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Chapter Text

It was a simple enough plan that there was a myriad of ways in which it could fail spectacularly. 

Loki, Bruce, and Valkyrie would take the only shuttle pod to a nearby outpost asteroid, CPK-32, and attempt to bargain for food and medical supplies with the meager jewels and credits Loki had stolen from the Grandmaster. Loki would do the smooth talking, Valkyrie would be the muscle, and Bruce was there as insurance to make sure Loki didn’t run off or try anything stupid.

Loki resented the fact that their makeshift council considered him untrustworthy enough to unanimously vote to have Bruce accompany him and Valkyrie, but then again, he had been toying with the idea of stealing another ship once on the asteroid and running away, so. He couldn’t really blame them. 

Besides, Thor had at least taken his advice on where to take the shuttle pod, and Loki was so caught up reveling in the rarity of the occasion (Thor? Actually listening? To him? ) that he hardly registered any offense. 

As for their expedition's destination, Thor proposed Silurias, the nearest planetoid to the Statesman's current whereabouts drifting about in the Andurra System. The moment the planetoid’s name passed Thor’s lips, a jolt shocked Loki’s spine. His stomach churned, an acidic queasiness taking root. 

Thor circled Silurias in red on the map he had pulled up, the other council members nodding mildly. He was saying something, certainly—his lips were moving, but Loki couldn’t make out any words, just a steady flow of viscous, garbled noise that underlay the blood-rush in his ears, the rapid thudding of his heart like a rabbit’s foot. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, someone was screaming. 

“No.” It burst from Loki like a rupture, accompanied by a loud slam. His palms stung, strangely. He looked down and—ah. The noise had been him. Namely, his hands slamming against the table. 

Loki sucked in a deep breath, attempting to calm his screaming nerves, and tucked his hands back in his lap, distantly noting that they were trembling visibly. Oh, well—he’d have time to be embarrassed later. Loki cleared his throat awkwardly, painfully aware that everyone was now staring at him. 

“Pardon me,” he said, and at least his voice was steady. “I strongly recommend against designating Silurias as our landing destination.”

“And why is that?” Thor crossed his arms, but he didn’t seem angered, as he would have been in the years before his coronation, had Loki outright criticized one of his decisions publicly. He merely gazed at Loki with curiosity and vague disconcert in his eye. 

It made Loki uncomfortable—once, he had been able to predict Thor’s every action, had known exactly how to lie and flatter and insinuate to pull his strings as easily as a puppet. Now, it seemed that Thor was able to surprise him at every turn, and Loki found himself no longer able to read his words and actions as openly as a book. 

While Loki had been stewing in a mire of noxious self-hatred and misery in the dungeons, Thor had grown—no, flourished —without his shadow of a false brother dragging behind him. He'd become a king in his own right, commanding his peoples’ loyalty without the need for disguises or tricks. Loki was more unwanted, more unnecessary than ever. 

Loki sucked in another breath, forcing that train of thought to the side. He needed to formulate a winning argument, and fast. Thankfully, that wasn’t difficult, as there was hardly any information about the planetoid Silurias in the interstellar mapping database, save that it had once belonged to the Andurran Empire but split off some hundred years ago due to a minor trading dispute. Since then, there had been hardly any interactions or news from the planetoid, save a couple SOS transmissions five years ago.

As far as anyone knew, Silurias had no form of centralized government, no oversight by any empire or galactic federation, and no population data to speak of. It had just as much possibility of being a lawless, backwoods, crime-rife wasteland populated by hostile Kree as it had of being a peaceful society of rural farmers.

Loki’s heart rate slowed, breathing evening out as he relayed this to the rest of the council, observing as Thor’s expression grew from suspicion to one of understanding. 

“Besides,” Loki added, “Given the nature of the most recent transmissions we have from Silurias, I believe it is safe to assume that they are unlikely to have any spare provisions they can afford to give us. Instead, I propose this,” he circled CPK-32 on the map, “as our destination. It’ll be further to go in the shuttle, but it's a registered trading outpost under the Andurran Empire’s jurisdiction. We’ll be able to trade for everything we need there.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Loki spotted Heimdall nodding thoughtfully. “You’ve presented a very compelling argument,” he spoke, deep baritone voice filling the room. 

There was a split second where Loki held his breath anxiously, thumb rubbing circles into the palm of his left hand. And then—“I second Prince Loki’s proposal to land on CPK-32.” 

Thor caught Loki’s eye and gave him a flash of a smile, clasping him on the shoulder briefly before addressing the rest of the room. “All in favor of CPK-32, say aye!”

And so it was decided. 

The journey to CPK-32 was an uneventful one. After setting their course and announcing they had roughly seven hours until they reached the asteroid’s atmosphere, Valkyrie kicked her feet up on the dashboard and leaned back in the captain’s chair she had commandeered for herself. Drawing a sleep mask down over her brow, she crossed her arms, projecting a very distinct aura of “wake me and I break your limbs.” Loki, having no desire to interact with any of them more than the bare minimum, summoned a book and made a big show of being entirely engrossed in it despite the fact that he kept reading the same sentence over and over while absorbing absolutely none of it. Meanwhile, Bruce had found an old entertainment holo-deck and was fiddling with it, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he picked at a circuit board with a pair of pliers. 

Two hours into their journey, he actually managed to get it to work, startling them all as a grainy hologram miniature of the Grandmaster materialized in the middle of the shuttle and cheerily announced that due to a minor planetary coup, they would be airing reruns until further notice, starting with “Tales from the Orgy Ship” followed by a highlight reel of decapitations. 

“I didn’t know space had reality TV,” Bruce remarked blandly, at this point so accustomed to the chaos of interstellar travel that he didn’t even blink at “Tales from the Orgy Ship.” 

“How do you think Sakaar’s economy worked?” Valkyrie answered lazily, not moving a muscle. “The Grandmaster had money, sure, but everything revolved around his games. Gambling, betting, selling matches or slaves, concessions, and of course network deals- how much viewership do you think a whole planet of constant violence, sex, and drama, broadcast through space, gets? How much do you think advertisers would pay to get featured on that?”

Curled around the pages of his book, Loki's fingers, ever so slightly, twitched. 

"Good lord." Bruce took a minute to absorb that, grimacing. “But how does he film it? I never noticed any cameras while I was on Sakaar.” 

“Oh, the whole planet is littered with hidden cameras. You can’t even take a shit without it being filmed. He’s got towers full of editors, splicing together clips and scenes from his hidden cameras to make it entertaining, multiple angles, all that.” 

Valkyrie picked her nose idly with her pinky finger, lifted up her sleep mask to inspect the spoils of her efforts, and flicked it off vaguely in Loki’s direction. It hit a shimmering barrier of green light and sizzled to ash, acrid-smelling debris falling to the floor. Unperturbed, Loki turned the page of his book with a light rustling sound.

“And the people of Sakaar, they agree to this?” Bruce sounded horrified.

“Oh, of course not. The Grandmaster doesn’t need permission.” Valkyrie snorted. “Most people have no idea they’re being filmed. No one ever makes it off Sakaar, anyways.”

Loki stood abruptly, startling them both. The book fell from his lap and vanished in a flash of green before it reached the ground.

“I’m going to check on the engine,” he announced. Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and stepped jerkily out of the cockpit, the doors sliding smoothly shut behind him. 

“The engine’s fine,” Valkyrie muttered under her breath. "Twitchy bastard. Can't take a little snot rocket every now and then?"

“Thank you for your patience!” the Grandmaster’s hologram chirped. Bruce jumped at the sudden interruption, having forgotten that he had left the holo-deck on. “Tales from the Orgy Ship will resume in 3… 2…”

“Are you seriously gonna watch that?” Valkyrie asked, a vague tone of judgement in her voice. 

Bruce shrugged. “I’m bored. And when else will I have a chance to observe extraterrestrial mating habits?” 

She snorted, but sat up in her chair slightly and lifted her sleep mask. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of chances before we make it to Midgard. If Asgardian parties are anything like they used to be, at least.” 

The hologram of the Grandmaster flickered once then disappeared, replaced by a square frame much like a television screen, apart from the fact that it was translucent enough that Bruce could see Valkyrie’s silhouette through the projected scene. 

“Tales from the Orgy Ship” appeared in large, gaudy gold calligraphic script, followed by the subtitle “EPISODE 12,487.” 

The text quickly disappeared, replaced by a large purple phallus, slick with lubricant and ridged with a myriad of bumps dotted along its considerable shaft. It was plunging in and out of a very red, sore-looking, yet disappointingly human-like anus. 

“Oh,” remarked Bruce, over the wet sound of fornication and animalistic grunts followed by high-pitched moans and whimpers. “That’s… not what I expected.” He sounded a bit put out. 

“What, are you disappointed?” Valkyrie snickered and turned to the dashboard, fiddling with a lever, though she kept her eyes on the projection, watching out of the corner of her eye. 

The scene zoomed out slowly, showing them a more complete view of a pair of muscular purple legs to which the phallus belonged, plunging languidly between a pair of pale, well-shaped buttocks. 

They were flushed red, a distinct hand print on one cheek, and scores of dried and still-glistening semen were splattered across the buttocks and back. At least, Bruce assumed it was semen, though not all was the same color; he spotted blues and silvers and pinks amidst the mess of spunk. 

Lines of raised welts, presumably from a whip or lash, stood out in stark contrast to the pale skin, and as the camera zoomed out, Bruce could see the person's whole back shared similar marks, some still bleeding languidly. The buttocks bounced in time with the hard, wet smacks of flesh on flesh, followed by muffled, needy moans. 

A purple scaled hand kneaded a cheek, claws dimpling the flesh and leaving behind pinpricks of blood, then drew back and struck several times in quick succession, with a hard smacksmacksmack.  

The buttocks jiggled; the hips trembled; the moans grew louder and more desperate. The purple creature thrust with increased vigour and the moans reached a pitch, became an aching wail that echoed through the cockpit, the sound made slightly tinny from the holo-deck speakers. 

Bruce blushed and turned down the volume. "It's just so…" he gestured helplessly. "Normal." 

She raised her eyebrows. "What were you expecting?"

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his shirt. “Something weirder. Tentacles or feathers or something. Not… this.” 

"Bit prejudiced to call tentacles and feathers weird, isn't it?" said Valkyrie cheekily. 

"Shit. Sorry." Bruce blushed, quickly pushing his glasses back up his nose.

"Oh, don't look so upset, I'm only teasing." She smirked. "Besides, if it's tentacles you're wanting to see, just keep watching—I think the Grandmaster had a Valyr'ak in his retinue at some point."

Bruce sighed. "Got nothing better to do, I guess." He turned back to the hologram and stilled, eyes widening. "What the…"

"There you go," said Valkyrie. "Weird, just like you wanted." 

The camera angle had zoomed out, providing a more complete view of the scene.

It appeared to be taking place in what looked disturbingly similar to a wrestling stadium. A dizzying multitude of lifeforms were packed into rows of seats, arena-like, surrounding a raised circular stage. Hanging above was an electronic scoreboard, currently displaying the number thirty-seven in neon orange LED. 

The stage was an obnoxious shade of luminescent teal, around its circumference a red, velvet rope fence. In the center, kneeling face-down on a low, padded platform, was a slender, pale figure with a shoulder-length mop of black hair obscuring their face and an unfairly good ass.

Their legs were separated by a spreader bar affixed to a cuff around each ankle, which in turn was chained to the platform. Similarly, there were cuffs around their wrists, attached to the middle of the spreader bar. Back forced into a tight arch, their shoulders and face were pressed to the platform, arms stretched uncomfortably beneath their stomach towards the spreader bar. 

Grunting and jackhammering into the pale figure was the purple alien, relatively humanoid in appearance, save for opalescent scales and raised spiked ridges along its spine like a lizard. It's fingers were tipped with black, inch-long claws, and as Bruce watched, spiked ridges appeared to be pulsing in time with its thrusts.

Raucous, the audience bellowed and hollered, jumping as if cheering on their favorite player about to score a goal. There was a group of yellow stork-like creatures holding signs and banners in a script Bruce couldn't read, behind them a blue, three-headed person with all four arms folded irritably as they craned their heads to try and see around the banners. 

And presiding over them all, standing in front of the platform as it rocked in time with the pale man—Bruce was relatively sure they were a man now, he'd got a glimpse of a painfully hard, (rather impressive) red cock, dripping and splattering across the platform as it swung, pendulous and untouched, between his legs—was the Grandmaster. 

"Come on and place your bets, people, place your bets!" he called, joyously, into a megaphone. "Who will be the first to come? Will it be Asthar, disqualifying him from the next round?" 

The camera flashed to a shot of the purple alien, bent over the pale man and plowing into him so hard the platform jerked forward with each thrust. Bruce could see a shudder run through his body, toes curling and back arching at a severe angle as he keened, needy and tearful. The audience cheered and booed, waving signs and flags and noisemakers, the same image, now zoomed in on his trembling thighs, dripping with lubricant and semen, displayed on multiple screens across the arena. 

"Or will it be Lo-Lo, allowing Asthar to advance to the next round?"

"Shit," said the Valkyrie suddenly, and Bruce's attention snapped back to her. He'd been gaping, open-mouthed at the spectacle, completely sucked in by the absurdity of what he was watching. 

"Huh?"

"Alright, place your bets now, folks!" the Grandmaster was calling, "because, heh, Asthar's looking ready to blow—and who could blame him, my Lo-Lo's got an ass that just don't quit—"

"Turn it off." She was sitting up straight, looking at the projection with a look of dawning horror. "Fuck—turn it off, now."

"What? Shit, okay, but why?" Bruce pushed up his glasses, peering down at the remote he'd taken apart and reconfigured. He'd figured out how to turn the holo-deck on, but off was a different matter entirely. He held his screwdriver in his mouth, using the pliers to twist a couple wires—maybe that would do it?

There was a sound like a cross between a roar and a groan, followed by a bell clanging and the audience cheering. "Aaaand it looks like Asthar is disqualified!" 

"It won't turn off." Bruce looked up. The purple alien was pulling out—and out—and out . Bruce winced; it was a very long and girthy penis. Shivers ran through the pale man's body and he let out an exhausted groan, unable to move for the spreader bar and cuffs. Light purple semen spilled from his ass and trickled down his thighs, pooled on the platform below him. 

"Well, figure it out!" snapped Valkyrie. 

"And that brings Lo-Lo to thirty-eight! Twelve to go—let's check in with our favorite kitten now!" 

"Lo-Lo," Bruce chuckled, fiddling with wires. "Sounds kinda like…" 

He paused, looked up. Valkyrie was very pale, her mouth pressed into a thin line. 

"No," he said, disbelieving. "No." 

The camera switched angles. The Grandmaster curled his fingers into jet-black hair and yanked, forcing the man's head up and revealing his face. 

"Grandmaster," Loki slurred. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown almost entirely black. Tears and semen streaked his face, eyelashes wet and glistening. He looked dazed and flushed, pink dusting his high cheekbones, lips open slightly. Drool dribbled from the corner of his slack mouth. 

Bruce turned to Valkyrie, aghast. "What the hell?"

"Turn. It. Off," she hissed. 

"Poor Lo-Lo, you didn't get to come this round, either," the Grandmaster cooed, and patted his cheek condescendingly, as if he were a dog. "Are these contestants not enough for you, hm?" 

"Did—did you know about this?" Bruce gestured wildly. "Is this, like, normal?"

"Please," Loki begged, eyes half-lidded and hazy. He couldn't seem to focus his vision, and let out a pained, shuddering sob. "No more— I, I can't—"

Bruce's mouth dropped open. He did not want to see any more of this. Frantically, he twisted screws and buttons on the remote’s circuit board, trying to engineer an off button. 

"It's normal for Sakaar," said Valkyrie, darkly.

“Shh, shh, shh,” the Grandmaster placed a finger against Loki’s wet, parted lips. “None of that negativity, Lo-Lo. Of course you can! Just twelve more and you'll break fifty—I, I mean," he chuckled, "you wouldn't want to disappoint me now, would you, sweetheart? Because that—" his voice hardened, grew dangerous, "that would be, well, ridiculous." In the background, the audience was booing.

"No!" Loki gasped, panicked as Bruce had never seen him. "No—of course not—I would never dream of it—" There was a slight slur to his words, and he kept swallowing convulsively, as if producing too much saliva. He was undoubtedly high, drunk, or just too strung out, fucked senseless to the point where he was laid bare, emotionally flayed in front of a roaring audience of thousands. 

"This is so fucked up," Bruce whispered, shocked. "Like this is really, really fucked up." 

"Why do you think I fucking told you to turn it off?"

"I'm trying!" Bruce insisted. 

"Didn't think so. Here, this’ll help you keep going, loosen you up—open up, pet." Loki obediently parted his lips, allowing the Grandmaster’s thumb to come to lay on the soft wet bed of his tongue, holding his mouth open further. 

From seemingly nowhere, the Grandmaster produced a small, pink pill. Bruce didn't recognize it, but evidently Loki did, as his eyes grew wide, face paling. Immediately, he jerked back, letting the Grandmaster’s thumb fall from his mouth, slick with spittle. His mouth closed so hastily there was an audible click of his teeth. As if on cue, a gasp went around the audience.

"Th-that is very kind of you, Grandmaster, but I do-don't want—" Loud booing came crackling through the speakers, reverberating in the small cockpit. 

Smack.

The Grandmaster slapped Loki, hard. 

Bruce inhaled, sharp. Beneath his skin, the Hulk stirred, as if waking from a long slumber. 

"Try harder," Valkyrie threatened. 

“Lo-Lo,” the Grandmaster warned, voice light, yet there was a knife-like undertone to it that had not been present before. “You know how much I dislike that word. Such an—an ugly word, really, and I have no patience for it, such a downer—you’re not trying to upset me, are you, kitten?”

"I'm sorry." Loki's eyes were wide with terror, face stricken, all the color drained from his cheeks. "I'm sorry— I didn't mean—"

“Honestly, you– you can be so selfish sometimes." The Grandmaster shook his head sadly, affecting a mournful disposition. A boo went around the crowd. "It’s not about what you want, kitten,” the Grandmaster cooed, “It’s about what’s good for you. What you deserve. And you deserve this, don’t you, Lo-Lo? You were made for this.”

“Yes, Grandmaster,” Loki assented. His voice was barely audible. 

Bruce felt very, very nauseous. The queasy feeling that had been swirling in his belly since Loki came on screen was now frothing angrily, threatening to erupt out his throat. He could taste bile on his tongue. 

He tried twisting the wires in the opposite direction— maybe that would help? Oh fuck, nothing was turning the holo-deck off and he really, really did not want to continue watching this. He tried to take slow, deep breaths, focus on the relaxing inhale-exhale routine his therapist had taught him—if he had a Hulk attack onboard the shuttle, he could kill them all. Luckily, he didn't feel anger so much as deep-seated disgust and sadness. 

“I mean, what are you good for, really? You’re wasted anywhere else. This is where you belong. I’m just trying to help you see that, kitten. I’m trying to help you— and really, it’s so, so frustrating when you say such ungrateful words like no and don't and stop."

"I'm sorry, Grandmaster." Loki's voice shook. He closed his eyes, something like defeat mingled with absolute, utter misery flashing across his face. 

"Bor's hairy balls, what's taking so long?" Valkyrie snapped, and grabbed the remote from Bruce. She turned it over in her hands, squinting at it with a grimace. "What the fuck did you do to this thing?"

"Stick out your tongue," the Grandmaster commanded. There was a gulp; Bruce assumed Loki had swallowed the pill from before. "Good boy. Now, no more of this negativity—such a, a bummer, really, brings the whole mood down." 

"I don't know?" Bruce shrugged helplessly. He dared a glance at the projection and his blood froze. "Oh, fuck."

The camera had changed angles again, back to a rear-view (literally, Loki’s ass was on full display and Bruce suddenly felt very conscious of the fact that he had previously thought it was a very nice ass) of the stage and platform. 

Loki’s face was turned on its side; with his arms and legs trapped by the spreader bar, he couldn’t see behind him. Through the tangle of black hair, his eyes were panicked and very, very wide.

The next “contender” was strutting forward. They were big; bigger than the previous one. In their right hand, they held a whip. 

Valkyrie looked up and cursed. “Shit!” She clipped at switches and wires frantically. One went up in sparks—the projection flickered—Bruce held his breath hopefully—and became even more solid, the colors more vivid. 

“Lo-Lo’s been a bit—heh, naughty,” The Grandmaster was addressing the audience, speaking into the megaphone. “And we can’t have that, can we?” The audience cheered in agreement.  

“Oh god oh god turn it off, turn it off!” Bruce yanked the remote control back from Valkyrie and pressed buttons at random, attached wires, anything. 

“Should we make him come, or should we make him bleed?” Swelling, a cacophony of overlapping chants, the audience shouting their answers. The Grandmaster twirled, arms held wide, grinning adoringly up at the stands. 

“Oh, why choose—let's go for both!” The audience erupted into roars; they jumped and clapped and waved their many appendages. Cackling with glee, the Grandmaster clapped his hands excitedly, like a child at a birthday party. Bruce could see Loki’s back rising and falling in short, sharp succession as his breathing shallowed with dread. 

“This is sick,” Bruce said, and stabbed angrily at the remote circuit board with the screwdriver. It snapped clean in half. “Fuck!”

The audience’s cheers rose to crashing adulation—the contender raised the whip—

—and the holo-deck exploded in a burst of green flame.

“Fuck,” Bruce and Valkyrie swore in unison, and turned around. Loki was leaning against the cockpit entranceway, pale and sweaty, his expression one of both betrayal and pure, abject horror. He braced himself against the wall with one arm, swaying slightly on the spot, then bent over and promptly vomited onto the floor. 

“Oh, gross,” Bruce heard Valkyrie say, but he was already rushing over to where Loki stood, standing so abruptly that his chair knocked over. 

“Shit, shit, shit—Loki, I’m so sorry—I tried to turn it off as soon as I realized—shit! ” Loki’s legs trembled, then gave out entirely, folding under him. He would have crumpled into the puddled sick had Bruce not been able to catch him by the forearms just in time and ease him to the floor. 

The second Bruce released his grasp, Loki scuttled backwards blindly until he hit the wall and tucked himself into the nearest corner, curled in on himself with his knees to his chest. His hands crept up to his scalp, tugging on his hair in distress as he stared blankly, eyes unfocused. 

“I am so sorry,” Bruce apologized frantically, squatting down to talk to Loki. Loki didn’t respond, staring through Bruce as if he weren’t there. His chest rose and fell with stunted, shuddering gasps, like the puttering of a dying engine. 

"Bruce!” Valkyrie yelled, from behind. Bruce looked over his shoulder.

Fuck. 

Waves of smokeless, green fire crackled from where the holo-deck had been, all the way to the control panel, half of it already engulfed in flames. The fire was spreading fast, and so was the damage left behind—plastic warping and melting, screens shattering from the heat and wires snapping with a last burst of sparks like a dying breath. 

“You need to calm him down!" Valkyrie yelled, the thick shower of foam erupting from the hose of the fire extinguisher she had aimed at the control panel not nearly enough to quell the flames or stop their spread. Even parts of the control panel that weren't (yet) aflame were sparking dangerously, the lights and gauges blinking ominously as two separate alarms began to chime at once, the overlapping klaxons creating a cacophony of sound not exactly conducive to calming down a panicking sorcerer. 

Loki, seemingly blind to the chaos unfolding in front of him, barked out a crude parody of a laugh. "We're dead," he declared, voice barely above a whisper. "I've killed us all." He hunched in on himself even more, long limbs contorted painfully in a defensive state. 

"No, you haven't—not yet, at least—c’mon Loki, deep breaths, yeah? Think calm thoughts," encouraged Bruce, injecting his voice with as much false cheer and reassurance as he possibly could, given the situation. A third alarm joined in on the chaos, klanging so loud it was as if an overzealous percussionist were crashing cymbals right over their heads. 

“He knows,” croaked Loki, and slammed his head against the wall violently. “He knows.” Choked, voiceless laughter that sounded more akin to sobs burst from his vomit-stained lips, shoulders quaking. 

"The fire extinguisher isn't working on his fucking magic fire! Bruce! You need to snap him out of it!" Valkyrie sounded shrill, panicked in a way he'd never have envisioned as possible for her before. Heat oppressed Bruce’s back, singed the hairs on the back of his neck as the flames climbed ever higher behind them. 

“I’m supposed—I’m supposed to be dead,” Loki gasped, and battered the wall with his skull again, leaving behind a dent in the metal. “And now he knows.” A tear leaked out of the corner of one eye and he threw his head back with a clang , leaving behind a small smear of blood. 

Clang.

Bloody splotches adorned the inside of the dent, gleaming crimson. Loki’s lips were moving, chanting the same phrase—“he knows”—over and over, slurred and barely audible.

Clang. The dent was now more of a crater, blood clinging to the walls. 

“Bruce!” Valkyrie screamed. 

“Please don’t kill me for this,” prayed Bruce, and did the only thing he could think to do. 

He slapped Loki, hard, right across the face. 

"I’m so sorry," he gasped, "but we need you to get it together."

Loki’s head snapped to the side and he sucked in a sharp breath, raising a disbelieving hand to rub at his cheek, feel the heat blossom under the skin where Bruce’s palm had made impact. Some focus returned to his eyes. He blinked, then frowned. 

"Ow,” he said, pointedly. His eyes narrowed. "Did you just—you dare to hit me—"

Bruce slapped him again. "Get up," he commanded, trying to channel Steve Rogers at his most intimidating. He didn't think he succeeded in the slightest, but it got Loki blinking into puzzled awareness, so he figured he had at least managed some semblance of authoritativeness. 

He grasped Loki by the forearm and stood, hoisting him up alongside himself. “You set the cockpit on fire,” he told him, watching as horrified comprehension dawned on Loki’s face. The green flames towering over them danced in his dilated pupils, matching his irises. It appeared almost as if his eyes were part of the flame themselves, flickering and writhing, spitting up forked tongues and cascades of sparks. 

"I…" Loki seemed about to say something, but then closed his mouth with a click, setting his jaw. He took in a shaky breath, closing his eyes momentarily as he made some sort of symbol with his hand. The fires dwindled and then died out completely within a second, leaving behind a charred, smoking mess of the control panel. 

"Finally," Valkyrie declared, and not so much sat as fell into the sole remaining unburnt chair. She slumped until her chin was on her chest, wiping a forearm across her sweaty brow, smearing it with soot in the process. "Fuck, Lackey."

It took a moment for Loki to respond—frozen, he surveyed the burnt scrap heap that was their control panel, throat bobbing as if he was fighting back nausea. Bruce had seen him lose his composure, permanent mask of indifference cracking, a mere handful of times before. As always, it tugged uncomfortably at his heartstrings, sent his stomach lurching, a chill conquering his body as if antifreeze had been poured into his arteries. 

Loki, stricken, looked so young—lost, eyes wet and panic-struck, devastation reading clear in the uncertain twitching of his face, as if he couldn't decide how best to rearrange it, which mask to apply and so, left to its own devices, it spasmed, unaccustomed to baring truth. 

His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, a rare event indeed, but after a minute of quivering like a taut-drawn bow amidst the destruction, he brought his hands, cupped, to his face as if to cry into them like a child. There was a swift, sharp inhale, and when he brought his hands back down they were slightly steadier, and he looked like Loki once more. 

"My apologies." His voice was hoarse, barely audible, but it sounded genuine. For his part, Loki actually did look ashamed, shifting from foot to foot and wringing his hands. Even with his mask restored, he was pale and wan, and his eyes kept darting to the side, as if he might dash away at any second. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Can—is the damage quite bad?"

Valkyrie groaned. "I don't know yet. I managed to get it into emergency autopilot mode before the system burnt out entirely. If we're lucky, that should be enough to land us on the nearest available port, and then we can work on getting it fixed once we're on solid land."

"Will we be able to make it to CPK-32?" Bruce approached the still sparking cockpit apprehensively, examining the single surviving screen. "Ah. Apparently not."

"Looks like we'll be landing on Silurias after all," Valkyrie announced. "Thanks, Lackey."

Chapter Text

Loki paced the engine room restlessly, thumb worrying circles into the palm of his left hand. The room was small, bordering on claustrophobic and the ceiling low, forcing him to pace half-hunched over in short, tight circles. 

He had no solid memories of Silurias, or at least ones that he could confidently determine as having occurred on Silurias. But hearing the name had brought flashes of pain, screaming, of blood on his hands. A gallows, hastily constructed in a crater left behind by an explosion.

Thanos's sign, the Mark of the Black Order, at every turn- painted on walls, hoisted on flags, on the insignia of uniformed soldiers clad in black. Burnt into the side of his neck, marking him with status both revered and feared, built on the flayed backs of those he killed and tortured at his master's command.

A general of the Black Order. Child of Thanos. Nova.

He’d hoped, foolishly, that he’d outrun his sordid past. That the news of his death he had intentionally spread throughout the galaxy (those melodramatic plays had been excruciating to write, but they’d certainly served their purpose) would be enough to keep Thanos and his Children off his tail. 

He should have known better than to hope. It was pathetic, really, a child’s prayer at best. When had any of his plans ever ended up in his favor? The Norns loved to watch him fail. That had been proven over and over again, by Brokkr’s awl and thread, by Baldr, by Thor’s fists and Odin’s disapproval and Frigga’s murder. Everything he touched turned to rot. He was a fool to keep trying, to keep thinking, maybe this time, when the conclusion was always the same. He destroyed. 

His birthright was to die, and he wasn’t even capable of that, it seemed, the Norns spitting him back out every time he tried. Death was too good for the likes of him. He deserved to suffer- everything that had happened to him, he deserved. Liar, killer, cheater. Whore. 

Thor may still be ignorant to the filth that Loki was, but Bruce and Valkyrie certainly weren’t. And now that they were bound for Silurias (his fault, his fault, always his fucking fault) they’d see just how deep the rot ran, the full nature of his irredeemability. 

Loki didn't remember when, exactly, he had been on Silurias or what he had been doing there. It didn't really matter. The objective was almost always the same: kill as many as necessary to make it clear there was no room for negotiation. Then, the forced conversions to Thanos's death cult. The people would, in the end, willingly give up their precious metals, their fuel, their knowledge. 

Loki's earliest missions as Nova had been with Gamora, visiting pre-established colonial outposts to ensure their compliance with Thanos's decree and collect "tax"- i.e., whatever foodstuffs, metals, and fuel they could scrape off the remaining populace. 

From his memories of his time as one of the Black Order, these were some of the most clear: grey, decimated landscapes dotted with abandoned skeletons of buildings and barren fields. Roiling, teeming masses of hollow-eyed K'leeks, their clothes ragged and torn, toiling in mines to the point of collapse, barefoot and bloody. A child's body, roasting on a spit, surrounded a group of starving, desperate K'leek fighting each other for the first bite. 

It would not last. A report from Gamora deeming him "too soft" had earned him another two months with The Other and Ebony Maw for "reeducation." After that, he had been ordered to join Proxima Midnight and Corvus Glaive on their missions to capture other small, remote asteroids and planetoids to convert to colonies for Thanos's cause. Silurias, he was sure, had been one such planetoid. 

He couldn't remember what he had done here, how many he had killed. He wasn't looking forward to finding out. 

Bruce sat on the floor, head in his hands. “We fucked up,” he muttered, voice low and numb. After the fire was extinguished, Loki immediately fled back to the engine room and hadn’t emerged since. Bruce couldn’t blame him. 

Valkyrie made a noncommittal noise of disagreement. 

Bruce raised his head, accusation creasing his brow. “You knew.”

“Knew what? That the Grandmaster is a rapist bastard? Everyone knows,” scoffed Valkyrie. Her gaze skidded to the side, avoiding eye contact. 

“About Loki.” 

Valkyrie sighed, chewed her lip. Restless, she kept shifting in her seat, as if trying to correct her posture. They both knew she was simply trying to hide her discomfort and failing. 

“Well, yeah.” she said, eventually. “It wasn’t exactly a secret—I mean, you saw that crowd. Probably half of Sakaar was there.”

“Were you?”

She froze, and Bruce knew the answer before she even opened her mouth. When she did finally speak, she did so slowly, carefully, as if guilt was weighing down each word and she had to fight to get them off her tongue. “Yes. Many times.”

“Why?” Bruce couldn’t wrap his head around it. 

She just shrugged, gaze distant and hollow. “When the Grandmaster calls, you come. If he gives you an invitation, you go. That’s all there is to it.”

“Did you ever…” Bruce trailed off. He couldn’t even make himself say it. 

“Participate?” she guessed, wryly arching an eyebrow. 

Bruce nodded. 

Valkyrie swallowed. All the emotion had drained from her face, leaving her pallor grey. “I’m not sure. Once, maybe. I don’t remember, I—I was…” Drunk. She let the silence fill in the blank. 

“He wasn’t—Loki wasn’t exactly sober, either,” she added insistently. “Almost all of the times I saw him, he was out of his head on some drug or something. More so towards the end, but—they all do, by the end. He lasted the longest, I think, that I’ve seen in maybe a century, so. That’s something. He didn’t break.” 

“That doesn’t exactly make it better,” said Bruce dryly. He rubbed his eyes. “How long was he…”

“How long was he the Grandmaster’s pet whore?” Valkyrie finished sardonically. Bruce just looked at her and the expression melted off her face, revealing the guilt and shame creasing her expression. 

“Not sure,” she muttered, scratching the back of her neck as an excuse to look down, avert her eyes. “Time is—different, on Sakaar. Not too long, but not that short either—five, six months, maybe? Eight or nine at the very most, but I doubt it. It’s hard to be sure—the days all sort of blend together there, you lose whole weeks in the blink of an eye. And the drink and drugs certainly don't help." 

"Jesus," Bruce muttered, trying to calculate the horror of half a year spent at the Grandmaster's behest. 

"Don't know who that is," said Valkyrie, "but I don't think he was on Sakaar." 

“He’s not—never mind.” Bruce had had enough trouble trying to explain Christmas to Thor, who had followed along cheerily enough at first and then declared that what Bruce was talking about was actually Jul, which the Christians had stolen, just like everything else. He then mentioned cheerfully that he found Christians entirely offensive for converting his worshippers and turning them into “peace-loving ponies,” but that they made perfectly tolerable human sacrifices. 

“No hard feelings, though,” he’d winked, and patted Bruce on the shoulder with a force strong enough to make his knees buckle. 

Loki had been a different matter. When Bruce had stubbed his toe and hissed out a pained “Jesus Christ,” Loki looked up from the book he was reading, eyes wide in innocent surprise. “Oh, is he still around?” he’d said. “Never can keep track of your people’s lifespans. I’ll have to pay him a visit when we get to Midgard. Lovely fellow. Very good with his hands.” He’d smirked, and then nonchalantly gone back to reading his book, as if he hadn’t just completely upended over a thousand years worth of religious doctrine. Bruce had never been as thankful for his upbringing, which while decidedly terrible, was at least free of any religious practicings.

No, Bruce was definitely not putting himself through explaining Christianity to any other Asgardians. He’d leave that to Steve once they got back to Earth, and go drink a calming cup of tea from a safe distance. 

Valkyrie said something, and Bruce forced his attention back to the situation at hand. 

“What?” he said.

“I said,” said Valkyrie, obviously miffed at having to repeat herself, “that I thought Loki knew about the cameras. I didn’t think it would be such a big deal, and now we’re in this mess ‘cause of him. He shouldn’t have come along in the first place.” 

“Don’t say that.” Bruce tried not to let his surprise at Valkyrie’s callousness show on his face. “He’s a good negotiator. And anyone would freak out if videos of them in… intimate situations were broadcast all over the entire galaxy.”

“Not everyone can start magic fires with their fucking mind. And he was already unstable, you know that. You’ve seen his—his fits. I can hear him all the way from my room when he has one, screaming his head off. He’s a fucking liability.”

Loathe as he was to admit it, Valkyrie had a point. 

In New York, it was obvious that Loki was mentally unwell, to the point of deranged grandiose speeches about the subjugation of humanity and opening a wormhole to unleash a horde of insectoid aliens over one of the world’s largest metropolises. 

Yet Thor insisted that was a one-time fluke, a mental break following a horrible accident that resulted in Loki being presumed dead, until he showed up on Earth. He claimed that Loki was reformed and prepared to make amends. Bruce had doubted him at first. He’d be a fool not to.

But despite his worst expectations, Loki turned out to be a surprisingly helpful and efficient member of their makeshift team. 

He assisted in the medical bay most days, lending his magic and surprising amount of medical knowledge to heal patients and ease pain. He even deigned to teach Bruce some simple healing potions—as it turned out, what Asgardians considered "potion-making" was just an advanced form of chemistry, but with triple the amount of elements and using particles previously dismissed as theoretical at best (as soon as Bruce got back, he was definitely sneaking Loki in to visit the Large Hadron Collider and Fermilab—they were going to solve the strong CP problem and put decades of theoretical particle physicists' intellectual fistfighting to rest).

Not only did Loki organize a daycare for Asgard's children, he worked days on end without sleep the first week to facilitate the adoption of orphans by those who had lost their own children. Several times a week he told stories to hordes of children, captivating them with horrifyingly realistic illusions of gory battles with giants and beasts. (When Bruce raised concerns as to the graphic nature of the stories, such as “The Disembowelment of Þjóðríkr the Bold” or “Sigurd Eats the Heart of Fafnir And Learns To Talk To Birds,” he was met with blank eyes of confusion and told these were standard thoroughfare for Asgardian child-rearing.) 

Sure, Loki was standoffish and brusque, prickly and unfriendly to a fault. He could be unnecessarily rude sometimes, delivering scathing remarks and pointed barbs that never failed to strike in all the worst places. But he was also funny, with a wry sense of humor that matched Bruce’s own. 

He was knowledgeable, and didn’t seem to mind explaining to Bruce what the others took for granted as common knowledge, such as the difference between a Kree and a Skrull or how the ship’s engine ran on crystallized fuel. In fact, he seemed genuinely happy to be asked and was able to lecture for hours, or at least as long as he could until Thor and Valkyrie started rolling their eyes and tapping their feet impatiently, and then would inevitably cut him off to start discussing the merits of hammers versus axes when used in combat. 

And so, it came to be that against all odds, the person whose company Bruce enjoyed the most while on the Statesman was Loki. 

The more time Bruce spent around him, the more he was able to see that his prickly nature and fierce insults were merely a self-defense measure, a protective shell to stop anyone from getting too close. Loki purposely isolated himself, steering clear of the other Asgardians with the exception of Thor, and even that relationship was fraught with tension. 

The Asgardians seemed happy to stay away from him as well, often muttering under their breath from a safe distance and sneaking glances at him as he sat alone in the mess hall or mixed potions in the medical bay. Loki never showed any acknowledgement of the whispers and stares, but eventually his meals in the mess hall dwindled and then ceased altogether. 

Bruce, concerned, asked Thor about it. He brushed him off nonchalantly, explaining,

“Loki has ever preferred solitude and books to the company of others. And, truthfully, there is discord between him and the people. Many of them blame him for our current circumstances. And the matter of his birth, now that it is known, is bound to cause a rift. Perhaps it is better that he stay out of sight, at least until some of the discontent dies down.”

When Bruce questioned Thor further about what he meant by ‘the matter of his birth,’ Thor’s face twisted unpleasantly, as if sucking on a lemon. He took a long time before answering. “It is a matter of great shame for Loki. Promise me you will not ask further.” And the conversation was finished. 

It didn’t sit right with Bruce that Thor was content to let his own brother be ostracized by his people. And by this point, he had come to genuinely enjoy Loki’s company, for the most part. So Bruce took it upon himself to… keep an eye on Loki, as it were. 

Once he found out where Loki was eating (alone in the engine room with a pack of rations he’d swipe after hours), he took to picking up meals in the mess hall and bringing them down to the engine room to eat together, under the pretext of wanting Loki’s input on an equation or the star charts he was working on. 

Loki had eyed him suspiciously the first couple of times, his responses clipped and carefully guarded, but as time went on and Bruce kept coming, some of his apprehension faded away. The rigidity with which Loki comported himself diminished somewhat, and the lines of tension in his shoulders and neck faded as he allowed himself to relax, however minutely, whilst in Bruce’s presence. 

It was during these times, when Loki let his carefully constructed mask slip just the slightest bit, that Bruce first noticed that despite Thor’s reassurances as to the contrary, there was something seriously… off about Loki. 

The first time it was simple, easily dismissed. Without thinking, he patted Loki’s arm while in conversation. It was just a light, casual touch, but Loki instantly froze, whole body locked in place. He stared at Bruce’s hand on his arm, eyes so wide the whites were visible, face drained of color. Bruce instantly removed his hand, but it was several beats before Loki moved again. He was so still Bruce couldn’t be sure he was even breathing. 

After that, Bruce started noticing things. How Loki shied away from touch and froze like a trapped deer when it did happen. He jumped at sudden movements and sounds, and flinched at loud noises or fast motions. He always sat with his back to the wall and all points of entry within visibility, as if actively preparing for ambush. A knife would appear in his hand at the slightest provocation. He was restless, unable to stay still- there was always a finger tapping, a leg bouncing, a knife or pen twirling in his hand.

Then there was his unsettling tendency to suddenly… drop off, even mid-sentence or activity. He’d be talking, normal as ever, and then something would set him off. His eyes would glaze over and he’d adopt a blank, empty stare, completely unresponsive to the world around him. If you put food in front of him and a spoon in his hand he would eat in a jerky, mechanical fashion; if you led him to a chair he would sit, but it was uncanny and unsettling, as if he were an empty shell, a not-quite-human doll. Sometimes the dissociation would last minutes or hours, but it could be days spent in a catatonic, lifeless state. 

Other times Loki could fly into frenzied, spitting panics or rages, with no indication of what set him off. Once, during a council meeting, Bruce proposed they make a pit stop at a nearby uninhabited planet called Titan to get some fresh air and scavenge for food. 

He had scarcely finished the sentence when Loki had leapt to his feet and driven his knife into the table, barking out a strangled “No!” before bringing his hands to his face and clawing at his neck fierce enough to gouge red lines in the skin. He paced the room in a panic, hyperventilating and muttering nonsense about Titans and “he’ll take half, he’ll take half and make me watch” until Thor, unsettled, promised they would avoid Titan completely. 

Even that hadn’t been enough to calm him completely, and he paced the room for the rest of the meeting, twitching and wide-eyed, thumb boring a hole into his opposite palm. 

Nights were even worse. It had taken them all a while to notice, as Loki seemed to have been placing a silencing spell over himself before going to bed. It only came to light when he nodded off unexpectedly while working one day.

Horrifying, piercing screams brought Thor and Bruce running to his side, only to discover him at his desk, covered in a thin sheen of sweat and struggling against invisible bonds. His eyes were swiveling rapidly under his eyelids and he was twitching, almost convulsing in imagined or remembered pain as he screamed with such ferocity it was as if he were being sawed in half. Raw and hoarse, agonizing cries torn straight from his lungs, horrendously, disturbingly real.

Waking him wasn’t much help at all. Loki had startled so violently that he fell out of his chair. He hadn’t seemed to recognize them at all, shying away from Thor’s outstretched hand and scrambling backwards with his hands and feet until his back hit the wall. He curled into a tight ball, knees drawn close to his chest with his hands forming a protective lattice over his head, trembling and muttering incoherently. 

When Thor tried to speak, he only flinched and curled in on himself even further, a litany of pleas for mercy and promises to be good, to obey streaming from his lips. Any attempts at comfort only seemed to increase his anguish. 

When Loki started sobbing, actually sobbing, shoulders quaking with the force of his misery, Thor silently led Bruce out of the room and closed the door behind them. 

“Let us not add to his shame,” he had said quietly, and then warned Bruce not to speak of what he had seen. A day later, Loki joined them in the council room as if nothing had happened. They never discussed it.

Sometimes Bruce would wake in the middle of the night. On his way to use the bathroom or get a drink of water, he’d pass by Loki’s bed roll, see him soaked in sweat and thrashing desperately, mouth open in silent agony. Bruce would force himself to walk away, to ignore Loki’s pain, even as guilt formed a lead ball in his stomach. 

So Bruce could appreciate where Valkyrie was coming from. But he liked Loki, despite what he had done in the past. Besides, Bruce had the lingering suspicion that there was a lot more to Loki’s side of the story than they had previously assumed. Those nightmares didn’t come from nowhere, after all. 

“I think,” said Bruce slowly, choosing his words carefully, “that Loki has been through something horrific, both in the past and more recently. I think he’s dealing with it the best he can, and that we just need to be patient.”

Valkyrie wrinkled her nose as if smelling something foul. “You just like him because he answers all your nerdy space questions.”

“Well, yes,” admitted Bruce, slightly perturbed. “He’s clever. And he’s a good teacher. That doesn’t mean I forgive him for what he did to my planet, but I can look past that for now. We’re stuck on this spaceship for the next couple of months, it’d be better for everyone if we can get along at least for the time being.”

Valkyrie rolled her eyes. “I liked you better when you were the Big Guy,” she grumbled. “You know he did that weird mind magic to me on Sakaar, right?”

“Yes, you’ve told me.” Many times, Bruce almost added, but restrained himself. 

“He made me relive my worst memory,” she continued, seemingly not hearing him or just not caring. “Stuck me right back in the massacre of Valkyries. Made me watch my wife and sisters die, again. It was cruel and cowardly. I don’t care that he brought the Statesman or raised Surtur or saved Thor’s life, any of that. I’ll never like him, and whatever happened to him to make him so crazy was probably his own fault.”

Bruce took in a deep breath through his nose to calm himself, holding it for several counts then exhaling slowly through his mouth. If he let the Hulk out now, it’d lead to all their deaths. “You don’t mean that,” he said simply. “I know you don’t. You saw that tape. You were there. You can’t tell me he deserved to be raped for months and it broadcast for the entire universe to see. Frankly, I’m impressed he didn’t freak out more.”

Valkyrie winced at the word rape, lips twisting unpleasantly. “No,” she said flatly. “He didn’t deserve that. But that doesn’t mean I have to like him or feel bad for him. Because I don’t.”

“I’m not saying you have to. I just think we should try to be a bit more understanding.”

“Understanding of what?”

They both jumped at Loki’s sudden appearance. He stepped out of the shadows, spine ramrod straight, hands behind his back amiably. His tone and posture was deceptively casual, as if he were a country gentleman taking an afternoon stroll. He was trying to demonstrate that he was calm, unaffected, Bruce surmised. Reassure them that his explosive panic earlier was a fluke, that he was in control. 

Still, when he turned, Bruce could see a slight tremor to his fingers, and he couldn't seem to remain standing still in one spot, constantly pacing, picking up bits of charred, broken-off debris and inspecting them, fiddling with a dial on a switch panel, tugging at his hair absentmindedly. 

To an unseasoned observer, Loki might appear comfortably at ease, but to Bruce who had spent at this point over two months watching him, Loki was clearly agitated. He'd once witnessed Loki yank a wickedly jagged knife out of his gut without a flinch, his expression no different than if he were pulling out a strand of hair (he'd wiped the blood on his thigh and remarked, smirking, "A free knife! Much appreciated," before viciously disemboweling his attacker with that very same knife. Later that same day, Bruce spied him leaving his rooms, bandages hastily wrapped around his waist and secured with duct tape, whistling and flipping the knife merrily.)

“Fuck, Lackey,” Valkyrie wheezed, “will you stop sneaking up on people? You oughta wear a bell or something, give people a bit of warning.”

“I shall take measures to announce my presence properly next time.” Loki inclined his head in mocking acquiescence. “Would a marching band suffice? Or perhaps a gong to signal my arrival?”

“Some cymbals, so I can smash your head between them,” Valkyrie sneered. 

“How charming.” Loki crossed the room in three long strides, bending over the charred control panel. “We should prepare for landing,” he announced. “It’s going to be a rough one.”

“No thanks to you,” muttered Valkyrie. Loki pretended as if he didn’t hear her, though Bruce saw his jaw clench, ever so slightly. 

He straightened up and turned on his heel to face them, chin held high, eyes fixed firmly on the wall behind them. Avoiding eye contact. 

“As we have recently discovered that certain footage,” his voice caught, briefly, but he swallowed and continued on, “of me has been broadcast throughout the galaxy, it would be prudent for me to take on an alternative appearance whilst on Silurias.” A green, shimmering halo appeared over the top of his head and rippled down his body, leaving standing in its wake a short, stout man with thick red hair and a full, braided beard. “Please address me as Locan while in this form.” Even his voice was changed, more lower pitched and throaty. 

“You look more like a Gimli,” Bruce said, before he could stop himself. “Can we call you Gimli instead?”

Loki considered this for a moment, then nodded. “You may,” he decided. 

“If we’re choosing names for you, can I call you Horseface?” inquired Valkyrie. 

“I would prefer you didn’t.”

“That wasn’t a no,” Valkyrie needled. 

“Then allow me to say it in simple enough terms for even you to understand: No. You may not call me Horseface.”

“What about—”

“Enough!” Bruce interrupted them, letting the Hulk’s growl bleed into his voice. Instantly, the two of them stopped bickering and tensed, as if preparing for a blow from a very large, very green fist. Bruce suppressed a smile. It worked every time. 

“You said we’ll be landing soon,” he continued, addressing Loki-as-Gimli directly. “Is there anything you can tell us about Silurias? Anything at all?”

Loki-as-Gimli shifted restlessly, eyes darting to the side. He was easier to read in this new form, with less control over his facial expressions. Bruce thought he detected shame in his eyes, or perhaps guilt. 

“The last known transmission from Silurias was an SOS. Since then, any communications have ceased entirely; by all appearances they are completely cut off from the rest of the galaxy. Analysis of the planetoid’s carbon emissions suggest a greatly diminished population over a very short period of time. It is doubtful that we will find the resources we are looking for, or that the natives will be friendly.”

“How large was the estimated population decline?” asks Valkyrie, her forehead creased in thought. 

Loki swallowed. “Over half,” he said, voice rough. “Fifty-eight percent, to be exact.”

“That sounds like…” Valkyrie trailed off, horror entering her expression.

“Yes.” Loki sounded grim. “It does. Hence my former… trepidation.”

“I’m sorry, what are you guys talking about? Am I missing something here?” Bruce asked, looking back and forth at Valkyrie and Loki. 

“The Black Order,” Valkyrie said, and Loki visibly flinched. “They’re this death-worshipping cult led by—”

“Don’t say his name,” Loki hissed, teeth clenched. He was wound so tight, shoulders by his ears and hands balled into tight fists by his sides, that he appeared like a rubber band, ready to snap. “He has—wards. Scrying spells in place. You don’t want to catch his attention.”

Valkyrie watched him strangely for a long, agonizing moment. “Fine,” she said. “Whatever. So this Black Order, they go around capturing planets and converting them to their weirdo beliefs. Then they kill half as sacrifice. If the planet fights back, they’ll just slaughter everyone. Either way, it’s a bloodbath.”

Bruce stared at her, aghast. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “What the—that is so. So incredibly fucked up.”

“Lots of the new arrivals on Sakaar are refugees of his. We can always tell when they attack a new planet, because whole groups of people start to flood in, rather than the usual random solitary drop-ins. It’s been good for Sakaar—fresh meat and all that—but for them, not so much.”

“And you think that Silurias might have been taken over by this—this cult?” Bruce asked, eyes wide. “Why didn’t you say so before?” He could hear the panic in his voice and took several deep breaths to calm himself down. 

“I’d already blown up the cockpit,” said Loki wryly. “I didn’t want to add to the damage with a Hulk attack.” He frowned, narrowing his eyes. He almost looked concerned. “Are you doing alright, Bruce?”

“Fine,” Bruce gasped. “Peachy.” He sucked in a breath, counting to ten before exhaling, then repeated.

“We’re entering the atmosphere,” announced Valkyrie, bent over the cockpit. “Prepare for a bumpy landing.” 

“Oh geez, oh geez,” Bruce wheezed, clutching his chest as the whole shuttle began to shake violently. “This is really not good for my anxiety.” 

“You’ll be fine!” Valkyrie yelled over her shoulder. “Just hold on tight and think of it as an adventure!”

“Don’t give him false hope,” spat Loki, arms wrapped around a safety handle. “Bruce,” he addressed him directly. Bruce could feel his teeth chattering. He held on to the opposite safety handle as tight as he could, even as his vision blurred and several loud bangs sounded from outside the shuttle walls. “You will not die. The Hulk will protect you. And, well, if worst comes to worst, I’ve dabbled in necromancy before.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring!” The shaking increased and just when Bruce thought it couldn't get any worse, the shuttle hit the ground with a deafening clang, the impact knocking him off of his feet and throwing him across the room. The back of his skull collided with a chair leg and he groaned, clutching his head in his hands and trying very hard not to throw up. He did not succeed, but thankfully managed to crawl to his hands and knees just in time and very narrowly avoided getting sick all over himself. 

On the opposite side of the room, Loki didn't seem to be faring much better, retching pathetically into a waste bin which he then vanished with a wave of his hand. He got to his feet shakily, holding onto the wall for support. 

“You couldn’t have landed it smoother?” he complained, tossing his hair out of his face.

“No,” Valkyrie sneered, “since someone decided to set the cockpit on fire.” She crossed her arms angrily. “Whatever happens from here on out, it’s your fault.”

“It was not my intention,” said Loki tiredly, brushing himself off even though Bruce doubted there was a speck of dust anywhere on him. “But yes. I accept responsibility for whatever may befall us until we get back to the Statesman.”

"Promises, promises," muttered Valkyrie, but she unstrapped herself from the pilot's chair and hoisted her sword over her shoulder. "Who's up for a little exploring?"

Chapter Text

The shuttle created a small crater upon impact, forcing them to crawl on their hands and knees out of the hollowed earth. Loki was last, bringing up the rear to catch Bruce or Valkyrie with his magic in case either of them slipped and fell. He staggered to his feet upon climbing over the lip of the crater, brushing off his knees, and hesitated before straightening up. He was afraid of what he’d see, what memories the landscape might awaken.

He did so anyway, automatically tossing his hair out of his face before realizing there was no need. In his current glamour—what had Bruce called him, Gimli?—his hair was tied back in warrior braids.

The scene that stretched out before them was flat and grey, the soil ash-like and fine. Streams of dust carried by the wind snaked across the ground like airborne rivers. Here and there withered, dead trees dotted the landscape. Loki spotted a rusted harvester bot, tipped on its side with the wheels missing beside the burnt-out remains of a large wooden barn. They had landed in what had once been farmlands, he deduced, thankfully outside the boundaries of any village or city, though there wouldn’t be one far off. Someone had once worked these deadened fields, after all.

Loki squinted, and through the haze of dust obscuring his view, he could see the outline of several buildings: a spire, a watchtower. A thick column of smoke coiled up into the lavender sky, the dark grey of it incongruous amongst the white clouds.

He didn’t want to know what they were burning, but he had an idea. The thin, silty dust wafting through the air, in the soil, already coating the three of them in a light dusting of murky white, took on a sinister connotation. He hoped his predictions were wrong.

According to the data back at the Statesman, transmissions from Silurias had been down for the past four years. One of the first things the Black Order would do when taking control of a new colony was destroy all forms of communication with the rest of the universe—nothing coming in, nothing going out. 

There was a good chance the Grandmaster’s pornographic transmissions hadn’t reached Silurias at all. And if the Black Order hadn’t been by in the past four years, they might not even have known there was a bounty on Loki’s head. Still, the risk facing him was immense—if he was recognized, if Bruce and Valkyrie knew who he was, what he had done here and on how many more planets like it throughout the universe—if that got back to Thor —

Loki’s throat constricted at the very thought, and he had to force himself to take several deep breaths. He could already barely stand the guilt of what he’d done as a Child of Thanos. Then he had the shame of spreading his legs for any and all lifeforms, organic and inorganic, on Sakaar at the Grandmaster’s behest to contend with.

And now that shame was multiplied tenfold—how many beings across the universe had watched as he bent over for any who would have him, and enjoyed it? How many had jeered as he got to his knees obediently, little more than a toy to be played with? Did they take themselves in hand, pleasuring themselves as Loki writhed and sobbed and begged for more, coated in his own spend mixed with that of countless beings?

His body felt like one big scream. He couldn’t stand it, this violation, this humiliation. Loki was forever stained by the Grandmaster’s mark, and everyone who saw him would know—it would follow him around, and he’d never be free of the perverted legacy the Grandmaster had forced on him—

Green sparks flickered around Loki’s clenched fists, and he violently slammed down on that train of thought. He couldn’t afford to lose control, not again. He must not show weakness, not when he was already slipping. Thankfully, neither Bruce nor Valkyrie seemed to have noticed, instead squinting at the horizon, hands shielding their eyes.

“It looks like half a day’s walk to that town,” said Valkyrie, facing the same direction as Loki. So she had spotted it, too.

“No need,” Loki said. “I can teleport us there. Hold on to me,” he commanded, and held out his arms.

Bruce shook his head disbelievingly but took hold of Loki’s wrist all the same. “This is so weird,” he said. Valkyrie placed a reluctant hand on his shoulder. Loki closed his eyes, twisted space in his fist, and when he opened them again, they were a mile from the watchtower he’d spotted earlier—about a twenty-minute walk’s distance.

“So weird,” Bruce repeated, letting go of Loki’s arm and stumbling a couple steps, his footing unbalanced from the sudden teleportation. Valkyrie didn’t even offer a perfunctory thanks, simply stalked away with a hand on her sword.

Now that they were closer to the town, Loki could see that it was, in fact, not a town at all. It was a citadel. And flying from the top of the watchtower, hanging from the balustrades atop the citadel walls, proudly displayed in every direction, was the flag of the Black Order.

The citadel walls themselves were crumbling and dirty, pockmarked with holes made by laser blasters and bombs. There were several larger craters, impossibly smooth as if the rock had been scraped clean away. Loki recognized them as his own handiwork, created by balls of pure seidr energy.

Most striking, however, were the bodies. Loki counted about fifteen, hanging by their necks from the balustrades, sagging heads covered by black hoods bearing the mark of the Black Order. They all looked to be fairly recent, the oldest body shriveled into a dried husk, desiccated by the desert climate.

“Shit,” said Valkyrie. “I was right. That’s the mark of the Black Order.”

“The death-worshipping cult?” Bruce’s voice raised several octaves. “Oh, this is not good,” he moaned, hands going to his head. He began pacing in circles. “I really don’t like this. Guys, this is really, really, really not good.”

Something crunched under Loki’s foot. He looked down. It was an arm bone, he thought, bleached white from the sun. There were noticeable teeth marks on it. A section was broken, presumably so the marrow could be sucked out.

If the Silurians had resorted to cannibalism, there was little chance of them acquiring rations to take back to the Statesman. But there should at least be some unused ships they could scrap for spare parts, fix up their shuttle enough to leave. That would take time, though, at least several days’ worth.

Fuel would hopefully not be a problem—if they were able to keep fires burning constantly, they must not be in shortage. Medical supplies were probably in surplus as well, if the Silurians were true worshippers of Death. Injuries and illnesses were left untreated, viewed as gifts from Lady Death herself. To deny her would be blasphemy. If Loki could figure out how to get them all through this without being captured, eaten, or offered up as sacrifice, they might even accomplish part of their mission and not leave entirely empty-handed.

“Keep it together, Bruce,” Valkyrie warned, her voice tight with anxiety and not reassuring or calming in the least. “Do your deep breaths. Count, uh, count sheep. You got this.”

“I don’t,” gasped Bruce. “I don’t got this.”

“Change of plans,” Loki announced loudly, ignoring them both.

“I wasn’t aware there was a plan to begin with,” muttered Valkyrie.

“Oh, I always have at least three plans for any scenario ready,” Loki assured her. She rolled her eyes but gestured for him to continue.

“Go on, then,” she said. “What’s your genius plan?”

Loki ignored her and turned to Bruce.

“Bruce,” he said, trying to catch his attention. Bruce stopped his pacing and stared at Loki, eyes still wide with panic. There were green veins standing out along his neck.

“Do you mind if I put a spell on you?” Loki asked.

“What? Uh, yes, I do mind,” said Bruce, indignant.

“It’s to keep the Hulk from coming out,” explained Loki impatiently. “I’ll remove it as soon as it’s safe to do so, I promise.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “How does it work?”

“It detects when your breath and heart rate begin to increase rapidly—in other words, when you begin to panic, and forces your heart and breathing to slow accordingly in order to avoid triggering a panic or anxiety attack. It’s a commonplace spell on Asgard, I’ve had it used on me before. I believe it should help stop any Hulk incidents.”

“It’s true,” confirmed Valkyrie. “We'd have the spell put on new recruits before their first battle to stop them from freezing up and getting themselves killed. It wears off naturally after a couple of days.”

Bruce hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Fine,” he said, throwing his arms out resignedly. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Lay it on me.”

Loki laid it on him.

“Is that it?” Bruce asked. He cracked his neck, held his hands out in front of him and inspected them as if there’d be some sign of the Hulk surfacing from his fingers. “I don’t feel any different.”

“You won’t,” Loki reassured him, “at least until you start to panic. But hopefully it won’t come to that.”

Valkyrie shifted restlessly. “Is that it?” she asked. “That’s your plan? Eliminate our strongest fighter?”

“I haven’t even gotten to the plan yet,” Loki hissed. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He stared at the arm bone, cracked in two by his feet, partially hidden by the dirt. He wasn’t looking forward to what was coming next.

“I have not—I have not been entirely truthful with you all,” he admitted, head lowered. “I have been to Silurias before.”

“You what.” There was an unmistakable clink of armor, and moments later he felt the hard point of Valkyrie’s sword against the side of his neck.

“It was some years ago,” he said, “and I—I do not—I have very little memory of what transpired here.”

“Explain. Now.” The tip of the sword pressed deeper, piercing the epidermis. He could feel hot blood trickle down his neck.

Shakily, Loki raised both his hands in surrender. “I am going to—” He gulped. The world swayed dangerously beneath his feet, his head swimming. He did not want to do this. He would have happily taken this secret to his grave.

“I am going to remove my glamours,” he said. “All of them. You will see what—what I looked like—what I still look like—the last time I was on Silurias.” He took in a thin breath, eyes closing in misery. “It will hopefully explain some matters. But it is—it is not a pleasant sight.”

“What do you mean, glamours? I don’t understand,” Bruce said. He sounded confused, but not hostile, unlike Valkyrie.

“This is not my true appearance,” Loki explained. “It is… vanity, I suppose. And necessity. My face, my body, everything that matters is the same, but I wear a spell to cover up or change parts of my appearance that I find… unsavory.” Keep it together , he reminded himself, even as he felt like he might vomit for the second time that day. They’ve seen you with the Grandmaster. They already know how degraded you are. What’s it to you if they know the rest?

Loki took a deep breath, and for the first time in years, allowed his glamour to melt away.

The reaction was instantaneous. He heard Bruce gasp. He wondered what did it—was it the brand of the Black Order, seared into the side of his neck? The white pockmarked scars around his lips, or the scar extending from the right corner of his mouth where they had cut open his jaw?

His clothes thankfully hid the worst of it, but there were still his hands. The fingers, crooked and misshapen, unable to bend properly from being broken and left to heal wrong one too many times. Or the scarring around the base of several of his fingers, the unnatural skin discoloration, where his fingers had been torn off and he’d replaced them later with black magics. The identical stigmata scars on his palms, mirrored on the backs of his hands.

Just from looking at his hands, he could tell that beneath the glamour he was noticeably thinner, though thankfully he seemed to have put some weight on since he had been in Thanos’s care. Still, the veins in his hands and wrists popped out unnaturally, jutting from under his skin like vines twisting up his limbs.

He lifted his head slightly, opened his eyes just in time to see Valkyrie launch herself at him. She knocked him to the ground and swung a leg over him to sit on his stomach, immobilizing him. The blade of her sword pressed against his neck.

“You bastard,” she snarled. “You complete and utter nithing. You’re one of them, one of his Children.”

Loki made no move to stop her, merely lay there, hands at his sides. The bones underneath him dug into his skin. Everything felt… more, the pain prickling along his back, the dirt beneath his fingertips. It was overwhelming and he longed for his glamour, for the blanket of protection it had offered him. Norns, how did people live like this, with every sensation alive and tingling? Did it not burn them up from the inside?

Loki forced himself to crack a smile. It pulled at his ruined skin, awakening phantom pains. He almost wanted to reach up and feel his lips to make sure there was no leather cord binding them, but he didn’t want to touch the scars, feel the bumped and ridged topography of his own flesh.

“It was not one of my finest moments,” he gasped, and even his voice sounded slightly different in his true form—raspy and hoarse, like a stone being worn down. What had caused that—was it the time Thanos lifted him by the neck and squeezed, crushing his larynx and esophagus in the process? Or was it the time Nebula complained his screams were irritating her and sliced through his vocal cords? Either way, once he had regained the ability to speak, he never sounded the same. Not that he spoke much, after that.

“Loki… you were in the Black Order?” Bruce didn’t sound angry, just bewildered. “Why?”

Loki rolled his eyes up to the lavender sky, watching the plumes of black smoke curl above him and dissipate into the clouds like blood in water. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, I guess,” he answered sullenly, because how could he tell them the truth? How could he even begin to explain?

Somewhere, deep inside the bowels of his mind, a version of him was screaming, clutching the bars of his cell—because he never left, not really, not in any way that mattered—screaming, screaming, always screaming. I didn’t choose this. I never wanted this. I just wanted it all to stop. Please, I never meant for any of this to happen. I just wanted the pain to stop.

“How?” Bruce’s voice was strangled. “How could you possibly think—”

“I wanted to die,” Loki cut him off. His voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. If he cracked, it was all over. Above anything else, he must not appear weak. “There was a certain… appeal in worshipping Death. Viewing Death as a mercy.”

“But you weren’t just in the Black Order,” snarled Valkyrie, pressing down on his throat with her sword. “You were one of his Children, weren’t you. That’s what that brand means.”

“Yes,” Loki acknowledged.

“Tell him,” she hissed. “Tell Bruce what that means. Tell him what you did.”

Loki closed his eyes momentarily and permitted himself a sigh. He turned his head to the side. Several feet away, there was a ribcage, he thought, poking out of the dirt. He squinted. Or was it a pelvis?

Valkyrie grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged his head up with it, then slammed him into the ground. Unprepared, Loki bit through his lip with the impact.

“Rude,” he muttered, blood dribbling down his chin. His back teeth and canines had been sharpened in this form, he remembered. Memories of being strapped down to a chair, a metal contraption holding his jaw open as a short, shadowy figure drilled his teeth into points, ignoring his howls of agony, flashed through his mind.

A sharp pain at the back of his head jolted him back to reality. “Talk,” Valkyrie was saying, and he realized he must have lost time. A minute, perhaps. Hopefully not enough to be noticeable.

“I— I—” he gasped, trying to think of something suitable to say. There was so much he didn’t remember clearly. It was just a theory, but he thought a large portion of his memories were tied to the mind stone. When its influence was knocked from his head, so too was a large portion of his memories. It made sense; Thanos wouldn’t risk leaving him with any compromising information.

Instead, all he had left were delightful memories of torture; of weeks spent in a dark, damp cell that stank of his own urine and rotting blood; of endless, clawing hunger. Random flashes of violence, unfamiliar planets he didn't recognize; stabbing a dagger in a creature's eye, tearing a different being's throat out with his teeth. He didn't know anything beyond the images themselves. Trying to recall anything specific was like looking through a stranger's photo album, just places and people he didn't know and held no significant meaning. 

Besides, he didn’t want to remember. It was equally likely that they were still there, buried deep under the surface like a shark hiding beneath the sandy ocean floor, ready to uncover itself and strike at any moment. He had been able to avoid awakening them for this long, but then again, he should have known it wouldn’t last. He was the Norns’ favorite chew toy; they’d never let him off this easily.

Valkyrie pressed against his throat with the flat of her blade, crushing his windpipe and restricting his air. Loki fought for breath, his mouth opening and closing uselessly like a fish stranded above water. “I don’t remember,” he gasped, voiceless. “I— I don’t—” His body felt tingly, his skull buzzing as if his brainpan were full of bees. The corners of his vision petered out, going fuzzy.

He risked a glance up and— and— and his Master was there, impossibly large fist wrapped around his neck, knee on his chest holding him down.

“Do you trust me?” Thanos demanded. Loki could feel the deep vibrations of his voice rumble through his entire body. His eyes felt as if they were about to pop out of his skull. He was sure his ears must be bleeding.

Loki could do nothing but nod, one arm automatically reaching up to claw at Thanos’s hand around his throat, despite himself.

“Then don’t fight back,” Thanos commanded. He seized Loki’s arm, the one that had reached up in defense, and snapped the bone clean in half. “Accept it.”

Tears dripped down Loki’s cheeks, mouth open in a soundless, agonizing howl, but he relented, because of course he did. What else could he do? He belonged to his Master. Thanos could do with his body what he pleased. If he wanted to throttle him to death, then it was his right to do so.

“Good child,” Thanos praised, and Loki did not think he had ever been so happy.

“Thank you, Master,” he mouthed, vision blurry. “Thank you.”

And then the pressure around his neck was gone and he could breathe, he could breathe. He sucked in lungfuls of oxygen desperately. The weight on his midsection had disappeared too, and he curled up on his side, drawing his limbs close to his torso for comfort. Distantly, he realized he was sobbing tearlessly, shoulders and back quaking with every stilted inhale, but he couldn’t stop, lips still automatically forming the words please, Master, please, even as no voice came out.

The ground shifted beneath him, something poking him in his side, and he blinked several times to clear his vision.

A flat expanse of light grey greeted Loki, severed by a lavender sky. Directly in front of him, reaching up through the soil, was a— a ribcage? No, a pelvis, he thought, definitely a pelvis, and where had he seen this before—

Shit.

Loki shot upright, still sucking in air, and whirled around to see Bruce and Valkyrie, just a couple paces from him, looking dumbfounded.

Their hair was mussed and clothes askew, and they were sprawled inelegantly as if they’d just been knocked on their asses. Several yards behind them, a dead tree had been uprooted, and green sparks were still traversing up and down its trunk.

Loki put a hand to his throat, rubbing sourly. Valkyrie gaped at him, looking aghast. Bruce just looked contemplative, and that shook Loki more than he’d liked to admit.

Norns, what had he said during his… episode? Loki had no idea what to do or say, so he chose to keep his mouth shut, watching the two of them guardedly as he struggled to calm his breathing. He could still feel his heart hammering wildly against his ribs, the ghost of pain in his arm where the bone had snapped. He couldn’t resist running his fingers over his arm just to check, make sure it wasn’t twisted at an unnatural angle, bone poking from the skin. His arm was the same as ever, just a bit thinner than his glamour. Bones fully intact. Cursory inspection done, Loki looked back up at Bruce and Valkyrie, willing them to speak, to say something, anything.

When it became apparent that neither of them were willing to take the first step, Loki sighed and hung his head.

“New York,” he muttered, relenting. “I led an invasion of New York, on Terra— I mean, Midgard.”

“You invaded Midgard.” Valkyrie’s voice was flat, disbelieving. She moved to get to her feet and Loki didn’t quite hide the flinch in time. Her eyes narrowed at him, but she slowed her movements slightly, sheathing her sword and raising both hands carefully. Even so, Loki crawled backward a few paces, arms quaking beneath himself. It was humiliating, but he didn’t think he could stand just yet.

“He tried to,” Bruce explained. He followed Valkyrie’s example and rose slowly, choreographing his stance cautiously as if facing a wild bear. “He was presumed dead for over a year, at least according to Thor, then suddenly showed up on Earth with an army of Chitauri, spewing some crazy shit about how humanity craves subjugation. To be honest, there was a lot that didn’t add up at the time, but we ignored it. We figured it was Asgard’s problem and not ours.”

“A year,” Loki mused. “It was much longer for me.” He brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, an unconscious attempt at self-comfort. “Gravitational time dilation,” he added, as a means of explanation. Valkyrie just stared at him blankly, but Bruce mouthed oh and nodded enthusiastically.

“Why in Hel would you attack Midgard?” Valkyrie asked, incredulous. “You would have known it’s under Asgard’s protection. There’d be no chance of you succeeding.”

“My Fath— my Master wanted the Tesseract,” he explained, managing to stop himself from saying Father just in time. That was a whole conversation he never wanted to have. “And Midgard is one of the most densely populated planets in your galaxy. It would have been a monumental offering to Death.”

Bruce looked aghast. “You would have let Earth become like— like this?!” He gestured wildly at the citadel behind them, the bodies hanging from the precipice.

“Of course not!” Loki snarled. “I happen to like Midgard, believe it or not. And my son lives there. I never,” he let the word sink in for emphasis, “would have allowed the invasion to succeed.”

“Oh my god.” Bruce gaped at him. “That’s—that’s so much to take in. You threw the invasion? I can’t believe it—oh, Natasha’s going to be insufferable when we get back, she’s been saying that for years. And wait—you have a son?”

“His name is Jormungand,” said Loki proudly. “He’s a giant serpent, he lives in a lake in… I believe you people call it Scotland. He’s a very good boy.”

“Holy shit.” Bruce barked out an incredulous laugh. “Your son is the Loch Ness monster. I—I can’t believe this—”

“My son is not a monster!” Loki snarled. “He’s been tormented with that label his whole life—honestly, Bruce, I would have expected you of all people to understand—”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” Bruce apologized quickly. “Sorry. It’s—it’s complicated, I’ll explain later.”

“Are you just gonna let the fact that he’s in a murderous death cult slide?” Valkyrie interrupted, outraged. “He tried to invade your planet!”

“I mean, he’s not the only one,” Bruce acquiesced. “But yeah, fuck you for that, Loki.”

“As flattering as your proposal is, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.” Loki risked a smirk. Valkyrie rolled her eyes, but Bruce outright snorted. He extended a hand to Loki and he took it, letting Bruce tug him to his feet. He noticed Bruce’s gaze linger on his hand, the mismatched fingers and crooked joints, and his temporarily lightened mood soured immediately. He snatched his hand back, holding it stiffly at his side.

“New York was… regrettable,” he said, watching the bodies suspended from the citadel balustrades sway gently in the breeze like overripe fruit. “Once the Tesseract was detected on Midgard, an attack was inevitable. I sought to contain the destruction as best I could without revealing myself. I lied about the extent of the Tesseract’s powers, built in failsafes and limits to the portal in order to keep it under a certain size to force the Chitauri to bottleneck their forces. I tried to hint at what I’d do next, when under interrogation by your Widow.” Loki shifted uncomfortably, sweat trickling down the small of his back. It's been too long since he'd last shed his glamour; he’d forgotten how much everything itched when your whole body was covered in scars.

“But I… I had a long connection to Midgard; I had incentive to protect it, even at great risk to myself. I held no such compulsions for the other planets I was tasked with capturing for my Master. As you can no doubt see for yourself.” He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the citadel.

“And how were you planning to get away with it?” Valkyrie interrogated him. “Did you think your Master,” she spat out the word viciously, as if it were a slur, “wouldn’t notice?”

“Oh, I knew I wouldn’t get away with it,” Loki brushed her off, waving his hand casually. “I had hoped to be killed in battle, either by Thor or one of his friends. Of course, that didn’t happen—though you very nearly succeeded, Bruce, well done—but then I assumed I would be executed once I was brought back to Asgard.”

“Please don’t praise me for that,” mumbled Bruce, looking queasy.

“I was sentenced to be executed, but the Queen interfered, in her ‘infinite mercy,’” Loki rolled his eyes, “and the sentence was reduced to a much more humane one: solitary confinement for the rest of my very long lifespan.”

“Shame.” Valkyrie gave a snide, mocking smile, eyes cold. 

“Yes, well, I thought so, too.” Loki inspected his fingernails, making a show of being unbothered, but then realized his hands were shaking and quickly tucked them behind his back. “Thor broke me out of prison around two years into my sentence, and I took the chance to get myself impaled. As you can see, it didn’t exactly take, but it worked well in convincing Thor and by default everyone else that I was dead. As long as I stayed hidden, I was safe from- from the Order, but now…”

“Now everyone in the universe with a working holo-deck has seen you sucking and fucking your way through Sakaar.”

Loki nodded. “Thank you, Valkyrie, for your ever-tasteful commentary.” 

Wordlessly, she flipped him off. Before they could escalate into further bickering, Bruce spoke up.

“So shouldn’t you, y’know, not be looking like yourself?” he posited. “You’ll get yourself caught.”

Loki bit his lip. “It’s a gamble,” he said, “but transmissions on Silurias have been down for the past six years. They’ve no connection to the rest of the universe. If the Order hasn’t visited since I’ve been here last, they won’t know there’s a bounty on my head. And even then, they have no way of contacting the Order.”

“Makes sense.” Bruce nodded, looking thoughtful. 

“My plan,” Loki explained tiredly, “is to disguise myself as- well, myself. You two will be playing the part of new recruits to the Order. It will not be hard- do not speak, unless spoken to by me and only me. No matter what you see, do not react. I may have to perform- questionable acts. You may be asked to participate. Whatever happens, follow my lead and remain unfazed.”

Bruce swallowed. “What- what kind of questionable acts?” 

Behind his back, Loki’s thumb rubbed circles into his palm. “There are- ceremonies,” he said. “Ritual sacrifices. And the condition of the city may be… inhospitable. You must not show surprise, or disgust.”

Valkyrie chewed her lip. “I really don’t like this plan,” she said. “You’re having us put our faith in you having our backs. I didn’t trust you like that before, and I definitely don’t now.”

Loki sighed, exasperated. “What other options do you have?” he asked. “Or would you rather be captured and sent off as an offering for Lady Death?”

“I-” Valkyrie opened her mouth to argue, but Loki interrupted her. 

“We need supplies from the Silurians. Spare parts, and several days worth of time to fix the shuttle. We are in no position to demand things from them- unless they believe us to be in a position of power relative to them.” 

“He’s right,” pointed out Bruce. “I don’t like it, but he’s right.”

Valkyrie heaved a loud, dramatic sigh. “Fine,” she said. “But if this goes sideways-”

“I know, I know,” Loki held his hands up in a placating gesture. “It’s my fault.”

Chapter Text

The watchtower was unmanned, or at least it appeared to be. They climbed through a hole in the citadel wall, Loki boosting them both on his shoulders and then transforming into a raven to fly through. He changed back as he landed, a small cloud of dust erupting upwards as his heavy combat boots hit the ground. He'd changed his clothes too, to his garb from his time in the Black Order. 

The clothing was simple: a black long sleeve shirt, too thin to keep the cold out and covered in a myriad of hastily-stitched patches where the fabric had been torn, burnt, or sliced through. They never bothered to give him armor, so he'd had to construct his own; fashioning a patchwork vest and vambraces from scraps scavenged from the endless array of corpses left in their wake. On his legs were a pair of ill-fitting black cargo pants. He’d looted the pants off a Krull somewhere in the Medusa Cascade; he had chosen them because he liked the possibilities afforded by the many pockets.

They had been far too big on him then, and now they fit a little better, but he was still swimming in them and had to hold them up with a belt, attached to which were several daggers and a small blaster, just to be safe. Even with the belt, the pants sagged low on his hips and he kept having to pull them up with one hand. 

Bruce and Valkyrie weren't clothed much differently. Loki spelled their clothes black (only temporarily, he'd promised) and supplied them with the large black hooded cloaks typical of Thanos’s followers. From within somewhere in his extradimensional pocket he had extracted a spool of red thread and some needles, and performed a quick spell to embroider the mark of the Black Order on the cloaks, right over the heart. 

“Put your hoods up,” Loki commanded, “and stay behind me. Remember, my name is Nova.” 

Bruce and Valkyrie nodded silently and pulled their hoods low over their heads, concealing their faces. They closed the capes and stood with their hands folded, walking smoothly as if gliding, just as Loki had practiced with them earlier. 

Now that they were past the walls, Loki could see that they still had a ways to go before they actually encountered anyone. An enormous circular chasm was gouged into the earth, the bottom of the basin perhaps half a mile down. Stairs leading down were carved into the rock side, spiraling around the circumference of the basin. There were doors and pathways branching out from the stairs at several points, but it seemed to be a fairly straightforward way down to the heart of the citadel, located on the floor of the basin. 

Across the other side of the chasm, perhaps halfway down, a platform was carved into the rock. On the platform was what looked like a small dome, similarly constructed from rock, with a small hole in the top and a hatch on the side. It was from the hole that the smoke Loki saw earlier was billowing. He stared at it for a minute, watching pillows of black smoke hurl themselves against the rock.

It was a clever feat of architecture, he had to admit, to have what he suspected was their crematorium suspended above the peoples’ living quarters. That way they wouldn't have to inhale the smoke, breathe in the dust of their loved ones. 

He turned his gaze to the floor of the basin. Around the perimeter, nestled in and along the cliff face were what appeared to be layers of flat, square homes, stacked on top of each other with ladders and ropes providing access to the higher floors. He spotted myriad patches of green- so they did have agriculture after all, just on a smaller scale, most likely with individual family plots.

In the very center yet another circle was carved into the rock, this time with the entire circumference consisting of steps that lead to the bottom. It was an amphitheater, he realized, the steps being seats and the flat center the stage. And in the absolute center of the stage, at the citadel’s vertex, was a single coal-black gallows. 

Loki heard Bruce’s breath catch behind him and surmised that the gallows had not escaped his notice, either. 

“Whatever happens,” he reminded them, “no reactions.” Holding his pants up with one hand, he took the first step down into the abyss.

They weren't even halfway down when they encountered their first Silurian. It was stepping out of one of the many arches in the cliffside that leads into a tunnel, nearly colliding with Loki in the process. 

“Beg pardon!” it said crossly, “Watch where you’re stepping, you…” The Silurian trailed off, horror dawning on its serpentine face as it realized exactly who it had crossed paths with. 

The Silurian stood at about one and a half meters tall, and looked roughly as if a sand lizard had reproduced with a human. It had a triangular, reptilian head with large, black eyes and hardly any neck to speak of. Most of its height was in its torso, with short, stocky legs and arms. A thick tail dragged behind it, leaving a trail in the dirt. It was not defenseless, however. When it spoke, it revealed a mouth full of sharp, needle-like teeth, and its fingers and toes were tipped with two inch-long claws. It wore a red vest and white pantaloons fastened with buttons on the sides. 

“F-Forgive this one!” it gasped, hurling itself to the ground and prostrating itself at Loki’s feet. “Forgive this one’s impudence-”

“Silence.” Loki kicked it to the side, not harshly. “You have a high priest, yes?”

“O-Of course, of course.” It nodded hastily, putting its small hands together in a penitent gesture. 

Loki gave a curt nod. “Alert them of our arrival,” he said tonelessly, and stepped past the Silurian, continuing down the stairs. Bruce and Valkyrie swept soundlessly behind him, capes billowing. 

“This one thanks you for your leniency!” the Silurian called after them desperately. “This one is not deserving of such benevolence!” 

Loki did not bother to look back or respond, so neither did Bruce or Valkyrie. He heard the Silurian scuttle back into the cliffside tunnel, and moments later a horn sounded throughout the chasm. Instantly reptilian figures burst out of practically every orifice in the houses and in the cliffs, more than he would have thought possible for such a confined space.

Some began flooding into the amphitheater, whereas others were hurriedly tugging on black robes and congregating at the bottom of the stairs in anticipation of their arrival. Yet others were emerging from one hole only to disappear into another, reappearing moments later with children and eggs in tow. Dragging them back into their homes, they slammed the doors shut, covering the windows. 

By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs not even five minutes later, the frenzy of movement had all but ceased, save for a few stragglers still making their way to the amphitheatre. The rest of the town was silent and still, boarded up. 

A small group of seven Silurians had congregated at the bottom of the stairs, all wearing black hoods nearly identical to those Loki hastily fashioned for Bruce and Valkyrie. They parted into two lines of three, forming an aisle on either side of the stairs. One Silurian stepped forward. It was older than the rest, with chartreuse scales and a scar bisecting the left eye, which was milky with blindness. It held a staff in one hand. In the other, a noose. 

“Hail, Son of Thanos,” it greeted. “Hail, Death.”

“Hail, Son of Thanos,” the other Silurians repeated after it, chanting in unison. “Hail, Death.”

“Hail Thanos,” responded Loki, performing an odd half-bow, half-curtsey. He sank halfway down to one knee, then straightened back up before running his right hand across his throat like a knife, then placing that hand flat, palm facing down, over his left hand’s fist. He held this gesture rigidly in front of his chest. “Hail, Death.” He gave a short, jerky bow, and the Silurians followed suit with identical bows. 

This bizarre ritual now complete, the old Silurian holding the staff opened the conversation. 

“Nova,” it greeted. “You look much… healthier than this one saw you last.” 

“I have not been in need of reeducation for some time now,” Loki responded coolly. “I am obedient to my Master.” He cocked his head, though his tone and face was as expressionless as ever.  “Can you say the same, I wonder?” 

The Silurian flicked out a flat, black tongue nervously. “This one is a dutiful subject.” It blinked, eyelids sliding shut sideways. “Your siblings are not with you, this time?” 

“I am now trusted enough to lead missions on my own,” Loki said. “I have, however, brought two new recruits with me. They are under my command. Should they misstep, you will inform me. I shall take on the matter of their punishment personally.”

The Silurian bowed its head. "Of course," it said. It contemplated Loki thoughtfully. "How far you've come," it mused. "Solitary missions. Disciples of your own."

Loki lowered his gaze modestly. "My Master has recognized my dedication to the cause," he murmured.

"Astounding," the Silurian praised, but there was something in its voice that seemed snide. "To think, just a few cycles ago, you were in a collar and chains. Unable to walk, crawling after your siblings. And now… well. Your Father must trust you very much, indeed."

If the Silurian was hoping for a reaction, Loki didn't give it one. He just continued to stare down the Silurian, stone silent. It didn't take long for it to crack.

"May this one inquire what brings you to Silurias?" it inquired, tongue flicking out. "Has this one done something to attract our Master's ire?"

"No," Loki responded curtly. "It was a matter of accident. Our ship was fired upon, and we require materials for repairs. A place to stay in the meantime would not be remiss. There are other supplies we require- medical supplies, fuel if you can spare it."

The Silurian's eyes widened slowly. "That is most unfortunate, indeed."

Loki's eyes narrowed. "I take it this will not be a problem?"

"No, no, not at all!" the Silurian reassured him hastily. "No, no it is… it is an honor, truly, to host a Son of Thanos. This one is of eternal service to the Black Order." 

"And the Order thanks you," said Loki. "Though our sojourn may be brief, you may ask of me anything. My Master rewards those who are loyal."

The Silurian bowed its head. "This one thanks you deeply, Nova, Son of Thanos. Your arrival is fortuitous, indeed. Three eggs hatched yesterday, so a Sending Off will be held. It would be a great honor if you were to conduct the ceremony."

"The Blessed Ones have been chosen already?" Loki inquired, looking unsurprised. 

"Everything is in preparation." The Silurian turned and beckoned for them to follow. 

The old Silurian- the High Priest, Bruce assumed when he first saw it and had since dubbed it thus in his head-  led them directly to the amphitheatre. The amphitheater was packed with Silurians in black, nondescript clothing. They were sitting eerily still, hands folded in the same gesture Loki had made when greeting the High Priest; right hand flat over their left hand's fist. There was no movement amongst the crowd, save for the occasional blinking or tongue-flicking. 

The front row of seats directly in front of the gallows was unoccupied, and the six black-cloaked Silurians who had accompanied them sat down on it, tails dangling over the side. 

"You." For the first time, Loki addressed Bruce and Valkyrie directly. He almost responded, but stopped himself just in time. Even though it was several degrees hotter down at the very bottom of the basin, he was grateful for the black cloak, the large hood that concealed his face. Anxiety must be plastered all over his face, he thought, and just keeping himself from fidgeting took an incredible amount of concentration. He wasn't sure he would be able to control his facial expressions, too. 

Loki jerked his head sharply towards the seats where the other black-cloaked Silurians were sitting. "Sit," he commanded. Bruce performed a short bow, counting to three in his head before straightening back up and gliding over to the seats. He couldn't risk looking over to see if Valkyrie was doing the same, but he could hear her rustling beside him and that eased him somewhat. 

Now seated, Bruce lifted his head just enough to see Loki, the gallows directly behind him. He was perfectly still, rigid in his composure, back ramrod straight. The sun was directly overhead, causing the hollows in his face to become even more apparent in the stark contrast of light and shadow. Seeing Loki like this… Bruce didn't know what to think. He knew their only reasonable course of action was to follow Loki’s lead, to play along until they could get the hell off this planet, but… he wasn't sure how much he could trust Loki to keep them safe.

It wasn't that he thought Loki would do anything to intentionally harm him or Valkyrie. But Loki’s mental state back on the Statesman was tenuous at best, and now it seemed to be hanging by a spider’s thread. He'd had at least two episodes in the past twenty-four hours, both resulting in uncontrolled, destructive blasts of magic. If he had an episode or fell into a dissociative state in front of the Silurians, they’d all be done for. 

So far, thankfully, Loki seemed to be holding up surprisingly well. It was unsettling, to say the least, how fluidly he slipped into the role of Nova. His speech, posture, gait- everything was completely controlled and precise, devoid of any emotion or affectation. He was so different from the Loki Bruce had come to know onboard the Statesman that he found himself wondering if he had even known Loki at all, or if that was all just an act, too. 

Loki strode into the center of the stage and performed a low bow. As he straightened up, a white marble basin appeared in front of him in a shimmer of green light. The crowd remained silent, but their excitement was palpable, tongues flicking out as they collectively leaned forward slightly. The basin filled with a pale, milky liquid and Loki stared into it for a split second before lifting his head and gazing coolly ahead. 

“Hail, Thanos!” he called, voice magically magnified so that it filled the amphitheatre and beyond, echoing off the walls of the basin. “Hail, Death!”

The Silurians all stood at once. “Hail, Thanos!” they repeated, their combined voices so loud the ground vibrated beneath Bruce’s feet. “Hail, Death!”

Loki gave no response, but he raised his left arm and held it parallel to the basin, stretched out in front of him. He rolled up his sleeve, and Bruce barely managed to suppress a surprised inhale when he saw that like his hands, the skin was completely littered with scars.

There was a part of his forearm where a chunk of flesh was… missing, as if it was gouged away and skin just grew over the depression. His wrist was ringed with thick white and pink keloid scars, a permanent testament to what must have been exceptionally vicious restraints. It hurt just looking at it. 

“Freedom,” he said, eyes fixed on his arm. He raised his right hand and a black obsidian knife shimmered into existence in his grip. “Is life’s greatest lie.”

He pressed the knife into his wrist, the point sinking several centimeters into the flesh. “We are unequal the moment we are forced into this world. Some are born stronger, smarter, richer. There can be no freedom, no true equality, in such an existence.” 

Loki drew the blade down his forearm from his wrist to his elbow, then vanished the knife. He pried his fingers into the wound, holding it apart. Blood dripped steadily from the wound into the basin. The milky, translucent liquid soon grew pink, then red as more blood flowed into it. 

“The only freedom,” he continued calmly, and there was a small, but compelling fervor to his voice, “is Death. It is only when Mistress Death takes us in her embrace, that we may know true freedom. Freedom from suffering. Freedom from pain. Freedom from confusion, from hunger, from disorder.”

He withdrew his fingers from the wound and wiped his hand on his shirt. The wound remained gaping open, deep enough that Bruce could see the yellow layer of fatty tissue even from where he was sitting. The blood was slowing, thankfully, from a steady stream to rapid droplets.

There was a hypnotic quality to the performance- the rhythmic, almost soothing sound of blood falling into the basin, the calm and even tone to Loki’s voice. Bruce’s stomach was churning, but he couldn't look away.

“Today, three lucky elders will be taken into our Mistress’s arms.” Applause erupted throughout the amphitheatre as the High Priest slithered into view, followed by three Silurians. One was missing an arm, another was using a crutch. All were clearly elderly, older than the High Priest even, their scales dulled over with age and movements slow.

Most strikingly, however, they looked elated. Ecstatic, even. One blew kisses to the crowd, waved and winked at someone in the audience. There were hollers of support from the crowd, whoops as the one-armed Silurian performed a little twirl. 

The three Silurians joined Loki at the basin, standing around it. He made a gesture with his fingers and the blood dripping from his arm coagulated, though the wound remained open, unhealed. The liquid in the basin began to swirl, the color growing from a deep red to black, the consistency thickening. The High Priest stood beside him and handed Loki a black noose. The Silurians lowered their heads reverently, eyes sliding shut as Loki gently placed a noose around each of their necks. 

“Please kneel,” he said softly, “to receive Death’s Blessing.”

The Silurians in the crowd murmured excitedly. Loki bent down and lowered his face into the black liquid. When he stood back up, his lips and the tip of his nose were coated in the thick black fluid. He kneeled down gracefully in front of the rightmost Silurian, placing his hands gently on either side of its large, reptilian head. He kissed the left cheek, then the right, leaving behind a smear of black.

Its eyes slid shut in contentment, body relaxing. Finally, he kissed the Silurian on the lips, holding the kiss for several seconds before pulling away. Bruce could see a drop of the black fluid drip down his chin. The Silurian’s throat bobbed as it swallowed. 

Loki repeated the process, no less reverently for the remaining two Silurians, then helped them all to their feet. They seemed slightly dazed and unsteady, but their faces were beaming, radiating pure ecstasy and relief. Bruce wondered what exactly was in the mixture Loki seemingly fed to them. 

Loki led them to the gallows. They stood in a row on the raised platform, and the High Priest assisted Loki as they attached the nooses to the wooden beam. The crowd fell into a hush, the air rife with anticipation. 

Finally Loki stepped back, and bowed to the three Silurians. One of them mouthed what looked like a “thank you,” a single tear dripping from its eye. Loki made eye contact with the High Priest and nodded curtly. He raised his hand, and the Blessed Ones dropped. 

It was well past dusk when one of the higher ranking Silurians led them through a series of tunnels in the cliffside to a door embedded in the rock. It was boarded over, and there was a lock on the handle.

“This one apologizes for the inadequacy of your sleeping quarters,” it said, an anxious tremor to its voice. “You left in quite a hurry the last time and it felt- inappropriate to enter the private quarters of Children of Thanos. It has been boarded up since.”

“That is fine,” Loki said dismissively. “We require a place to sleep, nothing more.”

“This one thanks you for your understanding.” The Silurian bowed, and though its hands were shaking, it unlocked the thick padlock with a black rusted skeleton key. Loki simply ripped the boards off the entrance with his bare hands impatiently and pushed the door open.

It creaked ominously, and a thick musty stench of rotted blood wafted out. Bruce had to stop himself from gagging, and it seemed the Silurian was similarly affected, its eyes widening. Loki didn't appear to notice at all, and strode into the room. He snapped his fingers and a ball of light appeared, hovering in the center of the ceiling. 

“It is adequate,” he said, and waved a hand at the Silurian imperiously. “Leave us.” 

Hand clapped over its nostrils, the Silurian seemed all too happy to scurry away.

Loki jerked his head at Bruce and Valkyrie. “In,” he said, in that same brusque, commanding tone. Bruce wavered, unwilling to enter the source of the foul smell, but Valkyrie walked easily into the room. Bruce had no choice but to follow. The door slammed shut behind him and Bruce jumped at the sudden noise.

Loki waved a hand and Bruce felt something in the atmosphere shift, as if he were suddenly teleported to a higher altitude. Instantly, Loki's posture dropped, exhaustion taking over his features. Whereas before he was rigid and carefully controlled, like a puppet held by taut, invisible strings, now he collapsed in on himself, the strings slack.

"Wards are up," he said. "Even if there are seidr users here, they'll be blocked from scrying." His voice was hollow. He wasn't looking at either of them as he spoke, gaze fixed at the farthest corner of the room, cloaked in shadow.

The room was a small cavern, carved crudely out of rock, the floor uneven. It was barely larger than the small bathrooms onboard the Statesman . There were two rotting bedrolls on either side of the cave, rolled up and propped against the wall.

That wasn't enough to explain the viciousness of the smell, and Bruce followed Loki's gaze to the back of the cave, taking a couple steps further to see better. The stench was stronger here, and once his eyes adjusted to the dark he could see the outline of… a box? He squinted, pinching his nose shut, and dared to take a few steps closer. 

For a moment he didn't quite believe what he was seeing and he looked over his shoulder at Loki questioningly. Loki hadn't moved, still staring into the shadows, mouth set in a grim line. He looked very pale, eyes glassy, and Bruce had a feeling that if he spoke Loki wouldn't even hear him, lost somewhere in one of his dissociative states. 

Bruce turned back to inspect the cage, gut twisting unpleasantly. It was small, hardly big enough to fit a medium-sized dog. Some of the bars looked rusted, but as Bruce's vision adjusted he realized it wasn't rust at all, but dried, crusted blood. Several strands of black hair were caught on the bars, stuck in the hinges. The rock underneath the cage was so stained and saturated with dried blood to the point that Bruce almost mistook it for its natural color. A small pile of bandages, half-rotten, was shoved in the corner. It reeked of misery and pain. 

There was a sudden hand on his shoulder and he jumped, but it was just Valkyrie, her hood pulled back, braids loose. Her eyes were wide, lips trembling slightly. 

"Fuck," she breathed. "Do- do you think that's- that he was-" She jerked her head in Loki's direction, not looking away from the cage. 

"Yeah," Bruce whispered back. He reached out and tugged on one of the black hairs twisted around a bar until it snapped in half. He twirled it between forefinger and thumb, looking at it sadly. Valkyrie inhaled sharply, eyes darting from the hair to the cage. "I think so."

She gagged and turned away, one hand over her mouth. Bruce couldn't tell if it was from shock or the smell. He watched the cage for a while longer, contemplating. How Loki, tall as he was, could even have fit in there. How he'd have no choice but to stay curled up in a stress position for however long he was forced to stay in it. 

Finally he tore his eyes away from the cage, coming to stand next to Loki. "Hey," he said softly, trying to convey a reassuring sense of calm that he absolutely did not have. Loki didn't move. Bruce gulped and looked over his shoulder at Valkyrie. She was sitting, slumped against the wall, sword cradled in her arms. She noticed him watching and gave him an encouraging thumbs-up, even as her face remained twisted in a grimace of uncertainty. 

Bruce sighed and took a deep breath. Tentatively, he reached out and touched Loki's hand, lightly at first, just barely brushing his fingertips against Loki's knuckles. "Loki? You in there?"

Loki's fingers twitched and Bruce dared to go a little further, tracing circles against the back of his hand, feeling the ridges and valleys of his veins. There were a couple seconds where Bruce wondered if Loki could even hear him, but then he shuddered suddenly and jerked his hand away. He blinked several times, focusing, and Bruce could see the exact moment that he registered the cage. His eyes were a little too wide, the pupils blown. His lips parted just barely, then curled into a snarl. 

Loki lifted his right hand, fingers outstretched towards the cage. They were shaking, but he managed to hold his arm steady and clenched his hand into a fist, eyes flashing green. The cage crumpled. Bars snapped and twisted inwards. The piercing shriek of metal on metal filled the small cavern as the cage was crushed like a ball of paper, until all that was left was an indiscernible pile of contorted, disfigured metal, completely unrecognizable from what it was moments before.

Loki released his fist, breathing heavily, and let his arm drop to his side. He collapsed against the wall of the cavern and slid down it until his legs gave way beneath him, the whole time staring listlessly at the twisted hunk of metal. It looked like a dead spider, rolled on its back, iron legs curled in on itself. Flattened and lifeless. 

Bruce eased himself down beside him, propping his forearms on his knees. He didn't speak. There wasn't really anything to say.

Surprisingly, it was Loki who spoke first. "I didn't…" he said, then trailed off. His voice was heavy with exhaustion. He couldn't seem to look away from the remains of the cage.

The corners of his lips quivered and he seemed to struggle with finding his next words. "I didn't want this," he finished, the words laced with grief, sorrow. "I never wanted any of this." He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, lowering his head to hide his face in his arms. He didn't move for the rest of the night. 

Chapter Text

Valkyrie was already awake by the time Bruce rose to consciousness, entire body stiff from lying on the rock floor all night. She was sitting against the stone hewn wall, legs stretched out in front of her, polishing her sword with a grim look on her face. 

"Morning," she said, not bothering to look up. Then, "He's finally asleep, so keep quiet." She jerked her chin at Loki, still sitting on the opposite side of the cave with his knees to his chest, head buried in his arms. His shoulders rose and fell slowly, and Bruce heard a small, muffled snore. 

He pushed himself upright, wincing as his back and joints cracked audibly. "Any nightmares?" he asked, rubbing his sore neck with a grimace. 

"Not yet." 

"Did you get any sleep?" Bruce asked, and started to move into a series of old yoga routines he vaguely remembered. 

"A bit." She looked up from her sword. "What are you doing?" she asked, brow creased. "It looks obscene." 

"Yoga," Bruce answered, inadvertently groaning as his muscles screamed in protest. "It's a type of stretching exercise."

She watched him a moment longer. "Hm." She made a brief noise of skepticism and turned back to her sword. 

In the silence, punctuated only by the rub of cloth on metal and Loki's occasional light snores, Bruce's mind unwillingly dragged him back to the events of the previous day. 

He couldn't stop thinking about it—about the horrific scarring that seemed to cover Loki's whole body, the nonchalant way the High Priest had referred to him chained and collared, so injured he had no choice but to crawl. The brand on his neck and the easy way he had sliced his arm open without even a flinch. The cage.

Loki had been missing for a year of Thor's time, but it was longer for him, he'd said. For how long had he been held captive, tortured, and forced to kill? Just what kind of condition had he been in, really, when he'd arrived on Earth in 2012? 

"Would Loki have gotten a trial?" Bruce wondered aloud. 

"Hm?" Valkyrie looked up from her polishing. 

"When he was returned to Asgard, after getting captured in New Y— Midgard. Would he have gotten a trial?"

Valkyrie screwed up her face. "Doubt it. The Allfather wouldn't want the spectacle and drama of a member of the royal family being put on trial, even if he was disinherited publicly. Most likely there'd have been a closed sentencing, and then he'd be taken to the prisons before he had a chance to cause any trouble."

Bruce swallowed past a rapidly growing lump in his throat. "Would there have been any sort of health check before imprisonment? Or questioning to get Loki's side of the story?"

Valkyrie sighed, putting down her sword. "What's on your mind, Bruce." 

"It's just," Bruce stammered, still working out his thoughts. "How could he never tell anyone, not even Thor? That he was forced into attacking Earth?"

Valkyrie stared at him blankly. "Why would he?"

"Huh?"

"If it was me, I'd never tell anyone. The humiliation—" She shuddered.

Bruce's stomach churned. Oh, no. He'd stumbled into another Asgardian cultural difference, and he had a feeling he wasn't going to like this one. "I don't understand."

"To be taken as thrall, to submit under another's power… it is to be made nithing. Just about the worst thing to be in Asgard, apart from argr.”

Bruce stared at her blankly. “I don’t know what either of those mean.”

She sighed, exasperated. “Right. Guess the Allspeak doesn’t extend to concepts. Nithing represents… an Aesir who’s lost the right to call themself Aes, I suppose. Aesir are the superior race in the Nine, and no proper Aes—” she rolled her eyes, “would ever run from battle, seek to end their life, or let themselves give in to torture or persuasion. The Vanir can’t help that they’re meek and cowardly, just as Frost Giants can’t help but be great savage brutes; but an Aes should— must— be better.”

“Sounds…” Bruce couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t potentially wildly offensive. 

“Like a fresh, steaming load of bilgesnipe bollocks?” scoffed Valkyrie, glaring at her sword as she polished it with short, violent strokes. 

Bruce’s shoulders relaxed. “Something like that, yeah.”

She smiled wryly and without humor. “It took me a long time to come to realize that.” She sounded apologetic. “Over a hundred years after leaving Asgard. Thor or Loki are still young; I doubt either of them have spent enough time outside ‘the Golden Realm,’ ” her voice turned mocking, “to realize how Asgardian society is built on nothing more than gilded turds." 

Valkyrie tilted her head, forehead wrinkling. "Well," she appended, "I'm sure Loki has a very good idea, about some aspects of it at least. Can't have been easy, growing up an argr prince, and a seidrmaster at that? It's probably thanks to Thor that he's made it through almost all his morning years without getting killed in a holmgang."

"Argr?"

"You know, ergi." Valkyrie limped her wrist. "Effeminate. Unmanly. A male who practices seidr, who is… passive, sexually." 

"Ah." Bruce grimaced. The churning in his gut was quickly turning to nausea. Loki was not especially discreet—even in New York, he had been a shameless flirt with Captain America, of all people.  

Lying, concussed, in a crater formed from the impact of his own body against marble, his eyes had lingered on Steve's skin-tight suit for longer than was perhaps appropriate. He'd murmured, lips bloodied, "My, my, captain… aren't you a sight for sore eyes." 

Steve had sighed good-naturedly, cheekbones tipped with light pink, and hauled him to his feet, nearly dropping him in alarm when Loki cried out in pain, doubled over and vomited blood. 

"Not that I'm opposed to a bit of rough handling," he'd gasped, even as his face was bone-white, legs trembling beneath him, "but I'd prefer for now if we could take it gentle—it's been a while, I'm afraid, as I'm sure it has been for you as well–"

"Don't be obscene," Thor had snapped, and slapped a muzzle over Loki's mouth. He tossed him over his shoulder in a fireman's hold and hauled him away, ignoring his muffled shouts of pain and indignance. 

At the time, Bruce had chalked it up to brotherly embarrassment, but now —now Thor's remarks took on a different connotation. He resigned himself to the fact that the nausea was not dissipating anytime soon.

"You don't seem to have a problem with it, though," pointed out Bruce.

Valkyrie shrugged. "I've spent the past millennium or so on Sakaar. You learn to be okay with a lot pretty quickly, or you get yourself killed. And besides," she picked up her sword again, examining it in the light. "I'm technically nithing too." She breathed on the metal, rubbing at the fogged-over spot of condensation. 

"I was the sole survivor of the massacre of the Valkyries. How could I ever return to Asgard, after failing to defeat Hela or perish nobly in battle? Better to be thought dead than a disgrace, and spare my family the shame of a nithing daughter. So I ran." 

She squinted at her reflection in the sword, continuing to rub fiercely at the spotless metal. She'd been polishing the same spot the entire time they'd been talking. Bruce doubted there was a speck of rust to be found on the entire blade. 

"Is that why you don't like Loki?" Bruce guessed. "Because you see what you don't like about yourself, in him? Because he's nithing, like you?" 

"He is not like me," she snarled. "And nithing has nothing to do with it. I don't like him because he can't be trusted." She spat, shining her blade furiously. 

"He's a scheming, petty little shit, that's how he lasted so long on Sakaar in the first place. He batted his eyelashes and sucked cock prettily enough to get out of the arena and into the Grandmaster's parties. Once he'd managed to secure a place as his favorite pet whore, anyone the Grandmaster so much as winked at ended up poisoned or with a knife in their back."

Bruce let out a low whistle. "Yeah, can't say I'm too surprised." 

"He's no victim," she scoffed. "He knew what he was getting himself into—he chose power, no matter the cost. Even if the power was as insignificant as being the one to whisper in the ear of a megalomaniac immortal ruling over a pile of trash, and the cost was to bend and spread for whatever sadistic whimsy the Grandmaster had." 

Bruce didn't quite agree, but he didn't want to argue. "Make your point," he said, trying not to sound tense. 

"My point is he craves power, and will do whatever he thinks will get him even marginally ahead. Loki still needs us to fix the shuttle, but once we've done that—how do we know he won't take it and leave us here? He could run off and Thor and Heimdall would never know, would assume we'd all died or crashlanded or something. He could fake his death, again, and go on crawling back to his Master." She spat the word violently, lip curling. 

"He wouldn't," Bruce argued. "You saw what they did to him—he'd be insane to go back."

Valkyrie looked at him as if he were an idiot. "Exactly." 

Bruce's stomach churned unpleasantly. "Yeah, but—"

"But what?" She cut him off. "The only freedom is death,"  she parroted. "You saw his face. He still believes all that shit, I'm sure of it." 

"He's the God of Lies," Bruce reminded her. "He's a good actor, it's practically in the job description."

"That's what I'm saying!" She leaned forward insistently. "He can't be trusted. How can we tell whether or not he's lying to us , and not to them ? How do we know this whole mess we're in isn't some stunt to get back in with the Order?"

"Come on," Bruce protested. "You can't think that. He's fucking terrified of them, it's obvious!"

"And terrified people do stupid shit!" She thumps a fist against her thigh. "I don't understand why you're even defending him—he tried to invade your planet!"

"He said he failed on purpose! If anything, he saved Earth!"

"And you believe him?" Valkyrie scoffed. "He could just be saying that to cover his ass! Look at what they did to Silurias! They turned it into a fucking wasteland filled with murderous cannibals who think the greatest honor in life is to be eaten!" 

Bruce's stomach churned violently at the memory. How two of the bodies, still hanging, had been carved up like hogs hung from a butcher's hook by the black-cloaked Silurians. The third had been taken to be hung off the balustrades, to be "preserved"—sundried into jerky. 

The meat had been separated into cuts, some parts being thrown into a massive pot of stew, others being whisked up to the massive oven they had seen earlier and assumed to be a crematorium. They were brought back down a short while later, fat sizzling and dripping off the bones. 

The entire audience had participated in the feast, which lasted for hours. Thankfully, when Bruce and Valkyrie were offered bowls of the stew, Loki refused on their behalf. 

"They have not yet earned the right to eat," he had said, and the Silurian had withdrawn the proffered food immediately, stammering a hasty apology. Loki, of course, had partook, and showed no indication of compunction whatsoever, his manner as cool and unaffected as if he were at an average backyard barbeque. 

"Come on," Valkyrie urged, watching his expression. "I'm right, you know I am." 

"He didn't have a choice," Bruce mumbled, still queasy. 

"There's always a choice," said Valkyrie, darkly. 

"They branded him and kept him in a cage!" Bruce argued. Loki gave a small snort in his sleep, stirring, and they both froze, watching him. As soon as it was clear Loki was safely still asleep, Bruce continued in a whisper. 

"Look at his hands," he insisted. "The bumps on the joints, the way his fingers are stiff and crooked—someone broke all his fingers, in several places at that, and they never got a chance to heal right. They're obvious marks of torture—and that's just what we can see of his hands." 

"And the fingers that don't match? The ones with different lengths and skin tones, and scars at the base- whose fingers do you think those were? Because they're not Loki's." 

Bruce grimaced. Valkyrie had a point. "I'm not saying he's innocent," he hissed, shooting sideways glances at Loki to make sure he was still safely asleep. "But it makes a big difference if he was forced to do things versus if he did them willingly." 

She raised her eyebrows defensively. "Look, all I'm saying is—watch your back, and don't trust anything he says. Remember: Loki lies."

Bruce forced a nod. "I'll keep it in mind."

Loki luckily had some old strips of dried salmon jerky in his extradimensional pocket, which he gave to Bruce and Valkyrie. He felt slightly guilty for preventing them from eating last night, but he figured they wouldn't want to partake in the feast after they'd seen where the food came from. 

Thankfully, everything seemed to be going according to plan. So well that he was surprised. He knew better than to be hopeful of course, but perhaps they could get through the rest of this ordeal relatively smoothly. 

"What exactly do we need for repairs?" Loki asked, sitting against the stone wall, forearms resting on his bent knees. "I need to know what to ask for, and once we're out there we won't be able to speak."

"The main damage to the reaction control system was to the yoke and the thruster levers. The yoke needs to be replaced and the cables reconnected. Otherwise we can't steer.” Valkyrie tore off a piece of jerky, chewing loudly, mouth hanging open. 

“Okay.” Loki made a mental note. Yoke. Thruster levels. Cables. “Anything else we should be looking for?"

She hummed, thinking. "If we can find the exact or similar parts we need, that would be ideal. They're pretty universal controls, so if they have some old ships that we can take apart, we could fix the shuttle and be gone within a day. If they don't have the exact parts, we'd have to remake them from whatever we can find, which could set us back days." 

"Even on Earth we use similar technology to fly planes and rockets," Bruce chimed in. "We might get lucky." 

"I suppose we shall have to see." Loki eased himself to his feet. "Put on your cloaks. Let's not waste time." 

"We're leaving? Oh, thank the Norns, this place smells like jotun piss." Valkyrie pulled the hood over head. Loki wanted to laugh. 

Oh, he thought viciously, you have no idea.

They got lucky. 

Unbelievably lucky, Loki thought, absentmindedly tracing the scars around his lips as he scanned the repaired and refurbished cockpit. 

A Silurian had led them on a long, winding journey through tunnels deep in the cliffside, guiding them to the Discard, a huge underground cavern piled high with abandoned machinery. It took a couple hours for them to find suitable replacement parts, and extra scrap they could use for repairs and maintenance on the Statesman, besides. 

From there, teleporting to the shuttle and letting Valkyrie and Bruce do the hard work of repairing the cockpit had been laughably simple. Of course, Loki had helped, insofar as he handed them tools occasionally, in between pointed comments calculated to lie right on the borderline separating mildly impolite from downright rude. But they got it done, and within a day. They fixed the cockpit. 

There was just the problem of fuel cells and medical supplies left. 

They slept overnight in the cockpit, and Loki conferred with the High Priest the following morning. They agreed to provide several fuel cells; in exchange Loki would imbue a rather large crystal with some of his seidr, that it could be drawn upon as a source of power. 

It was nothing he wasn’t used to—on Sanctuary, he had regularly been drained of seidr the same way, only being allowed to retain some of his seidr after he had been deemed sufficiently broken in. His seidr had never quite recovered; it took longer to replenish and using too much at once had him liable to migraines, dizzy spells and fainting. And then there was the matter of his control over it—lashing out uncontrollably when his mind failed him, like a child barely past their hundredth year.

It was humiliating, to say the least–once the strongest seidrmaster in the Nine Realms, reduced to nothing more than a burnt-out battery, prone to short circuiting and emitting feeble sparks where once there had been towering flames of power.

Pouring his seidr into the Silurians’ crystal inductor was more draining than he’d expected, his vision tunneling, growing fight. Or perhaps it was simply a response to certain memories associated with the act– 

arms chained behind his back so tight shoulders dislocate forearms rub together like matchsticks

no strength to walk no arms to crawl writhing on his belly, pathetic, worm-like

curl around the empty battery and pour himself into it, the only thing he had left that was his draining away

“Nova.” 

Loki pulled his hands from the crystal, coming back to himself with a shuddering gasp. 

Shit. Shit shit shit.

“Yes?” Loki swallowed, his throat dry and hoarse. He hoped he hadn’t been screaming. 

"The crystal is full. This one thanks you for your contribution." If the High Priest had noticed Loki go somewhere else temporarily, he didn't show it. Still, his reptilian face was hard to read, and Loki couldn't shake the feeling of being scrutinized by his beady, oval eyes. 

"Yes," he said again, because he could think of nothing else to say. He stood up and immediately stumbled, the world tilting dangerously, dark spots crowding his vision. He caught himself against the wall, sucking in short sharp breaths like icicles stabbing his chest. 

"Does Nova require assistance?"

The High Priest's voice drifted to him murkily, as if underwater. Loki flapped a hand, trying to wave him off. He couldn't find the air to speak—if he could just breathe—

"Nova?" Loki jerked back—when had the Priest gotten so close, he had been across the room a mere moment ago—the world was tilting, collapsing in on itself—

falling—black, no light, no sound, no air, nothing—there is nothing but nothing and he falls for so very, very long that the pain of landing is a relief because it is something

tied-down and tied-up—spread-eagled and splayed—swinging from a butchers hook his wrists his ankles his neck his hair the purple fist clenched around his throat 

flayed, fucked, beaten, whipped, burnt, dissolved, stabbed, sawed, dissected, electrocuted, boiled, impaled, devoured, broken, raped, disintegrating—he never thought he'd miss the black the nothing the falling but even that was better than this never-ending nightmare—

Loki jolted awake with a gasp, head pounding. He was on a rough stone floor—when had he gotten here? And how—where—

A triangular reptilian head loomed into his field of vision and his memories returned, full-force, like a brick to the skull. 

So he had passed out like some delicate maiden after pouring too much seidr into the crystal. How embarrassing. 

"Is Nova—"

"It is nothing," Loki snapped. "A moment of weakness." Using the wall for more support than he'd like, he maneuvered himself back to his feet. 

"Forgive this one, who has already summoned the former Mender." The High Priest bowed his head slightly, tongue flicking out. 

“No need. Send them back.”

Loki wiped his face with his hands, surreptitiously checking for tears. None—oh, thank the Norns—but he was damp with cold sweat, clammy as if with fever. 

The High Priest blinked innocently. “This one was under the impression that the Son of Thanos required medical supplies. What for, this one could not possibly imagine.” 

The implication was clear: no true believer in Death would accept medical intervention if sick or injured. After all, if Death had a claim to them, who were they to deny her?

Loki barked a cruel laugh, cocking his hip as he leaned against the wall in an attempt to make it look more natural. Intentional; as if his legs weren't shaking beneath him. 

“I forget,” he said, making his voice cold and hard as steel, “you’ve never had the honor of visiting Sanctuary, have you?”

The High Priest’s eyes narrowed. “This one has not yet been so blessed.”

“Then I suppose I must forgive you for your trespass, undoubtedly born of ignorance and not ill spirit.” Loki raised his chin, imperious. “You would not accuse a Child of Thanos of being… unfaithful, I am sure.”

“You see,” he continued, pushing himself off the wall. He stalked towards the Priest in long, fluid strides, hyena-like. “There are certain unfortunate souls kept on Sanctuary, among them those who have aroused my Father’s ire. Those for whom Death is a mercy they are not afforded. Existing, trapped in endless misery, forever kept just on the brink of our Mistress’s embrace.”

He was very close to the Silurian now, and used his height to his advantage, towering over him. “The medical supplies are not intended as a balm to ease suffering, as you insinuated. We use them to prolong it.”

Loki afforded himself a small, patronizing smirk, “But of course—should you wish to check for yourself, well," he inspected his nails disinterestedly, "I'd be more than happy to arrange for you to visit Sanctuary."

"Th—that will not be necessary," stammered the High Priest. He skittered back several steps, tail swishing anxiously, clasped his clawed hands and bowed so deeply he was practically bent double. "F-Forgive this one's simple-mindedness—"

"It is of no consequence," Loki dismissed with a careless wave. "The Mender, are they—"

"The Mender is here." They both whirled around, startled. 

In the doorway, leaning on a crutch fashioned from a rusted metal pipe, padded with bits of what appeared to be old, rotted upholstery, was an aged Silurian. Their scales were a faded lime and weathered, claws long and gnarled, the ends yellow and cracked. One foot was missing a toe, and as they tapped into the room, lopsided and relying on the cane for support, Loki saw that their tail was severed halfway, stump dragging behind them and leaving a line in the dirty floor. 

Bruce and Valkyrie, clad in their black robes, waited behind the Silurian, heads bowed and hands folded. Loki bit back irritation—he had told them to wait in the shuttle but they'd insisted on coming with. 

Valkyrie didn't trust him not to run off, he knew that. Her distrust was obvious; she couldn't be less subtle if she tried. He hadn't intended to abscond from the start, but her sticking to him like a burr had him wanting to, if only to escape the aura of violent suspicion radiating off her. Unvoiced threats hung in the air between them like storm clouds swollen with rain, the presence of them alone menacing. 

"Nova, Child of Thanos." The Mender inclined their head. Their voice sounded like dead leaves, dry and raspy. Hollow, atonal. "It's been a long time." 

"Nova was in this one's care, many cycles ago." 

It was the first time the Mender spoke, well past an hour into their journey. The Silurian was leading them down a narrow stone tunnel, carved halfway up the cliff face. 

Bruce stepped in tandem with Valkyrie, just behind Loki and the Mender, and he took the opportunity now that he was out of sight to look around them slightly, taking in the alien surroundings. 

It seemed that the box-like homes and Silurians they'd encountered in the basin comprised only a fraction of the settlement's population. From the looks of it, the rest of them occupied small caverns dug out of the tunnels, roughly identical to the one they had slept in save for some variations in size. Hanging blinds made of dried branches woven together with twine or doors cut out of scrap metal concealed many of the insides from view, but quite a few were left open, presumably to encourage fresh airflow through the tunnels. 

It was impossible to see into them, regardless. The tunnels were almost completely dark, lit only by bioluminescent fungi growing on the walls. Bruce spotted wires and cables bolted into the rock along the top sides of the tunnels that connected to electric lamps protected with wire cages, but they were dusty and out of use, over half smashed. At some point they had had working electricity, but for whatever reason had either given it up or lost the capability to continue providing it. 

"Is that so." Loki's voice was flat. They had to walk at a glacial pace to accommodate the Mender and their crutch. 

Loki, who ordinarily walked as if he was trying to match the beat of a late-nineties German techno song, seemed half-ready to jump out of his skin. Bruce spotted his thumb rubbing circles into his palm, hands clasped behind his back, hiding his impatience. 

The Silurian scrutinized him. "Nova does not remember," they said, no small amount of astonishment ringing through their tone. 

Behind his back, Loki's fingers twitched. "I have visited many worlds. And time passes differently on Sanctuary; it has been longer for me than it has for you." 

"Mm," the Mender acquiesced, and fell silent for several minutes. Tension hung heavy in the narrow passage. 

Sweat trickled down Bruce's sides, and the thick cloak clung to his back with sweat. There was something… off about the Mender, but he couldn't place what, exactly. Beneath his skin, the Hulk stirred, trying to sniff out potential dangers. 

When the Mender spoke again, there was an edge to their voice, a sliver of ice. "Pardon this one's directness, but Nova seems very different from the creature this one was ordered to mend." 

Loki, as ever, remained impassive, face a perfect mask. But there was something shuttered behind his eyes, a tenseness to his jaw that hadn't been there before. "My Master has no need to test my obedience. He knows I am loyal." 

"No, not that. Though Nova's power of healing is indeed… impressive." The Mender waved him off. Their tongue flicked out, and they seemed almost amused, as if trying to wind Loki up. "Nova was blue." 

Loki stopped dead in his tracks.

Bruce almost crashed into him, but managed to catch himself at the last moment. He could hear Valkyrie stumble behind him—she too, had evidently been taken off guard by this statement, though Bruce wasn't entirely sure why. 

So Loki was sometimes blue—he didn't quite see the significance of that. After all, Loki was also sometimes female, sometimes a cat, and sometimes a snake or a magpie or a spider. 

Turning blue wasn't even in the top ten weirdest things he'd been. Loki had once told Bruce about a time he spent an entire year as a salmon. He enjoyed Loki's stories as much as he dreaded them, because hearing a graphically detailed first-hand account of what it was like to lay eggs was just a little bit too much for him. 

"Had great big horns, too. Ah, no—horn. One was broken. Very painful, this one understands, had to cap the bone." 

"You are misremembering," Loki declared, and stepped back in next to the Silurian. "That is not possible." 

The Mender simply shrugged, bordering insolence in a way none of the other Silurians they had encountered so far would ever dare to act around who they believed to be a Child of Thanos.

"This one does not misremember. Remembers far too well; would much prefer to forget." They cast a leery, sideways glance at Loki, claws curling around the handle of their cane. "The Child of Thanos is fortuitous indeed, not to be burdened with the pain of memory. How it writhed and screamed and begged for a death it had not earned."

Loki's lips pressed into a thin line. His thumbnail was digging into his palm, uneven fingers trembling. Bruce watched a drop of sweat trickle down the back of his neck. His hair was damp, sticking to his neck and the collar of his shirt in glossy seaweed-like clumps. 

"Make your point." It sounded forced, as if through gritted teeth. 

"Oh, no point," said the Mender, lightheartedly. "Just making conversation." 

"Don't," said Loki, clipped. He strode ahead impatiently. "How much further?" His voice echoed down the tunnel. 

"The Workshop was passed some time ago." The Mender was in no need to hurry, ambling along at the same glacial pace. 

"What?" Loki whirled and strode back, furious. "Why didn't you say so?"

The Mender shrugged, flicked out a tongue. "This one was enjoying the stroll." They blinked innocently up at Loki, who was doing a remarkable job of restraining himself from committing murder.

Bruce felt a little proud. Maybe he should start giving Loki a sticker for each day he went without causing grievous bodily harm or otherwise inflicting torment on undeserving individuals. He had it on good authority from Thor that Loki adored stickers.

Loki snarled, wordlessly. Grudgingly, they began retracing their steps. 

"To the right," directed the Mender, a little over five minutes after they'd turned back. Bruce looked and indeed, there was a metal grate, corroded with sand and rust, along the tunnel wall. 

The Mender did not have a key, or at least not the type Bruce was used to. They fished out a series of small, rectangular blocks, each roughly the size of a toothpaste tube, from a pouch hanging around their middle. Each block was inserted at a corresponding opening around the grate. There was a click, and it swung open from the top down, creating a ramp leading into an even more claustrophobic tunnel. 

Bruce and Valkyrie both had to slouch as they walked through, while Loki, with his impossibly long spider-like legs, was bent nearly double. The Mender, of course, plodded along in front, tap tap tapping the way with their cane. Bruce was grateful for the sound; there was no light in the tunnel and having something to follow eased his discomfort somewhat. 

A faint, dusky blue light; a dot of hope at the end of the tunnel. The light grew larger and brighter, blindingly so, and then Bruce was following Loki out of the tunnel and stepping into an enormous, domed underground cavern. 

The cavern was roughly the size of a baseball field, and lit with bioluminescent lichens that pulsed silvery-blue. A few squat, square dwellings like the ones they'd seen by the amphitheater sat a couple hundred yards away, looking like colossal dice that had been tossed absentmindedly by some great titan and forgotten. To their right a natural, underground pool rippled serenely. Its surface reflected the light from the lichens and glowed silver, a mirror turned liquid. 

Scattered around the dry, ochre base of the cavern were pillars of stalagmite, straining their necks towards the dome. Various, uneven nooks and crannies were carved into the bases of the stalagmites to provide shelving. On them were a great many jars, mostly empty and clouded with dirt; bits of twisted metal, old wires and parts torn from machines.

There was a handmade clay pot inside which grew brilliantly yellow mushrooms, drawings and notes scribbled on what looked to be slips of thin, dried bark. There were baubles and doodads, things that spun and things that went whizz. And there were toys.

They were toys for an alien lizard child, to be sure, but recognizably toys. Little alien lizard dolls in their alien lizard pantaloons and vests; a soft, filthy stuffed animal that had been loved ragged; balls next to wooden rackets to hit them with. 

Bruce's eyes caught on the base of the stalagmite nearest to him, and a great nausea crashed through him like a wave. He recognized the marks on the base. He would recognize them anywhere, because they were universal, in the same way that a parent's love for their children is universal. Small, horizontal lines, etched into the stone. They started low, at the base, barely a half-foot tall, and continued, gradually at first and then in longer spurts, to climb upwards like ladder rungs. Beside each line were several characters in a language Bruce could not read, but didn't need to, for he already knew what they were. 

The lines cut off early. Just below three feet or so, a little shorter than the Mender themself. Not yet an adult, but close. The same name, carved over and over, as surely as a child carves themselves into their parents' hearts. 

The nausea did not pass, but lingered, simmering in the pit of his stomach. Bruce supposed it was a good thing Loki had put the Hulk-suppressing spell on him, because what followed next was an intense rage so fierce he wanted to smash his fists on the ground and scream, regardless of if he was the Hulk or just plain, angry, human Bruce Banner. 

Nails bit into the palms of his hands and he gritted his teeth, trying to subtly practice his deep breathing and force the anger back down to a manageable level. He did not want to hate Loki for this, he knew he wasn't entirely the one at fault, but still—

Still. 

This planet had held joy, once. 

There had been technology, and agriculture, and learning. There had been children that laughed, that played with toys and were beloved. There had been more to aspire to than a painless death. 

At the ritual he'd witnessed, there had been smiles and laughter, sure, but not happiness. The smiles were flimsy and tore as easy as paper, laughter forced and uncomfortable. No one there was happy. They were just relieved that it hadn't been them, that they had fresh meat to eat. A flock of sheep, so afraid of the wolf that they picked each other off one by one. 

And Loki had been a part of it. 

Not willingly, his mind piped up, but it was hard to remember that when the hideous consequences of Loki's actions, coerced or not, were staring him in the face. 

"This was once the Workshop." 

The Mender was standing in the center of the cavern, directly under the zenith of the dome. Bruce couldn't see their face, but their voice was hushed and grim. Shadowed with despair. Former impishness disappeared entirely. 

"Yes," said Loki, impatiently, scanning the cavern. "And the medical supplies?"

Oh, Bruce wanted to hit him. Could he not drop the act, for once? Did he not recognize the horrors he had caused, feel any remorse?

"Mm, yes." The Mender turned, unhurried, and rested their weight on the cane. "Nova may have them. But first." Their tongue flicked, hungrily. "This one wants something of Nova's." 

Loki folded his hands behind his back, cocked his head imperiously. "Make your request."

"This one wants back what Nova took." Minutely, the Mender's claws trembled around the cane's handle. 

Bruce saw Loki's muscles tense, very slightly. When he spoke, his voice was bladed and cold. "And that would be?" 

The Mender tapped towards him, lethargic, as if dragging themself forward. Their head lifted, eyes blinking sideways as they stared up at Loki inquiringly. "Nova really does not remember."

They sounded slightly astonished. For a long minute, the Mender watched Loki's unflinching blankness, a silent confirmation in and of itself, before huffing a miserable laugh. 

They shuffled over to a rock-hewn stool—a stalagmite, Bruce realized, the top sawed off to create an even surface—and sat down heavily. "Sit." They gestured to the other similar stools and benches of rock, arranged in a loose circle. 

Loki hesitated, then seated himself gingerly, hands in his lap and his back ramrod straight. 

"The disciples, too." The Mender looked straight at Bruce. "They should know what they are getting themselves into."

A shiver ran through Bruce at the chilly indifference in the Mender's gaze. He saw no cruelty or malevolence; rather, it was the expression of one who has simply lost all they cared for. Apathetic to suffering. Bruce had seen the same numbness in Loki's eyes on more than one occasion.

He paused, looking to Loki for approval. Loki sighed, closed his eyes resignedly, and waved him and Valkyrie over. 

Bruce sunk onto a low, coppery rock to Loki's left, the seat worn smooth from years of use. Valkyrie cautiously lowered herself to his left, and he could tell without looking that within her robes, her hand was on her sword. 

"You have your audience." Loki inclined his head in a facade of politeness, though his eyes remained open and fixed on the Mender. Rage swirled just beyond violent green irises, shimmering dangerously with latent seidr. "Speak."

Chapter Text

"Speak," said Loki, fairly certain that he wouldn't like whatever he heard next.

The Mender cocked their head, claws resting on their cane and fixed him with a shrewd, sulfuric gaze. "What does Nova remember?" Their claws drummed the cane, light clicks echoing in the still, dust-heavy air like the tapping of a knife against teeth. 

Loki bit back irritation. "As I said before. Very little." 

Click, click.

Infuriatingly, the Mender said nothing, instead continuing to watch Loki, imploring. Waiting. 

Loki sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His head was still pounding faintly, an uncomfortable pressure just behind his eyes. The seidr transfer had worn him out more than he'd anticipated, he supposed, or he must have hit his head particularly hard when he'd fainted earlier. 

"My memory was—corrupted," he tried. "There are... gaps, or instances where contextual information was erased. I have memories of events, but know not the date, the location, the figures involved. Yet others are… blocked off, in a manner of speaking." 

It was the first time he'd admitted it, that his mind was not entirely his own, not anymore. Like a house that had been broken into and ransacked, it no longer felt fully his, traces of the intrusion lingering long after the event itself, corrupting the space. Bloody tracks staining a snow-white carpet; impossible to wash out, impossible to ignore. 

He felt ashamed, small, disclosing this information. What was he even doing, heeding this creature's ridiculous behest? He should just kill it and be on his way. Surely it would be far simpler for everyone. 

Curiosity stayed his hand—he couldn't deny that he wished to know exactly what he'd done on Silurias. Even if the information was minuscule, just the petty grievance of some insignificant, senile lizard. 

Click, click. 

The Mender considered his words, pupils narrowing to thin black slits swimming in a sea of luminous yellow. "Convenient," they remarked, scathingly. "How did Nova come about such an… affliction?"

Loki chewed the inside of his cheek. He could feel Bruce and Valkyrie's eyes on him, searing-hot and attentive. "There was—a device, one that could manipulate minds, and I—I was given the honor of being the first upon whom my Master tested its strengths. I was too—too weak, and I—the device, it—"

It tore me apart.

It raped my mind. 

It sunk its teeth into my brain and chewed until there was nothing left. It destroyed me, and I welcomed that destruction. It rid me of doubt and despair and self-loathing, until all that was left was rage and a perfect, blinding clarity. 

I didn't have to be Loki, Jotunheim's discarded runt; I could be Nova, son of Thanos. And Nova was loyal—loyal, and nothing else. 

Loki dug his fingernails into his palms and did not say any of this. "It caused damage, the more it was used," he said, lamely. "I… struggled, at times, to be a dutiful son. My Master, in his wisdom, would use the device to ensure my obedience."

The words stang his lips, a sour taste coating his tongue. He heard Bruce draw a sharp, whistling breath and his stomach churned. He had wished, at the very least, to keep this last humiliation private. 

He wasn't sure, really, why he was telling the Mender this, giving away so much of himself. He could just as easily lie, but his head was throbbing, and his back ached from the effort of maintaining his erect posture. He felt like a dishtowel wrung dry, contorting and straining to squeeze out a last few drops of strength. 

The Mender's suspicious expression smoothed out somewhat. "Nova is no longer under this device's power?"

Loki swallowed. "I have outgrown the need for such devices. My Master has no reason to doubt my loyalty; I am a faithful Child." 

"Hm." The Mender looked Loki up and down, searching. "Nova's Father must be pleased, very pleased indeed. That is, if Nova is truly still in the Black Order." Their words took a teasing slant at the end, a sharp veering towards smug. 

Loki forced himself to remain still, face impassive even as a brick slid down his throat and made a home in his chest. "I beg your pardon?" 

"No, this one thinks Nova has not been with the Black Order for some time," mused the Mender in a low hum, as if confirming for themself. "Nova is too… healthy. Too whole.”

A muscle twinged in Loki's jaw. “As I said,” he reiterated, impatiently, “I have not been in need of re-education for some time now. I have been loya—”

"Loyal, yes, yes." The Mender waved an impatient hand, claws slicing the air to ribbons. “Nova is far too soft, to be loyal to the Titan. If Nova were truly in the Black Order, this one would have been killed many times over by now.” Head cocked, they met Loki’s gaze head-on with a lazy, mocking blink, as if to demonstrate their lack of fear. 

"Don't tempt me," Loki growled, and summoned his daggers, instantly reassured by the comforting, familiar snakeskin leather handles materializing in his grip. 

He made to rise to his feet, but the Mender paused him with a teasing, singsong ah-ah-ah of warning. They produced from a pouch on their waist a birds’ nest tangle of wires, antennae sticking out like porcupine brittle, a myriad of multicolored, menacing-looking buttons haphazardly soldered on. 

"This one recommends Nova stay seated," they said mildly, though their brimstone eyes were overflowing with malice. "Unless Nova and its companions wish for a shortcut to Death's embrace." 

Loki's fingers tightened around his daggers. "Explain."

"Silver azide," said the Mender cheerfully, claw hovering over a button. "A crystal; very easily synthesized, and so very volatile. Such a shame it would be, for Nova to trigger an explosion. This deep in the tunnels… what could happen?"

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. 

The Mender was insane, Loki could tell that much. And didn't seem to care particularly if they lived through this, which made them even more dangerous. If he had full access to his seidr, he'd easily be able to create a barrier strong enough to protect them from any potential blast and then teleport them out. As it was, he barely had enough to teleport them to the ship. 

"What do you want," Loki demanded, vanishing the knives with a reluctant flick of his wrists. "A ride off this planet? Credits? Seidr?"

"This one wants back what Nova took," said the Mender, calmly. 

Loki's teeth ground together, a sound like mortar and pistle. "I said," he enunciated, not bothering to hide his irritation, "I don't rememb—"

"Nova's fingers," the Mender interrupted. "Nova did not have as many, before. Where did the new ones come from? After all, they were not, this one thinks, regrown."

The brick in Loki's chest dropped to his stomach. He suddenly felt very ill, spots flickering in the corners of his vision, a sensation as if the inside of his skull was slowly filling with water, sloshing, pressure rising. 

"I took them." He heard himself speak, voice steadier than he felt. He pressed his palms flat against his thighs, shifting his weight to prop himself up on his arms. 

"Yes," confirmed the Mender. "From where?" 

"How is this relevant," hissed Loki. "It—It wasn't from here, I remember that much." His palms were sweating damp handprints into the leather. He was, in more ways than one, slipping. 

"What about Nova's lungs?" continued the Mender, tone deceptively mild, though there was an undercurrent of acid to their words. "Nova's kidneys? Nova's liver, nerves, intestines? Nova forgets—Nova was in this one's care. This one has seen inside of Nova, cracked open its bones and sewn it back together again. So many parts. So much to mend." 

"No—what—" Loki's brain was swimming. His skin suddenly too tight, prickling all over as though cocooned within an ever-constricting blanket of thorns. 

"When this one first saw Nova," the Mender said, intense, pustulous yellow eyes fixed firmly on Loki's, "it was after the citadel had been taken, the civilian barricades blasted through by a foreign green energy. The Order had taken their hostages, and Nova was at the pulpit, slitting throats at its siblings' behest. Does this sound familiar?"

"Proxima and Corvus," Loki whispered, the names slipping from his tongue unbidden, as if in a trance. His surroundings melted away; him and the Mender the only two left on the barren, flayed planet. 

He heard, as if an echo, the crack of bones snapping, like a tree splitting in an ice storm. Knives squelching through flesh and glancing off bone. The creaking of ropes, weighed down by reptilian bodies, swinging from burnt-black gallows. 

"Nova was… not kind, but kinder than its siblings. Sent ones off to Death's embrace quickly, with minimal pain—slit throats, snapped necks. Hardly any spectacle at all, unlike its siblings—disembowelments, flayings, burnings—those, Nova’s siblings liked. Liked to play with their newest sibling, as well. Enjoyed making it scream." The Mender sounded almost wistful. 

"Yes," rasped Loki, nausea pressing down on his tongue. He twitched, struck unawares by phantom pains—long ribbons of skin stripped from his back like the peeling of an orange, flames tonguing the soles of his feet. Corvus’s hammer, splitting open his kneecaps like walnuts. "They certainly did."

“Mm,” agreed the Mender, without sympathy. “Enjoyed it a bit too much; too often. Each night came anointed with Nova’s screams, keeping these ones from sleep. Yet come daybreak and Nova, this weak, pathetic thing, had the gall to pretend that it was above these ones, that it could command and kill on its Father’s behalf. What a farce!” They barked out a sudden laugh, slamming a thigh with their fist. Out of the corner of his eye, Loki saw Bruce jump at the abrupt movement.

“A Child of Thanos in name only. In truth, Nova was little more than a slave.” Scaled lips peeled back, baring needle-like teeth in a sneer.

“You watch your tongue!” Loki exploded, barely managing to keep himself from leaping to his feet and sending a dagger through the Mender’s throat. He’d had enough—his misdeeds, the shameful past that he couldn’t even remember, being aired out in front of Banner and the Valkyrie was humiliating enough, but to call him a slave? 

“I was no slave,” he argued. “I was not powerless, I knew what I was doing, I—”

The Mender interrupted with another series of raucous laughs. “Not a slave!” it jeered, incredulous. “Not a slave, it says, and yet—at times, too weak to even crawl, had to be dragged around by its collar. Not a slave, yet it endured the electric whip more often than it was permitted food. If Nova was not a slave, then Nova must be a degenerate, to allow itself to be treated so. A beast would have more self respect." 

Horrifyingly, Loki felt heat rush to his face. "You're wrong," he said, and hated himself for the slight tremble to his voice. 

"Poor, lonely Nova," mocked the Mender, shoulders quaking with silent laughter. "Was Nova so desperate for belonging that it willingly submitted to the tyrant Thanos, just because He calls Himself Father? Did it suffer its siblings' abuse and convince itself that was love? Did Nova destroy real families without a second thought, just so it could pretend at being a part of the abomination Thanos calls family?" 

Loki drew in breath after shaky breath, none of them quite reaching his lungs. The cavern ceiling was spinning, spots in the corners of his vision. Something dripped onto his thigh, rolled off leather and splattered into the dust below, turning the fine ochre dirt into auburn mud. He blinked, and another drop fell to the ground like rain. 

Tears, he realized. He was crying actual tears. Norns, had he not been humiliated enough? Flayed, every quivering tendon and aching heartbeat laid bare, and Banner and Valkyrie as witnesses to the true extent of his depravity. 

"What did I do to you?" he heard himself ask, voice embarrassingly small, sapped of energy and rigour. Neutered, humbled. 

He wished he could curl into himself, tuck away into a corner somewhere and die. He pictured it, crawling into a broom closet on one of the lesser-traveled levels of the Statesman and locking himself in. He’d never have to face anyone ever again, and no one would have to find him, witness his shame. 

Everyone would assume, justifiably so, he'd run off. Their lives would continue, much the better without Loki there to fuck everything up. Perhaps in a decade or so, some cleaning unit would open the closet and his withered, desiccated corpse would fall out. The thought comforted him somewhat. 

The Mender leaned forward, balancing their weight on the cane, eyes glittering. They seemed amused. "Finally," they crowed, "Nova asks." 

"Nova was first brought into this one's care shortly after the second round of purges began. It was little more than skin on broken bones, breath a rattle. Pissing blood and incoherent, it was unable to keep down even water. For days it had switched forms between Nova's current pale one and the blue one that hides beneath, and then it was pale no longer, and the blue faded to grey. Nova's siblings had played with their new toy too hard, see. Broken it."

Loki swallowed back bile. Sweat trailed from under his arms and between his shoulderblades, pooling in the small of his back from the effort of keeping himself upright. Damp tendrils of hair like the clammy, bloated fingers of a drowned corpse clung to the back of his neck, and he resisted the urge to tug at his collar, which seemed far too constricting all of a sudden, pressing down on his windpipe.

"Nova's siblings feared the Titan's wrath, were they to kill his newest Child without permission. Nova was brought to this one, and a bargain was struck—this one's partner and hatchling would be spared the purges, should this one mend Nova." 

"But Nova—" the Mender barked an abrupt laugh, cruel, razor-sharp and cold as steel. "Nova awoke, as this one was attempting surgery. Oh, how Nova pleaded for death! How it writhed and sobbed and begged for mercy!" They spat, as if the very notion of mercy were a grievous offense. 

"I remember you," said Loki, suddenly, wincing as a sharp pain stabbed like an awl between his eyes, accompanied by a torrent of disjointed memories. They appeared as if from a void, assembling in broken clips of sound and image. Nothing concrete, just fragments—blinking fuzzily up at a reptilian head, its tongue flicking in and out, pupils wide with concern. Trying to speak, garbled, through a mouthful of blood: Let it end. Please. 

A clawed, four-fingered hand, patting his head sadly; a kindly murmur: Peace, child. Rest. It will be over soon. 

"You were… kind." Loki frowned, squinting, trying to match the blurry image of a gentle, reptilian presence with the sneering, vengeful figure sitting across from him.

"This one was foolish," they hissed, face contorting with resentment. "There is no true kindness, only naivety. And this one was naive. Nova did not delight in inflicting suffering, unlike its siblings. Its screams had haunted these ones' nights for weeks. And Nova looked so young, thought this one, scarcely older than this one's own hatchling. This one made the mistake of taking pity on that sad, blue, broken creature."

"After all," the Mender continued, "Nova was already dying, too many parts broken beyond what this one thought mendable. Surely a Mender's duty would be to grant an easier death, were it inevitable." They huffed in scorn, claws tightening around the cane handle. 

"Naive, this one was, to think Nova's siblings would honor the bargain should the task of mending Nova prove impossible. And so this one told the siblings that Nova could not be mended. Too many parts were irreparably damaged, and without replacements—"

Loki's breath hitched, sudden and sharp, lungs pierced by hundreds of icy needles.

Oh, no. 

He knew, now, what had happened. Maggots writhed in the base of his stomach—if it was even his—and wriggled up, up, sticking to the back of his throat. He clapped a hand over his mouth, fighting to keep down the nausea threatening to overwhelm him. 

"Yes," breathed the Mender, clutching at their cane and leaning forward, expression caught between a manic grin and a grimace. "Nova understands now, yes?"

"Yes," Loki choked, voice barely a whimper, muffled beneath his hand.

He became startlingly aware of the churning of his intestines. The inflation and deflation of his lungs, the blood searing his veins. His body an amalgamation of gurgling, pumping, quivering lumps of meat, suspended in slick ooze; vile, slimy pinks, putrid bruising purples and mustard yellows. Torn apart, put together, and torn apart again, parts crammed hastily in, squashed and cramped like an overstuffed ragdoll. Sewn back up, secrets hidden behind that loathsome ridged, cobalt skin. 

"This one mended Nova, as a knife was held to this one's partner's neck. The same knife that slit open the belly of the beloved hatchling Nova so reminded this one of."

"After all," the Mender laughed bitterly, savoring Loki's anguish, "there was a perfectly good source of replacement parts already there! And what an honor it was, yes, for the hatchling to be repurposed for a Child of Thanos!" The Mender's voice rose in intervals, spitting each word with fury, and reached a devastating pitch with the last, sarcastic sneer. Engorged with rage, their damning accusations ricocheted off craggy rock, seemingly louder and more assailing with each booming echo.

Vomit clawed up Loki's esophagus and forced its way out, frothing, between his fingers, spilling over himself and the dirt in front of him in a bilious yellow splatter. Strings of sick dripped and swayed from his fingers, but he couldn't summon the thought to spell them away—a second wave of nausea was cramping his insides and he heaved, throat burning, tears running down his cheeks and mingling with the sick hanging from his chin. 

"This one stitched Nova back together, thinking, at least this one's partner is still here. At least this one was not left to mourn alone. Such a fool!" The Mender's eyes shone, and they blinked rapidly, lips quivering. "This one's partner was kept alive, yes, but was taken back to Sanctuary—and can Nova guess why?"

Loki swallowed back bile. "I have an idea, yes."

"Spare parts," spat the Mender. "After all, Nova said so itself—medical supplies are kept on Sanctuary for those unfortunate ones not permitted death. Bodies are finicky things, especially across species, no? Too easily can the wrong organ be pierced, a limb rendered unusable. How convenient, then, to have onboard a living fleshbank. A limb here, an organ there, and what does it matter if it perishes? There's always more bodies, ready to be repurposed for the Titan's great army of Death." 

"I'm sorry," Loki forced out, though he knew it was meaningless. "For your loss." 

"Sorry? For this one's loss?" the Mender repeated, rising shakily to their feet, cropped tail swishing in agitation. "They were not lost! They were stolen! Ripped apart, bodies plundered, and all that's left of them, buried inside Nova the thief, the coward—pathetic, whining little brat!" With every barbed syllable, flecks of spittle launched from the Mender's scaled lips, and Loki flinched as if struck when frothy specks landed on his cheeks. 

"Yes," he agreed, fighting to keep his voice level. "Well. Be that as it may. I cannot bring them back for you."

"Nova has powers," rasped the Mender, somewhat desperately. 

Loki shook his head. "It's been too long since they passed—were killed," he corrected himself. "And I would need a moderately intact body at the very least." 

All of the anger seemed to flow out of the Mender at once. They sagged, then collapsed heavily onto their seat like a puppet with its strings cut, eyes moist and glazed over. Their lips smacked together once, twice, with a dry sound. 

"Then Nova's companions shall perish," they decided, head downcast. 

Despite the stuffy, dry heat of the cavern, Loki felt as though a bucket of ice water had been abruptly upturned over his head. Shivers like spider's legs crawled down his spine, air freezing in his lungs. "I beg your pardon?" 

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Valkyrie—he thought it was her, at least, it was nigh impossible to tell with the cloaks—pushing back her hood, dastardly slowly so as to not catch the Mender's attention. 

Loki grit his teeth and gave a minuscule shake of his head, but she either didn't see or pretended not to. The hood settled around her shoulders, fabric whispering as she reached for the drawstring at the collar. 

"Nova will experience the same loss this one has had to endure," the Mender declared, looking up and frowning at Loki, hazily, as if unsure of themself. They swallowed, then picked up the nest of wires sitting in their lap, claw hovering over a button. "Yes," they said, and it sounded firmer now, "Nova's companions must die."

Three things happened at once. 

Valkyrie threw off her cloak and lunged at the Mender, sword outstretched; Loki shouted, a frenzied don't!, the cry mixing with Bruce's panicked Val!, and—

Click. A gnarled, yellow claw alighted on a button. Pressed, released.

Boom. Ba-ba-ba-boom.

The silver lake behind them erupted in a violent jet of rocks and translucent, shimmering liquid. The ground shook, knocking Valkyrie to her knees before she could reach the Mender. A falling rock collided with her wrist and the sword went flying, clattering somewhere out of sight.

Bruce fell off his seat entirely, instantly curling into a protective ball, hands twined over his head. His hood had fallen back as well, and Loki could see that his eyes were screwed shut, lips moving incessantly with whispered prayers or self-reassurances. 

Loki swore, the sound lost amongst the percussion of falling rock, and flung up a hand to cast a hasty shield. Rocks the size of grapefruits clattered to the ground around the shield's circumference, whipping up a haze of orange dust as thick as pea fog. Throughout it all, the Mender was cackling; hurling vast, throaty laughs like projectiles, as if their laughter could strike as vicious a blow as the rocks tumbling overhead. 

It wasn't enough—Loki's seidr was alarmingly drained, his concentration shot. He wouldn't be able to hold it for long. 

"Cover your heads!" he yelled, coughing. Just in time—the barrier flickered, then disappeared entirely, leaving them to be pelted by a last drizzle of pebble and stone. 

"Sorry," Loki gasped, as the rockfall stopped, the haze clearing just enough to see the others' silhouettes. "I couldn't—couldn't hold it—"

"It's okay," he heard Bruce call back. Relief flooded his veins. "We're fine." 

"Peachy," added Valkyrie, hacking somewhere in Bruce's vicinity. "I'm going to behead that fucking liz—"

"Not before this one can set off another," the Mender snickered. "This one gave fair warning to remain seated, no? The cavern did not collapse, but next time—next time may not be so lucky." They were still sitting comfortably on their stalagmite stool, stubby legs crossed daintily at even stubbier ankles. 

"We understand," said Bruce, raising his hands defensively and crawling to his knees. He'd pushed back his cloak as well, and his hair and glasses were speckled with orange dirt. "Right?" He elbowed Valkyrie. 

She scowled, but issued a gruff, "Whatever," and sat up stiffly, glaring pointedly at the Mender all the while. 

"This does not concern them," Loki tried, apprehension crushing his ribs in an iron grip. "As you can see, they are not, and have never been, affiliated with the Black Order. They are innocent when it comes to the crimes committed against you and your family." 

"This one's family was innocent, as well," said the Mender mildly. "And were slaughtered like beasts."

"Yes," agreed Loki tentatively. "But killing them," he jerked his head towards Bruce and Valkyrie, "won't achieve what you wish. For one," he forced a crude, unforgiving laugh, high and cruel, "I could not care less if they perish, save that it would be a terrible inconvenience finding a replacement crew. We traveled together, that is all—they are nothing to me." 

"Fuckin' prick," he heard Valkyrie mutter under her breath, but she stayed where she was, eyeing Loki apprehensively. 

The Mender looked unimpressed. "Does Nova truly think this one foolish enough to be deceived by such flimsy lies?"

Loki forced a cocky, rakish smile that he very much did not feel. "It was worth a shot." He swallowed past the molten lump of dread clogging his throat, false smirk giving way to a thin-lipped grimace. 

"I have an alternative proposal," said Loki. "One that I think you may prefer." He closed his eyes briefly, feeling himself shake. His mouth tasted of dry, cracked earth. 

The Mender leaned forward. "Oh?"

Say it. 

There's no better option.

You've done this before, you can do it again.

It's nothing. It doesn't matter. You can take it, you always can.

It's the least you deserve, after all, and it'll hardly be the worst thing you've endured. Not even among the top ten. 

You're nothing. You don't matter.

It's what you deserve. 

Loki took a deep breath, steeling himself, and opened his eyes. He met the Mender's skeptical gaze evenly, keeping his face carefully blank. 

"Spare parts," he said, and smiled.

"Spare… parts," the Mender repeated, skeptically. 

What the fuck, Valkyrie mouthed at Bruce, eyes wide. He cast her a helpless glance, offering a shrug of commiseration.

Loki was still making that awful gaping wound of a smile, eyes slightly too wide, too desperate. "You said you wanted back what I once took from you." He inclined his head graciously. "So take it. Plus interest, if you so desire." 

He can't possibly be for real, Bruce thought, trying to summon more hope than was perhaps realistic. He's got to have some plan to wriggle out of this. I mean, he's Loki. 

The Mender tapped their claws thoughtfully. "A most bold offer," they mused. "But Nova would die, no?"

Bruce felt his shoulders drop. Exactly, he thought, inappropriately grateful to the Mender for pointing out the obvious, despite it being the Mender who had forced them into this godawful negotiation to begin with. It's an impossible bargain. 

"Take half," said Loki, and Bruce's stomach dropped. Valkyrie clutched his arm, nails digging into his skin through his shirt. She was paler than Bruce had ever seen her, almost stricken with panic. She'd come to the same conclusion—this wasn't going to be one of Loki's famous tales of outwitting an undefeatable enemy or throwing a bargain in his favor. No, Loki was impossibly, terrifyingly, one-hundred percent serious. 

"One kidney, one lung, half a liver, and so on. But no limbs, and my heart stays intact." Loki thought for a moment. "And I'd like to keep both eyes. Wouldn't want anyone to accuse me of stealing their look." He glanced at Bruce and Valkyrie, kneeling in the dirt and clutching each other in horror, and winked. 

The bastard fucking winked. 

"Nova would just steal another one's eye, anyways," grumbled the Mender, but they looked thoughtful. 

"Oh, definitely," Loki agreed, and crossed his legs casually, as if this were a friendly discussion about what to eat for dinner, not which body parts he was willing to sacrifice. "Internal organs, though—so long as I have around half, I should be able to stay alive long enough to regrow the rest. So I won't be visiting any fleshbanks, if that's something you're worried about." His grin widened, showing off unnaturally sharp canines. 

The Mender's tail swished in undulating S-shaped patterns as they contemplated Loki's offer. After an excruciatingly long minute, their tongue flicked out and they nodded, yellow lantern-like eyes not straying from Loki's face, still stuck on that insincere, slightly manic grin. "This one accepts. In exchange for this one's full inventory of medical supplies, Nova will relinquish the parts previously taken from this one's partner and hatchling, given that sufficient quantities for regrowth are left in place." 

"And they will be untouched and unharmed." Loki’s head jerked towards Bruce and Valkyrie. 

"Nova's companions will remain unharmed," agreed the Mender.

"Okay, okay, wait just a minute." Valkyrie tore away from Bruce and got to her feet slowly, hands above her head as if held at gunpoint. Her eyes resembled a sunset, blazing with quiet fury. "As one of 'Nova's companions,'" she made air quotes, "I say, fuck no. You're not touching him. You so much as take one pathetic, greasy hair from his pathetic, greasy head, and I'll skin you alive and wear you as boots for the next half-century."

"Valkyrie." Loki spoke in a low growl, swirled with an undercurrent of warning. "Stay out of it."

Valkyrie whirled on him, ponytail whipping an arc through the dust-ridden air. "Don't fucking tell me what to do!" 

“Urdr’s tits,” Loki pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m trying to protect you, you foolish cow.” 

"And it's my job to protect you, you ungrateful berk! You don't get to, to just lay down and let yourself get dissected—I made a promise," she broke off, gasping, and Bruce was startled to see that her eyes were moist and red-rimmed, eyelashes wet. "I promised Thor I'd keep you safe." 

"I don't need your protection!" hissed Loki, nastily. "This doesn't concern you." 

"It does," Bruce piped up, surprising himself. He got to his feet slowly, holding his hands over his head like Valkyrie, eyeing the Mender testily all the while. The Mender regarded him warily in turn, a minute tremor present in the claw hovering threateningly over a button. "We can't let you sacrifice yourself for us."

Loki scoffed incredulously and rolled his eyes to the ceiling with an overdramatic, put-upon flair. He looked more like a teenager being sent to his room than a centuries-old former intergalactic terrorist, and the incongruity of it all had Bruce's head spinning. The whole situation was so incredibly fucked up, he didn't even know where to start in processing what he'd learned. 

"Sacrifice," he jeered, tongue a double-bladed knife of disdain. "Don't be so melodramatic, Bruce, it's unbecoming."

Green fists battered the inside of his cranium, just between his eyes, a growl unfurling from within his chest like the roaring of a motorcycle, setting his ribs to vibrate. "I'm not being melodramatic! You're my friend, dammit, and I can't just sit by and let you get hurt!" 

Loki blinked. For a moment, the mask dropped, and he gawped open-mouthed at Bruce, pale-faced and uncomprehending, like a baby being held for the first time. His jaw stuttered, fingers flexing uselessly at his sides, pale twigs trembling. He looked down, briefly, at his feet, hair falling forward in an oily curtain, and when he raised his head the mask was back, cold and hard and unforgiving as marble. 

"You don't mean that," he said, thin-lipped, and Bruce heard the question left unspoken, doubt prodded and reshaped into declaration. Reeking of little-boy insecurity, the lesser prince, forever an afterthought. Picking at his food in the solitary confines of the engine room, squinting at Bruce as if he were an indecipherable furniture assembly instruction manual, unable to grasp that one might seek his company without desiring anything in return. And still, here he was, bartering for their lives with his own, despite believing himself a presence to be tolerated at the very best. 

"Bor's hairy bollocks, Loki, is it really that hard to believe that we might actually care about you?" Valkyrie burst in, impatiently. 

Loki regarded her coldly, pinched and haughty like a housewife gazing at her unfaithful husband and contemplating whether the rat poison should go in his soup or his coffee. "Yes."

"This one grows impatient." The Mender tapped their claws irritably.

"Shove off, you had your monologue," shot Valkyrie, braid whipping as she turned back to Loki. "You can't do this," she said, tone almost pleading. "We'll get the medical supplies somewhere else, it's not fucking worth it—it wasn't even your fault, for once! You said it yourself, you didn't ask for this!" 

"Does that matter?" He converged upon her, snarling and carnivorous; a slavering beast, primordial jaws dripping in gore. "They are dead, because of me. My body made their tomb. I hold them within me, and I want them out." His lips shuddered, a shadow of revulsion darkening his wan complexion. "I may not have chosen their deaths, but there are hundreds more for which I did. You cannot say that I do not deserve this." 

"But you don't." Even as Bruce spoke, the protest felt flimsy, like tissue paper dissolving on his tongue. Loki tore through it easily.

"I would have seen your world plundered and made a monument to Death, as I did on this one, and on countless others. It is barely even the least of what I deserve. And besides," he smiled, dry and bloodless as sun-bleached bone. "It is not your decision to make." 

"Don't you da—!" Valkyrie lunged towards him, hand flying to her hip. Loki's eyes flashed green and she slammed face-first into the dirt, ropes winding around her ankles and wrists. Bruce's own arms were yanked behind him by an invisible force, followed by a rope coiling, snake-like, around his wrists and ankles. 

"Damn you!" she snarled, spitting out gritty orange flecks of dirt-infused saliva. 

"Don't do this, Loki," Bruce pleaded, though he already knew it was for nought. He strained against the rope binding his wrists until his shoulders ached. It held strong. 

Loki towered over them, imperious, face a void. Behind the shutters of calculated indifference, though, were glimmers of emotion, raw and flickering like candlelight. Fear. Acceptance. Guilt. Grief. Above all, shame. "This is for the best," he said, and Bruce pictured behind his mask of marble a terrified young adult, cringing away from any outstretched attempts towards understanding in favor of hurling himself directly into the flames. 

“This is for the best,” he repeated, quieter, convincing himself. Jaw set, fists trembling faintly, Loki turned and followed the Mender into the nearest hut.

The metal cuffs around Loki's wrists and ankles were cool to the touch and slightly rusted. It would chafe and break the skin, he anticipated, once he started struggling. There wasn't much point in trying to keep still to minimize damage though, he figured. What was a bit of scraped skin, when faced with organ loss?

The Mender had allowed him to cast a small working to translocate the medical supply into a bottomless rucksack he'd had tucked away in his extradimensional pocket, and he left it by where Bruce and Valkyrie lay, squirming futilely like worms drying out in the sun.

He imbued an empty energy crystal with just enough seidr to teleport them back to the ship, as he knew once the procedure started all his seidr reserves would go towards healing and he didn't want to use up their one chance of getting back to the ship. The crystal he left by the bag, just out of Bruce and Valkyrie's reach. Finally, he cast a charm to restrict the radius within which they could detect sound. He didn't want them to hear his screams, if he could help it. It was a meaningless gesture, perhaps, but he'd salvage whatever few scraps of dignity left afforded to him. 

"It is a noble choice Nova has made," mused the Mender, pottering about in the surgical shed, filling empty jars with what smelled like formalin. "Surprising." 

"I have my moments," Loki muttered, inexplicably self-conscious of his nudity. Being laid out shivering and naked on the frigid metal surgical table, like a freshly-plucked bird primed for gutting, reminded him awfully of Sakaar. Only what had transpired there was an evisceration of a different sort—a dissection of autonomy, a flaying of the spirit. 

He'd fucked and been fucked in every conceivable configuration and then some, in front of thousands of cheering, jeering, furiously masturbating strangers. No, that was wrong—not thousands, millions. Perhaps billions, even, now he knew that the sordid half-year spent on his back, face down, suspended, spread-eagled, sandwiched between or bouncing on top had been taped and broadcast for the viewing pleasure of organisms across the galaxies. One would think there was not a shred of shame left to possess, that any modicum of decency had fled his body for safer waters the second he let the Grandmaster bend him over. 

He felt ashamed, now. Legs twisting uncomfortably, aching to bend and cover his sex but unable to for the restraints; gooseflesh rising as if even his skin wished to part from him and escape on its own. His muscles worked to keep his torso still as the Mender swabbed him with iodine, acrid brown streaks like shoe polish sticky on his uneven, scarred flesh. 

"Open," the Mender commanded and without waiting for a response, they gripped the hollows of Loki's cheeks between two claws and forced his jaw open, fitting in a rubber bit to bite down on. It tasted and smelled like a stale prophylactic. 

"Now then," said the Mender, and readied their scalpel. "This is going to hurt."