Chapter 9

-Tony's POV-

It's hard to sleep on a top secret ship full of people that deem it fit to wake up at the crack of dawn.

And the small fact that your daughter had been taken by a psycho maniac god. Small fact.

I untangle myself from the blankets and hop through the shower, washing the dirt and grease off my face and putting my mask back in place.

After donning an old band t-shirt and a pair of old black jeans, I head down to the cafeteria to see if the coffee really does poison you like the rumors say.

After waiting in a line full of entirely too-awake people, I take my tray laden with lukewarm oatmeal, an apple, and some milk back to an empty table in the corner, ignoring the mixed looks agents are giving me.

I get that you might not like us for being independent, but keep it to yourself. And quit pitying me, my daughter is MY daughter after all, ever heard of Afghanistan?

Barton is the next Avenger in the cafeteria, and as much as I hold grudges, the dude looks horrible. His hair is sticking in all directions, his half-lidded eyes are accompanied by dark spots and bags the size of Texas, and his stoic assassin mask looks like it never existed in the first place.

I simply glance his way and grunt to recognize his presence. He huffs in return before plopping into a seat and becoming the target for 150% of my pitying looks.

Eventually all six of Earth's Mightiest Heroes – all of us that are here, anyways – are huddled around the table. Breakfast his silent, nobody talking for fear of mentioning Taylor, Loki, this whole situation, or the fact that nobody looks like they got a wink of sleep last night.

I gag down the last of my now cold oatmeal and catch the last drop of milk on my tongue before getting up to throw away my trash, fully prepared to spend my day locked in a lab when Maria Hill comes racing into the cafeteria and beelines for our table.

"We have just received a video from an unknown source and we suspect it has information on Ms. Stark. Fury is waiting on the bridge, get there ASAP!"

We all trade quick glances, and suddenly I'm leading a bunch of superheroes on a spring through the Hellicarrier, Barton hot on my heels.

We make it to the bridge in record time, each of us diving for a chair. Once everyone is seated, we all wordlessly look at the Director, who turns, points a remote at a decent-sized monitor, and presses play.

The monitor buzzes with static before the static fades to reveal a small concrete room – cell, I correct myself – with two occupants.

I choke on my breath because Loki is standing over my daughter, who is bound in a very uncomfortable looking position and bleeding, no doubt by his hand. The only thing keeping me hinged is the spark raging in my daughter's eyes.

"Stark," Natasha's voice is barely a whisper, "her arm. Look at her arm."

My eyes fly to the only arm we can really see, her right prosthetic one. I wince when I see that the arm is crumpled like a tin can from the elbow up and a red puddle is steady growing beneath her stump.

Then the audio kicks in.

I growl at Loki's voice and cheer at my daughter being a feisty little kidnap victim. Red tinges my vision at the slap, stays there through the monologue, and then floods my vision as Loki brings the stick down.

The crack echoes through the room, met with a series of shouts and growls and cries of outrage.

And then oh my god, oh my god, so much blood, so much blood…

Cries of outrage turn into whimpers as the stick cracks once, twice, three times, until some of us – myself included – have tears running down our faces at seven.

I grit my teeth and start thinking of ways to kill Loki as he walks out of the room like nothing happened, curling a fist over my own reactor as the water makes Taylor's flicker and spark.

We all jump as the vault door slams, leaving Taylor bleeding, cold, wet, and exhausted.

She winces as she rocks her body this way and that, movements I realize as a physical self-check.

Just from external appearances, I know her right arm is broken, she may had a few problematic ribs, her knees must hurt like nothing else, and of course her reactor is still sparking.

I whimper again as she falls onto her side into a pool of her own blood, but she barely registers that fact.

The look she sends the camera is one of pain, grief, guilt, exhaustion, desperation, and just about every other negative emotion in the world.

I have no clue how the others read it, but I'm suddenly reminded of the moment before her first science fair, when I had to nudge her on stage and she looked her shoulder with that look.

The room falls silent as the video goes static and then fades to black, and I take a moment to categorize my teammates' reactions to what they just witnessed.

Thor looks incredibly frustrated, sparks dancing in his eyes as he makes wind whip across the room, his fingers gripping Mjolnir as I suddenly see not Thor: goofy, loud-spoken Avenger, but The Mighty Thor: fearsome warrior, Prince of Asgard, god of thunder.

Steve has one hand covering part of his face and the other clutching his stomach, looking like he finally saw the one thing that could break him. He does, however, look like he's out for blood, so there's still hope for our Captain yet.

Bruce looks incredibly green, whether from anger or nausea is unclear – probably both. For once he's not even trying to calm the green in his eyes, and I have a feeling he and Hulk want relatively the same thing: to smash Loki. Again.

Natasha is staring at the black screen, one hand clenched around a wicked, seven inch long, serrated knife that I have a feeling is going to be hitting target while she's imagining Loki on them later.

Barton's reaction scares me.

And I don't scare easily.

But Barton is standing tense behind his chair, his fingers curled around the back so tight he's breaking the fabric and he might be bending something inside. His normally gentle, humorous grey-ish eyes are now darkened to the point that they look black, smoldering a rage that could take down Hulk. His teeth are bared in a snarl directed at the screen.

He looks like a scared, cornered animal, and those never end well.

I share a silent look with Fury, who nods almost imperceptibly.

We need to get to wherever that is, and fast.

For Taylor's safety and our sanity.