i thought you died alone a long long time ago

[laevisilaufeyson]

As aftermaths go, there have been worse ones. The fiasco in New York, for instance, had ended particularly poorly, much to the benefit of everyone involved, save perhaps the Chitauri. Certainly to the benefit of Loki Laufeyson, despite his ignoble defeat and the unfortunate circumstances of his return to Asgard. That had been a mess as well, its own particular brand of uncomfortable, and frankly not something Loki would ever care to repeat.

And so his quiet return to Earth: mischief, mayhem, general villainy not entirely cast aside, but for the moment he's content to keep things subtler and less ambitious. It was that precisely which left him in the perfect position to observe when things began to go wrong. When rumours began to surface.

An armoury robbed in the Vitsebsk Voblast. They said Victor von Doom had done it, sent dozens of his doppelgänger robots to clear the place out looking for... something. Something big.

A mysterious woman spotted in Hong Kong, brighter even than the night life with green, green eyes – and a trail of Triad bodies in her wake.

Something bigger and more ominous, waiting just beyond Kuiper Belt – they said. But then, they said many things.

Funny, then, how all of those things have lead to now, the ignominy of capture, a pounding headache, and a not entirely unwelcome companion.

How Loki got himself involved isn't very mysterious. He did as he always does: he stuck his nose where it doesn't belong. Earth might not be his, either in name or in reality, but his fondness for it is deep and old, and his fondness for the likes of Victor so much shallower. Rumours are meant to be investigated, and so investigate them he had begun to do, in his own way. Out of curiosity. Certainly not out of any inherent intention to interfere.

And yet. Yet. Sometimes inquiries are not taken quite so kindly, even by old friends.

Thus the current dilemma, though what his cellmate is doing here is somewhat more obscure. Still, intriguing. Loki's certainly going to find out more about it... once Tony Stark returns to the world of the conscious.

Comments

[manofiron]

It’s never going to get easier to watch Loki siphon off the power of the reactor. Or less fascinating. And there’s probably never going to be a moment when the undeniable thrill of it doesn’t strike him. It’s a roll of the dice, the ultimate gamble, and the potential to die in the process just makes it that much more entertaining.

And just like before, when he’d vanished from the cell, Loki’s gone and Tony finds himself feeling uncomfortably alone. It makes his skin itch, like there’s a bullseye painted on his back and a number of sights trained on it, waiting for the perfect moment to take the shot. At least until he speaks. At least until Tony feels the chill in the air that he’s beginning to attribute to Loki being Loki.

“Okay. Show time.”

Skin prickling, hair rising on the nape of his neck at the insanity of what he’s going to do, Tony saunters forward, like they’re on a holiday somewhere warm and relaxing. Like he’s only walking into certain relaxation, not death.

[laevisilaufeyson]

Loki is... alive. Conductive. An incredible machine, an incredible being, made for this, for the prospect of destruction. It's remarkable, every breath he takes draws more heat into himself, more energy, more. He knows how he looks, behind the wall of magic which will soon begin to fade. Knows the designs that raise themselves on darkened skin; yes. He has learned them.

They're hideous. He is a monster.

That is precisely what they need. Form out of functionality. Like this, right now, he is beautiful. Not to look on, perhaps, but in his power, in his efficiency.

In the way he stalks this silly little man from shadows of his own creation. Could snap him straight in two. Considers it, for a moment. His fingers twitch.

Perhaps at first, when he'd first learned, he would have admonished himself to not be like them. The jǫtnar. As though he knew, as though he'd any idea, as though that hadn't been stolen from him as thoroughly as he'd been stolen from an ignoble and perhaps fitting death out on the ice. A gift for old enemies. To assuage Fenrir's hunger pangs, maybe; do they tell such stories on Jǫtunheimr?

The truth is, the only anchor which binds Loki to anything at all is this body. Form is all he has. Form defines him. The rules of Jǫtunheimr do not apply; the rules of Asgard all the less so. Loki is Loki. Only by his own whim is his hand stayed, and only by his whim might it be moved again.

Still the temperature drops. Still Loki's mood heats.

Moods are fickle, flitting, shadowy things; oh stranger, here and gone, a chance meeting on a street corner but the lights always change. The sound of shoes scuffing lightly on flooring 'round the bend ahead is a relief, in that light. Idle thoughts may be put on hold. That stray pedestrian, thoughts of murder, demolished by a hit and run and nobody particularly cares, least of all Loki himself. There are other ways to get ones hands dirty.

Not, of course, that this is how it goes. He is not the sort of madman to plunge his dagger into the belly of a man, twist until the blood flows hot over his clenched fist, steams against his coldness; he will not immerse himself in it, life not life, abrupt endings; death is order, death is not chaos, murder is acceptable but panic is better.

He doubts he'll get the latter. Trained men. That is a heavy boot. Still Stark keeps walking; it would be a disservice to them both to render him incapable of it.

The rest? Chattel.

The shouts as they round the corner, Stark and his shadow, his phantom, are music. A room, tables drawn to the sides for cover, open floor, three there, another there, four there on the opposite side. And the dance, so: Stark a forced step back, a pull, some invisible force, some boogeyman. An exchange of places. There is little and less here from which to form even the barest blade of ice; without his armour and his magic Loki is vulnerable, but no matter. Far less than the human. Far less than they expect, these men in their bulletproof vests, with their guns.

The glamour will fall. Stealth is no longer a necessity, and so Loki runs, lets it dissolve around him until he is seen, strange creature, and he's already on top of one by then. One will become more. It will not slow him to slide the man's gun across the floor to Stark – he thinks, but the bullet which catches him in the shoulder says otherwise. No doubt there will be more shallow, oozing wounds like this, not inconsequential even if hardly deadly, but the sharpness of the pain still makes him gasp. Grounds him. Draws him in.

What is pain, what is the strike of a bullet, but a consequence of the transferal of energy? Loki can play at that too: a game of forces breaks the man's nose and several of his teeth. Chemistry and physics crafted the knife strapped to his leg. Inertia tears it away as he falls, but it's Loki and no other who flings it across the room to lodge hilt-deep in another man's temple.