Fairly certain we're down to the last three or so...
Wherein Odin weeps. (Drama. R.)
When he was younger — though perhaps it was not as long ago as it seems now — Thor would rail against the master warrior who insisted he train without the aid of his hammer. What need have I of staff and sword or fist? he had demanded. I wield Mjolnir, forged in the heart of a dying star. No man or beast will stand before its blows.
The master merely said Even a Prince of Asgard may be disarmed.
The younger Thor rolled his eyes at this, believing it to be nonsense. But he had learned — and if he makes it back to Asgard he will apologize to the man on bended knee.
Unfortunately, making it back to Asgard is looking less likely with each passing minute.
The tavern belonging to Isabella is now little more than a burned husk. These soldiers cannot use the weapons powered by the purloined tesseract in the small space, but their guns and knives are hardly ineffective, and Thor bleeds from a dozen wounds in a dozen places. A slash to his arm has slowed the strikes of his baton; a blow to his side has made each breath a stab.
Behind him, Loki fares better, being more accustomed to close combat. But Thor hears his grunts of pain as well.
His brother should have run.
Thor is selfishly glad that he did not.
On the positive side of things, they are surrounded by as many felled enemies as standing ones, and the people have fled in the streets. Once, Thor would have mocked the citizens for their cowardice. Now… now, he cannot imagine a greater purpose than to sacrifice his blood for those who so generously gave them shelter and support.
He is weak, he is powerless, but he is the God of Thunder, and this tiny village, like the rest of the realm, stands under his protection.
Thor fells another soldier and roars his might to the sky.
In the ruins of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s fallen compound a hammer shudders within a rock.
Clint pulls himself from the wreckage of the fallen lab to find four Comic Con escapees holding Renfest shit to his throat. Jesus, even Budapest was better than this. "If you're the backup Coulson sent," he says, coughing, "you're doing a piss-poor job so far."
Robin Hood lowers his sword slightly. "You are a friend to the son of Coul?"
"Damn right."
Xena smacks Giant Gimli on the back of the head.
The Burger King across the street bursts into flames.
"We seek Thor," says Jackie Chan, looking completely unperturbed. "Direct us to him."
Tasha's never going to believe this. "Seeking Thor's not going to do a thing unless we get the perimeter under control," Clint tells them. "If you're any good with those—" he nods to their weapons "—take care of the guys in the alleys. Otherwise we're all fucked."
Giant Gimli makes a scoffing noise as he raises his axe. "'If you're any good with those'," he repeats mockingly. "Lie down, mortal, and we will show you how battles are won in Asgard."
"Fine. Great. Just kill the right goddamn people."
They do.
Loki is fairly certain he is going to die.
It's a simple equation. There are outnumbered. He and Thor are skilled but overwhelmed; as mortals, they are only a match for, oh, four or five enemies at a time. Humiliating, but truth cares not for dignity. It never has.
Also, his knife is too dull.
As he takes another blow before felling the offender with a twist to the neck, he almost wishes that it would be over more quickly, because the madness of battle is not so complete that he lacks time to reflect. And those reflections are not satisfactory.
He wishes he had discovered the truth of Jotunheim.
He wishes he had said more to Mother.
He wishes he had proven himself to Father.
He wishes he had… well. He does not know precisely what he wishes had transpired with Jane Foster, only that he is dissatisfied with the conclusion. He is, at heart, a covetous creature, and he wanted more. There will be no opportunity now.
The next dagger carves a line across his side. He hears one of those loathsome guns click its metal gears into place.
It aims at Thor.
Loki allows himself two final thoughts before leaping forward: the first, that for all the lost chances, at least he has had time to make his peace with his brother. The second, that this is really going to hurt.
He is right.
Across sand, across air, across time, shimmers of gold ripple and form.
"Okay," says Iron Man as he flies Coulson away from what is either an interdimensional vortex or an acid flashback, "I'll give it to you. That's weird."
"We'll concern ourselves with the weird later."
"I dunno. JARVIS is picking up seismic activity which — and I don't want to jump to any conclusions — might possibly have something to do with your little rift in time and space over there. So I'd say the weird should be topping your priority list right now."
"There are rogue S.T.R.I.K.E. agents burning a small town to a crisp about ten miles south of here."
"Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I."
"Stark—"
"Fine, fine. I'll save your town and then save the world. Again. What would you guys do without me?"
Thor is able to hold off the enemy long enough to drag his brother into a small room containing bags of flour and shelves of coffee mugs. "You are a fool," he mutters. The wound cannot be so bad. It cannot, surely it cannot—
—Thor peels back his brother's coat.
No.
"We did say we wanted to die in battle." He laughs weakly; it forces another gush of blood from his abdomen. "Better this than poison."
"Surely you won't allow yourself to perish from a mere scratch. I would mock your spirit all the way to Valhalla." When Loki's muscles go slack, he clasps the back of his brother's neck, as he has done ten thousand times before. "No, no, stop that. Stay with me."
The soldiers pound upon the barricaded door.
"That's not going to hold," Loki murmurs, saying what Thor already knows. "Take at least six of them with you before you fall."
"Why did you do it? If we're both to die anyway, why?"
Loki just smiles. "You're my brother," he says simply.
His eyelids flutter shut as the door bursts open.
Let them suffer in their exile. Let them be humbled without their power. Let them learn the cost of their follies. In the name of my father, and his father before him, let my sons find their way before the die is cast.
Fernanda stands in the doorway of her bar, fire extinguisher in hand, and glares at the rulacho with the glowing blue cannon who stands before her. "My ex-husband's bigger than you and twice as mean," she tells him. "So come and get it, dickwad. I'm not afraid."
No one — but no one — is taking what's hers.
As for what would have happened next (and there's really no way of knowing who would have won the standoff), Fern never finds out, because out of nowhere the sky fills with lightning and thunder and gold and green and was that a flying hammer—
The last of Isabella's diner collapses as ten bodies go flying out into the street.
And out from the rubble, walking calmly, without a speck of dust on whatever the hell they're wearing, comes…
"What the fuck," murmurs the rulacho.
Fern brains him on the back of the head with the fire extinguisher.
No one.