Okie dokey guys, a bit of a warning this chapter for graphic depictions of violence and some non-consensual, erm… touching, shall we say? Anyway, that and a whole load of angst, and magical mumbo jumbo talk, I guess. But that's pretty much my MO. I hope you enjoy the chapter anyway, and let me know what you think!
Chapter 21:
Consciousness comes slowly.
Vague and distant sensation pokes at him. A dull ache which he thinks might be pain. But it is too undefined to know for certain.
It consumes him, whatever it is. Something stiff and dry and wrong.
The impression takes hold and refuses to release his thoughts.
Something is wrong.
Open your eyes, he tells himself then. Open your eyes and see.
He tries.
But gods, his lids are heavy.
It is as lifting a weight far beyond his abilities, and he struggles against it for what seems an eternity.
Tries and tries, until all his will is focused towards the one, simple, but seemingly impossible task.
And hateful thoughts rip through him then.
Weak. Pathetic. Pitiful.
Weak second son.
Unworthy.
Unloved.
Unwanted.
Weak, weak, weak.
NO!
His lids snap open with a sudden almost violence, only to have to slam back shut as his eyes are filled with and blinded by some overhead, white light.
Spectrums of color dance across his vision behind the darkness, and it is several, long seconds before he again attempts it, this time taking care as he lifts his lids slowly, allowing only a sliver of light through.
Still, he blinks harshly against it, the brightness searing and painful, and it is several seconds more before he is able to open them the rest of the way, and the light comes into shape above him, projected by what he's learned Midgardians call lamps.
Though this ones light seems unnaturally bright, and Loki is able to hold his gaze on it only a short moment before he is again closing his lids and turning his face away, wishing to be rid of the ache it causes behind his eyes.
"So at last you deign to grace Doom with your consciousness." He suddenly hears a deep voice, coming from somewhere close and to his left, and his lids open again, his head turning to find the source.
And before him, he sees a figure, clad entirely in buffed and shining metal, broad and hulking in appearance, a green hooded cloak draped over its head and across its shoulders. A matching green tunic covering its body.
And Loki remembers.
He remembers everything.
The figure is the same, identical to the machine that attacked he and Jane in the street.
Only…
Only not the eyes.
Where the machine had empty, black slits, he now sees a pair of cold, blue orbs staring back, regarding him closely, if without any sort of readable emotion.
Loki remembers, and a surge of rage washes through him, momentarily turning his vision red.
He snarls, intending to rise up and lunge for the figure, tear him limb from limb for daring…
Only to be unceremoniously snapped back down.
And the ache which had been vague hits him hard, blossoming into fully realized agony, tearing worst at the joints of his arms and legs, along his ankles and wrists, and Loki has to bite down nearly hard enough on his lip to draw blood to keep from crying out.
"You should not struggle." The figure says, in that same, detached tone. "Escape is futile, and you will only make it more uncomfortable for yourself."
It is then, Loki realizes belatedly, that he is lying on his back against something cold and hard.
Metal, he thinks.
And the realization quickly follows that he is tied down at the wrists and ankles, his arms pulled nearly taught above his head, his legs spread out wide.
He realizes then, too, that he has been stripped naked, as he glances down at himself, and sees his body bare and exposed.
For a moment, an irrational surge of embarrassment takes him, and he pushes it down violently, willing the flush which he can feel wanting to reach up across his face away.
He is in the hands of some unknown enemy.
It would not due to show weakness of any kind.
And so, instead, he turns his face back to the figure, and forces his voice into a calm, unaffected tone.
Still, it comes out tired and weak, and he curses himself inwardly for allowing even that.
"Who are you?" He asks, succeeding, at least, in sounding utterly unintimidated.
The figure continues regarding him silently for several, long seconds, unmoving, what Loki can see of his eyes still emotionless and frigid.
The mischief god feels an uncomfortable tingle down his spine, and tells himself vehemently it is not fear.
And finally, the figure shifts, closer, arms crossing over a broad, metal encased chest.
"Dr. Victor Von Doom, ruler of Lavetria." He says. "Doom is a great man. A scientist, and a sorcerer. But still, just a man. And so, Doom finds himself very, very interested in you, Loki of Asgard."
There is a momentary pause as Loki absorbs what's just been told to him.
A sorcerer?
A Midgardian sorcerer?
Never has he heard of such a thing.
Never with any legitimacy.
Mortals are not of magic. And so…
But, then, that energy he felt through the machines tentacles…
He recalls it now, and realizes with shock that, indeed, it had had in it the strong taste of siedr. Clumsily wielded and weak. But no, it was siedr, nonetheless.
Though nothing of the innate cosmic energy inherent in the gods and giants and elves.
Loki's brow furrows in contemplation, and like a lightening strike, it hits him hard, and he says…
"You have learned then to manipulate the magical energies of Midgard."
For a long moment, Doom says nothing. And then, slowly, he inclines his head, just slightly, in affirmation.
"Indeed." He answers.
"Then you meddle in powers beyond your comprehension." Loki says back. "You play a dangerous game. Magic is meant not for mortals."
There is a spark of some emotion then in Doom's eyes, finally, and Loki silently counts it a victory.
"Perhaps." Doom says after a moment, the emotion quickly gone. "But then, you begin towards my reason for wanting you here."
"And what is that?" Loki asks quickly, flexing his hands above his head. "You seek knowledge of the dark arts? And you think I will tutor you in such?"
Keeping any emotion from his own face, he reaches for his magic.
He can feel it, there inside him. Weak though the pull is.
Only…
It is as though it is being weighed down.
Repressed under some suffocating force. And it will not respond to his call.
A momentary spike of panic lances through the god, before he smothers it, keeping the lines of his face unmoving.
At this, there comes a low chuckle from behind Doom's iron mask, and he shakes his head.
"No." He answers smugly. "Nothing so mundane. My knowledge is already vast."
Loki smiles condescendingly at the man.
"I assure you it is not." He replies. "As I said, magic is meant not for mortals. And given the complexities and intricacies of wielding such energy, and given your short, mayfly lives, your understanding of it can only be rudimentary at best."
Another flash of emotion in Doom's eyes, and Loki recognizes it as deep displeasure.
His own smile broadens.
He's wounded the mortal's pride then.
Good.
The slap of a metal palm against his mouth stings only a little, and Loki considers it well worth the pain.
"Doom was able to subdue you well enough." Doom states flatly.
"Not precisely a commendable feat, given my present condi…" Loki halts abruptly, clamping his mouth shut, realizing the gravity of his error as he sees Doom's eyes narrow through the slits in his mask.
A moment passes in tense silence, the god staring back at the mortal, expression forced into blankness as he waits to see what Doom will do.
But eventually, all he gives is a considering "Hm", before turning his back to Loki, striding some feet away.
Loki takes the opportunity to test the strength of his bonds.
Unsurprisingly, they do not give under the pressure of his strength. Not even a little, and Loki can't help the twinge of worried disappointment which tugs at his insides.
"You are a god." Doom begins suddenly, back still to him.
Loki says nothing.
Another, few seconds of silence, and then Doom continues…
"You tell Doom his mortality renders him incapable of possessing a full understanding of the workings of magic." Finally, he turns back, regarding Loki with those same, cold eyes.
Loki realizes with mounting fury and apprehension that Doom stares at him as one might stare at a dissected rat, taken apart for study and experimentation.
He forces his face to stay blank, even as he feels a tension begin to coil unpleasantly through his thin frame.
"Perhaps you are correct." Doom says, stepping near again.
Loki fights the urge to recoil at the closeness of the mortal, a sudden, uneasy feeling sinking into the pit of his stomach.
"And herein lies the purpose of Doom's bringing you here, Loki of Asgard."
He leans close, face just inches from Loki's now, and the tension in the god's frame pulls tighter.
"You are a god." Doom repeats, his metal fingers coming to grip along the lip of the table Loki is strapped to. "And thus you are immortal. Thus you hold in you the key to immortality."
Loki's eyes narrow, a sickening sensation gripping his heart, working up through his throat as realization begins to dawn.
Doom straightens, folding his hands at his back.
"Doom means to study you then, little god." He says, voice flat and without feeling. "Take you apart and find the answer to what gives you everlasting life. And then, when Doom has found the answer, Doom will give himself the same."
Loki can't help the harsh scoff which escapes past his lips, even as his mind tells him it is an unwise course, to mock this bizarre mortal.
"Then you will be searching for all the rest of your limited days." He says, ignoring the warning bells going off in his mind.
Doom's eyes narrow through the slits again, and he regards Loki closely a moment.
"Explain." He at last says.
Loki sneers.
"A god's immortality is derived from the cosmic energy inherent in all of them." He says back shortly. When Doom says nothing in response, Loki goes on. "We are made from magic." He says. "From the energy of the World Tree. It is not simply an outside source of power which we teach ourselves to manipulate, as you have. It is a part of our cores, a part of our life force.
"Some of us posses this energy in greater quantities than others, yes. Some of us possess a greater affinity towards controlling it than others as well. But such power is present in us all, to some degree. It is what grants us immortality. Our inherent link to Yiggdrassil. It is not something you can learn to posses, or teach yourself to gain. As a mortal, you are devoid of this energy. You possess no connection to the Tree, and you cannot create such a connection through any means or process. You cannot make a god, Doom. You must be born as one."
For several, long moments, there comes no response, and Loki stares back at the man, unflinchingly, waiting for him to comprehend, to realize the truth of his words, and forget this ridiculous pursuit.
But then Doom steps back, raising his head, and he says…
"You are called the god of lies, are you not?"
Loki blinks, and says nothing.
"As such, then, your word is not to be trusted. And so, Doom determines you to be lying."
"Are you completely mad?!" Loki spits, finally losing his temper, straining at his bonds as a trickle of apprehension works through him. "Do you not see the absurdity of this pursuit of yours? It will fail, Doom, no matter your determination. It is an impossible task you set for yourself. No man can become a god."
"Doom is no mere man, little god!" Doom's voice at last rises from its monotone, and he reaches down, grasping Loki viciously by the jaw, squeezing with hard pressure. "Doom is a monument to greatness! He is a GOD among men! And he will find the key to his immortality through you!"
Loki stares back at him, his own, green eyes cold as shattered ice.
"Then you are a fool as well as mad." He says, voice soft.
"We shall see." Doom hisses. "Now, let us commence the research."
Loki barely has time to register the comment, for a shot of dread to work through him before Doom is forcing his lips apart with cruel, thick, and strong fingers.
Loki resists, turning his head away, trying to keep his jaw firmly closed.
But Doom's mechanical hands are powerful, and eventually, he wins out, prying the god's mouth open, holding it wide in a lock jawed position as he begins to probe invasively.
Loki feels his entire body stiffen at the feel of Doom's fingers in his mouth, unwanted memories rising unbidden in his mind.
So many times, he found himself thus.
Overpowered and held down.
Cruel hands touching him so…
He closes his eyes, and tries to forget.
Doom is shining a light inside his mouth, using the thin instrument to shift the god's tongue around. To tap along his teeth.
"Doom notes the god's dental structure is remarkably similar to that of homo sapien. No obvious divergence in form."
This probing continues for several minutes, Loki swallowing convulsively several times, trying to ignore the ache beginning to set into the joints of his jaw, the pain seeping slowly into the muscles of his neck.
Until finally, mercifully, Doom releases him, and Loki turns his head away once more, useless though the action is. He keeps his eyes closed, trying to keep his breaths even.
The respite lasts only moments, however, as he feels the cool metal of dooms hands beginning to roam along his shoulders, feeling him, before moving down, palms flat across the skin of his chest.
Farther down still, to his abdomen, hard edged fingers pressing and pushing and squeezing, and Loki swallows again thickly, sucking a breath in sharply through his nose at the sickening sensation the man's hands stirs in him.
Doom's touch is anything but intimate. Invasive and calculating and cold. He is rough and unkind and clinical. He touches Loki like he is an object to be taken apart and studied.
And there is something terrible working its way up inside Loki.
Something like drowning.
The god's throat is tightening, closing off and making it hard to breathe.
There is a stinging at the backs of his eyes which he refuses to acknowledge. Refuses further to let take hold.
He is not weak.
He is not… not… not…
And then Doom's hands are on his thighs, squeezing and pressing and kneading in that same, clinical fashion, and Loki's body stiffens further, his hands clenching to fists above his head, nails digging hard enough into his palms to draw blood.
The metal palms drag, forcing themselves underneath, to the small of Loki's back, and then lower, over his buttocks, pressing and forcing apart, several seconds until they move farther down, grasping painfully tight over his hamstrings and then up again, to the inside of his thighs.
When Doom takes hold of his penis, Loki exhales harshly back through his nose, eyes still squeezed shut.
"Doom notes the god's anatomy appears much the same as that of homo sapien. No obvious divergence in body structure, save for a certain form of perfection not readily found in any but the most highly conditioned of human athletes. Though it also should be noted that the creature's tissue density feels, based on simple touch, to be several times greater than that of any human man or woman."
Doom's hand squeezes around Loki's penis, and Loki has to bite down painfully on his lower lip to swallow the cry of protest which wants to leap from his tongue.
He is taken by the near overwhelming urge to beg the mortal to stop.
Too many memories now…
Too many…
Helpless and weak, and cruel, unkind, disgusting hands, using and touching and having and forcing.
And there is nothing he can do.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
And he is helpless and weak and alone, and he wants his brother.
He wants his brother, please, please, please…
He wants his mother…
He swallows a harsh, startled gasp as he feels Doom tug on him, and he hears Doom say…
"Doom notes the god's sexual organs appear also similarly to that of any male gendered homo sapien."
The stinging behind Loki's eyes worsens suddenly, surging forward and threatening to escape.
And Loki holds his lids tighter shut, keeping his head turned away, fighting with all he has to keep the emotion back.
He will not show weakness before this mortal, he tells himself. He will not.
He will not.
Even as he feels a suddenly warm, soft grip along his penis, and realizes abruptly Doom has removed his metal gauntlet. Even as he feels that warm grip begin to shift and move and squeeze, as though testing.
Loki keeps his eyes closed, his lower lip bitten nearly through between his teeth to keep his voice silent.
He refuses to show weakness. Refuses to react.
And when he feels a wetness down his cheeks, he tells himself it isn't there.
He tells himself that, and it is almost something he can believe.
A surge of pure self-loathing washes through him, and he stamps it down.
Not your fault, not your fault, not your fault, his mind begs over and over. Pleads with him to understand.
But the feelings remain.
And desperately he tries to push the memories away, remembering other hands doing this same grotesqueness to him.
So many others.
Remembering only this, for too long has it been since any touched him so intimately with any intent other than to hurt.
And he wonders distantly what is wrong with him, that others wish to do this to him, again and again.
What is wrong with him, that he inspires only this perverse ugliness in others. That they should only want to touch him as this to hurt him.
Doom is saying something else now, but Loki doesn't understand the words.
And when he feels Doom's cold fingers on his face again, forcing it back to him, and Loki's eyes come open, awash with tears which he blinks rapidly, angrily away, when Doom leans close, watching and studying with that same detached, lowly regard, and he tells Loki that outwardly, there appears to be little difference between him and any normal human being, when he expresses a disappointment in the results thus far, that's when Loki spits, right in the mortals face.
And between clenched, hateful teeth, he hisses, low and quiet…
"Fuck you."
It is an insult well below the standards of the famed Silver tongued god of Asgard. Well below what has come to be expected from the wittiest, cleverest of the gods.
In that moment, Loki could not care less.
For a long instant, Doom stands there, frozen, seeming almost stunned.
And Loki stares back, face hardened and unmoving, even as unbidden tears continue to course down his pale cheeks.
And then Doom suddenly straightens, hand reaching up and wiping the saliva from his metal encased visage, pulling it away to examine the spit idly before shaking his hand off.
"Hmm, yes, well…" he begins, apparently having gotten over his initial surprise. "it is more the insides Doom is interested in than the outer shell in any case. So," he turns from the god, moving swiftly across the space.
Loki tracks his movements, watching as he stops at what appears to be a work table of some kind, beginning to fiddle with whatever various contents lay atop it. Loki cannot see from the position he is in, only a deep seated dread begins to coil tight through his stomach as the mortals words reverberate through his skull.
And when Doom turns back, and Loki glimpses what he holds in his hands, that dread solidifies into a heavy weight, like a stone dropped dead within him.
Loki does not know what it is, precisely. Only that it sports at its center a wicked, curved, serrated blade, metal gleaming in a way unnatural to Midgardian steels in the overhead lights.
And Loki knows instantly it will be effective to do him harm.
He knows it will tear him open easily as any human.
He swallows convulsively as Doom begins towards him again, fighting to keep his face blank of emotion.
Doom hoists the tool high for him to see as he stops beside the table.
"This is a bone saw." The mortal pronounces. "Crafted, perhaps you can tell, from other worldly metals. Doom understood in order to affectively dissect his subject, he would need the proper tools."
Loki doesn't understand the meaning of the term 'bone saw', but he can work out its purpose well enough from the context.
He manages, somehow, to keep his expression placid.
"Doom assumes, from the extensive observation he had conducted of you and all your kind are, you will indeed survive this."
And that is all the warning Loki is given, before the mortal presses down upon some manner of button along the tool's edge, and the blade whirs to life in a violent motion, furious in speed and intensity.
Loki cannot quite keep his eyes from widening, nor his body from tensing viciously.
"Do not struggle." Doom commands, and Loki turns away.
He does not wish to see his own body's mutilation.
He has seen that too many times in his long, long life.
The pain drowns him.
Distantly, Loki is aware of the smell of heated metal and burning flesh. The sound of rending skin and muscle and bone.
But the pain…
The pain…
For a long moment, Loki cannot breathe through it, the air taken entirely from him.
And when it comes again, it rushes back to him through a loud and shocked gasp, a broken scream pushing to follow in its wake.
But Loki will not allow it.
He bites down on his lip, so hard his teeth tear through the soft flesh, and the taste of copper lathes his tongue.
Still, through his struggle, a crumpled whimper makes it past, and he hates himself.
He hates himself.
More blood is coating his mouth now, and he can feel it, rising up from his throat, coming from inside.
And the pain through him, oh… oh, gods…
Tears fall free and fast from his closed eyes, and he doesn't even try to stop them, doesn't care, because all he knows is the pain, and gods, gods, he wishes it would stop.
Please, please, make it stop.
Something warm and with a cloying, sharp tang spills over his sides, and distantly, Loki thinks, he knows that smell, knows the feel of what it is.
He knows it well.
The scent and warmth of spilt blood.
He's hardly aware of it when the deafening buzz of the saw cuts, only to then suffocate in the feel of hands moving around inside him.
As though under water, he hears Doom's voice, talking, noting something about a lack of organs.
And then, suddenly, there is the smell of his magic, thick and potent and heavy on the air, and he can feel it, struggling through his veins, struggling to fix him.
Sparks of green/white/gold flicker past the darkness of his lids, trembling and weak, and it won't be enough.
It won't be enough to undo this.
Something tight is fastening to his bones then. He feels it. Something viciously tight, clamping to the edges of his ribcage.
The sound of cracking, twisting, breaking bone reaches his ears first.
And then there is a new kind of pain.
It washes through him.
And finally, it is, Loki screams.