was going to change everything.
"What, do you—do you want to stay and get killed?"
There is strain in his voice, as if some sort of emotion beside his usual calm was striving to break through, and her attention moves from Darcy—who, despite the apparent danger, was flirting shamelessly with that blonde—to Loki. She adjusts her grip on the artifact.
His eyes are tight, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
"What's going on?" She says quietly. "Really?"
"Always the questions." He almost—but not quite—smiles.
"Loki. Who's coming?"
"The Jotuns. Frost giants." He spits out he word. His fingers roll nervously along his thigh, and she is suddenly, immensely, incredibly scared. "They are looking for that." He almost touches the artifact but backs off last minute.
"And you're sure?"
He raises a single eyebrow at her.
"Ok. Well, I'm still not leaving." And, if she's being honest with herself, gaining credibility has nothing to do with it at this point.
"This argument isn't over." He frowns down at her. "But right now we need to evacuate—"
There is a sound, then, like the universe is tearing in two, followed by a small cloud of fire licking the sky—she can see it, down the street and over the buildings, and it might be her imagination but she can feel it, too, the heat—
"Son of a bitch!" She gasps, knees feeling weak. "What was—that—that was the gas line. By Isabella's—"
"Damn it all." He turns, raising his voice. "Sif!"
"No!" The girl turns, and Jane thinks she looks tired, blood on her face, hair plastered with sweat, looks utterly and completely—
Human.
"No!" The girl repeats. "I am fighting the Jotuns and dragging you back to Asgard even if it kills me, because I will not let Thor die!"
"You are letting your emotions get in the way—"
"I am not like you, Loki! I cannot kill the people I love!"
Jane is about to ask what that is supposed to mean but Loki has already moved, so fast, so fast he is practically a blur, until he is towering over his fellow Asgardian, an ugly, cynical look on his face. "Don't you dare accuse me—"
"Of the truth?"
"WHERE IS THE CASKET?"
Jane shudders, wants to sink in on herself, because the voice is so goddamn loud. She tries to find its speaker and there, down the street, coming through the smoke and fire—
Oh my God.
The blonde man starts back from his position by Darcy and looks towards Sif. "Are you going to—"
"I will defeat them." She snaps, stalking forward. Jane already hears the screaming, but everything seems dull and far away, muted.
Impossible.
Blue giants—
"Come, Fandral. Let them taste Asgardian steel."
"You sound too much like Thor—there are innocents, Sif—" But the girl is already running, her steps slightly hindered by her armor, and the blonde curses, "Damn it." and pulls a rapier from the sheath at his side.
"Jane, get in the car." Loki doesn't look at her.
"We have to help get people out." She doesn't really understand what's happening, doesn't understand how the square, empty, gray box she is holding could cause so much trouble, but the screams are coming back and she couldn't care less—she tucks the artifact under one arm and shouts, "Darcy! Come on!"
"What the hell is going on?" The intern wails. "That guy was paying attention to me, and he was hot, and now he's gone—"
"So not the time." Jane snaps. "Get Erik."
Ready.
She's tired. So tired. Her mind feels clouded, ugly, and she can't think straight. The first Jotun is up ahead, close now, and, rather automatically, she extends her staff and springs up in an arc.
Was she being too rash, like Thor?
Was she doing exactly what she told him not to?
Her eyes meet red.
Something connects with her side, which she left open, unguarded—
The ground is hard and the blackness sweet bliss.
Aim.
Fandral thinks he shouts as Sif is thrown sideways, tossed like a child's plaything, but it's lost amid the screams and yells of the mortals around him, who are streaming away in droves, a mass exodus.
"This way!"
"Over here!"
This is a foolish plan; it isn't even a plan, and he is all for living life on the edge, but not like this—
They are tired, worn; Loki is without powers and the Jotuns all but have the Casket in their grasp.
He smiles, dashingly, because that's what he does, and charges forward.
He's out cold before he hits the ground.
Fire.
The street is empty. All she can hear are the dying roar of engines as people flee into the desert. She grips the artifact between her hands and looks for the two other Asgardians; there is no sign of them, but she did see Sif get tossed like a rag doll, so how were they expected to defeat that?
"You have to get out." Loki is looking down the street. She swallows thickly as the two monsters move up toward them, slowly, ice blossoming out in a flower around their feet with each step. "There is still time."
"What about Sif? Is she—"
"Dead?" It sounds like he cuts off an I wish. Instead: "For our sake, I hope not."
"Oh."
"Jane, we have to listen to him." The screaming sobered Erik up like nothing else could have. He's pointing towards the Pinzgauer, and Darcy is inching sideways.
"I'm not leaving you." She says, but Loki is still facing the street and doesn't turn, so she the declaration falls rather flatly to his back.
She knows, then, with absolute certainty, that she can't, she can't leave him—
"Jane, now is not the time to get all noble, let's go." Darcy jumps in place, looking at the Pinzgauer like it was a red Ferrari or a Porsche or maybe just salvation.
"Give me the Casket." Loki's voice is cold.
"Loki—" But before she knows what is happening the thing is taken from her grasp, not forcefully but firmly, and he starts to walk forward, to meet the monsters. Over his shoulder, slightly:
"Jane. Trust me."
It hits.
Baldr falls.
The laugh is gravel on ice, nails on marble, a million insects crawling over his skin; he keeps his face blank, fighting back a grimace. From the corner of his eye he sees Jane cover her ears with her hands, a look of disgust coming over her face. He takes a step forward, barely, as the monsters peer down at him, towering over the deserted Puente Antiguo buildings. The Casket is heavy, dead weight in his hands but no light is flickering; he can't seem to call up the sensation in his gut, has forgotten what magic is; instead he feels the little flame pulsate nervously to the beat of his heart. He levels it in front of his chest.
"This was easier than expected." The first monster snickers, arm an icy, frozen spear.
"Of course. The others led us right to it." The second takes a long look around him. "I can't believe you were in this pit Loki Odinson."
"You are a foolish, foolish boy." The first has a look of disdain on his face that it pains Loki to see, because he has worn the same look one too many times on his own. "You think that you can stop us with the Casket? The power that we control? The winter that we unleash?"
The presence at his side is sudden and he practically screams, because Jane is there, arms crossed, looking up at the two giants. He grits his teeth, mind reeling from the information Sif delivered to him, body aching from his injuries, and takes a step forward, red eyes tracking his movements, until he stands between the Frost Giants and Jane Foster. He wonders faintly if his brother ever feels this nervous standing on the battlefield, wonders what his brother would do if he were powerless and the only weapon in his possession would simply help the opposition, wonders if his brother is even alive. The first monster laughs again.
"Son of Odin, you were not made out to be this foolish." It reaches out a thick, meaty hand. "I grow tired of your games." The beast takes a step forward, the other staying stock still slightly behind, as if to block all escape, and Loki presses back, feeling Jane's nose cut somewhere into his lower back. He whispers over his shoulder, fighting for control, "Damn, Jane, move!"
"No!" she hisses back, "I'm not going to just—"
Pain, sharp, unexpected, blossoming into reality. The beast has the Casket in a death grip and flings him roughly to the side so he skips and rolls over the pavement like a stone. He comes to a stop against the wheel of a car, world a vortex of images and sights and sounds he cannot quite piece together correctly—
"Loki!"
"Jane, get back—"
"Too easy."
"Shouldn't he be like, melting?"
He coughs and tastes metal. Something lodges in the back of his throat. He pushes himself to his hands and looks up through the haze—
The Jotun has the edge of the Casket gripped triumphantly in one hand. Jane is standing before him, for all the world a mouse, looking frantically between the monsters before her and himself, lying on the ground. Erik is slowly, hands outstretched, waiting for the first move, inching towards the frozen girl, and Darcy has taken refuge behind a battered mailbox.
Think. Think, damn it, think—
He could strike a deal. Strike a deal for Midgard.
At the cost of what, Asgard?
But he would be saving—
"Little mortal, I suggest you stand down, before I make you."
"Jane, get back from there!" Erik shouts himself hoarse. Loki tries once more to push himself to his feet but, unlike his previous injuries, he fears he has actually broken a rib or six. But then he catches the movement—
The monster reaches forward with its free hand, and things tumble into slow motion.
He is on his feet. Each breath rips a new hole in his throat. Blood, hot and heavy, chokes him as he staggers towards the mortal, the stupid, damn, idiotic mortal who can't move and who is watching her death come towards her with all the brains of a pig about to be slaughtered—
He connects.
She falls sideways heavily, scraping the asphalt with a gasp, and the hand, meant for her, crashes down around his upper arm with a sickening crack. The world is black for a moment until the pain cuts through and he swims back to reality; the fingers of his left hand are numb, the bones tendons muscles useless in the hand of the Jotun.
"You've gone soft, Loki Odinson." The beast pulls him up; it's as if the Casket is lending its magic, its strength, because he finds himself dangled high in the air, staring directly into the eyes of the Giant across from him, and it's all he can do to keep from screaming in pain. "That woman has made you soft. No matter. I'll take the Casket back to Asgard with your complements, and all shall know of your treachery."
He feels teeth through his tongue from biting it too hard, but something deep like thunder sounds in the back of his mind—
"Die smiling, brother. Die with honor. Always."
—and he grins rather manically, blood seeping down his chin. "Go to Hel. You son of a bitch."
The words are foreign and Midgardian in his mouth and the Giant does not understand the second part of it, only its connotation, the hatred that leaks from it, and responds icily, "I believe you are the only one who will be visiting Helheim today, son of Odin."
The beast swings.
For a brief instant he feels his head snap back and connect with the concrete.
Then, nothing.