A/N: This chapter fought me. Hard. Which is why it's late and unbeta'd (*hides face*). I'm also going to be out of the country for a bit, so there won't be an update next week. Hope you can bear with me - normal service should resume when I'm back!

o0o

He has said too much.

If this is some kind of trick, a ruse to put him at ease or a new gambit to reveal his weaknesses, he has played right into their hands.

If it is not… Well. He's not sure that possibility offers him any comfort.

The hot water pounding his back is soothing and luxurious. It soaks into his muscles and sluices blood and grime from his skin. The pain of his injuries is easing as they heal, although the mess he has made to his front will likely take longer to seal than the rest. He lets the water run over them and leans heavily into the small measure of privacy he has been allowed. He is caught between a desire to relax into the relief the water offers and a visceral urge to remain alert. He is not alone, and he cannot afford to let his guard down even if he were. Regardless, it feels good to finally be clean.

The steam and the heat starts to make him feel light-headed, so with reluctance he shuts the shower off. He dries and dresses under the watchful eye of his artificial caretaker and is escorted back to his cell. He does not answer any of the questions put to him as he goes.

He will not let his frustration get the better of him next time. He will tread more carefully. He will determine the course of any future interrogation, and he will guard his discoveries more closely.

He'll certainly be more mindful about exposing his ignorance. He's been careless. Foolish.

His captors had finally been at a loss for words. He had gained a grim sense of satisfaction from that at least. Once they'd recovered their equilibrium he had tuned them out, their questions and doubts and strangely earnest assurances allowed to pass over him without comment. In hindsight he perhaps should have used the opportunity to learn something, or to turn the situation to his advantage. He had not wanted to reveal just how overwhelmed he had felt at that time. How little he knows. How completely defenceless he is. He hadn't trusted himself to remain calm.

Loki. They'd called him Loki.

It hadn't felt quite right, hadn't quite fit, somehow. But it was something. Whoever this person was, he'd had a name.

He'd focused on the view outside and let himself retreat from the demands on his attention. He'd wanted to go out in it, to feel the wind on his face and the sun on his skin. More than anything he wishes to leave these confines behind and to be allowed the space to breathe. He doesn't know where exactly he would go. Perhaps it wouldn't matter.

Whatever this place is, it is different to the last. Different also to the pictures that come to him in his dreams, already vague and distant apparitions that no longer feel quite as real as they once did. They spoke of a tower, but there is no sign of any structure resembling what some unknown part of him half expects. Everything here is so very ordinary. So very unremarkable.

"Will you not speak to me?" the one called Vision says when they enter the small room, finally breaking into his reverie. His tone suggests he has tried many times to draw Loki out.

Loki keeps his eyes fixed ahead and doesn't allow Vision's disappointment to affect him. The synthetic being finally takes his leave, and he is left alone in his cell.

Vision had at least kept his word - Loki had been allowed to retreat not long after the insistent babble had become too much. He'd cut across them with an insistence he be allowed to return, and with obvious reluctance they had finally acquiesced. A small measure of power, perhaps, but any control he can exert over his situation he will gladly use.

A tightness he has been carrying in his muscles melts away a little now that he's alone, but he keeps the door in sight as he reclines. More food has been left for him which he tries to ignore, the sickly smell of it turning his stomach. His mind is too full to heed the demands of his body, and he's not sure he's quite ready to trust their food anyway.

He lets his eyes travel over the bland room they keep him in. The door has no window, but there are evidently eyes on him at all times. They know of his movements, and he must be mindful of what they might be watching for. A lack of activity would perhaps be the safest course until he can determine more.

He lets out a long breath. He feels empty. Hollow. As though he is slowly losing something, something important. He's not sure what he has left to lose when it seems most everything else has been taken from him, but the feeling lingers all the same.

And he is tired. He has not needed to fight sleep (resist them, his body whispers, do not let them take you unawares) but his mind longs for a reprieve. He does not mourn the absence of the lassitude that imprisoned him more securely than walls and chains could, but neither does he relish this newfound disquiet that will not release its hold.

How did he come to be here? What has happened to him? Who is he?

There is a complete absence of memory, a lack of reference, a hole where his past should be. And it is not simply an emptiness that could pass unnoticed. This is not a benign forgetfulness or the blissful ignorance of something never known or missed. It has sharp and jagged edges where it has been ripped away, leaving him exposed and painfully aware of the gap. He knows there should be something there, but he can't quite reach it.

He has already had all night to think on it. Those hours of solitude, while underpinned by apprehension and pain, had offered the first real opportunity he's had to ponder his situation. His mind had shied from probing his scant few memories too closely, but he recalls only too well the impending panic that void of understanding had brought him to.

And more than this is the insidious curl of something dark inside him, something alive and powerful and frightening.

Something hums beneath his skin. It is a glimpse out of the corner of his eye that disappears when he turns to look. It is a missed step in the dark, a whisper in the howling wind. It is an instinct, a sense he can't describe. He yearns for it without understanding what it is he seeks to control, an addiction he cannot satisfy but that pulls at him all the same.

There is something very wrong with him.

He curls himself tighter against the corner and allows his eyes to close. His racing thoughts chase themselves in ever tightening circles and he slows his breathing to quiet them. If he allows himself to rest now, he may be better prepared to face whatever comes next. To unpick his thoughts and begin to plan.

But he mustn't sink too far.

He props himself more securely upright and leans his head against the cool surface of the wall. He allows his limbs to go lax, his breathing to deepen. He lets his mind clear and feels sleep rush to claim him. It is sanctuary and unwelcome intruder both, and he embraces it all the same. He knows what waits for him in that realm.

Sometimes when he sleeps he is haunted by comforting lies.

The woman who tells them is betrayed and betrayer both. She is robed in majesty and wisdom, her face bright and quick to laughter. She is a warrior queen, a protector, a ruler. Her lullaby is a war song, her touch a soft caress. Her absence is a lance to his chest, her acceptance a balm he does not need.

He hides himself from the promise of her open arms. She does not feel like love.

o0o

When they come to fetch him again it is much the same as before. He is not certain how much time has passed, but the heaviness in his limbs and the stiffness in his neck suggests he has slept for longer than he intended.

He is instantly alert when the door slides open, the remnants of sleep swept aside with a spike of adrenaline. He notes absently that his mind feels clearer for it, and on the journey to the interrogation area he decides upon his strategy.

He will use his opportunity to gain more information. If nothing else, these new people seem disposed to talk, though how much he can trust what they say he is not certain. He should formulate a plan, watch for a chance to escape. These people seem better prepared to contain him than the last, even if they appear more relaxed, but there are fewer of them, and on the surface their precautions seem light.

But appearances can be deceiving. The armour the metal man wears is formidable, and although barely tested the strength of this artificial creature seems greater than his own. It is powerful, that much is clear.

He smooths his fingers over the band of metal at his wrist, the surface cool and featureless to the touch. He is shackled as much as he ever was, even with no chain in sight.

The room is empty this time, and after a quick sweep to check for anything untoward he makes his way to the window. He feels Vision's eyes on him as he goes and contrives to ignore him. It is possible to keep the room's entrances and its occupants in his field of vision if he stands just so, while still allowing him an unobstructed view of the world outside. He makes sure to keep the activity on the other side of the room in his periphery at all times.

The sky is darkening outside. Much of the day has already passed, it would seem. There is still enough light to make out the distant water, although he can't hear its movements.

He briefly entertains a bid for freedom. The glass before him is thick but not impossibly so, and the ground is not far below. He wonders how far he could run before the invisible servant delivers punishment, and if there are limits to her influence. He wonders if the damage that can be done to him would truly be enough to kill him, or if this is all an elaborate bluff. Perhaps he will test these boundaries. But not now.

They have not harmed him. Not yet. There might be more he can learn, if he chooses to stay longer. And it will be a choice. His choice. He did not speak lightly of his intention to die if he must.

He will not suffer their testing again.

The metal man and the colonel enter the room together, deep in conversation. He spares them a glance that covers a more appraising look and satisfies himself that they will not try to approach him.

"I'm telling you," the loud one - Tony - is saying, "we can keep this under the radar." He drops the flat, square boxes he carries onto the countertop and moves further into the kitchenette.

The colonel follows him. "Yeah, but for how long? Things are more… complicated than we were counting on."

Tony follows the colonel's eyes and casts a dubious look towards Loki's back. "That's assuming we're buying what he's selling," he says with obvious scepticism.

The two of them continue to bicker. Loki watches all this out of the corner of his eye and gives no outward reaction to their words. They suspect he plays at ignorance, that much is clear. As much as he fears he has given himself away, he has at least made his situation plain. Their mistrust rankles for a reason he can't quite identify.

He tells himself he's not concerned whether they believe him or not. It matters little to him. What does matter is what they will do with the information he has already given them and whether they have a means to use it against him.

They seem to know him.

Or at least, they know who he is supposed to be. Much of what they say is incomprehensible, but it is clear they consider him an enemy. What purpose they could have for keeping him here if that is the case is a mystery to him. If it were simply vengeance for some previous forgotten crime, he would not expect the relative freedoms he seems to have been granted. And yet so far, they have not moved against him. They have not tried to take him to another white room.

He is weary of feeling vulnerable. Of waiting for the axe to fall. He decides to take the initiative and force their hand, to whatever ends that may bring him. And apart from anything else, he longs to finally know something.

The pair busy themselves opening bottles, pausing frequently to argue and gesticulate with the kitchen implements they're using. When their backs are turned he makes his move. He approaches the counter separating them from the rest of the room under the watchful eye of Vision and waits silently for one of them to turn back around. It is Tony who does so first.

The man starts with a barely swallowed noise of surprise and half drops the bottles he holds onto the surface in front of him. "Jesus," he huffs with poorly concealed alarm. The colonel also stops what he's doing and turns quickly to check.

They make no move to defend themselves, but neither do they relax. They seem to be waiting for him to do something, though what that is he's not quite sure. They both start to speak.

"Tell me," Loki says, cutting their words off with his own. "Tell me how you know me."

They stop and stare, then look between one another as though deciding their course of action. They are withholding information from him. Information that should be his by rights. He cannot allow that to continue.

"Uh, okay," Tony says. The expression on his face suggests he finds the prospect of this conversation uncomfortable. Good. If he is unprepared and pressed, he will be more likely to reveal information of value. "But just for the record, I'm still on the dubious side of the fence. Call me agnostic. These guys might be ready to give you the benefit of the doubt, but you and I? We have history."

Interesting. But perhaps not surprising, given the man's behaviour. "Then you won't mind revealing what that is."

Tony looks at him hard for a moment. "The last time we met you threw me off a building. A tall building. Through an otherwise intact window, I might add. Ringing any bells?"

Loki has no idea how he's expected to react to that, but the thought is faintly amusing. He settles for a mild, "Hmm. Well, you are incredibly irritating."

Tony registers surprise at this before his expression darkens. He turns back to forcefully retrieve a stack of napkins from a drawer behind him and seems to work up some nerve before continuing. "Oh, and before that?" he adds with deceptive levity. "You killed a few people. Enslaved a few more. Did your damndest to subjugate the human race. Me and some friends, we stopped you." The man meets Loki's eyes with something of a challenge in them and waits for a response.

Alarming, Loki thinks, but not beyond the realms of possibility. He supposes airing these thoughts would be a mistake. "I imagine I had a very good reason," he offers instead.

"Nope. Because see - you're not the hero of this story. You're what we call the bad guy."

How quaint. "All men believe their cause to be just. The judgement of history does tend to favour the victor."

Tony gives him a sour look. "Yeah. We're going to have to agree to disagree there."

He will need time to dissect all this later. For now he means to goad as much as he can from this man, even if he likes little of what he hears. "And how did I hope to achieve this diabolical feat?"

"Looking for pointers, are we?" Tony counters. He moves towards the room's large table and hands what he's carrying to Vision. "You're not exactly from around here, but I'm guessing you've worked that out by now."

They have hinted at such, it is true. What that means exactly…

"And what of us," Vision interrupts after he has set everything down, steering the conversation away from the fight Tony always seems to be angling for. "What is it that you think we want?"

He seems insightful, this one. Less inclined to speak without thought. And perceptive. Lies are unlikely to be effective. "To prevent me from leaving," Loki says truthfully.

"And what else?"

"To harm me. To force me to your will." The admission seems to wound them, although that was not Loki's intention. He finds himself feeling increasingly uncertain of his status here.

"I can assure you that is not the case," Vision says. "What those other men did - that will not happen to you here."

"You understand that we're the good guys, right?" Tony says, miffed. "We're the ones that bust you out of there."

Perhaps he… does. "To what purpose?"

"Does there have to be a reason? Apart from it just being the right thing to do?"

Loki considers this. "But I am no friend to you."

"Doesn't matter. Still not gonna to fly. And besides, we couldn't risk them getting hold of what they wanted."

"And what was that, exactly?"

The pause is significant. "You don't know?"

Loki thinks perhaps he does. Or at least suspects. He doesn't quite know how to explain what that means, even to himself.

He turns to move back to the window, taking that half-formed fear with him, and worries absently at the skin of his palm. Night has fallen quickly outside, and the light of the room they stand in casts reflections on the glass that obscure the view.

He falters when he sees his image in the mirror-like surface and he swallows down a swell of dread that flushes his skin cold.

The man from the white room looks back at him, his face pale and his frame angular. He is not imposing, not in the clothes he wears now, and his eyes hold something haunted that he did not detect before. But his hair, his height, the features of his face...

There can be no doubting it now.

"You should eat something," comes a voice at his shoulder, and he jerks away before he can stop himself. The colonel looks at him with something like concern in his eyes and holds a plate out to him at arm's length.

For a moment Loki imagines slapping it out of the man's hand. He pictures vividly the colour his blood will be when he takes up a broken piece and uses it to effect his escape. He can almost hear the snap of bone, feel the crunch of it beneath his fingers as he fights his way free. It's what he should do, a part of his mind insists.

Instead he stalks away and wraps his arms around his chest, the force of his grip enough to contain his racing heart.

He is the monster they say he is. Perhaps they are right to cage him.