Chapter Text
They had the Mind Stone.
He could feel it. Could hear its soft, tempting, cruel whispers running through the air, tainting it as it called for him, requesting his full attention.
He could sense the way it made his heart stutter severely in his chest, his head spinning in a way that felt completely out of control. Could perceive the familiarity of it, blooming the worst kind of rawness in his core as he tried to push it away and not start stiffening, stopping himself from involuntarily responding to it. He forced himself as hard as possible to close up internally to avoid creating space for it inside him again. Shivers ran up his spine just at the thought.
He detected the unwanted panic spreading into him, not being able to put an end to it. The feeling made his mind go blank for more than just a moment, his body forgetting where he was and how he had gotten there, his eyes showing him an entirely different scenery.
Numerous metallic dodecahedron plates were shot by rectangular, large guns, powered by fluorescent neon purple energy—they tried to reach all seven of him at the same time, clearly—but he did not even respond to the attacks as they came in his direction. He didn't need to, since they ended up hitting the barrier and being thrown aggressively backwards—The Ravagers jolting and getting out of the way to avoid being hit by them—but it had definitely been risky.
Luckily, the attempted assault was enough to have him fully return to the present, inhaling a slightly stuttering, but still deep enough breath. This before making each copy show all his teeth towards them in the most savage manner he could achieve, as if he was going to bite their throats off—the desire to see them all in pain did start enveloping him internally little by little as the seconds went on, eating at each part of him until the other feelings seemed to vanish, so it made the threat real enough.
Loki returned to focus entirely on them, forcing himself to ignore the anger and the energies in the background that kept lapping at his senses, trying to distract him all over again. He quickly gave more seiðr to his copies, the single thread of his mind connecting them all being reinforced in between.
As he did so, his eyes almost seemed to split, to open and expand as his view saw everything around him. Every enemy movement near him was visualized and registered, every face and weapon absorbed and catalogued, orders reaching each of the copies as he himself prepared for his own battles.
A Greys—a sturdy-looking being with a pearl gray, slightly scaled skin—was the first he personally attacked after the analysis, deciding in very little time that he had to go before he could provoke any real damage.
His dagger, though, instead of hitting him right in the middle of his chest like he had planned, ended up landing upon the spinning—clearly electric—baton that he possessed, which the alien slammed against his barrier aggressively immediately after having deflected the blade. The weapon almost slipped out of his grip on impact as his arm bounced backward with the same amount of force used, making him hiss between his teeth as he also had to take several steps back to not fall before throwing himself into a second attack.
Loki did not lose much time before throwing another dagger at him, almost mechanically—much higher, much faster—while part of his attention focused on the copy on his left for another order, much different from the ones earlier, making him move a bit further from himself… and then on the ground, a small trickle of energy fluttering into it.
The Ravager avoided the second attack as well, just like he had somehow expected—he definitely had fast reflexes—even if it grazed his cheek nonetheless, green blood leaking down from the small scrape that barely traced it. Then, as he quickly advanced towards him again, the baton high in the air, ready to be stubbornly used against his defenses again, he suddenly stopped, his body jerking as if he had touched something electric.
There was no electricity involved, though. Not even the smallest amount. The weed under him had attached itself to the soles of his boots, starting to climb them, to reach higher and higher, tying him up like a present. The Greys had only the time to make a horrified expression before the long grass vine snapped his spine and just dropped him nonchalantly.
He got replaced by a second opponent in the blink of an eye, who was careful not to walk on the ground, but still went down much faster as she wasn't able to avoid the sharp blade that he threw at her, unlike the first. It reached the center of her throat, leaving her agonizing, a choked noise slipping from her mouth as she spat blood and crumpled upon the first body, giving space to the third newcomer.
The said newcomer had the same fate in more or less the exact timing: appearance, hit, fall. And so did the fourth. And the fifth, even though the male Wugin attempted to still walk forward in an act of resistance before dropping down.
Not the sixth, though.
She could have almost been mistaken for a Miðgarðian between her small stature, the deep hazelnut skin adorned with numerous freckles, the wild, cropped, chocolate brown hair, and doe-like chestnut eyes. She could have been, yes, if it had not been for the small red crystals that protruded in the middle of her forehead, shining with a vivid, scarlet light.
She, with something like a flicker of panic on her face as her gaze met his—which was a pretty curious thing, to be honest—tried to shoot him—or tried to make a hole in the shield around him—with what looked like several large yellow plasma bullets, which actually vanished instead of being blasted towards the sender like it was expected.
He attacked her back with a wave of seiðr, but by clicking a button on her arm, she raised her own barrier. It was hexagonal, orange and shiny; solid enough not to break instantly… but not sufficiently resistant to not crack when, after a quick command, the second copy to his right—following a spinning motion on Lævateinn just as he had taken down another foe—slammed against it as much new seiðr as possible, the sound of the impact and the singing energy echoing in the air even with all the battle sounds playing around him.
She didn't even have the time to be surprised when it did—she only made a noise similar to a terrified whimper as it happened—and he wasn’t even able to actually make his new evoked knife reach her because the normal energy he had felt and pushed aside before—but not forgotten, no. Just like he hadn't forgotten the rotten one and the pulsating flare of the Mind Stone. It was impossible—enveloped her entirely.
It was vibrant. It was lukewarm and yellow, the exact same shade of yellow that the plasma bullets had been. And it made her vanish inside what was a visible, round portal. Just the view halted him a little, but did not truly surprise him. A Witch or a Wizard in their ranks, the Ravagers surely had. He had already been aware of that. Maybe said Sorcerer wasn’t part of the reason why they had found him, or maybe he had been, finding a way that he wasn't aware of. He wasn't sure about it. In any case, right now, it wasn't of extreme importance.
No, it did not surprise him… If not because of the gesture itself on a battlefield. Because why protect her from death and not the others? A major attachment? Or did she have an important role of any kind in such a scenario? Had she panicked because he had seen her, and he hadn't been supposed to, whatever type of plan they had?
He attempted to search for her, but couldn't focus on the matter for long. A muscular Badoon started to speed towards him almost as soon as he tried to concentrate on the full view around himself. Also, he had to correct a movement on his first copy to the left, which had risked crashing into the second one because of specific, unexpected timings from an attacker.
The Badoon threw at him a weird-looking fruit—he had never seen it before—that literally exploded before even hitting the barrier, having it first tremble unsteadily then loudly screech in offense. But it still resisted.
Loki’s grass vine thanked the Alien for the unwanted gift the exact moment he attempted to throw another one, focusing mostly on wrapping itself around his neck. Then it threw him backwards, hurling him so strongly that he only saw the path he moved in, which had him slam against many of the enemies and make them hit the ground as well.
He stabbed two more attackers before the woman with the crystals appeared again, the jetpack having her fly steadily at very little distance from the higher part of his defenses. He saw her, easily, his head snapping in her direction and always seeing how frightened she looked at being seen so fast. But she still shot two more plasma bullets against the higher side of his defenses, always before he could truly trap her or attack her, being quite trigger happy for such an innocent, childish face—well, looks could be deceiving. He was completely aware of that, considering his history and his own essence. He had used it for his own gain when he had been younger, more often than not, especially after provoking mayhem.
Another portal took her away just as fast when she was done. And she didn't reappear for a possible third attack. But she didn't need to.
A few seconds passed, still full of stabbings left and right. Then, the shield around him started crackling and vibrating weirdly, his seiðr sounding almost strangled for a moment.
Between one blink and another in which he looked everywhere he could and in the quickest way possible, slightly agitated, trying to understand how to bring it back to normalcy, miserably failing, his defenses fell apart one by one—layer after layer, like a castle of cards which had lost stability—leaving him completely unprotected, a feeling of dread forming in the pit of his stomach, squeezing it from the inside.
The opponents started to become even more frenetic and insistent after such a feat, coming at him and at the other copies with much more ferocity. Some of them were clearly smirking as if he had suddenly turned into easy prey. Others showed him their teeth just like he had done before, which felt extremely mocking. Their gesture made him perceive a hint of annoyance, but instead of showing the feeling, he ended up grinning back wildly at them in response. He tried to look like a combination of Andromeda and Nebula as he did so, showing something between pure feralness and sadism… and it worked since, essentially, he was able to swipe away the expressions they all had at once.
So, even without the barrier, he and the other copies of himself still replied at each attack like nothing had happened, his thoughts pushing out even more tactical instructions to have them move more smoothly, with all the fast dynamicity needed to survive and kill, trying to ignore the rest, no matter how suffocating said rest was.
He made an effort to pass over how his stomach clenched, how his breath became a little ragged, even if not too much. He struggled to silence the small voice in his head, even though it wouldn't shut up, whispering to him that it was too soon. Too soon to lose something so important. Too damn soon.
He hushed it firmly, but not because it was a lie. It was actually true.
The fact was that he didn't have the time to create another one. Nor could he waste energy or get too distracted while trying to form it. So he just slighted it and prepared himself to defend every inch of his own entity physically instead of through seiðr.
He had to stop them, if possible, in a definitive manner, before they could hurt him in one way or another. Just that. Even though his brain literally wailed against it as he hated every single detail of it, it was better like this.
So, he took a small intake of breath and then moved, silent and as fast as he could, evoking a sword from his Pocket Dimension. Then he started to swing it from one Ravager to another, covering his copies’ backs like they were doing with his, on second thought sending the nearest one to his right flying, floating upon the others.
Loki focused on said copy in searching for the energy of the creator of the Portals. And to respond—immediately, this time, like in an instant reaction to her face—if the woman with the crystals decided to make another appearance, perhaps with a whole different weapon than the one she had used since clearly, it had already reached its purpose.
He stopped counting the corpses after that. He stopped himself from even trying to. He just moved, his weapon cutting livers, necks, passing through sternums, wrecking limbs apart before they could shoot or stab, and then moving to more lethal spots, the gore splattering and staining the ground as pieces of his mind switched quickly from copy to copy. His own body, in between it all, started to hurt again, even though the adrenaline helped to considerably soften the sensation, his respiration becoming faster once more.
Then, suddenly, just as a Ciegrimites attempted to attack him, his levitating copy sensed the Sorcerer's energy—not the Sorcerer itself—as it attempted to throw a sleeping hex upon him, perhaps thinking that that must have been the real him… or perhaps attacking the seiðr itself to have it spread into him as well.
Just as the other him responded to it, his own senses perceived someone coming his way, the radius of distance becoming less and less way too quickly. Like when he had been in the abandoned house the day after returning to himself. Like when he had flown towards him—towards the fake him—to attack him.
His heart stuttered a little again in his air-lacking, seizing chest, the nervousness immediately rising so strongly that it was hard to focus on what he was doing—on what each of him was doing—even though he imposed himself to persist, to carry on no matter what.
But it was Thor. And just because it was him, the situation felt impossibly more complicated. He was coming to capture—to kill?—him again. He was. And Loki definitely wasn't in the condition to fight him as well. He was holding up more or less alright against the Ravagers, but Hel, he wouldn't have held much against him. He didn’t have enough firepower to. Not right now.
A curse played, loud and aggressive, inside his mind before he quickly threw a few more orders left and right, and he gritted his teeth, refusing to think about it much longer.
He moved the sword momentarily backwards, all to break through the new dodecahedron plate that a Ravager behind him had attempted to shoot towards the floating copy, then threw a knife at the Ciegrimites in front of him before he could attack in any kind of manner, seeing him dodge and fall backwards only to get up like he hadn't fell at all—Which was impressive considering the heavy weight that he had against his shoulders, round, colossal and all.
After he sent a real bullet back to the Alien that shot it, having it pass through the big, snail-like opponent as well without even blinking, taking him by surprise, something—someone—entered his view. And almost gave him an instant heart attack.
Even more panic made his thoughts race—to the point that he risked forgetting the new instructions to give, to the point that he almost blanched once more—as every inch of him begged him to run away as fast as he could, to vanish from the whole planet like he had never been there in the first place, because… Because the Beast was there, too.
He was just as green, as tall, and as muscular as Loki remembered, his face showing rage instead of the simple irritation. It wasn't a completely murderous expression, but the anxiety still drowned him, filling his veins in response, a new type of chilling cold crushing every inch of him.
He couldn't handle fighting against Thor. He could even less handle being slammed against the ground like that again—just remembering it made his spine hurt as a small grimace almost painted his features—but he had little to no way out.
He knew that he was going to get a beating. Of course he did. Another round, yes, maybe two. Not worse than what the Children had done, but it would still have been extremely painful.
Whether from his br… from the oaf, from the monster, from the remaining Avengers—the Hawk, most certainly. He also saw him appear far, far away, small but not small enough, making his stomach close up even more—or from the Ravagers in case they had been able to grab him once he had been too exhausted to keep his consciousness, it didn't matter. The result was the same.
He tried to calm down, regularizing the rhythm of the oxygen entering and exiting his lungs, pushing himself to lock the fear and the mental pictures inside as deeply as possible—the feeling so loud and powerful that he could barely do it—getting only faster in his movements to fight back, thoughts flying left and right again as he couldn't lose concentration.
The dread and the sensation of having his fate already written for him felt impossibly despairing, but the sheer stubbornness he possessed blocked him from simply raising his hands and accepting defeat instantly.
He could have done that, truly, but… There was a part of him—hidden under all that ruction, but still there—that said that perhaps… Perhaps the two enemies that he had could have tired each other until exhaustion? Or, even better, they could have distracted each other enough to somehow let him slip away from the ugly position he was in… to truly attempt Worldwalking?
The lack of energy for the ‘after’ was going to be an issue, one big enough to be hard to pass over, but at this point, he actually preferred being momentarily captured by the people of Vanaheim than by the Ravagers or any of the Avengers, if he really had to choose.
…Maybe he could even hide in the Cliffside Ruins without being found out immediately. The possibility was extremely low—so small to barely resemble a spark, hard to use to light up a flame—but it was still there.
The main issue—the Elephant in the room, the Mortals would have probably said—was that almost surely the situation was going to repeat itself eventually. The place might have been different, his own preparation for it could have been better—or worse. So much worse—but the matter in question wasn't going to change, and his choices weren't going to increase from one day to another.
Unless he actually, somehow found a way to not be caught again by those damned ships, the hunt would have repeated like a time-loop until he had given in… But it was a problem for another day, he decided. He was going to try anyway.
********
When the normal energy and the Sorcerer fully showed themselves, he felt it. And his eyes, through his copy's attentive, expecting gaze, found him, just the slightest edge of curiosity following the view, making him tilt his head almost imperceptibly.
The Ravager Mage was lacking the usual leather jacket with the symbol in favor of a slightly loose, black armor pectoral piece that was connected to his arms protectors through fine straps, the bib showing both on his right shoulder and on the center of his chest, the flat silver shining with just the slightest hint of vibrant green in it, like small stones embedded in it.
He was a Lem; red, with entirely white oculi, his body slim and long as his entire torso just merged into a tail, which was at least five times more lengthy than the rest of him, showing numerous veins in the lowest part of his muscles of his flanks—especially because they were more pinkish than red—and having folds everywhere, which almost made him look like an accordion.
Loki had never met one face-to-face before. He had only read about them in books—several—as they were one of the oldest sentient species in the Milky Way Galaxy, so, truly, it wasn't really that complicated to find material about their race—from details of their history, to their difference in body showed through genders or roles, to their main diets, also to their usual cities’ structure and... He had actually liked their philosophies—and he had somehow expected it to remain as such, considering his life perspective, but no. Apparently, there was still a first thing to everything, even in a drastically negative situation such as his… and with the center of the novelty being one of the carriers of his possible doom.
The Lem evoked some energy as he got closer and closer, letting it shine and move upon his knobby fingers until circles were fully formed, a mystic bolt immediately coming out of it and throwing itself at his copy, who responded just like Loki wanted him to: blasting it back to the sender thanks to a quickly evoked shield before launching a shock wave that the Sorcerer absorbed into one of his Portals like nothing. All the while, he forced himself to focus on everything else again, just the most infinitesimal flare of a headache pulsing annoyingly on his brow, his seiðr bringing him solace—sweetly, almost—just a moment later.
As his floating copy attacked again by giving once more power to the ground to raise new living vines, he quickly slammed a blast of energy against the wings of a Shi’ar, who was coming towards all of them with something in her hands—a… black ball? She clearly had planned to attack with it from above—having the Ravager lose quota, flailing as if she was submerged by water and not falling normally—he did not look at her much. The part of him that still pushed nightmares about the Void into his nights couldn't stand gazing at it… The hurled Badoon had been different and hadn't affected him, but the way she almost seemed to crawl to not disappear, to raise again, definitely did.
In a split second, after he quickly stabbed another foe in the middle of their stomach, also assisting the copy at his right in a fast maneuver by letting him roll upon his back and giving more energy to the other hims—all of this accompanied by the loud sound of thunder echoing in the air with Thor’s seiðr, both of them feeling like a curse, like a warning that way too clearly said “I am here and you can't escape me.”—he decided to diminish the amount of his clones.
He did it for two simple reasons.
The first was that, as he had evoked and shared more seiðr with his clones, he had perceived it spasm, his energy lamenting in a way that Loki didn't appreciate, vividly upset and, consequently, the spasming made his body fully feel the aftereffects of it, something along his arms and legs’ feeling much weaker and tired—like the adrenaline had left him all at once—his lungs begging for air even more, almost feeling aflame.
The second was that if he truly wanted to vanish—maybe after defeating the Sorcerer? Or after getting him far away? Because he wanted to be sure he wouldn't feel anything that could betray him—he had to start collecting himself to create one. One and only one, in the exact spot he was, as he turned invisible again, floating away and trying as hard as possible to avoid running into Ravagers, leaving only the copies fighting. Making them think that the other Lokis were all vanishing against his will definitely diminished the possibility of them supposing that he was attempting to make another one. He hoped they wouldn't.
So, he started removing one of the two that were using Lævateinn—feeling all the seiðr given to it rush back into him, bringing so much relief that he could have sighed in pleasure—letting the other spin around it and having him kick the enemy right in their nose as aggressively as possible, hearing the sound of the bone breaking and the muffled, colored curse words that exited the mouth of the—perhaps? The imprecation had definitely been from it—Xandarian.
Then, as he slashed his sword against an Alien with a very thick, vivid-pink skin—that he had no idea what species it was and he was completely sure he did not want to know anything about it considering the amount of dripping, clear, stinking liquid that covered it—and as the Sorcerer broke through all the tall vines to throw another sleeping hex to his floating clone—who had it hitting a Kronan instead—he took a small, almost imperceptible breath and made another disappear.
New energy rushed in like waves—his legs feeling stronger again—but with it, so did the voice inside his mind.
It returned to attack him, mostly whispering repeatedly that he was making a horrible mistake. Some parts of him agreed with it, even though he knew that the plan wasn’t that terrible—He wasn't even sure why they did, why they were so alert—but he still kept going with his plan.
He had another of his clones waver on purpose—not fully vanishing yet as all of them disappearing too fast might have raised some suspicion—making the remaining ones change expressions to look just slightly more tense for a couple of very short instants before appearing determined and completely focused all over again, as if it had been an unwanted slip up and nothing more than that.
But he risked slipping up for real as his eyes—still split open, still able to see perfectly all around him—actually met specific golden hair between all the fighters on the battlefield, his figure pushing through enemies like he had seen him do often. There was something in his face that he couldn't read at all, and he was also much closer than he wanted him to be.
He almost shook his head as a nervous, manic pattern of fast ‘No…’ crossed his thoughts. Almost. He remained still enough and focused on having his floating clone throw new seiðr at the Lem and on getting a dagger inside someone’s stomach, whom he didn't even look at the face of, the other copies moving slightly more in a defensive position without changing the spot they were on.
As the seiðr inside the third copy that he removed from existence returned to crash into him, he had two more clones attack the Sorcerer. One from under him, the other clone on his right, as the floating one did the same in front of him. All of them at the same moment.
The Lem was surely taken by surprise, but not enough to stop him from creating a yellow egg-like barrier that covered him entirely, defending himself from every single hit. But not repelling them, sending them back. Just blocking, making them slide around its surface like water. And so he wasn't able to respond to the extremely charged air blast with which he, personally, pushed him away—the new light annoyance of his inner energy trying to attract his attention.
The hit had him fly backwards for several meters without a single noise emitted from the Mage. A long open line formed as the Ravagers behind him moved out of the way, and he ended up colliding with the bark of a tree with a loud, reverberating noise, breaking through it.
As it happened, Loki first made his clones return to the regular fight, then, as he stabbed another Xandarian, he pushed out enough seiðr to create the base of the new copy, and he contemporarily manipulated the light around him, focusing hard with everything that he had to not let anything show to any curious eyes. Because if he didn't do it well enough, it was definitely going to be noticed. And if it got noticed, his plan would have gone to Hel even before properly starting it. Sure, he could have attempted masking it in some other manner, but it was better not to risk it.
When he was fully done, he gave several orders to all the Lokis and, once finished in that, too, he focused on himself entirely again.
Loki let his seiðr run inside him up and down like a sea wave, the gravity around him—feeling hard and stubborn at first—giving in, slowly diminishing. This until he felt light like a feather… And he wasn't touching the ground anymore.
Careful and tense, he went up and up and up again until he slipped just behind the floating clone, the surreal feeling of just levitating—drifting, falling, hanging between constellations, wandering into nothing, the cold eating at him—being strongly unsettling, almost making him regret not having Shapeshifted and flown instead.
But he kept going anyway, letting his fingers cut through the wind and then just having his palms shove him forward. He did it more than once, moving as much as he could manage without risking crashing against enemies.
His heartbeat started to become faster and louder as he did so, echoing inside his head and chest. His gaze moved from body to body as he obligated himself to give them attention and not to look at the destination he was ardent to reach, the desire trying to engulf him.
Loki moved, barely avoiding two Ravagers flying in his direction to join the others and attack his clones. He thrusted his legs backwards as if he was kicking someone behind him, just as his arms pushed again at the exact moment.
He glanced around again, his eyes noticing details—a very specific shield grabbing his attention for just a moment as it pummeled against a head—and searching for the best empty spaces, also noticing how the Lem hadn’t returned to appear in the periphery of his vision yet, a roar playing inside his ears.
Just the sound made him soar in the sky slightly faster. Especially as he got out of the main line of landing, he began to speed up almost instinctively, a frenzied sensation starting to pool in his stomach as he was getting even closer. Closer enough that he could almost taste the energy from the Passage, the voices not hidden anymore under it all, being clear and even more welcoming.
But then a gun went off. Someone—whom he didn't even see—shot in his direction what looked like a black ball, one that he knew he had already seen before and which he avoided immediately, seeing it go already way behind him, preparing for a second attack, refusing again to let his question rise because truly, the answers were almost inexistent for his agitated mind. He almost expected to hear it explode.
No sudden boom almost wrecked his eardrums, though. Not even the smallest sound came out of it… But it didn't just keep going in its line of action, either. It opened up in half instead.
He saw it take place—and it seemed to pan out almost in slow motion—with the corner of his eye. Then, something large and long shot out of it, closing around him like a maw, fast and unexpected.
Immediately after it happened, with his hand opening instinctively to throw a wave to make it move in the opposite direction, his head was hit hard before he could do anything about it.
The pain blackened his view and shattered his concentration, leaving him simply free-falling, not even conscious to be able to panic.
********
There was a loud, high-pitched, bothersome, ringing cacophony inside his ears when the blackness mostly faded. It wouldn't leave him alone.
There was also… a painful throb in his head. An ache that stubbornly pulsed, not letting him open his eyes properly, even though he wanted to—‘I’ve been attacked,’ a small part of his brain, the already working one, no matter how weakly, whispered.
He still tried to look around himself anyway. The brightness assaulted his gaze aggressively with his first attempt, but he still insisted, blinking repeatedly until they both were fully open.
The result wasn't pleasant. Everything was too full of light—even with several shadows breaking through, surrounding him—and it was spinning. The ground was up and the sky was down. Then it tilted dangerously to the left, then to the right, then to the left once more. It was nauseating. So incredibly nauseating.
He felt like he was choking on bile, tasting the vomit already forming on the back of his tongue. And the sensation of sickness wasn't helped by the weird warmth that was focused on his face, just upon his nose, maybe slowly creeping towards his cheeks. He wasn't sure if it was real or if it was just him that had it slowly extending by trying to give attention to it. His senses felt all in disorder, as if they were spinning as well, blurring to the point of becoming numb and incredibly distant between one second and another. Every single feeling, every single sensation, every single small thought that crossed his slowed, pained mind was discordant and unrecognizable.
He attempted to move to touch his forehead, but wasn't able to. His arms felt impossibly heavy and weak. A bit like they were made out of lead instead of bones, flash, and blood. It was a perception that felt actually familiar, like when… like when he had had… when he had had the handcuffs and the collar on.
New nausea rose inside his throat like a repulsive flood. He was so close to actually throwing up everything he had inside his stomach that he had to force himself to inhale, gulp cautiously, and keep his head up to stop it from happening.
It proved to be quite hard with the Mind Stone being there as well. It was the only clear thing that he was perfectly aware of among the unknown. Even without fully seeing it, without needing much to feel it, he just knew. It was underneath all the screeching, even more complicated to shake off than the unwanted noise.
‘Hel. Am I… am I in Sanctuary? Is that why?...’ he inhaled a shaky breath, his eyes closing up again. But before he could truly panic, the soft, weakened, whispering, working part of his head replied a swift ‘No. That's not it. You're out, remember?’
And the voice was right, he realized—still in a way too slow manner for his personal taste—as the high-pitched sound inside his ears seemed to start to become less loud, even if still perfectly capable of breaking his eardrums.
He returned to open his eyes, getting blinded once again. There was too much light. The vivid green was exquisite, but too harsh. The blue was luckily a little less intense as it was getting more bleak because of the gloomy grey clouds. But the weird mixture of the two was the most confusing part of it all as it kept rolling, rolling, and rolling, almost hypnotically, getting even more distorted by the shadows. His eyelids started to feel heavy—just like the rest of him—the more he attempted to follow the movement, his view filling itself with dark spots again, the dizziness slamming inside his being once more.
But then he attempted to slap himself to get out of the state, and… oh. He still couldn't move—he had already forgotten about it somehow. How had he been able to do it so quickly? Norns.
His body did twitch, though. The most it had done since being hit—attacked, yes. While floating? Also yes. That was right. He still was on Miðgarðr… the Ravagers had stopped him before he could leave. He remembered.
His limbs did strive to follow his request as he pushed them to give it another try. They attempted to smack some lucidity into his own skull, but it failed nonetheless. And not only out of how enfeebled it was.
There was something… Something else. He couldn't understand what. It was cold? But it was getting slightly hotter little by little? Or that seemed as such to him? True or not, he couldn't tell.
Instead, he felt and fully understood it when his whole body was pushed against his will in some kind of unknown direction—‘Dragged,’ his mind supplied. It wasn't the first time either, probably, but there was a high chance that he had been unconscious… or not truly capable of perceiving it—with new pain pulsing along as something started to press hard against his body, especially against his chest and against his face, as if it wanted to go through them and cut them apart.
Loki blinked several times in a row, over and over, his head rising even higher. It didn't help much as he couldn't keep his neck so strained for long, but once he opened and closed his eyes for the last time, with the most eager effort, it still did enough.
His view stopped spinning almost entirely. It did tremble a little, almost swinging left and right like a pendulum, but it was stable enough to let him understand what the shadows around him were.
A net. He was stuck in a metallic, thick net, just like a trawled fish. Which was also the reason why he could barely move, as his arms and legs were entangled in it, so stuck between the lukewarm threads that—with his still way too blurred senses—he did not even have the smallest idea about how to free himself. Still, he tried to move anyway once again, calling his seiðr instinctively to help.
A few seconds passed, but nothing came. Not even the smallest flare of energy trickled in. Not even as he attempted to focus a little more, feeling the pain return in the middle of his head and so ending up inhaling sharply in agony, his breath burning in his scraped, acid-tasting throat, all the while the places where the metal scratched at his skin felt even more violated than before as whoever was dragging him returned to pull—closing it even more around him in the process—and move him, the tufts of grass slapping against him harshly but still more kindly than the way the metal upon him just feasted on him, going in without mercy and seemingly pressing deep inside until it reached his bloodstream. And...
His brain halted as recognition hit fast and hard—the ringing inside his ears finally vanishing, pretty much at the same time as the idea reached him, leaving only the calling of the energies all around him, some of them even more powerful than before, surrounded by the loud noises of a fight—the concern blooming and becoming even stronger, turning into an eruption of anguish under the confusion and the pain that thrummed inside his head.
The net was made out of anti-seiðr material.
He had already known that they had come at him more than a little prepared. He just hadn't expected how much—since when had they planned it? When did the Mad Titan put the bounty on his head, exactly? Immediately after he was defeated?
He immediately felt a new shiver run down his spine and started—no matter how weak he still felt—to writhe, squirming and attempting to free at least something, anxiety and fear sliding and flaring inside his chest and mind, hearing screams and more chaotic battling—between blades, bullets and loud crashes—play in the background, but at the same time not really being able to listen to them.
Loki, as violently as he could manage, trashed and ignored every type of sickness that pierced through his veins, even using his teeth to try to break it, only succeeding in raising the acridness in his mouth as the taste of the metal was absolutely disgusting. Also, it wasn't lukewarm anymore. It was starting to get warmer, almost hot to the touch, which left him all the more unsettled, the knot tying his stomach returning to form.
He continued to stretch, jolt, and try to kick anyway, fighting as fiercely as he could and trying not to think about it. Trying to convince himself, he was simply imagining it.
He kept biting into the anti-seiðr material and stubbornly began to press his own weight onto the ground. All to make it harder for whoever was still pulling him, having him crawl through the soil like a damn worm.
Loki saw very little of them. The sun only permitted his eyes to see that they were two, with strongly shaded bodies in the position they were in. Even when their head moved backward to gaze at him, he was capable of only seeing the shape of a flat nose from one and a half split open mouth that showed gums and teeth under—long, triangular shaped and slightly shiny—from the other.
He didn’t even find their hands. Couldn't gaze at them as they were holding onto the net to get his body to move further. They were probably in front of their chests, the furthest away from him as possible, maybe on purpose, maybe only for technicalities. It was good for them—not for him—as he surely would have attempted to bite the first fingers he had seen if he had been able to. But he didn't see any, so he wasn't. And it took away the easiest possible way out, leaving him contorting and pressing forcefully against the unyielding structure, passing over how liquid his body still felt.
He heard them mutter something as his teeth slammed into the mesh yet another time, pulling it so hard that his jaw pained him. He did it until the warmth became absolutely scorching, making him move backwards abruptly, letting out a wail of pain as it burned him more—chains digging into his skin came to mind almost instantly, the collar pressing against his neck suffocating him, the fire licking and devouring his body piece after piece, his mind shouting at him to not scream at the prickly torture as it would only get worse… So much worse. They would have been so amused…
A roar—a word, perhaps. Surely shouted, filled with… rage? Panic? Both? He didn't know. He didn't even connect what the word was as the burning had just disconnected his thoughts—rose and cut through the air, bringing him back to reality. It was followed by the sky thundering like an angry creature in a too familiar way, reaching his ears so suddenly that his head just snapped in its direction, giving him a new aggressive headache and more explosive pain as his chin hit the metal involuntarily.
He tried to see him more out of habit and instinct than because he wanted to, feeling his heartbeat in his throat when before it had run—fast, unstable, terrified, completely overwhelmed—at the center of his ribcage, where it was supposed to be.
A small trickle of relief crossed his chest as his gaze fully met his, the emotion as fast as the lightning that was zapping from Thor's fingers into Mjöllnir. It was there, but it was totally unwanted. And unnecessary. And also absolutely ridiculous, but weirdly powerful, even after everything—even knowing that it shouldn't be there as it reminded him of feelings from years ago that he despised and loved at the same time, as it just brought more unwanted, unhinged, contrasting emotions that crowded into him without any respite.
It was powerful enough to bring his mind almost to call for him. To beg for him to come with a desperation and a childishness that in another situation—in another state of mind—would have made him feel deeply ashamed, the fear and the need to stop hurting—to stop feeling his skin flare where it was not covered… and even where it was as the high temperature passed through his clothes like they weren't there at all—confusingly fighting against any kind of better judgement, against the facts that he couldn't ignore, shouldn't ignore.
The two Ravagers behind him immediately answered to Thor’s reaction by raising him from the ground level and activating the jetpacks that they had not used before—the sharp, abrasive, but at the same time shaky movement they made once they were turned on, resulting way too unsteady as they started flying, told him that it was hard to use them while having a heavy weight to transport—speeding in their flight as much as possible while their companions attempted to put themselves in between, one way or another, their bodies receiving, for what he could see, non-caring, fast assaults to get them out of the way. This, before the God of Thunder just lunged forward brusquely, his hammer hitting even more strongly against the new flying enemies that still tried to interrupt his advance.
Loki was so occupied staring at him between dazed and petrified—the hot metal still brutally heating his clothed skin as he tried to get distance between the unclothed parts and the surface even in such a horrid position, being perfectly capable of making him gasp under the excruciating aches—that he didn't even try to look up as as his abductors moved towards one of the airships. And he was taken completely by surprise when he captured the sound of an arrow slithering through the wind before stabbing someone, the body falling, and his part of the net dropping down, gravity suddenly becoming much heavier.
He ended up slamming his full face against the blazing metal as, in between it all, he bounced down, trying to bite back the scream that bubbled up against his throat, his eyes closing up and tightening as he did his best to jerk backwards, just meeting more red-hot net as it had shaped up like a pyramid; the Ravager still holding onto him pulling at it even harder—he could feel it happen, gritting his teeth and almost biting his own tongue to not let out a single sound—and then yelling words to the others, clearly asking them to help him out, slowly descending towards the ground and fighting against it, the jetpack’s motor loudly spurting, having them both shake like it was going to cease from one moment to the other.
Many of them did move to support him, but Thor was faster than any of them. Loki perceived the way he sped up, the way his seiðr almost hymned, perfectly in tune with the howls of the storm. He also saw him face to face as he carefully raised his eyelids anew, watching him as he fully approached and hit the thief right in the nose, a shower of blood splattering from it, proceeding then with an attack on his shoulder, making him—definitely against his will—depart, gliding in the sky with a strong blowing echo on impact, just as he felt himself fall again as he had stopped holding him, even if only for a short moment.
Thor caught him before he could plummet further. He heard him hiss as the net seared the skin of his arms as well—the metal planting itself even more into Loki’s clothes as his back just coincided with it in the new position he had ended up in, to the point that the grimace on his face seemed to have carved itself on his features, a choked whimper way too near to slip from his mouth—his expression flashing with pain. But he still did not drop him.
He instead just started to quickly advance towards the ground, in the direction of the woods, the arm not occupied holding him up receiving Mjöllnir in its palm as the other started to tug at the metal to break it—Loki doing the same on the opposite end again, even though the pain was getting harder and harder to ignore, his skin bleeding as it had opened under the burns and the rubbing.
That one hand, though, clearly couldn't do much, even though the results were still better than his own, considering the clanking, shrieking sound that it emitted when he did. But it was quite difficult to give full force when crushing the mesh made the fingers and the palm sizzle, and even more when a swarm of Ravagers followed every move of his like flies on the meat, insisting even as the lightning attacked them from the sky and as the whipping wind shoved them backwards, trying to form a wall of bodies around them.
Still, they kept flying in the sky, Thor's arms holding him with even more rigidity and stubbornness, also touching his earpiece to communicate that he had him. But…
The bolt that he threw as he avoided a new Kronan trying to block his way came in a little later than he intended, surprise crossing his features. The fast flight wobbled slightly as he quickly avoided a couple of bullets shot by the woman with the crystals—who returned to appear out of a new yellow portal, which made Loki hold his breath, a ‘Damn…’ playing inside his head—still risked hitting them, and if it hadn’t been for the wind, perhaps they would have. Another wobble happened just a little later, just as another black ball was thrown near them, a small noise of distress being snatched from his throat against his will, which was supposed to be a warning of some sort, but was so choked to be utterly incomprehensible. The unsteady swaying was almost a movement of luck as it got them out of the way, out of the new net’s length.
Still, he could see the truth painting itself right in front of his eyes. The oaf's seiðr was beginning to shut down, to work less and less in contact with the metal. The longer the touch lasted, the less it would have worked. And by how tense the God of Thunder became, by how he commenced to move further towards the ground, pulling even harder at the mesh, he had realized it as well.
So, they ended up landing, two Avengers out of five—the third was occupied, slamming enemies against the soil, not too far away, if not way too near—surrounding and staring at them. He could feel their gazes on him, but refused to meet them as the situation truly sank in—the panic of the burning still there but somehow softer and covering it less, maybe because with it he had had the fear of being brought on the ship—especially after he was placed on the grass.
He had just switched from one captor to the other. Perhaps they were the lesser of the two bad options, but they were still bad for him. They would have sent him to a cage in the same way.
The oaf said something—probably replying to some sort of silent question?—just as he released the storm again and repelled most of the Ravagers still coming their way, where the Hawk, the Captain, and the Beast weren’t already operating, the wind rising loudly enough that his words disappeared under it. Or perhaps it was because his consciousness risked fading again as the remaining dizziness and the excruciating heat just made it harder to stay awake, the lack of senses seeming so much more pleasant—and so did the reply… and the reply of the reply, if there had been any.
He saw him bend on himself, though. Followed him with his gaze as much as he could and stared at him as he used both his hands to pull, his brute strength finally provoking a crack in the net, even if not big enough to let Loki pass through it. No, he could barely make a hand and a piece of his arm slip in it, not any more than that. But—after another attack on the enemies—another aggression to it, on both sides simultaneously, had made it much larger. Large enough that his head could.
After the third effort, his full body—trembling, enveloped in pain everywhere all over again, as if he had returned to the start, not healed at all, completely lacking in strength and balance—was finally out, still on four, stumbling out of it as if blind since his legs refused to cooperate in moving correctly or even holding him up slightly… and his seiðr didn't rush in quickly enough to let him be able to do so.
…It was, instead, perfectly capable of feeling the danger spread through the air, the normal energy returning, also having an unpleasant company.
He felt the portal form under him quickly enough to react, obligating his muscles to move, no matter how clumsily, rolling out of the way. His arm was grabbed immediately after—the burns screaming—and he almost lashed out on contact alone, stopping himself only as he realized that the hold was helping him get up on his feet, not having the time to truly throw a look at him as another shiny yellow opening placed in the ground was avoided just by a whisker, every inch of him yelling to regain control on himself.
More and more portals formed as he tried to stand as steadily as possible, but instead of being under him, they were now floating around on all sides, no one coming through them at all. Not even the Sorcerer himself.
‘Distraction!’ his mind screamed, looking up and down first, then left and right, his stomach feeling impossibly closed, the daggers returning to pop through his fingers as his seiðr just let him evoke them, suspecting eyes placing themselves on him once again, his mind ignoring them as the time ticked by and the company—the toxic power so sickeningly rotten that he just couldn't help shivering—flaring like a blaze in the night, but somehow still being able to hide, making it hard to be pinpointed.
Then it appeared, as if breaking through the shadows. It was a figure dressed entirely in black, wearing a mantle, a long sword—the energy right there, stored inside that damn blade—between his gloved hands, one of them lacking a finger, a mask placed on his face. And exactly as it appeared, he shoved the sword in the middle of Thor's stomach from behind him.