Clint called, later in the afternoon, just after she finished unpacking. It didn't take all that long.

She hesitated for a few tones but decided to answer in the end. It was better that way, for a worried Clint meant a rash and irrational Clint and that could have catastrophic consequences.

"Hey."

"Where the fuck are you?"

"In Ohio."

"Why the fuck are you in Ohio?"

"Vacation? And you don't have to yell, I can hear you clearly."

"Don't bullshit me. No one goes for a vacation to Ohio, especially not you."

"I'm not bullshitting you. I know you can trace the call and I know you know I'm telling the truth."

"You could be routing."

"I'm not. Am I under investigation?"

There was a beat of silence before Clint answered. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Taking revenge on me."

"Revenge? For what?"

"For making you drop the Loki's case."

"There's no case. And not everything in this world revolves around you, Clint. I'm not taking revenge on you, or anybody. I just needed a change of scenery. Call it as you wish."

There was a flurry of movement on the other side. "I'm coming over."

"No, you're not. I don't need a babysitter. I feel fine."

"You're clearly not. I saw your physicals results."

"So now you're stalking me?"

"We are spies, Natasha."

"And here I am, sitting and thinking we are friends, like a fool."

There was another stretch of silence on the other end. "I can't lose you, Nat. Not again."

"I'm not going anywhere," she said with a sigh. "I promise. I'll be back in a couple of days; I'm just… being in the city among all those people, after so long time alone is making me nervous, I think. It's better here."

"But why Ohio?"

"I don't know, I just picked a destination at random and I ran out of gas here, so that's where I'm staying."

Clint's sigh rustled on the other side. "Just… call me if something happens, okay?"

"I will."

Clint hung up in his usual manner, without saying goodbye. She collapsed onto the coach with a groan. There was a water stain on the ceiling, right above her head. It was shaped like Iceland, if she squinted.

Yeah, that's a good idea.

She did her usual internet sweep. The tread with the video got a new reply and she opened it up, only to find out it was someone calling her an idiot. Well, then.

There was a news article about progress of the cleanup in New York that didn't provide any real information, just turned over the same dry statements around a few times and praised the determination of the crews dealing with it. Most of the comments were just people arguing over the memorial that was apparently being erected in Saint John's Park. Like New York needed any more of those…

New York Times ran an interview with Steve Rogers, and she skimped it over. There was nothing interesting in it, just some general talk about what has changed in the world since his times (bananas and cars, apparently) and his plans for the future ("I try to make myself useful in any way I can in those trying times, mam"). Rogers came off just as virtuous and naïve as he did in person and Natasha tentatively added him to the list of most-likely-not-Hydra people she was slowly developing in her head. It was depressingly short, even with that new addition.

Rogers still wasn't a good person to go for help to anyway, he was too righteous for that. She could play out the entire conversation in her head without even going through it, the appalled indignation in his eyes and the stern refusal in his words.

Loki was an enemy, and – by siding with him – so was she.

She swung by the observation spot at the base before going to town for the evening. She swapped the batteries and the memory card, then returned to the car, where she watched the recording on fast forward. There was nothing out of the ordinary on it, no new arrivals, nor visitors, just the regular patrols that seemed to follow the exact same patterns she already noticed. The Saturday day shift was smaller than those on weekdays, which meant that – whatever it was that the base's operations were focused upon – it wasn't anything important enough to force full staff to work on weekends.

So, a weekend it was.

The security wasn't tight and penetrating the perimeter shouldn't be hard. That was one issue to strike off the board, at least. But there were others. She needed to reach the internal server access point, first and foremost. The data might have been scrubbed of the SHIELD and the Council databases, but there was a solid chance it was still stored locally, at least some of it. Fury said they've been forced to hand over test results, so those might be gone, but there ought to be something left. Surveillance records, employees report cards, transfer docs, anything. And, even if it was hidden behind a codename, it would still be easier to find on a local server, going by the date alone. There would be gigabytes of files to dig through – that she would have to do it by hand as she would not use SHIELD sanctioned software for that, and she had no access to anything else – but it's still nothing compared to the entirety of the Council database from before. Plus, breaching the security protocols from the inside would be infinitely easier than doing it remotely, even supposing she still had access to required hardware and skills, which she had not.

That plan, even as rough and barebone as it was at this point, still carried a big "if". She could go in and steal the data if she knows where to go, once she was inside. She couldn't risk going in blindly and wandering inside for hours until she stumbled upon a computer that was connected to the server. She couldn't hope to just guess the credentials required to access it. She needed a way into the main part of the facility and a login and a password, or at least an idea what sort of system it ran on, so she could procure an appropriate software to crack it beforehand.

She had an idea how to get the first one, at least.

Marcus wasn't in the pub that evening, none of his buddies were for that matter. According to the intel the girls provided it wasn't anything out of the ordinary, but Natasha still felt a pang of disappointment. Her bait didn't work as well as she hoped it would, or else he would be there. He was on the day shift today as well, she could recognize his silhouette on the recording, as he was leaving the facility at eight and heading for the sleeping quarters.

Chloe was there though, so was Tisha and they noticed her just as she crossed the threshold, so she couldn't leave without mingling for a while, or else it would be suspicious. So Natasha sat with them, sipping her drink, half-heartedly listening to their chatter and observing the patrons. Despite a sizeable crowd she couldn't spot anyone from the base.

"Too bad you didn't get to get it off with Tick," said Tisha, after she finished recounting how her encounter with Burgundy went. "He is a sweet guy. A bit shy, but once you get that tongue loose..."

"C'mon, stop bullshitting her, Tay," Chloe said. "We all know he is not your type."

Tisha shrugged and laughed. "Yeah, yeah, I'm just yanking your leash. He is as pure and as untouched as those guys go."

"I was never a fan of 'pure' anyway," Natasha said, absently.

Chloe dropped the straw she was playing with back into the glass and turned to her. "How so?"

"It suggests there's something wrong with not being that. You know, with the opposite of 'pure' being 'dirty'? Like you're somehow lesser just because you follow the natural calls of your body."

"I like the way you put it," said Tisha. "I'm definitely using it the next time my mother comes crawling up my butt."

Chloe laughed. "Don't tell my aunt that. She will give you a lengthy sermon on morals and living life the way Jesus intended. Don't get me wrong, she is a sweet woman, but the bible thumping gets old sometimes."

Natasha gave her a noncommittal chuckle, hoping it would be enough to end the subject.

It wasn't.

"By the way, which denomination are you?" Tisha asked.

Natasha sighed in resignation. "None in particular," she said with a shrug. There was never a strategically sound answer to such questions. Even if she struck her landing and guessed the exact flavor of religion her conversational partner followed, it only led to more questioning with a side of nagging.

Chloe squinted at her. "So you, what, don't believe in god?"

"Depends entirely on which one you have in mind," she said with a cryptic smile and got up to grab another drink, ignoring the weird glances the girls threw in her direction. They wouldn't like the answer anyway.

She made her excuses soon after. It wasn't that she had anything much better to do – getting to Marcus was still the next objective of her plan and that had to wait – but she could feel the first signs of a headache creeping in. As hard as she found admitting it before herself, she was still not back at full health. She made it through the time on the island without suffering major consequences (not thanks to herself, for the most part) but still, the time she spent unconscious afterwards had an effect even on her enhanced physique. Little sleep, no exercise and irregular, unhealthy eating habits weren't helping. Second night of drinking in a row would only make it worse, even if she was hardly tipsy the night before and felt completely sober now.

Finding Loki already took longer that she hoped it would and the search wasn't anywhere close to being finished. She kept on postponing getting it all sorted for "after" and it was the high time to admit it's not a valid strategy anymore. She won't be able to help anybody if she can't go on.

A full night of restful sleep would be a good start. It was easier said than done though.

She tried the couch first, but it was a doomed attempt, so she just dragged the blanket to the floor. The untreated slab under the thin layer of vinyl flooring was cold and there were dust balls under the couch. The worn, handmade rug had a vague musty smell.

She closed her eyes and let her magic wander, but it only made the headache worse, so she dropped it and let the vision fold in on itself. Then she lay with her eyes open. The light of the single bulb that lit up the backyard filtered through the bushes and imprinted the pattern of branches on the ceiling. The wall clock ticked the seconds away with an unwavering surety.

She spent a lot of her lifetime alone, either in metaphorical or in literal sense of the word. There were assignments that prevented her from seeing a friendly face for weeks or even months on end. And, even if she wasn't away, she didn't have many friends, and the ones who were there – like Clint – tended to disappear for extended periods of time. Even forever, often without a word and the trust they shared was always conditional, because that's how things just were in her field.

She was used to it, in a way. Yet she never felt as truly, as utterly alone as she did now.

The shadowy branches on the ceiling swayed softly with the autumn breeze and she wrapped the thin blanket closely around herself.

She thought it would get better once she got Loki back to Earth, that it would go smoothly from there. That sending him back would solve his problems and that the sacrifice would end hers, in a more permanent manner.

The cycle ends here, Loki has said.

Only it did not. He preferred death to more captivity, and she was the one to put him through it again. And every passing day meant another tally mark on Loki's wall of torment, another stroke to add to the collection of thousands of similar ones from his past. If he hated her right now, he had all the reasons to do so.

Tears came stinging in her eyes and she bit her lip to keep them in. It was not the time to despair, bawling her eyes out wouldn't help. She had to get a grip of herself.

If only there was someone she could talk to, someone who would understand…

She got up, pulled the clock off the wall and tossed the battery into the trash. Then she reached for her phone, settled on the floor with her back against the couch, opened the camera app. Her face looked gaunt and pale in the spare light the screen gave off. She hit the "record" button.

"Hey," she said into the eye of the camera and smiled. "I really need to talk to you. So… I'm recording it with an honest intent to play it to you once we meet again. I may change my mind tomorrow, but as of now… Yeah, that's what we are at.

"I wish you were here… Okay, that's cliché and not truly accurate. I don' t mean here exactly, as here is actually a dingy basement in Ohio, which is, by all Earth standards, nowhere near the top one hundred desirable places to be, no matter what measures you apply. At least I can leave, so I guess it beats your current accommodation by that merit alone.

"So, let me rephrase. I really wish you were with me."

Her voice broke and she paused the recording to clear her throat. She stared at her own image on the screen for a long moment before she pushed the button again.

"I know you told me, and I wish I listened. I thought that I…"

Her voice grew frilly again and she reached to pause the video again, then reconsidered. What was the point if she was going to hide things? She blinked and a tear rolled down her cheek.

"Look at you, the asshole extraordinaire, making me weep again, just by not being around. That's some next level assholery, must be."

She sighed and smiled at the camera.

"I lied just now. Not the asshole part, that one is true. The 'I wished I listened to you' part is a lie. Well, a small bit of me does wish that, because I know you've been through enough. But all the rest is happy that you're still alive…

"Listen. I know it sucks and I know it doesn't amount to much but – since you're not here to glare at me with reproach – I'm still going to say it. I'm so fucking sorry I landed you in this position. You don't deserve anything of what's happening to you, I hope you know that. And I'm going to turn every stone, burn every bridge and cross every fucking river it takes to get you out. And all the other fancy idioms I can't think of right now.

"You see, I was never good with words if I had to speak the truth. Maybe if I were, I would've found proper ones to tell you how…"

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"I've been exploring the thing a bit more. I still can't make the light appear, but at least I can sense electricity and water in the pipes and I'm sure there's some obscure application for that. Perhaps it's even something absurdly obvious. If that's the case you're allowed to laugh at me all you want for not realizing it on my own. Some conditions may apply though."

She smiled again and looked into the eye of the camera for a long while.

"I've met a couple of girls at the bar when I was trying to find a way into the place you were kept in at the beginning… Oh, by the way, I don't know how much they've told you, but I didn't come to see you right away because I was in a coma up until very recently. Yeah, now you're permitted to sneer and make a nasty comment about frail mortal bodies. Just one though, so pick the best one you've got.

"I know you're not there anymore, but that's all I got for now.

"The big bad boss wouldn't talk to me, because he smells some higher-level conspiracy brewing and who the fuck knows if he isn't right on point. I don't want to say much more as I'm recording this on a Starkphone of all things. I scanned it and it seems fine, but I could've missed something, and I don't know what keywords can trigger their search algorithms… You were right about the mythological creature thing doing well for itself. I still didn't get to the bottom of that, so if they are the ones that are keeping you right now, feel free to bash some faces in, you'd be doing the society a huge favor."

She chuckled at the mental image.

"Anyway, as I was saying, I met those girls. You'd absolutely hate how thoughtlessly and obnoxiously they act, and you'd probably be right. But then they talked, and I listened, and I realized…

"Remember what I told you? About wanting a normal life? Oh, why am I even asking, of course you do. You told me I make you feel 'normal' too. We talked about it like it was some state that was worth achieving, something to work towards to. The thing is… being 'normal' does not shield you from loss or grief or pain. Losing a loved one hurts as much and betrayal tastes as bitter, no matter if you're a provincial girl or a top tier spy or a wizard from a floating castle and there's just about as much you can do about it. It doesn't make your life simpler. Or any more or less valuable.

"Then it made me think. What measure do we use to say what's normal and what's not? Is there a precise definition? Is there a quantifiable, predefined value that makes up the border line between the 'normal' and 'abnormal'? The girls were normal people, right? At which point would they stop being that? Pink hair? Extra thumbs? Knowing how to yodel? No? Knife throwing skills and some experience with garotte? How about blue skin?

"We hook up to those details that make us stand out, like if they should define us, define what we can and cannot be. As if there was no choice involved, as if it weren't for us to decide what we really want to do…

"I strived to be something special all of my life. To be something greater, something more significant that would leave an imprint in the world, make it a… I would love to say a better place, but it wasn't that, not always. Just… different. But no matter what I did there was always someone who would suffer for my actions. Sometimes it was me but often it were other people. This time it's you. I wanted to help, to be the savior you needed, and it only made things worse. And you? You were told what you should and shouldn't be all your life. By your father, by your brother, by the people of your home. You tried to make right to those expectations and it only led to a disaster.

"We did what we did, and it just made us crave that normalcy all the more. Both those pursuits, for normalcy and greatness, despite having two opposite directions, lead to the same disappointment. What's the point then? Why even do that? What if we just try to be… ourselves?

"So, I thought – if you're still not angry enough to never talk to me again once this is over – can we try being ourselves, together?"

She stopped the recording. A prompt popped up, asking her whether to delete the video or save it. She stared at the notice for a solid minute before she clicked on "save".

They unhooked the machine and Loki's thoughts slowly returned to his head and rearranged into – rather unusual, lately – more-or-less lucid state. They wanted something else than the use of his flesh today then. Perhaps that meant he would be spared the cold treatment for a while?

Whether that was true or not, he couldn't find the enthusiasm to rejoice at the notion. Whatever they came up with instead was going to be just as bad, if not worse. That much he learned already.

It's been some time since his captors figured out Loki reacted to extreme temperatures in a different way than a mortal would. They've been using it ever since, either for their enjoinment or to further their scientific research. Loki wasn't interested enough to find out which one it was. It hurt the same either way and, regardless of the excuse they used, he knew that they did it because they could. Because there was no one who would say no. There were no laws to protect the likes of him and he couldn't protect himself anymore.

The reason shouldn't matter, the outcome didn't change because of it, yet the realization still managed to make it worse, somehow. Perhaps it made him understand that there was nothing that would make them stop, for his fate was sealed the moment he was born. Or perhaps because it made the quiet whisper – the one that repeated "you deserve it" at the back of his mind like a mantra, the one that worked to soothe him at the darkest moments when there was nothing else – no longer effective.

It wasn't about justice, not at all.

They started with heat, the temperature in the room ramping up until it felt like his skin was sizzling and his flesh would come cleanly off the bones if he moved just a thumb. He almost cried out in relief when they finally switched off the heat and went the other way around.

The solace was short-lived.

He always had a higher tolerance for cold. Higher than any mortal, higher than most Æsir and other elder races, too. He rarely questioned it, he didn't have many other strong points and it was still better than nothing, as insignificant as it was compared to Thor's innate powers. Finding out what he was and the realization that what he thought a talent was just a side effect of Odin's magic made him hate that part of himself too. Still, he was sensible enough to realize it had its uses, whether he liked it or not.

But, as it turned out, it wasn't without its limits. While the Jötnar in their natural form could thrive in temperatures close to absolute zero, his own ability in that area was limited by the enchantment that changed his appearance. And – once the cell got cold enough – his body responded with an attempt to change into its Jötunn form as an instinctual way to protect itself. He couldn't control it, but it was still a transformation that required energy and an access to his core. That, of course, made Odin's spell flare up immediately, and – because it apparently counted as an attempt to use his powers, despite no conscious effort involved – the effects were a lot more violent than they were when his captors merely managed to tear screams out of him.

Who would have thought?

Well, Odin probably did.

Loki wondered briefly if the All-Father had Heimdall relay every piece of torment his used-to-be-son went through, was the abridged summary enough to make him satisfied with mortals' handiwork or if he not cared enough to look his way at all. Then he immediately forgot about it, as the spell activated again, and a new wave of agony wiped his mind clean of any articulate thought.

They soon found a perfect spot, at which he was left shivering uncontrollably with the spell triggering once in a while, for shorter periods, the effects not severe enough to knock him out but still strong enough to keep him in constant pain. So, as much as he never considered cold his enemy, he grew to hate it all the same.

They left it at that for what felt like ages now, only turning the cooling off when someone came into the cell to draw his blood or replace the containers feeding the machine. They had to alter the formula, because the old one kept on freezing, of which Loki was informed by a very discontented lab worker, who decided to vent his frustration with the fact by pressing a shock baton to Loki's chin and firing it until it ran out of charge.

Oh, yes, he hated those too.

The cooling was off now and must've been for quite some time because the air felt uncomfortably hot in comparison and feeling slowly returned to his extremities, reminding him of the ache of broken bones in his arms. They were broken so his captors could see how fast he would heal, at least that what he caught from their conversations. They intended to repeat the process once he healed and were annoyed that it took so long.

It would be quicker if they didn't keep on burning the little energy he had on the struggle with Odin's spell. Obviously, Loki wouldn't tell them that, even if he somehow could. Well, perhaps he would, if they promised to use something a bit less primitive than a hammer the next time…

The blindfold was ripped off his eyes. The lamp above his head burned too brightly, but he kept his eyes open. It was, too, a rare occurrence and he didn't want to waste a moment of it. They kept him in the dark for so long he sometimes forgot how light looked like. Not now, but sometimes.

Despite his best efforts, the stinging became unbearable and his eyes filled with tears, so he let his eyelids fall. Then there was a hand in his hair and his head was yanked up, until his throat was crushed against the metal band, cutting away the little air he was normally allowed.

"Look at me when I talk to you," the owner of the hand snarled and shook Loki's head to the sides. Oh, yes, someone was talking. To him. That did happen, on occasion.

Loki looked.

The round face and the shape of a clean-shaved skull of the man standing above him seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't recall whether it was someone he knew from here or someone he met in his previous life, the one that didn't consist entirely of darkness and pain. Sometimes he wasn't even sure if it was not a dream, something he manufactured in his confused brain to cheer himself up when his existence became too dreadful. There were people who cared for him in the memories of that long-gone time, so it couldn't be real, could it?

Sometimes he could even remember their faces.

Not now, but sometimes.

"Are you going to play nicely today?" the mortal asked.

As if his cooperation or lack thereof made any difference. Loki wanted to laugh, but the manacle crushed his windpipe too effectively for that to work. He shook his head instead and clenched his teeth in anticipation of the punch that was sure to follow.

Mortal's lips curled back from his teeth and into a nasty smile. "You might not know it yet, but you will," he said and produced a wide blade with a long hilt. There was a shining gem mounted in the middle of it.

Loki stared at it for a couple of heartbeats through widening eyes.

The scepter.

The mortal let go of Loki's hair. His head rolled back, the back side of the gag hit the metal tabletop and the resulting clank rang in his skull.

They had the Thanos' scepter. They would use it on him, taking away the very last thing he still had. His sense of self.

A soft whimper escaped his throat and the mortal laughed. His colleagues accompanied him soon after, making Loki aware of other people in the room. So, they all came to witness his ultimate defeat. Take turns at controlling him, perhaps.

"You still have some wit about you then," the man said. "Good, you will feel every inch of it, as it happens."

At that, he pushed the tip of the scepter to Loki's sternum, with enough force to pierce the layer of cloth and the skin underneath. Loki ignored the pain, knowing the worst was yet to come. The mortal's fingers curled around the hilt with redoubled effort, the pointy end dug deeper into his flesh and the stone sparked to life, glowing ominously. Loki couldn't bear looking at it no more and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Perhaps it was for the best. There would be no more pain. They would have no reason to torment him once they believed him on their side.

No, there was something off about that reasoning.

They weren't punishing him for what he did. They hurt him because of what he was. That couldn't be changed, no matter how much he wished it could.

It wouldn't be any different, whether his mind was his own or not.

He clenched his fists and waited for the wave of blue light that would come to erase him.

The metal shifted in his throat. Hot agony burst at the base of his skull and spilled all over his body. Loki's eyes snapped open in an instant.

Then he started laughing.

Odin's spell. The magic the All-Father constructed was scrutinous enough to block even the Mind Stone's power. Odin hated him as much.

The spell kept on firing, but he did not stop laughing. He didn't stop even when the mortals turned on the current in the shackles to subdue him. He only stopped when he could no longer swallow the blood that pooled in his throat and his laughter turned into a coughing fit.