Though obviously Loki has thought through his means of revenge very clearly, Clint has also been doing a little planning of his own. If he's going to help Loki, he'll need to get the information about the Chitauri out to someone who can actually do something about it, and that means the Avengers Initiative and SHIELD. Easier said than done of course, considering they know he's been compromised. He won't be able to go through any of the normal channels. But Loki spoke of taking a personal revenge on them. That means he'll want to get close. Clint is sure, though he doesn't know details yet at this point, that he can find a way to be there at the same time.

And then what? He's still mostly brainwashed. Although he's managed to get around most of the effects due to the simple fact that both sides of him are working towards the same goals, that doesn't change the fact that he is pretty much the opposite of objective right now. He can't be 100% sure he's doing all this of his own free will, or that he'd be doing it all if he was in his right mind. He thinks he would. He'd like to think he would.

And that's not even getting into the fact that he's still a traitor to SHIELD, which is an unpleasant thing to think about. This isn't just something he can snap out of, he hasn't the faintest idea if it's anything like the more common, human, types of conditioning that can be undone with time and careful handling, if you're lucky. It's possible only Loki can undo it, and that's clearly not going to happen.

Clint could tell Loki about his plan. Make an argument that coming from him with the brainwashing removed, with his head free and clear, as himself and as a once-trusted member of SHIELD the information will be taken seriously. That he could convince Fury that Loki's intentions are, if not good then not actively malicious. But the problem is he isn't exactly 100% confident it would work himself. If would be far too easy for SHIELD to dismiss it as Stockholm Syndrome, as the brainwashing still being there on a sub-conscious level, and how could he prove that it's not? He isn't sure himself that it's not, that it hasn't got into the part of him he thought was safe without him knowing about it.

It is the only workable plan he has though. And he's running out of time. Erik Selvig has reported that the machine is very nearly finished, only a few of the rarer and harder to come by components remaining. Clint has to talk to Loki and get him to see that they can get out of this with a good outcome.

He's just making his way through the central area of their secret base when Selvig calls to him, waving him over to the machine assembly area with the wrench he's holding. "Agent Barton! I'm in need of your expert assistance."

Clint picks his way through the maze of tables and wires and computer terminals. The machine itself is enclosed in its own little space behind walls of clear plastic. Selvig is wearing the same clothes as the day they left the SHIELD complex, and he's been shaving erratically. Several days worth of stubble coat his chin. Yet he seems cheerful for all that. Brainwashing again, though when it comes to his work, Clint has the suspicious that such behaviour is not entirely out of character.

"If you need me to lift something heavy I can do that," Clint says, "but anything more complex is a little out of my area."

Selvig laughs. "It's about the last components for the device," he says. "These folks you've hired have been very helpful, but this last... It'll be a bit trickier. The information is on the tablet to your right." He directs a couple of the HYDRA scientists to the other end of the machine. "Where did you find all these people?"

"SHIELD has no shortage of enemies Doctor," Clint says, picking up the tablet he's been directed to, a heavy military-issue thing built for resilience rather than convenience. There's a face on the screen, and a floating, slowly turning image of some kind of metallic substance. Science stuff. He turns it to show Selvig. "This the stuff you need?"

"Yeah, iridium," Erik replies, pitching his voice to carry from where he's messing about with more bits of metal and nuts and bolts and tools. "It's found in meteorites; it forms anti-protons. It's very hard to get hold of."

Clint hopes he doesn't expect him to understand whatever techno-babble he's talking about. Clint's own technical knowledge is limited to weaponry specs and things that go boom. There hadn't really been much time for schoolwork in the carny lifestyle, and while he's certainly not stupid, the only learning he gives a shit about is stuff with the potential to save his life.

It's that kind of learning that's going through his mind as he flicks through the information on their target, the scientist who keeps the biggest supply of iridium on the planet in his high-security lab. There are maps, there are blueprints, there's even the man's schedule – whoever they paid to put this together is good. This is everything he'll need to break in and steal the stuff, though the most efficient and fast way to do it is somewhat... bloody.

"Especially if SHIELD knows you need it," he says. Well, he's guessing, but it makes sense. Selvig is hardly the only person they had working on the Tesseract, and it's not like the Avengers Initiative is short of geniuses. Tony Stark and Bruce Banner are both clever enough to figure out this sort of thing.

"Well I didn't know," Selvig says, spreading his arms wide. He seems slightly manic. It's probably due to lack of sleep. Clint has experience that sort of thing on long missions before. "Hey!" he says, suddenly switching his gaze to a point over Clint's left shoulder. It only takes a moment of Clint's awareness to identify Loki approaching. It's in the slight creak of leather, the chink of metal on metal, the vaguely unearthly scent of snow and ozone.

"The Tesseract has shown me so much," Selvig says, "It's more than knowledge, it's... truth."

"I know," Loki says. He sounds better, confident and self-assured. Less ragged than he has on previous occasions, less unstable as well. Clint hopes it's a good sign. As if reading his thoughts – which may be possible, Clint doesn't exactly know how this link thing works – Loki turns to him and asks, "What did it show you Agent Barton?"

"My next target," he replies. True enough, though hardly even scratching the surface of this whole fucked-up situation. He knows he's going to have to kill people on this next mission. Innocents who have nothing whatsoever to do with the world of superheroes and aliens who claim to be gods. But it's necessary to finish the machine, and that is necessary to end the threat of the Chitauri. It's a simple cost-benefit analysis, and he's always been skilled at those. SHIELD is a very pragmatic agency.

"Tell me what you need," Loki says, and even though the brainwashed part of him is particularly sensitive to it, Clint doesn't think he's imaging the tenderness in his voice. He's glad, both parts of him. He's helped, at least in part.

Clint pops the lid on the case for one of the latest toys the mercs have brought them. It's the latest in archery technology, and the bow unfolds with a snap of his wrist. "I need a distraction," he says, thinking of the perfect night, the perfect moment. "And an eyeball."

"An eyeball," Loki asks, looking amused.

"The lab has a retinal scanner," Clint explains. "It reads the eye so only certain people have access." He has no idea whether they have that kind of thing in Asgard. Probably something more high-tech. Probably they call it magic. "So I'll need his eyeball. Whether it's still attached or not is irrelevant."

Have I told you how refreshing I find your lack of mortal morals, Loki tells him in his head.

Morality is a luxury for people in my line of work, Clint thinks back. Whatever gets the job done.

Loki smiles, showing too many teeth. Again, if he were human Clint would be seriously concerned about his mental health. But perhaps it's different for aliens. He's not even the same species as Thor, apparently, so it's impossible to draw a comparison there. This must be the first time in Clint's life that he's wanted to know more about the inner workings of warrior cultures. Context might explain a lot.

"I'd appreciate it if we could go over your plan though," he says out loud. "When are you planning on taking on the Avengers?"

"Oh, I thought I might let them capture me after I've enacted your distraction," Loki says. "You'd be surprised how much I can get done from inside a cell." And limiting me will perhaps stop me from going too far in my revenge, he adds through the mental link.

Oh, great. This is far too soon. It'll be hard enough to convince them of his story and Loki's somewhat-good intentions anyway without them being exposed to Loki's sharp tongue and whatever unpleasantness he has planned. "I thought you'd just send in some of the hired muscle," he says cautiously. "Not go yourself."

"Oh well that's no fun," Loki replies. "I really ought to make an impression on those I'm destined to rule." He taps the tip of his sceptre lightly against Clint's shoulder. Ah. Speaking for their audience again.

"What about escape?"

"You'll have to help me there. I'm sure a man of your... ingenuity can find a way."

Well yes, probably, but it'll involve killing a lot of SHIELD agents which is absolutely not in Clint's plan. It's not that I'm objecting, he thinks furiously, but I'm sure there's a better way to achieve your goals.

Perhaps. What is it you would have me do Clint Barton?

Clint is only going to have one shot at this, so he'd better be convincing. He starts to explain his idea.

Loki assembles his Midgardian ensemble carefully. Much as on his previous visit to this realm, he wishes to project an aura of confident power, of natural authority. A princely mien, in other words. Midgard may no longer be ruled by royalty, he is told, but they have nobility all the same, though it is formed by wealth as much as by birth. Thus does he present himself. Prince of nowhere, yet still a prince.

Not wishing to waste a great deal of seid in transporting Barton, himself and the men his little hawk has chosen across continents, they travel through mortal means, their faces cloaked from recognition by a simple spell, much easier than the alternative. More diamonds buy first class tickets on an 'airplane', a great wrought-metal machine capable of flight. It is heavy and ungainly compared to Aesir means of travel, not to mention far more cramped, but it suffices. More onerous are the multitude of indignities they are forced to undergo for the privilege, though the pathetic Midgardian technology is easy enough to fool. His men shall have their weapons.

(They should not dare to lay hands upon him. If he were but free to act as he pleased, he would tear each finger from their hands separately and slowly.)

The trip is slow, but Loki has always been capable of amusing himself. He runs through the mental frameworks for seid-workings as the hours pass, and considers the plan his pet soldier has proposed. It is fair enough, and costs him nothing. A full revenge on Thor and Asgard is best put off for a later day in any case. Let them think his intentions pure. Let them think they have misjudged him. All the sweeter to betray their trust.

Another 'car' is hired once they have landed and passed through more tiresome mortal security, and thus Barton drops him off at the building in the centre of this town of Stuttgart where the man whose eyeball he needs is to be found. Loki straightens his clothing back into perfection with another touch of seid, and makes sure to face one of the mortals' surveillance devices, as omniscient as Huggin and Munnin, as he allows his glamour to fall, as well as the weavings that turn away Heimdall's gaze. Barton has told him SHIELD will be watching, and as for Heimdall, well, he is always watching.

The building is finely lit, well laid out and certainly not a bad specimen of architecture, considering which realm is its builder. Delicate music emanates from stringed instruments, filling the air with a certain sweetness. Loki finds it pleasing to the ear. Swarms of finely clad little mortals bustle around in the central hall, chattering to one another meaninglessly. Little fools. Naive little fools.

(They are weak. They would deserve what is coming for them. But revenge is sweeter than teaching fools a lesson.)

His target steps up to the speaking area. At this very moment Barton is beginning his invasion of the laboratory building. A mere touch of their mental link sends the image of a guard falling to a silent arrow flashing into his mind. Good. Very good. Everything is very nearly in place, and then this shall begin.

His sceptre reformed into something a little more in keeping with Midgard, Loki makes his way along the balcony, his steady steps measuring out the time before he must strike. A painting takes up most of the wall to his right, but he does not take the time to appreciate it. Perhaps when all this is over, when the Tesseract is his... but for now there is blood to be shed. Still, this realm is not devoid of culture, or pretty things.

The man has begun his speech as Loki descends the stairs. He has no idea of what is coming, and Loki finds the thought of his unpreparedness rather satisfying. This trick may have more menace than the pranks he played before his fall, but he is going to enjoy seeing the looks on their silly little faces. He flips the sceptre in his hand, taking hold nearer the end and choosing a mortal to get things started.

The long length of solid star-metal takes the mortal under the jaw with enough force to lift him off his feet. He goes flying, sprawling back against the cold stone. The scientist turns, the Midgardians begin to back away, not yet seeing, the sheer unexpected not yet sinking in to their slow little brains. Loki grabs his target by the back of his neck. Mortal strength is no match for his own, be it Aesir or Jotun. It is as easy as handling a pup of one of Asgard's great hunting dogs.

Loki drags the man across the room, to the stone altar that dominates the centre of the hall, flipping him over onto its surface. An appropriate place for an offering of blood, of a part of a self. Parallels echo across Loki's mind like splinters from a dropped glass shattering on the floor. An eye for knowledge. What knowledge shall he give this mortal? A sacrifice, even unwillingly given, ought to be appropriately paid for.

The matter transfer device is a prototype made by Selvig and those who take the name HYDRA, completed by Loki himself. He pulls it from the pocket of his suit jacket with a flourish, holding it high for his audience to see. A twist of seid flicks it open and he takes a moment to send his mind questing along his link to Barton in both question and signal.

Miles away, his soldier holds the device's twin up to the lock.

Loki stabs downwards. Blades whirr, blood spays, the man jerks and screams. Seid fastens onto mortal flesh like a ravenous beast, surges power, begins the transfer of matter across space. All around the foolish Midgardians finally realise the danger they're in. They scream, they scramble for the exits, they flee in a chaotic rush like a startled shoal of fish. Loki cannot stop the wide grin that spreads across his face, nor would he want to.

(Yes. Yes. This is it. This is all you have been waiting for, all you have wanted. Let them feel fear. Let them know pain. Let them run and tell their realm that Loki is come to show them the world's truth.)

Clint's mental voice breaks across his thoughts. We're through boss. Lab's wide open. Loki takes a moment to share in his archer's satisfaction, but only a moment. If his earlier appearance to the cameras did not summon SHIELD, this surely will. He must make sure that they are easily able to find him.

He pulls the machine away from the ruined mess of the scientist's eye and drops it, no longer needed. He places a palm over the man's forehead and pushes in. The mortal has lost consciousness from the pain, which makes things easier. Loki leaves behind his payment. When the man wakes, he will know the most basic secrets of seidr's path. What he chooses to do with it is his own business.

Seid banishes his mortal guise; summons back his leathers, his chain, his armour. Sets his helmet upon his brow. The curving horns are a somehow comforting weight. Princely power settles around his shoulders like a cloak, and he gathers all of Thor's oft-seen arrogance in preparation for his latest performance. Time to lie.

He has no real interest in ruling this world. He does not wish the responsibilities of doing so; to rule badly would be beneath his pride. But the Chitauri must think he desires his promised reward.

In the end, the Midgardian soldiers arrive far sooner than Loki expected. Whatever their mode of transport, it must be much faster than that available to civilians. He has barely begun to impress a tyrant's will upon this little gathering of mortals before a man clad in red, blue and white is blocking his seid and another type of flying craft is menacing him from the sky. If it were not his plan to submit to them here, he might laugh. Though his seid is perhaps a third as strong now as it was before in Asgard, before the trials of the Chitauri and the abyss near drained it entirely, it would be no real challenge to take these few down. Still, he must make it look good.

A bolt of seid channelled through his sceptre makes the craft dodge aside, breaking the aim of whatever pitiful weapons it had pointing at him and allowing him to leap into the attack. Judging by the colours and the shield forged of some intriguing star-metal alloy this must be the fabled Captain America, legendary hero of Midgard. Let him see how a hero faces up against a god.

Loki allows the Captain to have the first blow, testing. The strike is surprising in its strength. No ordinary mortal this. Loki swings the sceptre in fierce, punishing arcs, not yet drawing on his seid. The third catches the man low, sends him slamming back against the low wall at the edge of the courtyard. The Captain retaliates by tossing his shield, but Loki bats it casually from the air. He really was hoping for something a little more challenging than this.

The mortal has some degree of speed though, Loki notes as they come to blows once more. He dodges several more swipes from the sceptre before another one hits him, knocking the breath out of him. Loki strides over, places the butt of his staff to the back of his head. How easy it would be to kill him in this moment, to crush his head with a burst of seid, or in manner less lethal to take his form and twist, pulling forth some other shape, an animal perhaps, leaving his mind trapped. Yet there would be no point – Thor has no kind of connection to this man yet that his death would cause him pain. And besides, he is needed.

"Kneel," he says, taking pleasure at least in this. For all the man's fine words, all his pride, force makes even him submit. Force will make anyone submit.

His words prick the mortal's pride enough for him to recover some of his strength. The Captain's hand comes up pushing the sceptre aside, and he leaps to his feet, his leg coming up in a high kick that takes Loki across the mouth. There is enough mass behind it to force him back, though it doesn't break skin, and certainly won't bruise.

There is something pleasing about having a spirited opponent, at least. If his own hawk has heart, so too does this man. It is worthy of him to continue fighting an opponent so much stronger than he is, one he must know by now he can barely hurt. The Captain attacks again, and Loki throws him across the courtyard.

Suddenly music blasts out, filling the air with an oppressive racket. If indeed it can be called music; it has little in common with the smooth strings from earlier.

"Shoot to thrill, play to kill, I got my gun at the ready, gonna fire at will," the harsh-toned voice sings out, roaring over deep thrumming beats. It's near feral, with a savageness befitting a war-song. It is, he admits, more like what he was expecting from this realm.

Loki looks to the skies. Something is approaching at high speed, leaving a contrail behind it. A blast of energy shoots from the figure's hands and hits him full in the chest. Loki flies backwards, his spine impacting roughly against the edges of nearby steps.

Now that had some kick to it! Perhaps these mortal soldiers, these Avengers, will be able to defeat the Chitauri after all. He'd been beginning to wonder.

The Iron Man – for such it must be – rises from his landing position, raising his weapons. "Make a move Reindeer Games," he says, in some strange reference that Loki does not understand and does not particularly care to understand. Captain America retrieves his shield and comes to stand beside him. Loki calls upon his seid, though not to attack, though it would be easy to do it. They have tasted only the merest, most basic modes of battle available to him. Instead he dismisses his armour, his helm, returns it to that between-space where he keeps those items he cannot trust to any lesser vault.

He raises his hands, palms outwards, in a gesture of surrender. Let them think him cowed. Let them believe he is outmatched.

The Iron Man powers down his weapons, which is unbelievably foolish of him. Loki may appear disarmed, but surely Thor told them before he left of his powers of seidr. A seidmenn is never unarmed. Loki could remove all the air from a meter wide space about both their heads merely by crooking his fingers.

What fools these mortals be!

Still, he allows them to take him. That is what he has come for. And with Hiemdall's vision unblocked, very soon Thor will be coming for him. Then he can begin his revenge. Mind, his hurts will be nothing to what the Chitauri would do to them, given the chance. When this is all over, really, they ought to be thanking him for his mercy.

Until, of course, he shows Thor's new friends, his new comrades in arms, his true strength.

You okay there, boss? Clint asks him through their mental link.

Everything is proceeding according to plan, Loki replies. They are currently speeding back towards SHIELD's citadel, or wherever their main base of operations is. Of course they have bound him to his seat, though barely. More for show than anything, for the little straps would do nothing to hold him did he not wish it.

At the front of the craft, his captors talk amongst themselves. They are fractious, uncomfortable with each other. Divided. Their war-band is so newly formed; they have not yet fought together, not yet been bound in the bloodied bonds of battle. As they are, they will strike the Chitauri's army and shatter like a badly-forged blade. It will not do.

The craft shakes abruptly as thunder and lightning fill the skies. Loki feels a chill go through him. Thor is coming. Odin All-father has sent him to Midgard. Anger rises like a flood. A lifetime fighting alongside Thor, trying to prove himself worthy to the one he thought was his father, all meant nothing compared to the truth of his birth, the truth of his monstrous nature. Never to be Thor's equal. Never to have any hope of being worthy. When the throne had fallen to him out of necessity, he was betrayed and overthrown within the space of days. All ending in his fall, and an endless agony of pain. He has a right to be angry!

(Everything done to you springs from him. From his arrogance, from his glory. Tear him down. Pull him into the dirt alongside you and grind down his heart and soul until nothing is left but a shadow.)

"What's the matter," the Captain asks, "scared of a little lightning?"

"I'm not overly fond of what follows," Loki replies. His gaze seems irresistibly drawn to the sky above, though of course he cannot see out of this thick shell of metal.

The craft jerks again, more violently this time, and there is the unmistakable sound of an impact against the wing. He is here. The Iron Man grabs his helmet and slips it on, striding forward as though he truly thinks he can take on a god. Well, perhaps Loki gave him something of a misleading impression. A slap of a button sends the door in the plane's rear hissing open. Arrogant fool. Bad as Thor himself, Loki thinks viciously.

Thor lands on the ramp so nicely spread out for him with a clank of Mjolnir striking inferior metal. There's an icy determination on his face that sends something almost like fear shooting through Loki. But that's foolishness. Nothing Asgard can do to him can be as bad as what's already been done.

Thor strikes the Iron Man a hefty blow to the chest before the mortal can think of attacking him. The Midgardian flies back, and Thor reaches down to pull Loki bodily from his seat. The feeble straps tear around him. Thor's hand is strong and crushing on his neck. All he would have to do would be to squeeze; not enough to kill him, but enough to make things very difficult. Has he miscalculated? Has Odin told Thor of his Jotun heritage, and if so has that been enough to awaken his hate enough to strike him down? Will Thor slay the monster that has pretended to be his kin for so long?

Thor pulls them out into open air, his fist clasped around Mjolnir's haft letting him direct their flight. They are over mountains and forests, a desolate, isolated place. They fall, a long, curving arc that brings them to land on the side of a rocky hill, a landing Thor does not bother to make easy. Loki is dragged over stony ground for several metres at high speed before they come to a stop.

He cannot help but be reminded of the last time they were in this position, back on the Bifrost, Thor standing over him and placing Mjolnir's unmovable weight on his chest. Will he do the same now? Or will he drive the hammer into Loki's ribs, into Loki's heart. Kill the treacherous Jotun beast. He starts to laugh.

"Where is the Tesseract," Thor demands. Loki hates him, hates every part of him, the sound of his voice, his golden hair, his foolish face, the over-wrought bulk of his frame. It is bitter and poisonous, and all he wants to do is turn it outwards, turn it onto his once-brother, drown him in it like forcing his face down into a brackish pool.

(Hurt him. Hurt him.)

"I've missed you too," he says, unsure himself whether it is truth or lie.

"Do I look to be in a gaming mood!" So angry. So ferocious. Does he think to scare Loki into truth? After everything he's been through? Kill a few hundred, a few thousand Jotnar and that is nothing, kill a few Midgardians, and that is enough to rouse his rage? He should have killed more.

"Oh you should thank me," he says, beginning to rise. "With the Bifrost gone, how much dark energy did the All-father have to muster to conjure you here? Your precious Earth." And does he really think Odin would have spared the effort, were it not for Loki? Odin knows all that the Tesseract can do. He is right to be worried.

Thor drops Mjolnir with a thud. Loki once again finds himself gripped around the neck, though at the back this time. Thor is close, too close. Loki wants to reach out and tear into him, sink his nails into flesh, turn himself into a wolf so he can rip and bite.

(Spread his entrails across the mountainside! Tattoo runes of ancient agony into his skin with his own blood!)

"I thought you dead."

"Did you mourn?" Loki asks.

Thor hesitates for a moment. "We all did."

Thor's problem ever has been that he is too stupid to know when he's lying. Oh, Loki is sure he thinks Asgard mourned for its curséd lost son, but only because he was not capable of looking past an outward show of false sincerity. Too willing to believe the lies of others. Too willing to believe the lies of Odin. To willing to believe...

"Our father..."

Loki cuts him off with a whispered "Shhh." No. He will hear no more of the All-father's lies, passed from others' lips. "Your father." That much it seems is enough to make Thor let go of him. Of course. To be reminded of just what he is touching. Of the foul taint that lurks beneath Loki's skin. "He did tell you my true parentage, did he not?" He walks away, trying to put some distance between them before the viciousness he can feel lurking gets the better of him and he acts before he is ready.

"You are my brother," Thor insists. "We were raised together, we played together, we fought together. Do you remember none of that?"

Oh I do, Loki wants to say. I remember it very differently from how you seem to. Besides, it is clear enough it meant nothing in the end. Not to Odin, who repudiated him at the end. Not to anyone else in Asgard. "I remember a shadow," he says instead. "Living in the shade of your greatness. I remember you tossing me into an abyss, I who was and should be king!" All the pain is rushing out of him in a flood, a heady mix of words to push this fool away from him. All he wants is to hurt him in return. There is no love between them anymore. It is gone, soured like old milk. Rotted into something foul.

"So you take the world I love as recompense for your imagined slights?"

No, I take it to hurt you! But Thor will not believe the truth of anything Loki does here, and besides even with the staff gone, the Chitauri may have other ways of watching such a key confrontation as this. And Thor of course dismisses him, dismisses the disgust and subtle torments of the court and Thor's own bosom companions as nothing more than fancies. As more of Loki's lies.

Loki wants to scream.

"No, the Earth is under my protection Loki," Thor says, and Loki has to laugh instead. Thor has no idea of what is coming, no idea of why Loki allowed himself to be seen so that Thor himself would be sent.

"And you're doing a marvellous job with that," he replies. "The humans slaughter each other in droves while you idly fret! I mean to rule them." And if that were true, he could hardly make the place worse than it already is. But he has intention of sacrificing his own ends to improve the lives of a few short-lived mortals. "And why should I not?"

"You think yourself above them?"

"Oh yes."

"Then you miss the truth of ruling brother!" And perhaps he does. After all, what does a monster know of such things? Yet even a monster may guard fiercely what it owns, as a dragon guards its hoard. "A throne would suit you ill."

Loki hisses out his anger, striking Thor on his way past, striding off again. Distance, he must remember distance; else he will break Thor before he has fulfilled his purpose. "I've seen worlds you've never known about," he says, near shouting. "I have grown, Odinson, in my exile." Grown, and been broken apart, and come together once more. Grown into a hollow shell of a thing. Grown into hatred and hurt. "I have seen the true power of the Tesseract, and when I wield it..."

(Worlds will burn. Galaxieswill fall as to dust.)

"Who showed you this power?" Thor demands. So they... they knew already who had found him? Knew of the Chitauri, knew what was done to him and what... care nothing? "Who controls the would-be king?" Or do they only guess. Half-truths, half-seen. Still it is another basin of sharp vinegar poured over open wounds.

"I am a king!" Loki shouts, suddenly desperate in that moment to assert his lineage. Or perhaps merely to prove that that at least the Chitauri could not take from him. No power can take away his blood, Laufey's blood, for good or ill.

"Not here!" Thor replies, shoving him back. "You give up the Tesseract, you give up this poisonous dream!" He is scanning Loki's eyes, Loki's face, looking for what Loki does not know. Does he think words will stop all that has already been set in motion? Does he think words could protect him from the Chitauri's wrath if he does not do this thing? "You come home," Thor says, and Loki takes cold delight in the edge of brokenness seeping into his voice.

Loki smiles, a momentary humourless laugh caught between his teeth. He shakes his head, denying all kinship. He has no home, and if he did it certainly would not be Asgard. In truth, Asgard was never his home. Besides... "I don't have it," he says. Thor steps back, a snarl of rage twisting his lips. Mjolnir flies to his upraised hand.

"You need the cube to bring me home," Loki continues, "but I've sent it off, I know not where!" Of course, it would be simple enough to ask Clint, who follows on behind for a while more, but he will not do that.

"Listen well brother," Thor says, raising his hammer.

It is at that moment that a bolt of metal comes rocketing from out of the sky and slams Thor off the mountainside. Loki grins. It appears the Iron Man is less than pleased about an arrogant Aesir stealing his prisoner. Oh, this is going to be fun.