Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In her chambers, Sigyn is enraptured in the pages of a book, lost in thought and not truly processing the words. Usually, she is taken by Jotunheim’s culture and their practices, but recently, she finds herself rather distracted. She really must speak with Loki today. She’s been patient enough, dealing with constant interruptions, distractions, and stresses within the last few weeks, but this is it. Waiting much longer is not a viable option. 

The familiar squawks of Huginn and Muninn pierce the air, tapping insistently on her window. Curiously, Sigyn approaches the birds, who seem agitated as they flap their wings outside her window. They squawk urgently at her, and she raises her hands, trying to calm them. Gently, she holds out her arm for them to perch on.

“Calm down, calm down. I am not Odin, I cannot understand you when you speak so quickly. One at a time, please,” she says, and they land obediently on her arm. Huginn is the one who speaks, and Sigyn has to strain herself to understand, but as she listens, their urgent message becomes clear. “You’re sure?” she asks, her brow furrowing with concern.

Her question earns a rather rude, loud squawk from Muninn, and she smiles apologetically. “Yes, yes, alright. Thank you, both of you.” With a wave of her hand, she summons forth birdseed in her palm, rewarding the messengers for the apt delivery. They peck happily for their reward, their feathers ruffling with excitement. She dusts off her hands as they fly away. “Go and alert Loki, darlings,” she calls after them, “He will want to be prepared.” 

Sigyn’s shoulders slump as she steps back from her window, shutting and locking it. Another distraction. Another issue to deal with. Isn’t that just lovely? 

Moving swiftly, Sigyn ties back her hair and hurriedly makes her way toward the Bifrost. Her steps echo as she walks, not stopping until she arrives at the entrance atop the observatory. She pauses as she slowly approaches the unsettling scene before her, her eyes taking in the grisly sight. The acrid scent of blood and viscera fill the air, causing her to cringe slightly, her hand instinctively moving to protect her uneasy stomach.

Thor stands tall and imposing, conversing with a very annoyed Skurge, the man that Loki appointed the new Watchman in place of Heimdall. At their feet lay the severed head of a dragon, its lifeless eyes still reflecting in the light, and a pool of viscous purple blood and guts stain the floor and walls. Sigyn watches from the shadows, unnoticed by the two men engrossed in their conversation.

“Well, well, look who decided to pop in,” Skurge hisses, wiping the mess of the dragon’s remains off of his armor. He casts a wary glance at Thor, his expression sour. “Thanks for scaring away my company and drenching my workplace in brains.”

Thor replies with narrowed, suspicious eyes, “Who are you?”

Skurge pauses, and he looks almost offended as he turns to face Thor, “You don’t remember? I’m Skurge.” He says, and Sigyn has to cover her mouth so that she does not laugh at the utterly blank look upon Thor’s face. Skurge’s shoulders sag in exasperation. “The Executioner,” he adds, and Thor only blinks, his face remaining impassive. “…We fought together on Vanaheim?” Skurge tries, but Thor’s expression remains almost humorously blank, prompting him to give up with a resigned sigh.

Thor folds his arms, his gaze intense as he scrutinizes Skurge, looking around the observatory. “Where’s Heimdall?” He demands, his voice firm.

Skurge shakes his head, wiping the sticky goop of dragons’ blood off of Hofund. “No one knows. He is a fugitive of the throne, the traitor,” he says, his brows furrowing as he speaks, his movements tense and agitated.

“Traitor?” Thor asks, his disbelief evident as he frowns deeply, eyebrows lifting in shock. 

Skurge nods, explaining, “Indeed. You see, Odin charged Heimdall with negligence of duty, but he disappeared before the trial. It is not easy to catch a man who can see everything in the Nine.” 

Thor opens his mouth to continue before his gaze flicks to Sigyn, taking notice of her eavesdropping. His heart warms as he sees her smile and wave at him, and he can’t help but grin in return. “Sigyn!” Thor exclaims with joy, his voice echoing through the chamber. Sigyn’s eyes shine with affection as she greets him. 

“Hello, darling.” Without hesitation, Thor rushes up to Sigyn and envelops her in a crushing embrace, lifting her off the ground.

Sigyn’s laughter fills the room as she tries to return the hug as best as she can before Thor gently sets her back down. He gazes into her eyes with a comically large grin, his elation evident. “How did you know I was back?” 

Sigyn smiles knowingly, replying, “The ravens.” She takes his hand, guiding him toward the observatory’s exit, “Come, I’ll help you get settled. Your father will want to have counsel with you later.” 

At the mention of his father, Thor’s smile falters briefly, a shadow crossing his features. There is a twitch in his expression, and Sigyn pauses before he nods. “Right. My father,” he responds, though there is still a strange uncertainty in his words. 

He grabs Sigyn by the waist, his grip firm as he prepares to take off with Mjolnir in hand, ready for their departure. However, before they can leave, Skurge attempts to interject, “One moment, your majesty. I am to announce your arrival—”

Ignoring Skurge’s words, Thor winds his arm, spinning his hammer in a quick motion. With a powerful swing, he lifts them both into the sky, Sigyn clinging to him as they soar away from the observatory.

Left alone in the aftermath of their departure, Skurge sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping. He goes to find a communicator, muttering under his breath, “He has not changed since Vanaheim.”

As Thor gently sits Sigyn down in Asgard’s courtyard, she staggers slightly, overcome by nausea and a wave of dizziness from the swift flight. With a hand resting on her abdomen, Sigyn tries to calm the unpleasant churning in her stomach as she takes a moment to steady herself. Meanwhile, Thor’s attention is immediately drawn to a small crowd making their way through a threshold, their movements leading his gaze to a monumental statue that stands tall and imposing in the center of the courtyard.

The statue depicts Loki with his arms outstretched in a ‘savior’ pose, golden and towering. Thor’s expression twists into disbelief as he turns to Sigyn, appalled. He points with Mjolnir at the towering figure. “What in the Nine is this?” 

Sigyn, still trying to settle her queasy stomach, explains with a hint of unease, “A memorial statue in Loki’s honor. There is a matching one for your mother in her garden. Odin wanted to commemorate them after their deaths.” A perturbed look still lingers for a bit in Thor’s eyes as he processes the information, and Sigyn finds it difficult to guess what he is thinking.

She smoothes back her frazzled curls, finally feeling grounded enough to trust herself not to vomit. She can’t remember the last time flight had been so displeasing to her. 

“Right. Where is my father?” Thor demands, his tone firm and urgent. Clearing her throat, Sigyn straightens herself, trying to appear more composed.

“Would you not rather get settled first?” She asks, “I’m sure—”

Cutting her off, Thor insists, “Sigyn, this is urgent.” Her expression shifts in response, a hint of concern crossing her features as she recognizes the stress in Thor’s eyes. She relents, nodding and folding her hands over each other. 

She catches the way his eyes linger on the spotted scars on her hands, but she walks forward, speaking again before he gets the opportunity to question. “Very well. He is in the courtyard. I will take you to him, but we may interrupt the play,” she replies.

Thor pauses in his path to follow, confusion plain on his face. “The— The what?” He asks, but before he can inquire further, Sigyn is already walking towards the courtyard, her steps purposeful and quick. Thor hurries to catch up to her, his mind racing as they venture towards the heart of Asgard.

As they approach the courtyard, the sounds of dramatic music fills the air. On the stage, an actor gasps for breath, his performance capturing the hauntingly familiar moment of Loki’s death on Svartalfheim, dressed in his likeness. The actor’s movements are fluid and captivating, if a tad melodramatic.

In the background, a lone musician plays a haunting score, the melancholic notes adding a layer of emotional depth to the performance, or at least it is trying to. Thor watches skeptically, and there is a sour taste in his mouth. The music swells and ebbs, and the actor portraying Thor screams at the heavens as Loki’s actor goes limp in his arms. Amidst the solemn atmosphere of the play, Thor is startled by the sudden anguish of a woman beside him, openly sobbing at the performance. 

An actor playing Odin delivers a monologue, holding a small boy painted blue in his arms, symbolizing a young Jotun Loki. “And so Loki died of his wounds, giving his life for ours. He fought the Dark Elves and avenged Asgard’s queen. His actions opened my eyes, and through his memory, I was able to bring about an era of peace between our realms,” the actor proclaims, his voice resonating with emotion. Thor’s eyes widen in shock when he realizes the detail on the child Odin’s actor is holding- too much detail for body paint. 

That is a real Jotun child. On Asgard. 

And no one is batting an eye?

The crowd erupts in rapturous applause, moved by the performances unfolding before them, which shocks Thor. Since when have the Jotnar been so readily accepted on Asgard? Aside from a few sour looks, there isn’t anyone expressing… the usual Asgardian bloodlust that accompanies any subject regarding the Jotnar. And since when do his people have such a love for theatre where no monster is being slain? Amidst the cheers and accolades, Thor grows impatient. His eyes scan the audience, searching for Odin.

He approaches Odin the moment he spots him, the All-Father applauding with his subjects, sipping wine in a lounging chair in the center of the courtyard, in perfect view of the stage. Thor strides confidently towards the king, making his way through the crowd. Citizens mutter and whisper around him, clambering to step out of his way. 

“Father,” Thor addresses him, making a beeline for his Odin. Sigyn attempts to interject, however Odin is already speaking, smiling widely as he regards them. He greets Thor warmly, his eye twinkling with delight. 

“Ah, yes, my son! Greetings, my boy.” Sigyn deflates a bit with naked relief at the welcome, tucking golden curls behind her ear. 

“I was not aware you knew of his presence, your highness,” she says, curiously. Thor takes notice of his father’s ravens sitting upon a golden perch, their beady eyes watching the exchange intently. Odin dismisses her concerns with a wave of his hand. 

“Nonsense. I sensed his arrival the moment he made it to the court,” he explains, turning back to Thor. He smiles again, and Thor does not think his father has ever been so happy to see him. “What brings you back to Asgard?” 

Thor hardens his gaze, holding out the skull of Surtur. With a serious expression, he asks, “Do you know what this is?” 

Odin leans forward with a hum, raising a brow in interest. He examines the skull with a knowing look, recognizing its significance. “The skull of Surtur. Quite the formidable weapon,” Odin states, straightening himself and snapping his fingers to summon a nearby Einherjar guard. “My son has brought another relic for the vault,” he says, issuing the directive with a rather grave expression. “Do me a favor and lock it away.” 

The guard bows and takes the skull from Thor’s hand with trained obedience, slurring off. As it is ushered away for safekeeping, Odin turns his attention back to Thor, his demeanor shifting slightly. He clasps his hands behind his back as he continues, “That does beg the question, my boy. What were you doing on Muspelheim? I have worked tirelessly to forge allyship with the rest of the Nine. I cannot afford to have you rushing into things you do not understand and soiling that.”

Thor’s frustration bubbles to the surface as he clenches his fists tightly, the muscles in his arms straining. “Every night I see Asgard fall to ruin in my dreams,” he says, a thunderous rumble in his voice, “Imagine my shock when I investigate, and I hear that Surtur has a ridiculous idea that you, Odin All-Father, are not on Asgard. And that our realm has been left vulnerable. But you wouldn’t know anything about that.” 

Sigyn blanches a bit at his blatant accusation, her face paling as she attempts to slot herself between Thor and Odin. “Thor,” she begins, and he can already hear the placating tone in her voice. She opens her mouth to continue, but Odin interjects, silencing her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

“Sigyn,” he says, his voice calm and measured, “We cannot keep it from him forever.” A silent conversation passes between the two of them and Sigyn nervously fidgets with her hair, stepping to the side with a nod. Odin turns his gaze to Thor, gesturing for him to follow. He calls over his shoulder to the guards, “I must speak privately with my son regarding family affairs. We shall return shortly.” 

Thor follows silently, allowing Odin and Sigyn to lead him into the palace, his mind racing with questions and concerns. As they enter a private chamber, Odin turns to face his son, his expression grave. 

“Thor, there are matters of great importance that I have kept from you,” he begins, his voice heavy, sounding worn. “The visions you have experienced are not mere dreams, but glimpses of a potential future; one that I have been working tirelessly to prevent.” Sigyn shifts uncomfortably, her eyes downcast as Odin continues.

“Surtur’s suspicions are not unfounded. There have been times when I have been absent from Asgard, attending to matters that threaten the very fabric of the Nine Realms.” He explains, and Thor’s brows furrow as he listens, his frustration mounting. 

“What matters could be so grave that you would leave our realm unprotected?” Both of them guide Thor into Odin’s chambers, shutting the heavy doors behind them. 

Odin holds up a hand, his gaze unwavering. “I understand your anger, my son. But you must trust that I have acted with the best interests of Asgard and all the realms in mind. There are forces at work, ancient and powerful, that seek to unravel the very existence we know.” 

Sigyn steps forward, voice notably unsteady. “Thor, your father has been negotiating with beings beyond our comprehension, forging alliances and safeguarding the future of our people.” She says. “We have achieved peace with Jotunheim. Asgard is prospering.” 

Thor’s grip tightens on Mjolnir, his knuckles turning white. “And what of the future have you seen, father? The destruction of Asgard?” 

Odin’s expression hardens, his lone eye smoldering. “That is but one potential outcome, and one that I will not allow to come to pass. But to prevent it, I must continue my work, even if it means leaving Asgard for brief periods.” He says, and Thor is almost seething by the time he finishes, rounding on his father. 

“Enough of this. I know it is you, Loki.” Thor growls. Odin’s eyebrow raises, and he laughs breathlessly, in disbelief. 

“I beg your pardon?” He asks, and Thor feels his anger quickly mounting. 

“Loki,” he snarls, stepping forward. “No more illusions.” Thor’s fingers tighten around Mjolnir’s handle as he stalks forward threateningly. Odin’s eye follows the line of his arms, watching him take up Mjolnir, and he deadpans in an achingly familiar expression, one that does not quite fit naturally on his face. 

“Surely, you do not intend to strike me with that.” He says, and that prose, that manner of speaking is not Odin’s. The anger boiling within him threatens to spill over, but he takes a deep breath, steadying himself. 

“I grow tired of your games.” He warns, speaking through gritted teeth. Odin and Sigyn share a brief look before he relents.

The illusion shimmers and dissolves, revealing Loki standing before him, wearing a plain green tunic and black pants. He raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Listen—” 

He does not get to finish. 

Thor, his face contorted in rage, punches Loki in the face, clocking him in the jaw. Loki stumbles backward in shock more than pain and Thor lunges towards him. Sigyn steps in front of him, shielding Loki, gold magic held in her palms. “Thor, stop!”

“How dare you!” Thor exclaims, looking over her at his brother, seething with fury. “How could you do this? You’re supposed to be dead!”

Loki raises his eyebrows, holding his bruising cheek with a grimace. He straightens himself, working his sore jaw before speaking. “Apologies for the disappointment,” he says with abundant insincerity. “I will try to ensure my death sticks next time.” 

“I grieved for you, you snake!” Thor roars, held back by Sigyn’s hand on his chest, beside himself with anger. Loki smiles and it looks vicious, sardonic.  

“That’s rich coming from you, isn’t it? Let me remind you of something you may have forgotten.” He says, and he steps closer to Thor, Sigyn between them the only barrier. “When I was lying broken and bleeding, you didn’t even look twice. Instead, you chose to run off and live on Midgard with your precious mortal.” He spits ‘mortal’ like an insult.  

Thor growls with unspoken rage, a pang of grief rocketing through him at the reminder of Jane. Thunder rumbles ominously outside and Sigyn shakes her head at Loki, turning her head from Thor to look at him. “Love, please, don’t make this worse.” 

“Define ‘worse’,” Loki says, dryly. Sigyn gives him a stern look, and she pushes Thor back with a light shove. 

“Calm yourselves. Both of you!” She orders, looking between the two brothers. “This is not helping!” 

“It’s fine, Sigyn,” Loki says, smiling that deadly smile again, “I think we’ve reached a mutual understanding.” 

Sigyn gives him a skeptical look. “What do you mean?” 

“He knows I’m alive now, and I know how much he truly cares about me.” He smirks at Thor, who rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, shut up,” Thor grumbles. 

“I swear to the Norns, if you don’t stop acting like children,” Sigyn hisses, tossing her hands up in exasperation. “We clearly have bigger things to worry about right now.” The two of them fall silent, and she breathes deeply, taking a moment to gather her words. “You two, take turns talking,” she commands. “Loki, you go first.” 

“Alright, alright,” Loki relents, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “As you wish.” Thor has half a mind to point out the obvious bias with letting Loki go first, but he keeps quiet. Loki clears his throat, “I simply used the circumstances surrounding my apparent demise to my advantage. I enchanted the All-Father and sent him off to Midgard.”  

Thor’s eyes widen as Loki explains his deception. That would mean that the last time he had thought he was speaking to his father, the only reason he was let off for his treason, the only reason he was able to go to Midgard… It was all Loki. He glowers at his brother, fingers clenching Mjolnir’s handle tightly. Loki meets his fiery gaze with a cool, unruffled expression. 

“Odin has always been stuck in his ways. And that path only leads to destruction, I have foreseen it.” His voice takes on a harder edge. “While you were off gallivanting with your beloved Jane Foster, I was here, watching over Asgard, protecting our people from threats you failed to perceive.” Sigyn places a calming hand on Loki’s arm, her brow creased with concern. 

“Love,” she mutters. Thor feels a seed of jealousy within him at the sight of their apparent closeness. Clearly, Sigyn was aware of the reality of the situation long before Thor was. Has she been helping him all this time? 

“No, let him speak his mind,” Thor insists, jaw clenched. “I would have the truth of his treachery laid bare here and now.” 

Loki’s eyes are alight with indignation and he laughs, one of those wicked sounding things that makes Sigyn’s skin crawl uneasily. “My treachery? I have acted only to preserve our realm, to safeguard our future!” He steps closer, undeterred by Thor’s menacing stance. “While you blindly followed Odin’s ambitions, I have been preparing the Nine for the much greater threat looming on our horizon!”

“What threat?” Thor asks, and Loki pauses for a moment. It takes him a few seconds to gather himself before he continues. 

“Do you recall stories of a being called the Mad Titan from our youth?” 

“You must be kidding. The Titan is a myth.” Thor scoffs, folding his arms indignantly. He is sick of all these lies, but what should he expect from Loki? 

Thor watches as his brother tenses and bristles at his denial, green eyes flashing with several emotions before settling on a familiar irritation. “I assure you, he is real. More real than you know, and he is coming.” He insists vehemently, and his urgency seems… almost convincing. 

But Thor decides to move on from it anyway, his mind going to another concern. “And what of our father?” 

“He is perfectly safe,” Loki assures him, making a quick, dismissive gesture. “So you can stop your needling,” he says, and with a hint of bitterness, he adds, “And he is not my father.” 

Thor laughs, the sound loud and harsh, echoing through the empty chamber. “Do you really expect me to believe anything you say?” 

“No, actually.” Loki shrugs, and Thor glares at him as he continues. “But that is the truth. It is your choice whether or not you accept it.” 

“If you have committed further betrayal against Asgard, against our family, I will show no mercy.” Thor warns, thunder booming threateningly outside as he tightens his grip around Mjolnir’s handle. 

Loki looks down at the weapon, visibly unfazed before his lips curl in a humorless smile. “Yes, yes, I have heard this before. You speak of wanting to show mercy, yet your eyes already burn for my blood. I am familiar with your hypocrisies.” He shifts his weight, a subtle tension in his posture that Thor cannot decide if he is imagining or not. 

“Brother,” Thor warns, the threat evident in his voice as he steps forward. The air crackles with the power of his hammer, and Loki’s gaze flicks back to it warily. Sigyn places a calming hand on Thor’s arm, her touch gentle but firm. 

“Let him speak,” she whispers, her eyes pleading with him and Thor grumbles as he steadies his hand. 

“If you insist, I will take you to him,” Loki offers. “You will believe me then, will you not?” He arches a brow, looking at Thor expectantly. 

Thor’s jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck flexing as he considers the offer. There could be further deception, but if he is telling the truth… 

After a moment, Thor gives a short, quick nod. “Very well,” he says, the words clipped. “Take me to him.”

Loki sighs, a touch of resignation in the sound, and closes his eyes, reaching for his seiðr. With a pensive expression, he opens his eyes to look at Sigyn. “Are you accompanying us?” He asks, his voice shockingly gentle as he addresses her. “The journey will be easier. And I fear if I go alone, the big blonde oaf might sooner kill me.” Thor huffs angrily at the insult, but he remains silent, his jaw clenched tightly.

Sigyn’s lips curve in a small, affectionate smile. “One moment,” she says, and she steps forward, closing the gap between the both of them. Loki’s eyes flutter shut reflexively and she lifts her fingers to the purpling bruise on his jaw, softly pressing against it.

With a gentle touch, she pulses her magic into it, and Loki hisses through his teeth at the pain, but it quickly subsides as she heals it. She smiles at her work and places a tender kiss on the now-healed area.

“There,” she says, her voice soothing and warm. Loki smiles at her, the tension in his features easing, and he lifts her hand to press a soft kiss to her knuckles.

“As always,” he says with audible affection and gratitude, “You are my savior.” Thor glares between the two of them; obviously he has missed more developments than he anticipated. 

Loki intertwines their hands and turns back to Thor, his body glowing softly as he reassumes Odin’s likeness. The warmth in his expression that he held for Sigyn goes cold when he looks back at his brother. “Come. I will show you where your father is.” 

Chapter Text

“This is it, isn't it?” Sigyn realizes, worry palpable in her voice as she beholds the sight of the building. Or at least, what is left of it. The once-stately Midgardian retirement home has been reduced to a pile of rubble and debris, with several mortal workers operating heavy machinery to sift through the wreckage. “Oh my,” she breathes, casting a nervous glance at Thor, who is still staring ahead with wide, disbelieving eyes. 

“Yes,” Loki confirms, his expression carefully neutral, though Sigyn can hear the grimace in his voice, staring grimly at the mortals that pass them. Dust swirls in the air, carried off by gusts of wind. “This is where I left him.” Thor rounds on Loki, tense with anger. 

“Right here on the sidewalk?” Thor asks, his voice barely containing obvious fury as he gestures towards the rubble with his concealed Mjolnir, disguised as an umbrella to maintain discretion. “Or right there, where the building is being demolished?” His brow furrows in frustration and he folds his arms, glaring accusingly. “Great planning, by the way.” 

“Well, how was I meant to anticipate that they would tear it down? I cannot see the future!” Loki sighs, rubbing his temples in exasperation. A brief silence passes between the three of them before Loki collects himself.

It only takes a touch of magic to weave a concealment spell to avoid unwanted attention by the mortals in the vicinity. He casts a subtle glamor around them, ensuring that any passersby will quickly forget their presence. 

“Alright. Brother, give me your hair,” Loki says, holding out a hand expectantly. The anger in his brother’s face quickly gives way to confusion and a muted sense of horror.

“My— What?” Loki rolls his eyes and summons one of his blades with a flick of his wrist. Before Thor gets the opportunity to question further, he steps forward, grabbing and slicing off a small lock of hair. Thor’s brows shoot up in shock and he pulls back, holding the unevenly shorn strands in his hands, a look of annoyance and bewilderment on his face. “Hey! My hair is not to be trifled with!”

“Quit your pouting, I need to make a tracking spell,” Loki explains calmly, his hands glowing as he carefully arranges the working. “It was either hair or blood, and I thought you might be grateful if I suppressed the urge to stab you.” 

“Oh,” Thor says simply, and his expression softens a bit with understanding, though the annoyance never quite leaves. “I would have simply given it to you. And why must you use my hair?” 

“The last I checked,” Loki replies, giving his brother a pointed look, “you are the only one here with any direct blood relation to the All-Father.” Thor remains silent at that, watching quietly as Loki’s slender fingers dance over the air, weaving the spell with practiced precision.

Loki stops, his lips pressed together and eyebrows furrowed in concentration. A few seconds later, he breathes a sigh of relief. “Got it,” he says, a hint of a smile on his face, but it is gone quickly, controlled and neutral once more. He hands the hair back to Thor and gestures for him and Sigyn. “Follow me.”

“What am I supposed to do with this?" Thor asks, looking at the tuft of his own hair resting in the palm of his hand.

“I don’t particularly care,” Loki says over his shoulder, taking Sigyn’s arm into the bend of his own. Thor’s lips twist in irritation as he watches the two of them walk off, and Sigyn does a fairly poor job of stifling her amusement. He swiftly catches up to them, following close behind as they embark on their search. 

Thor and Sigyn follow closely behind Loki, crossing the street and weaving through crowds of mortals unnoticed. Thor still gripes about his hair, muttering something that might be “You could have at least cut it evenly”, that Loki aptly ignores. Loki walks to the side of a building, rapping his knuckle against the wall as if searching for something.

He pauses, his eyes narrowing as he examines the surface intently, running his fingers along the bricks. It is clear when he finds what he’s looking for by the glint in his eyes, pressing his palm against a specific spot on the wall. With a flash of green, a hidden door opens. 

Loki bows with a flourish for Sigyn, gesturing grandly. “After you, my love,” he says, his lips curling into a smile. Sigyn giggles and steps forward, followed by Thor, then Loki, who quickly summons a magelight to guide the way. 

“‘My love’,” Thor scoffs mockingly, folding his arms in a pout. “First you’re alive. Then I find out that this,” he gestures between the two of them, “finally happened.” He grumbles something under his breath before continuing. “Since when have you two been courting? Or is that another secret kept from me for the good of Asgard?”

Loki’s smile fades as he glances back at Thor, his eyes narrowing. “There’s a lot you don’t know, brother.”

Thor huffs, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “I suppose there’s always a lot I don’t know when it comes to you.” He kicks at a loose stone on the ground, sending it skittering away.

Loki rolls his eyes, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Don’t be a child,” he mutters, turning his attention back to the path ahead.

Sigyn steps back from Loki and closer to Thor, her expression soft and empathetic. “A lot has happened,” she says gently, placing a hand on his arm in a gesture of comfort. “Most of it faster than even we can comprehend.”

Loki, however, interrupts before Thor can respond. “Don’t entertain him or his whining will never cease,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. Thor’s brows furrow deeper, a spark of anger in his eyes.

“Whining?” Thor retorts, his voice rising. He steps forward, but Loki stops abruptly, turning to face his brother. 

“You know, we don’t need to fill these silences,” he says, his tone icy, “And I do believe we have more pressing matters than the topic of who I bring to my bed.” He gestures pointedly toward the stretch of the long passage, where the faint glimmer of the magelight illuminates their way.

Thor clenches his fists, his jaw tightening. Sigyn squeezes his arm reassuringly before stepping back to Loki’s side, the three of them resuming their march down the hidden corridor. They walk for several minutes behind him, their footsteps echoing. 

Loki suddenly stops, putting his finger to his lips to indicate silence. Thor looks around, his brow furrowed in confusion, and Sigyn frowns, her eyes darting around the dimly lit corridor. “What is it?” She whispers to Loki, but he shakes his head. He listens intently, his eyes narrowed in concentration, and then starts walking again. 

“Where are we going?” Thor chimes in, his voice raised slightly higher than a whisper. 

“Quiet,” Loki says, glancing behind them, his expression tense. “I need silence to concentrate. We’re getting close.” 

“To what?” Thor asks, but he quiets when Loki turns around to give him a stern look. He keeps walking forward, his steps cautious and alert, and Thor trails after him. They turn the corner, and Loki stops, tapping somewhere in the darkness. 

Loki closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, and then opens them again, giving the slightest nod. “He should be right around here,” he says, his voice low and hushed. Thor follows him closely, keeping his eyes trained on Loki’s back, ready to react if anything threatens them. Sigyn walks slowly, attaching herself to Loki’s arm.

“Where is this even leading us?” Thor asks, impatiently looking around. He furrows his brow, his grip tightening on his hammer as he surveys their surroundings. “I can barely see anything.”

“Precisely. Observant as always,” Loki says, walking forward again. He moves with a sense of purpose, his eyes scanning the area. “We are close. I implore you to be patient.” He stops again, his eyes closed as he concentrates. “Just a little bit farther… Yes, here we are.”

They continue forward, and Loki reaches out to touch the wall, pressing his fingers into a crack. The stone shivers, and the ground rumbles beneath their feet. The sound of grinding stone echoes around them, and then the wall splits open.

Thor gasps, and Sigyn holds tightly to Loki’s arm, watching wide eyed as the walls move to either side of them, creating a pathway. Thor feels a shiver run down his spine, and he grips his glamored hammer tightly in his hand, ready to defend them if necessary.

“This is amazing,” Sigyn murmurs, her eyes lighting up with wonder as she gazes at Loki with admiration. She beams at him. “Love, you are amazing.” 

Loki replies with a smile, “You’ll make me blush,” and turns around, continuing onward. Thor follows him, his steps cautious, and Sigyn stays close behind, her hand still clasped around Loki’s arm.

As they walk along the path, the walls glow softly, illuminating the way ahead of them. They cautiously make their way forward, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous space.

“What treacherous realm have you led us to now, Loki?” Thor asks, his stance grounded and ready to act quickly at the sign of a threat. Loki’s expression remains neutral, his eyes scanning their surroundings. 

“Norway, I believe.” The tunnel goes on for several minutes before it finally comes to an end, revealing a grungy part of town, a corner surrounded by pedestrians. 

All around them, drunken people are sprawled out, wearing dirtied clothes and either sleeping or digging through the overflowing trash cans. The air is thick with the stench of alcohol and decay, and the sound of their voices creates a cacophony that grates on the senses. All of them still seem to appear to be mortals, so they did not leave Midgard at all. 

“All of this for—” Thor begins to complain, but he is cut off by nearby commotion. 

Distantly, there is a man, old and frantic, screaming about the apocalypse to passersby that rush quickly to escape his rambling. He holds a cardboard sign that reads “The End Is Nigh” in ancient lettering, waving it around with a sense of urgency.

His eyes are wild, and his unkempt white beard adds to the air of madness surrounding him. Thor recognizes the runes on the sign upon further reflection. Loki’s brows furrow, and he exchanges a meaningful glance with his brother. 

Well.

They have found Odin.

Thor shoots a glare at Loki, his expression hardening. “Brother, lift your magic,” he demands. Loki shakes his head, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“This is not my doing,” he says, and the faint air of concern in his voice leads Thor to believe him. He stands still, his hands clasped behind his back as Thor walks quickly toward Odin.

“Father,” he begins, and Odin jumps back, his eyes widening in alarm. He yells and swings his makeshift sign at Thor, who dodges swiftly. “Father, it is me!” He cries out, maneuvering himself out of the way of another clumsy strike. Odin takes a moment to settle, truly looking at Thor’s face. There is a moment of recognition and clarity that washes over his features.

“Thor,” he murmurs, his voice soft and weary, “My son.” Odin reaches out a trembling hand, as if to touch Thor’s face, but lets it fall back to his side.

“Calm yourself, Father,” Thor says gently, raising his hands in a placating gesture as he tries to soothe Odin. “It is alright. We’ve come to take you home.” At the mention of ‘we’, Odin’s eye glances behind Thor at Sigyn and Loki who stand a few feet away. After a few seconds regarding their presence, Odin shakes his head, his expression grave.

“I am afraid I will not be returning home with you, my boys,” Odin says, his shoulders slumping as he averts his gaze. He props his sign against the nearby wall. 

“What?” Thor asks, his brow furrowing in confusion. Loki steps forward, wearing a similar expression.

“Ragnarök,” Odin rasps, “is upon us.” Loki can feel Sigyn tense where she holds onto him, her grip tightening. Odin’s expression is somber as he continues, “And I am afraid that I won’t be making it past this day.”

Thor’s expression shifts from confusion to one of deep concern as he listens to his father’s words. He takes a step closer, but stops short of touching Odin, his hands hovering in the air. “What happened to you?” Thor asks, his voice tinged with worry. “How did you end up here?” 

“Why did you not return to Asgard?” Loki asks, his tone slightly accusatory. “You clearly have your memories and I have no doubt you have regained your powers. One would think you would be eager to reclaim your throne from a traitor.” Odin swallows thickly before responding, waving his hand dismissively.

“That was unnecessary. It seems you were doing a fine job in my stead,” he explains, and Loki rolls his eyes, refusing to meet Odin’s eye and the almost… sentimental look that lies within it. “It took me quite a while to break free from your spell. Frigga would have been proud,” he continues.

Loki feels his heart ache at the mention of his mother, and he averts his gaze. Sigyn stands by Loki’s side, her hand rubbing his arm comfortingly as she observes the exchange, feeling the shift upon hearing Frigga’s name. Odin turns to her next, offering a smile and a nod of approval.

“Sigyn,” he says, glancing back at Loki, “You have chosen a fine life partner for yourself, my boy.” 

Sigyn steps forward, golden eyes blazing with a flash of irritation. “You may think your words comforting, but we are in the midst of a crisis,” she says, “And we do not need your approval.” She snaps, her voice steeped with protective fury. Odin blinks at her and then chuckles to himself, a small smile stretching on his face. 

“A fine life partner, indeed,” he repeats. He looks back at Thor and Loki, his expression growing more somber. “The end is nigh, my sons.” 

“Father, what is going on?” Thor asks.

“Ragnarök is coming,” Odin tells them gravely, his voice heavy with worry. Sigyn and Loki share a concerned look, another silent conversation passing between them as they listen intently. Thor turns to face them, his expression one of growing alarm.

“What, have you both been keeping this from me as well?” He asks, embarrassed briefly for how childish it sounds, but there is still a small part of him that cannot help but feel a bit betrayed.

“We did not know of this, specifically,” Sigyn explains, her eyes downcast. “But... We have heard whispers of Ragnarök’s approaching.” Thor huffs, not bothering to press further, though he wonders what other secrets the happy couple is keeping from him. 

He turns back to Odin, insistent. “We need to get him back to Asgard. Now.”

Odin sighs and shakes his head, his weathered face suddenly showing all his thousands of years plainly. “Asgard is not safe anymore,” he says, his voice heavy and thick with regret. “And she is coming.” 

She?

“Who, Father?” Thor asks, and he can feel his heart racing already. What horrible creature could his father possibly fear? “Who?”

“The Goddess of Death,” Odin says, his lone eye finding Thor’s. “Hela. My first born.” He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in as the revelation hangs in the air. “Your sister.” All three of them gawk at Odin, utterly dumbfounded. Thor is reeling, mouth agape, his mind racing to process the information.

Loki barks out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Of course,” he mutters, “Why not?”

Thor almost wants to join Loki in his laughter, but he fears that if he tries it might come out faintly hysterical. He remembers his dreams, visions of Asgard going up in flames, dead bodies littering the streets of the golden realm, and he shakes his head, reaching out to grab Odin by his shoulders.

“Clearly this time on Midgard has made you mad, Father,” he says, his voice almost desperate as he struggles to comprehend the gravity of his father’s words. “You are speaking nonsense.” A sister? A sister? It can’t be true. This is all some remnant of Loki’s enchantment, some horrible side effect. 

“I tell you the truth, my boy,” Odin insists, his expression resolute. “Her violent appetites grew beyond my control. I couldn’t stop her, so I imprisoned her. Locked her away.” 

Loki’s lips curl into a sneer, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, of course you did,” he says, his tone biting and cold. “That is your solution for everything. Push the problem away, lock it up where you need not deal with it.” 

“Shut up, Loki,” Thor hisses, turning back to Odin with a concerned expression. His heart hammers wildly against his ribcage as he watches his father intently, pleading silently. “We will face her together. We will fight her, Father.” Surely, with the All-Father’s strength, with Loki’s magic and Thor’s power over the storm, a single goddess cannot be that much of a threat. 

Odin takes Thor’s hand, moving them from his shoulders. A once ornate eyepatch that was becoming of a king of Asgard, of the All-Father, has been replaced by a dirtied bandage, and his elegant robes and lavish clothing have been replaced by old rags. It pains Thor, honestly, to see Odin like this.

“No, we won’t. I’m on a different path now. This, you must face alone,” he says, his voice weak and strained. He looks into Thor’s eyes, drawing in a rattling breath, as if struggling to breathe. “My time among the living is almost over. But there is something that may help you defeat Hela.” Odin looks at Loki, standing between him and Thor, as he launches into explanation.

“There is a weapon. An artifact that may be of great use to you. Many years ago, I had it hidden here, on Midgard. Keeping it in the vault… was dangerous.” He says, his hand trembling as he reaches to the bandages over his eye, habitually tracing where his patch once resided. “You will find it, and you must use it.” 

“What is it?” Thor asks. He has never heard of a weapon Thor had purposefully hidden on Midgard. This realm is vulnerable, and though it is under Thor’s protection now, if it had been something that happened in recent years, why did no one think to tell him?

“I know not what form it takes now. But trust me, you will know it when you see it,” Odin says, squeezing Thor’s hand with surprisingly little strength. He staggers, and Thor lunges forward to catch him, his arms wrapping around his father’s frail frame in a desperate attempt to support him. 

“Father!” Thor cries out. He feels shockingly skinny beneath the layers of clothing he wears. He helps guide his father to the ground, hating to prop him against the filthy alleyway wall, but having no other option to support him. Thor has not seen his father this weak since… Since before his banishment. 

“I don’t have much time,” Odin rasps, his breathing labored. Loki tenses, his eyes focused as he listens, stepping forward. 

“Where is this weapon?” He asks, urgently. “Where is it hidden?” 

“The mortals keep it in a museum,” Odin says, his voice growing weaker, “in London.” 

“London,” Loki mutters, stepping back. He thinks for a moment, his brow furrowed, before turning to Sigyn. “Sigyn,” he begins, but she is already kneeling at Odin’s side, nodding at him. 

“I will stay here,” she promises, her voice soft and reassuring. She gently eases Odin to a more comfortable position, her hand resting on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. “Hurry back, both of you. I can feel his essence. It is waning.” Her palms glow with the familiar light of healing magic, golden as she rests them against Odin’s form. “I will keep him with us for as long as I can.” 

Loki nods once, his expression set, and holds out his hand for Thor to take. Thor hesitates, sparing one last worried glance back at Sigyn and his father. 

This is madness. 

He clenches his jaw and reaches out to grip his brother’s hand tightly. Loki closes his eyes and draws a deep breath, stepping forward. 

Thor feels his stomach plunge as he and Loki materialize in the heart of a bustling street, their sudden appearance causing chaos. Loki, seizing Thor’s wrist, swiftly guides him onto the crowded sidewalk, dodging the angry glares and blaring horns of mortals in their metal carriages. 

Amid the calamity, a young man with brunette locks tousled by the wind and a face riddled with freckles passes by. Loki halts him with a charming smile, raising a hand to graze through his own disheveled hair. “I beg your pardon,” he begins, his voice smooth. “Could you tell us where we are?”

“Russell Square, sir,” the young man replies, his demeanor polite. “Are you lost?” Thor interjects, his voice booming as he steps forward, bumping Loki to the side with his hip. 

“Indeed!” He says, a bit too loudly. Loki glares at him from the corner of his eye. “We are,” Thor shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking slightly uncomfortable as he struggles to find the right word, “…tourists. Could you perhaps give us directions to the British Museum?” The young man’s smile is warm and reassuring as he nods.

“Of course, follow me,” he offers, gesturing for them to walk alongside him. Loki notices a slight limp in his gait, supported by a cane. He adjusts his pace to match the man’s, shortening his stride. He does not miss the way that the young man’s cheeks color at Loki’s presence beside him, and he tries poorly to avoid making eye contact. 

Charming. 

“Thank you, sir,” Loki says, graciously. He manages a little bow as he walks. “I am Landon Frost,” he introduces Thor with a nod. “The blonde is my brother, Donald Blake. Pray, what is your name?” There’s a lengthy pause during which Loki begins to think that the young man is too intimidated to answer, until he clears his throat. 

“Theo,” he replies, his voice timid as he introduces himself. “Theo Bell.” 

They arrive outside the museum, a grand structure of white marble, adorned with large pillars and stone carvings. It is impressive, for a Midgardian structure, though Thor can easily think of hundreds of Asgardian facilities that would put this place to shame.

Loki thanks the Theo Bell for his aid with a bow, and for some odd reason, the young man’s cheeks color red again, smiling sheepishly.

The museum is filled with tourists and school children, running around and yelling. Loki winces at the sound of a group of boys racing through the corridors, shouting in excitement. A teacher calls them back, herding the pack of children into one area. 

Loki follows behind them, his gaze landing on a statue of a goddess. He reaches out and gently traces the cool marble with his fingertips, reading the engraved words beneath it.

‘Frigg (Old Norse)’

‘Most renowned of the Norse goddesses. 

She is often associated with marriage, prophecy, clairvoyance and motherhood. 

She is the First Lady of the Æsir. Wife of Odin.’

“Mother…” Loki mutters, a pang of emotion crossing his face. He shakes his head and soldiers on, coming to stand beside Thor who is looking at various displays of weapons. One can’t help but wonder how mortals even got their hands on most of this. 

“Look!” Thor cries, waving Loki over as he points eagerly at a hammer in a glass case, engraved with runes. “This looks just like Mjolnir!” Loki squints at the hammer, studying it closely, examining the intricate runes and craftsmanship. The carvings are nearly completely accurate. 

“This is almost a convincing replica.” He admits, padding over to a morning star flail, examining it with interest. “This, however, is real.” 

“Where did they get these?” Thor asks, walking behind him to examine the same. Loki shrugs, humming softly to himself as he steps back, walking down the line of the display. 

“My best assumption would be the convergence. Weapons from Asgard find their way to Midgard. However, we did not come here for a cheap copy of your hammer. We came here for… whatever weapon Odin was talking about.” Loki grimaces and huffs a breath, irritation grating at him as he runs a hand through his hair. “Norns, would it kill him to be more specific?” 

“What was it that he said? We would know it when we saw it?” Thor asks, his brow furrowing in deep concentration as he struggles to recall the elusive details.

“Delightfully cryptic, as usual. He also mentioned that it has the ability to change form,” Loki says, muttering the words almost absentmindedly as he begins pacing the room, his steps measured. Then it dawns upon him. A brief spark of excitement suddenly ignites in Loki’s eyes, and he glances at Thor with a small grin. “Which means it must possess magical properties. I can sense it.”

He takes brief account of all visible cameras, and it takes a fairly effortless spell to ensure that they do not see anything suspicious. Closing his eyes, Loki reaches deep within, calling upon his seiðr.

He unleashes a pulse, casting out a wave to scan the surrounding area before it returns to him. He can feel it; a specific item imbued with magical energy, located just a few feet away. 

Loki’s eyes snap open, and he makes a beeline for the object, his movements quick and purposeful. He comes to a halt in front of a golden sword, encased in a glass display. 

The plaque beneath it simply reads: 

‘Lævateinn. 16th century. A gift to the museum.’

Loki frowns, reaching forward to gently touch the glass, his expression one of recognition and familiarity. “Is that what you were searching for?” Thor asks, coming to stand behind him.

“Yes,” Loki whispers, his voice barely audible. “This is Lævateinn.” He remembers reading stories about this weapon, and he remembers how he would beg Frigga to allow him to wield something like that. It was a powerful and formidable weapon in all tellings he heard, though it hadn’t been a sword at the time. Loki wanted that. He wanted something unique and powerful of his own. ‘But Thor will be given Mjolnir one day’, he would argue, ‘What about me? ’ 

Ah, yes. 

What about you?

“Lævateinn?” Thor echoes, jolting Loki away from his thoughts. “I’ve never heard of such a weapon.” 

“That’s because you never pay attention,” Loki replies, his tone matter-of-fact.

“Well, there's not much use in simply standing here,” Thor says, looking around. He spots someone in a name tag and a vest with the museum’s name on it. “Ah, here.” He says, and approaches the employee, his steps purposeful and his gaze focused. “Hello, my friend. My brother and I wanted to know how much that sword is.” 

The employee looks over at Loki, who still stands beside the case, occupied in reading the plaque. Or at least, looking as if he is occupied. And then she laughs, the sound light and airy. 

“I’m sorry, our artifacts are not for sale. Most of them are priceless.” Thor frowns, his expression one of disappointment. 

“That is nonsense. Everything has a price—” 

“You will have to excuse my darling brother,” Loki says, suddenly appearing behind them. He puts an arm around Thor’s shoulders and squeezes a bit too hard, though his expression is innocently playful. “He is just very enthusiastic. It is so nice to finally visit, we are big fans of Norse Mythology. Do you work here, by chance?”

“Oh, yes,” she says, smiling warmly. “I’ve worked here for years. I’m the manager,” she says, tucking a lock of fiery red hair behind her ear. Thor thinks it must be artificially colored. “And there’s no need to apologize for enthusiasm; I’m a mythology fan myself.” 

Loki’s eyes brighten with fascination that almost looks genuine, and he turns his attention back to the case. “That’s wonderful,” he says, his own smile widening. “What do you think you could tell us about that sword?” He asks, nodding his head in the direction of the case. The woman- Stacie, as her name tag reads- peers around them to look at it, her expression thoughtful.

“Oh! Lavateinn,” she says, and Loki cringes internally for how she pronounces it incorrectly, the only indication a small twitch in his brow that goes unnoticed. “I’m sorry, I really don’t know much about it, except that it is said to be able to kill the gods themselves. It’s very powerful, but there’s not much information on it.” 

“Really?” Loki says, raising an inquisitive eyebrow as he regards the woman with a curious expression. “I thought it was the legendary sword of Surtr. How intriguing.” He says, and Stacie nods along happily, her loose ponytail bouncing with the motion. 

“It is said to have belonged to him in some accounts. This blade is purported to possess the power to slay with deadly precision, but only if wielded by the right person.” Loki feels a bit of irritation at the notion of yet another weapon that judges the worthiness of its user, but he maintains his air of kindness toward her, smiling. 

“Well, I am delighted to encounter such a knowledgeable young woman charged with disseminating information about these captivating artifacts.” Loki lifts the woman’s hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on her fingertips.

He notes with amusement as her face flushes a bright shade of red at his gesture, and she attempts to babble out what he assumes to be a ‘you’re welcome’, but she never quite gets there. “This has been a most pleasurable interaction,” he says cheerfully, before turning and walking away with Thor in tow. 

Once they have exited the museum and returned to the loud, bustling streets, Thor jerks out of Loki’s hold, visibly irritated. “What was that all about?” He asks, pointing over his shoulder at the museum doors. “We still need to retrieve—”

“The sword?” Loki finishes, rolling his eyes. “You underestimate me, brother.” Without another word, Loki seizes Thor by the wrist and pulls him forward, worldwalking them back to New York in a blur of color and light. 

Thor stumbles unsteadily once they emerge on the other side, looking around before glaring at Loki. “Would you please stop that?” 

“I could have simply left you behind, if that is your preference,” Loki retorts, before holding out his hand. A flash of bright gold and green summons the sword to his grasp. “I did not believe it prudent to linger after securing this prize. The replica I left in its place is convincing enough, and I have ensured the cameras were tricked. However, we are pressed for time, as is your father.” 

“Our father,” Thor corrects, with a petulant frown. Loki only scoffs and continues forward, dispersing the sword back to whatever magical pocket he pulled it from. 

“Whatever.”

Chapter Text

The air around Thor and Loki shimmers with energy as they prepare to world-walk back to the place where Sigyn and Odin await. The familiar tug of teleportation magic pulls at their core, and in an instant, they are whisked through the realms. The sky darkens and swirls around them, the fabric of space folding and unfolding until they reappear in the alleyway where Odin lies, his breath growing shallow.

“Love,” Sigyn calls out when she spots Loki and Thor. Her voice rings with urgency as she cradles Odin’s head in her lap, her fingers weaving a pattern over his pale forehead. Worry etches deep lines into her face, reflecting the gravity of the moment. Odin’s pallor worsens with each passing second, his life force ebbing away like a retreating tide.

Thor and Loki kneel on either side of Odin, their expressions mirroring Sigyn’s concern. Odin’s eyes flutter open, his gaze seeking out Thor.

“Thor,” he rasps weakly, “The weapon. Did you find it?”

Thor nods, trying to swallow around the lump forming in his throat. “It is here, Father. I found it.” Loki clicks his tongue in irritation, prompting Thor to reluctantly amend, “Loki found it.”

A faint smile touches Odin’s lips. “Good. You must take it to Asgard. Unite it with the Eternal Flame. Only then, can it do any damage to her.” His voice trails off, and he seems to listen to something far away. “Do you hear that? Your mother is calling me home.”

“Father,” Thor’s voice cracks, raw with emotion. “Do not leave us yet.”

“There is nothing left for me to do,” Odin replies weakly. “I am sorry, my sons. For failing you. And Loki,” He coughs, a dry, harsh sound, then looks up at Loki with sorrowful eyes. “I know it sounds like frivolous words, but truly. I am sorry for how I raised you. I should have been better. But now,” He smiles, a sad, wistful smile. “Now I must rest.”

“No!” Thor cries out, reaching forward to grab Odin’s arm. He squeezes tightly, but Odin’s grip on his wrist is weak. “You cannot leave us yet!”

“It is okay, son.” Odin’s voice is soft, a whisper against the gathering storm. “I have seen enough of your journey. You will do great things,” He says, turning his attention to Loki. “You are both worthy.”

“Odin,” Loki chokes out, his voice breaking. As Odin exhales one final breath, his body becomes limp and lifeless in Sigyn’s lap. The quiet of his passing is marked by a sudden shift in the air. 

“He… has passed,” Sigyn says softly, her voice barely audible. The scent of ozone and the crackling energy around Thor signal the storm brewing within him. Sigyn looks up, eyes wide with alarm, as Thor stands, his eyes burning with barely contained rage. Loki takes a step back, sensing the impending explosion.

“Brother,” Loki says, his voice steady as he raises his hands in a placating manner. Thor rounds on him, electricity sparking around his fists.

“This was your doing,” Thor growls, his voice a thunderous accusation. He advances, but before anything can further escalate, a loud ‘crack’ emerges from behind them. The three of them turn abruptly to see a black portal opening behind them. Loki feels his hackles raise at the dark energy emitting from it.

A piercing scream cuts the air as a slender figure steps out of the portal, black hair, pallid skin. Loki’s eyes widen when he sees her, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  

He always wondered how Odin decided upon his glamor, why he did not make Loki another blonde haired, blue eyed child like Thor; it would have narrowed the many rumors he heard as a child that Frigga had an affair, and stifled his many insecurities over his appearance. But of course, he had done it to cover up another one of his mistakes. 

Realm-wide enchantments are possible with the All-Father’s power. However, a spell of that magnitude cannot work completely on its own. It needs something to fill in the gaps. Odin had Hela, locked her away. 

And then he had found Loki. 

Even this skin is not his own. 

“Oh. He’s dead, isn’t he?” Hela looks down at Odin’s corpse, a twisted smile spreading across her face. Under other circumstances, Loki might have commended her. Few possessed a smile more twisted than his own. “My only regret,” she says, her voice a chilling sound, “is that I was not here to kill you myself, father.”

“You must be Hela,” Thor says, slamming down his umbrella with a flash of lightning, transforming into his armor. He holds Mjolnir, the energy buzzing in his palm. The sky thunders and breaks, droplets of rain falling on them. With a flash of green, Loki dons his own armor. “I am Thor, son of Odin.” Hela observes him once, rolling her eyes.

“Of course you are.” Her eyes land on Loki, her lips curling as if tasting something foul. “Hm. I was not aware I had a twin. You stink of Odin’s magic.” She looks down at Sigyn, who sits like a deer in headlights, eyes wide. Hela grins and waves her fingers at her. “Spitting image,” she mutters, then louder, “Seeing as I am the old fool’s firstborn, I believe I have a throne to inherit.”

“I don’t think so.” Thor brandishes Mjolnir, spinning it, ready to launch the weapon. Hela watches with a shockingly bored expression.

“Oh, that hammer.” She scoffs, decidedly unamused. “I always hated that thing.” Thor releases Mjolnir, sending it flying toward Hela, only for her to hold out her hand and-

Catch it.

She caught Mjolnir.

Thor’s eyes widen in shock, trying to call Mjolnir back, but the hammer no longer obeys. “That’s… not possible.”

“Darling, I have spent the last three thousand years of my life locked away in a realm of death and suffering with nothing but time. Waiting for this day,” Hela says, smiling as she flexes her fingers. Loki watches in horror as her fingers crack and pierce the metal. “You haven’t the faintest idea of what is possible.” 

The blast from Mjolnir’s destruction sends a wave of energy through Thor and Loki, who brace against the impact. Thor stares at her in complete shock, watching as Hela runs her hands over her sleek black hair. It forms a battle headdress, terrifying and imposing, multiple black, horn-like protrusions that extend outward and upward from her head.

Sigyn stands suddenly, grabbing Loki’s arm with a panicked expression. “Skurge!” She turns her head to the sky and screams, “Einangrun!”

The Bifröst envelops the three of them, hurtling them through its stream. “Sigyn!” Thor yells, “What are you doing?”

“Sending us somewhere she cannot do damage,” Loki says, gesturing at Hela, who follows close behind. Loki turns, throwing two daggers. They find their mark, stalling her for a second. He quickly follows with a blast of green energy, a flaming ball hurtling toward her. Hela dodges, irritation flashing across her face before she grabs Loki by the ankle, flinging him out of the Bifröst’s stream.

“Loki!” Thor and Sigyn scream as he vanishes. Sigyn watches in horror as Hela projects a black grappling hook, grabbing Thor’s boot and propelling herself up.

She wraps her fingers around Thor’s throat. “I missed my chance to watch our father die, but you will make a fine replacement.” Hela kicks Thor in the gut, causing him to double over. Her knife slashes across his face, missing his eye by a fraction. 

She laughs, reaching for him again, but Thor grabs her wrist, punching her jaw. She reels backward, blood trickling down her lip. Thor pulls his leg back, his knee connecting with her nose. Hela snarls, grabbing his foot and flinging him out of the Bifröst’s stream. He screams, hurtling into the darkness. 

Sigyn’s heart races as she watches Thor disappear, leaving her alone with the goddess. Hela’s piercing gaze locks onto her, a twisted, elated grin spreading across her face. Sigyn braces herself, thanking the Norns themselves when they reach their destination. 

“What?” Hela looks around as she and Sigyn surface from the Bifröst’s stream, black sand blowing around them. 

“We’ve landed,” Sigyn says, putting distance between the two of them as she scatters seeds across the desolate landscape. Hela growls. 

“Where are we?” she demands. “This isn’t Asgard.” 

“Aren’t you observant?” Sigyn says, grinning. “No, it is not. You didn’t think I would be foolish enough to bring you where you wanted to go?” She spreads her arms. “Welcome to Svartalfheim, your highness.” 

“Oh, I will enjoy killing you for this,” Hela snaps, lunging forward. Sigyn easily rolls out of the way, sending a burst of vines to intercept her. Hela swings at them, caught off guard when they grab her wrists and ankles, binding her. 

They dance around each other, Hela’s weapons clashing with Sigyn’s vines. The plants struggle to restrain Hela, Sigyn’s magic draining quickly. Sigyn's breath comes in ragged gasps as she summons more vines, their tendrils snaking through the black sand. Hela's strength is overwhelming, her dark magic pulsing with each strike.

The Goddess of Death’s eyes gleam with something akin to exuberance as she tears through Sigyn’s defenses, her blades slicing through the air with deadly precision. She laughs joyfully, as carefree as a child. Hela taunts, “You’re resourceful, I’ll give you that.” Sigyn grits her teeth. 

The ground beneath them trembles, and suddenly, massive roots burst from the earth, entangling Hela in a web of twisted bark and leaves. With a loud crack, the roots splinter and shatter, unable to contain her power. Sigyn stumbles backward, her magic nearly depleted. Hela smiles as she stalks toward Sigyn like a panther. “Your brother sends his regards.”

Sigyn laughs, feeling a twisted sense of vindication. “I knew Ingvar was rotting in Helheim,” she says. 

Hela raises a dagger and advances, saying, “Oh darling, I wouldn’t call it rotting.” Sigyn braces, calling Ingvar’s scythe to her hands, blocking the blow and yanking Hela back with vines. Hela flies backward, landing with a thud, sand billowing around her. She snarls, rising to her feet. Her eyes glow white hot, the air crackling around her.

Sigyn raises a shield of vines, the air turning into a tornado of debris. She struggles to hold on as Hela rains blows upon her, sending rocks, trees, and dirt flying. Sigyn knows Hela won’t be at full power unless she reaches Asgard. If she can keep her trapped here, she may weaken her. “Do you even know your history? You’re a naive little woman,” Hela says. “You are fighting to protect a legacy soaked in blood. I should know; I was there to spill most of it.”

Sigyn grits her teeth, vines straining to hold Hela’s onslaught. Her muscles burn, but she refuses to falter. Hela cannot reach Asgard. “You speak of blood as if it’s a badge of honor,” Sigyn spits. 

Hela giggles, dark hair spilling over her sunken eyes in a truly unsettling fashion. She tilts her head to the side, and her bones make an odd, cracking sound that leaves Sigyn’s skin crawling unpleasantly as she does. “Is it not?”

“Thor and Loki may have made mistakes, but at least they strive for peace and unity among the realms. You, on the other hand, crave only death and subjugation.” Hela’s laughter cuts through the howling winds like a dagger.

“Peace? Unity? Are you even a true Aesir?” She asks between fits of giggles that sound truly unhinged to Sigyn, and it’s disconcerting to see how… similar in appearance Hela is to Loki. “I will raze Asgard to the ground and rebuild it in my image. A realm forged through conquest and strength- That is true power!” With a feral snarl, Hela unleashes a torrent of daggers, each one finding its mark in Sigyn's protective barrier. The vines splinter and snap, unable to withstand the attack. Sigyn cries out as one blade grazes her cheek, hot blood trickling down her face. 

Drawing upon her deepest reserves, she calls forth a storm of roots that burst from the ground, ensnaring Hela’s limbs and dragging her down. The Goddess of Death thrashes and writhes, furious screams echoing across Svartalfheim. Sigyn approaches, gripping Ingvar’s scythe tightly. “You underestimate the power of life, Hela. For every blow you strike, nature fights back tenfold.” Hela strains against her bonds, snarling. “You are predictable,” Sigyn says, standing tall.

“You can’t trap me here,” Hela says confidently. Her eyes- a darker green than Loki’s- blaze with something wicked. Unstable. “The Dark Elves are loyal to me.”

“Are they?” Sigyn asks, raising an eyebrow. “Have you noticed none of them live?” She gestures to the empty space.

“Oh, they don’t have to.” Hela smiles and Sigyn feels the ground shift beneath her feet. Four of the dead, fallen dark elves, emerge from seemingly nowhere, crawling from the ground like the undead. They move swiftly towards Sigyn, seizing her and dragging to the ground as she struggles against them. Ingvar’s scythe retreats back into her pocket dimension as they pin her to the ground. 

Hela sucks the life from the vines holding her, leaving them shriveled and dead, sauntering over to Sigyn. “‘You underestimate the power of life’, do you even hear yourself?” she mocks, the gravelly sands on the planet’s surface crunching under her boots. “I am the Goddess of Death. Life ends with me.”

Hela kneels before Sigyn, the shadow on her face almost resembling a skull. Her eyes pierce through Sigyn, and her heart races as Hela’s gaze burns into her. “Life,” she observes, and Sigyn’s blood runs cold. “You reek of it,” Hela hisses, raising her blade. She yanks Sigyn’s hair, pulling her head back painfully. “You will make a fine tribute for Lady Death.”

The blade glints with Hela’s magic, and Sigyn presses her hands to the ground on either side of her, summoning her own. Her seiðr responds swiftly, opening a sliver of space between worlds, forcing her way through.

There is a reason Loki always advised her against worldwalking while on unstable ground. She slips into the void, escaping Hela’s blade, but her footing falters, and she plummets into nothingness, the abyss swallowing her screams. Hela scoffs as she watches the Jotun trickster’s lover vanish before her blade can claim her. Her undead soldiers look to her for instruction, and she dispels them back to the ground with a gesture. 

No matter. 

She can find her own way to Asgard. 

Chapter Text

Air roars around Loki’s ears, drowning out all other sound as he plummets through the sky, his body twisting and turning uncontrollably. Tears blur his vision, and his heart hammers in his chest with a desperate rhythm. He braces for impact, but the ground still manages to meet him unexpectedly, sending a shockwave of pain coursing through him.

He lands with an unceremonious crash into debris of all kinds, gasping for air that won’t catch up to him. Agony sears through him, white-hot and excruciating as tries to breathe amidst the ringing in his ears. He forces his eyes open, only to behold a jagged piece of metal protruding from his thigh.

He screams through gritted teeth, primal and desperate, breathing quickly as he attempts to wrench his leg free, giving up as the pain mounts to an unbearable level.

Panic and adrenaline rip through him and his eyes dart around, searching frantically for something, anything recognizable. He gets the metallic taste of his own blood in his mouth and the feeling in his limbs escapes him. His brain lags behind, trying to recall what was happening, why was he falling again, where is—

Thor. Sigyn. 

They were right behind him, weren’t they? Thor and…

Hela. 

Odin had yet again kept secrets, kept Hela’s existence from them all, and now he has a sister, seething with rage and powerful enough to shatter Mjolnir, and…

Norns, he prays, If there is any justice in this universe, please don’t let them be dead. 

Unshed tears sting in Loki’s eyes and he shudders, pushing the sickening thought away. He tries again for his leg, grinding his teeth together as he attempts to free it, only freezing at the sounds of voices nearby. Immediately, he goes to summon his magic, set on defending himself or casting an illusion but his power is dormant, unresponsive.

A shadow looms over him, and he lifts his head, squinting against the light to behold a peculiar creature with light blue skin and tightly coiled pink hair, armed with a large, peculiar-looking gun. She looks almost aquatic, and when she smiles at him, he can see that she has fangs.

“Oooh, I’ve never seen you before,” she remarks, her voice youthful and curious. “You fell from up there, didn’t you?” She points to the wormholes above them, and the one that spit out Loki gets smaller and smaller until it vanishes. “You must be new. Are you a fighter or food?”

Loki’s voice is lost to him, and he can barely hear over the ringing in his ears as the girl scrutinizes him with a critical eye. Her eyes land on his leg and she pokes it with the barrel of her gun, frowning from the pained scream that rips its way out of Loki’s throat.

He tries again for his magic, wanting more than anything at that moment to disembowel this creature for daring to touch him, but it slips stubbornly out of reach again.

“Hm. You probably can’t fight very well like that, huh?” She muses aloud, not bothering to wait for a response before calling out over her shoulder. “Boys! We got food!”

Panic surges within Loki, driving him to attempt a retreat. He drags himself across the debris, sharp and jagged edges digging into his skin, but the pain in his leg cripples him, rendering him helpless.

“Oh, don’t go anywhere!” The girl calls after him, her voice a taunting echo as the ominous sound of approaching footsteps fills the air. Three hulking figures stand over him before they reach down to pull him up by his arms.

The movement is not gentle and jostles his injured leg. He releases a curdled scream, tasting blood as he’s dragged. He reaches again for his magic, straining until it hurts. He screams for Thor, but only a pathetic shriek comes out. There’s no use anyway. 

Thor is not here. 

Loki grinds his teeth against the pain shooting up his leg and somehow manages to plant his feet, pivoting to slam the point of his elbow against the face of one of his captors. He gives up on trying to reach his magic and grabs onto the shard of metal protruding from his leg, yanking it out with a sharp yell.

He reaches out, cutting through the skin of the one holding him and stabbing upward, into the creature’s throat. He pivots quickly and uses the little energy he has left to slip from an illusion, fighting through the other two and tearing at anything vital he can reach. Their blood stains his hands, his armor, and he attacks viciously until their bodies are motionless at his feet. 

He hears a cheerful laugh from the pink-haired creature and a sharp biting pain in his neck gives him pause. He reflexively moves to touch it, pulling it out. He blinks a few times, and his mind is sluggish to recognize that he is holding a hot pink dart. A tranquilizer.

His mind is sluggish, his thoughts reaching him slowly, but he still has enough sense to be a bit frightened by the fact that this planet has a tranquilizer powerful enough to work on him so quickly. The ground rushes up to meet him quickly, the world swimming in a sea of colors, but he can still see the strange girl when she steps into view.

She looks strange to him in the middle of his kaleidoscope of color and she grins widely. She looks positively giddy as she squats down to look at him just as the edges of Loki’s vision begin to turn black and fuzzy. “Oh, he’ll like you.” 

Darkness closes in again and Loki surrenders. 

“Wake up,” someone says, and Loki groans. His throat is dry and raw and his head feels like it is splitting open. His leg aches terribly and he wants to scream, but he doesn’t have the energy. “Come on, pretty boy, wake up.” The voice commands again, but Loki still makes no move to obey. Until, that is, he feels the sudden abrasive, sharp pain of a slap, and he hisses, his eyes flying open. “There you are!”

Loki’s eyes focus on the same girl who captured him, and in the light, he can see that her right eye is covered by an eye patch. She has scars on her face, a scale pattern that begins in a violet gradient, moving into the light blue of her body.

Her hair is a shocking pink color and she has dark eyes, purple with a vibrant yellow sclera, one of which is covered by a black eyepatch with a pink heart drawn over it. There are gills on her neck, webbed ears and clawed hands. He’s never seen a species like hers before. She’s pretty, in a hardened sort of way. And she can’t be much older than a teenager.

“Where am I?” Loki asks. He’s sitting upright, though he’s not sure how he got here. There’s a bandage around his thigh and he can feel the stitches inside of it.

“I’ve never heard that accent before,” she says, and then she leans back. Loki can see a tail swishing behind her, furry and long like a feline. “You’re on Sakaar.”

“Sakaar?” Loki repeats, and he thinks he may vomit. His head is throbbing. He hasn’t even heard of this place before. “How...”

“You fell out of the sky. That’s how almost everyone comes here. Now come on, let’s get you to the arena.” 

“No,” Loki stiffens as she reaches for him, and he snarls at her. He tries to summon a knife, but his magic is slow to move, and his hands remain bound behind him. She laughs, bubbly and bright. 

Disturbing.

“I wouldn’t let the big guy hear you say that. That’s kind of a bad word around here.” she says, and then she stands up, pulling Loki with her.

Loki's heart races as the strange alien teenager drags him to his feet, his injured leg throbbing in protest. Disoriented and weakened, he struggles against the bindings on his wrists to no avail.

“If you value your life, I suggest you release me.” He threatens, even though it sounds shockingly empty to his ears. The girl just laughs, her sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. She gives him a rough shove forward, forcing him to limp alongside her. 

“If you value yours, you’re gonna have to learn how things work here. Fast.” She says, her tail swishing absently behind her. “Wherever you’re from, you’re on Sakaar now. One of the Lost, just like me. Things don’t work out well for people who can’t play the game.” 

“What game?” 

“The Grandmaster’s,” she says simply, as if Loki is meant to know who that is. “He was the first Lost. And the first Found.” There’s something unsettling, almost robotic about the way she says that. “Everything is a game for him. You can’t really win. But you don’t want to lose either.” 

As they navigate the chaotic streets of Sakaar, Loki’s mind whirls. Where is Thor? Is Sigyn safe? The uncertainty fills him with a growing dread, and he can hear the muffled sounds of cheering and rhythmic thumping emerging from the other end of the long passageway. He resists the urge to gag; this place reeks of death. 

The child sighs, looking at him with something nearly akin to pity. “Look, I’m sorry. You’re already injured, so you probably won’t last long. You’re lucky, there’s only one way out of this place. Hopefully, it’ll be quick.” With that, the child shoves him again, propelling Loki forward into the blinding light of the arena. 

A gate comes slamming down between him and the exit immediately and the cheering increases in volume, rousing the crowd as they hoot and scream. He can hardly see them all against the blinding lights, but he can tell that the seats are filled to capacity. 

“This is madness,” he mutters, and right as he does, the cuffs holding back his hands beep and fall off, freeing his wrists. He can feel his magic return to him, flooding his body, and he sighs softly at the power within him. 

The crowd gets impossibly louder when a large projection activates in the center of an arena, depicting a giant image of a white-haired man in flamboyant, clashing robes. He grins widely and waves at the crowd. “Wow! Look at all of you. What a turnout!” He says, addressing the screaming spectators, and Loki knows it immediately. 

The Grandmaster. 

Loki grits his teeth, looking around at the bloody walls and floor. The Grandmaster continues. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, for our next match, I present my own personal tribute to the fallen warriors we lost today. A special treat for you, because I know you’ve got a soft spot for blood and guts and senseless gore. So please welcome your newest champion— and my latest acquisition— to the ring!”

The Grandmaster gives him a gladiator name- “The Rogue”, before continuing. “He won’t last five minutes. But I’m told he packs a punch, and he sure is pretty to look at, so enjoy the show while it lasts.” Loki bristles at the insult, lips peeling back in a hardened scowl. The projection winks at him before turning to the opposite end of the arena. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you…”

The metal gate on the other side of the arena bursts off its hinges as two hulking creatures barrel out into the arena field, roaring and wearing brightly colored face paint. They look identical; twins. The Grandmaster rattles off their gladiator name; “The Torrent Twins”.

The hologram vanishes, leaving Loki alone with the twins who roar and click in a language that the All-Speak can only partially translate.

Loki prepares himself for battle, determined to keep himself alive for now. Sigyn and Thor may still be out there, if he can survive now, he can find them, and they can work from there.

He studies his opponents who are still earning loud cheers from the audience. He’s shocked to find that he recognizes this species. Their skin itself is their armor, it can’t be pierced, but there is one weak spot at the base of the skull that can be deadly when struck. The only issue is that they protect it viciously.

Loki sets his feet as a pinging bell signals the beginning of the fight. He watches his opponents carefully, assessing their movements and their weaknesses. Large, slow, barely able to communicate. He summons his knives, the blades gleaming in the harsh arena light. 

When the bell rings, both twins charge at Loki with thundering footsteps, their massive forms shaking the ground beneath them. Loki smiles and waves at them, taking a step back, then two. Then he vanishes, green energy flashing where he once stood. When he reappears, he is behind them, leaping to one of the twins’ armored back, wedging the tip of his blade between the protective plates on its neck. 

The other creature snarls and grabs Loki, throwing him across the arena. Loki lands on his feet, pain zipping up his injured leg and making him falter dangerously. He manages to skid to a halt before running forward and attacking. 

The creature blocks the blow with his armored forearm and the blade bounces off harmlessly. Loki ducks under a swinging fist, evading another lumbering attack, slashing at the twins’ joints between their armored plates. 

They charge him at once and Loki calls upon his magic. Quickly, bright green mist materializes across the arena, and the twin’s fist meets the concrete of the arena wall. Bright, flashing lights appear around them, dancing around the battleground and Loki smiles, waiting like a coiled serpent. 

Easily distracted. 

With a swift motion, Loki creates two duplicates of himself, both charging at the twins as the real Loki slinks back, invisibility cloaking him. While the twins are busy with his copies, Loki strikes. He leaps onto the back of the one whose plates he shifted, driving his knife into the vulnerable spot at the base of its skull. 

The creature roars in agony as it collapses to the ground, lifeless. The crowd roars with rhythmic chanting and cheers. Loki turns to face his remaining opponent.

The creature charges again, grabbing Loki’s torso in its large fist, swinging him into the arena wall. Pain explodes from Loki’s back upon impact and he falls to the ground, wheezing for the air that was knocked from him. The creature runs toward him and lifts its arm, ready to strike. 

Loki holds up his hands, palms facing upwards, fingers spread wide. A bright flash of light fills the air as the twin’s chest explodes in a shower of gore. Blood splatters everywhere and it screeches. Loki moves quickly, gritting his teeth through the pain of his back and injured leg. 

Another blast sends the creature reeling, and Loki climbs up his back, stabbing his blade through the creature’s throat. It pierces through the other side and the creature stops moving, staggering before collapsing. Loki stands slowly, wiping the strangely colored liquid from his face. 

The crowd goes wild, chanting “Rogue, Rogue, Rogue, Rogue!”, stomping their feet against the arena ground.

Loki looks up into the stands and finds the VIP viewing box that houses the Grandmaster. He can see from here that the Grandmaster is smiling at him and he allows his blades to retreat back to his dimensional pocket. 

With power, comes safety. If he can get close to that power, it could mean survival. Perhaps it would serve him well to become acquainted. 

The next course of action is clear. 

It’s time to play the game. 

Chapter Text

As Loki is escorted through the vibrant interior of one of the Grandmaster’s extravagant buildings, he can’t help but marvel at the eclectic array of beings and the kaleidoscope of colors that adorn every corner. The air is thick with the intoxicating scent of exotic spices, mingling with the sweet and pungent aromas of alien delicacies. The distant hum of chatter, laughter, and unfamiliar music fills his ears, creating a surreal and overwhelming symphony.

The walls are adorned with intricate tapestries and glowing neon artworks, casting an otherworldly glow that dances across the opulent hallways. This is chaos as a planet. And he finds it all alarmingly disquieting. There’s something sinister about it all.

Finally, they arrive at the grandiose palace of the Grandmaster, a spectacle of opulence that stands in stark contrast to the chaos of the surrounding city. The palace is a towering structure, shimmering with gold and encrusted with jewels, its architecture a blend of futuristic and ancient styles. Grand, sweeping staircases and vast, echoing halls lead to the throne room, each step accompanied by the rhythmic clinking of Loki’s chains.

As the two palace guards, adorned in their eccentric attire of shimmering fabrics and bizarre helmets, push him forward, Loki’s eyes follow the hypnotic movements of the provocative dancers that stand on either side of the throne. Their lithe bodies twist and turn in mesmerizing patterns, their scant attire glittering under the multicolored lights. The throne room itself is a den of decadence, with plush velvet drapes, luxurious couches, and a plethora of lavish decorations that scream extravagance.

The Grandmaster, reclining on an ornate throne crafted from gold and precious stones, exudes an air of power. He nurses a drink that glows with an eerie, iridescent light, his gaze fixated on Loki like a child who has found a new toy.

“Hello, there,” the Grandmaster’s voice rings out with amusement, holding a sense of curiosity as he eyes Loki with unabashed interest. The guards shove Loki forward roughly, but the Grandmaster waves them off dismissively. “Oh, please, there’s no need for all of that now.” His eyes fall to Loki’s chains and he snaps his fingers. The cuffs open immediately, dropping to the ground by Loki’s feet.

Released from the guards’ grasp, Loki straightens himself, smoothing down his disheveled clothes as he meets the Grandmaster’s gaze with a calculated smile.

“You’re too kind,” he replies smoothly, masking his contempt beneath a veneer of charm. His mind races, already formulating a plan to exploit this encounter to his advantage.

The Grandmaster approaches, his movements languid and deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. He appraises Loki with a discerning eye, his gaze lingering on Loki’s form as if assessing a piece of fine art. “I have to apologize on behalf of my guards,” he announces, though the sympathy in his voice sounds so pitifully false that it takes willpower for Loki to avoid rolling his eyes. “They can be so rude.”

Loki’s lips twitch imperceptibly, his mind working, analyzing. This Grandmaster… He’s astonishingly easy to figure out. He’s clearly hedonistic, and judging by the scantily clad staff and abundance in substances, there’s probably one extremely obvious and easy way to earn this creature’s favor.

There is a part of himself that recoils immediately at the idea, but he does not have to go far with it. All he has to do is go far enough to keep the tyrant at a distance, but close enough that he can use him. “It’s quite alright,” Loki assures him, adding a slight purr in his honeyed words. “After all, I’m accustomed to… rough treatment.” 

The Grandmaster’s eyebrows raise a fraction and he smiles as he leans in closer, his gaze lingering on Loki’s form with a hunger that sends a shiver down Loki’s spine that he fears might not be in total revulsion. “You’re a pretty little thing,” he muses, his voice low and suggestive. “And you can fight! You put on quite a show out there.”

“I’m flattered.” Suppressing the urge to recoil in disgust, Loki maintains his composure, meeting the Grandmaster’s roaming eyes with a coy tilt of his head. “One does what one must to survive in a place like this,” he replies, his voice a smooth, calculated blend of humility and allure.

The Grandmaster chuckles softly, a sound that makes Loki’s hackles rise. There is something very dangerous about this creature, his smile reminding Loki of a shark. “Truer words,” he agrees, his eyes glittering with amusement. “But survival is only the beginning. Here on Sakaar, there are far more pleasurable pursuits to indulge in.” The innuendo is not lost on Loki. In fact, it is blatantly obvious.

Still, Loki smiles as he considers his next move, knowing that he must tread carefully if he hopes to outmaneuver the Grandmaster and secure his freedom. With a charming smile, he leans in closer with feigned interest. “I’m intrigued,” he purrs, his eyes locking with the Grandmaster’s in a silent challenge. “Perhaps you could show me everything your… unique planet has to offer.”

“Oh, I like the way you think!” The Grandmaster exclaims, clapping his hands together with childlike glee. He snaps his fingers for one of his guards, waving him over. “You. Yes, you, whatever your name is, come here and give my friend-” The Grandmaster pauses and chuckles to himself, turning back to Loki with a deceptively kind smile. “Look at me, getting all excited. What was your name, sweet thing?”

“Not ‘sweet thing’,” Loki says before he can stop himself, immediately softening the sharpness of his retort with a smile. He takes half a second to think before deciding on, “Loftur.” The Grandmaster surveys him for a moment before his smile drops into a frown. It’s an unsettling sight.

“Now, now,” the Grandmaster continues, his voice taking on a dangerously soft tone, “I’m not a fan of being lied to.” Loki’s throat suddenly goes dry, his heart skipping a beat, but he quickly regains his composure, tilting his head slightly to offer a disarming smile.

“Forgive me,” he says smoothly, “New planet and all. One can never be too cautious. My name is Loki.”

The Grandmaster’s frown melts away, replaced by a satisfied grin. “Loki,” he repeats, and for some reason, he accepts it as the truth. “Much better. See, honesty is so much more appealing.” He says, putting an arm around Loki’s shoulders, a gesture so casual and invasive that Loki has to remind himself why he shouldn’t attempt to sever it.

Loki’s mind races, calculating his next move. If this being can detect lies over something as simple as Loki’s name, then this may be more of a challenge than he initially thought. He needs to keep the Grandmaster intrigued but not suspicious. “And what should I call you?” He asks cautiously.

“Hm. Grandmaster will do,” he replies with a smile that reads as irritatingly smug. “But enough about me. Let’s talk about you, Loki. You really surprised me in that arena today, you’re quite the fighter.” The Grandmaster gestures for his guard again, who approaches obediently, retrieving a glittering envelope from a compartment in his armor and relinquishing it to the Grandmaster.

“I’ve been known to surprise people,” Loki admits, his voice carrying an edge.

“That magic thing you did,” the Grandmaster says, eyes alight with curiosity, “That was- well, interesting! We, ah, don’t get very many sorcerers here.”

Loki allows himself a small smile. That’s good. If they don’t know what to expect, he can use it to his advantage. “I am glad to hear that I impress.”  

The Grandmaster chuckles, a low, almost purring sound. “Oh, without a doubt, sweetheart.” He says, and Loki bristles at the nickname, but manages to keep his reaction masked. Before he can decide on a response, the Grandmaster is handing him the vibrant envelope that he had taken from his guard.

“Here,” the Grandmaster says, placing the envelope in Loki’s hands. It’s shockingly hefty, its surface glittering under the throne room’s kaleidoscopic lights. “Consider this a token of my appreciation. A VIP invitation to tonight’s party.”

Loki accepts the envelope, turning it over in his hands, the weight of it more than just physical. “A party?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Indeed,” the Grandmaster replies, his smile widening. “I host a lot of them here, I just adore a good party.”

Loki’s mind races as he contemplates the possibilities. A gathering like this could provide the perfect opportunity to gather information, to find allies, or perhaps even an escape route. He remembers what the alien girl who captured him warned him of regarding the word ‘no’.

I wouldn’t let the big guy hear you say that. That’s kind of a bad word around here.

The way the Grandmaster’s smile vanished when he caught Loki in a lie suggests that’s advice Loki should heed. “I’m honored,” he says, bowing his head slightly in a show of gratitude. “I look forward to it.”

The Grandmaster claps his hands, his delight palpable. “Excellent! I knew you would. Now, I should let you go and make yourself comfortable. You can have one of the guest rooms, my treat. My attendants will ensure you have everything you need.” 

“You are too kind,” Loki says again, genuinely shocked at the display of generosity, but not trusting it for a moment. This man will want something out of him sooner or later. Likely sooner if the way he keeps staring is any indication. Loki’s skin crawls uncomfortably.

“I like you, Loki,” the Grandmaster says, “And I treat those who have my favor very, very well.” The Grandmaster clasps his hands together with a delighted expression. “Consider yourself my guest. You’ll have a guide, someone to show you all the wonders Sakaar has to offer.” He snaps his fingers, and another guard steps forward, this one with a more refined, almost regal bearing. And she looks at Loki with a scorn that has him wondering if they’ve met before. 

“This is Topaz,” the Grandmaster introduces. “One of my best. She’ll be your guide. She knows this planet like the back of her hand and will ensure you see the best of everything.”

Topaz nods curtly at Loki, her eyes sharp and assessing. Loki returns the nod, noting the disciplined demeanor and calculating the kind of person he will be dealing with. Her sneer doesn’t seem to falter or shock the Grandmaster, and Loki is inclined to believe her face is simply set in a permanent scowl. 

How charming.

“Thank you, Grandmaster,” Loki says, injecting genuine-sounding gratitude into his voice. “I look forward to tonight.” 

The Grandmaster pats Loki’s shoulder affectionately. “I think we’re going to get along swimmingly.” 

Loki gives a respectful bow before turning to follow Topaz, his mind already working on how to turn this situation to his advantage. As Loki is led away, he glances back at the Grandmaster, who is now reclining on his throne once more, his gaze following Loki with an intensity that makes his skin crawl. 

Oh, lovely, Loki thinks. 

Into the lap of another tyrant. 

Scrapper 802 bounces through the bustling streets of Sakaar, her catlike agility allowing her to weave effortlessly through the throngs of people. The city buzzes with the usual cacophony of shouting vendors, fighting, and the distant clamor of the Grandmaster’s arena. Her expressive tail swishes excitedly behind her as she moves through the crowd. 

Her vibrant pink hair bounces in a puff on her head with each step. The worn magenta scarf around her neck, though frayed, adds a touch of brightness to her otherwise rugged appearance. Her pants, ripped and patched in places, reveal glimpses of her blue skin, which fades into a purple gradient at the edges, scales glittering in the sunlight.

She moves deftly, her prosthetic leg concealed within her boot making only a slight mechanical whir. Her eyes (or at least the one not covered by an eyepatch), a striking purple against yellow sclera, scan the stalls of the vendors she passes, her webbed ears twitching at the myriad of sounds. Her nose, keen as always, sniffs out nearby food just as a man passes by with a tray of fresh meat. 

Despite the rough exterior, there’s an undeniable energy in her movements, a zest for life that’s hard to miss. She clutches a satchel at her side that she holds close as she moves, trying to ignore the sense of nagging guilt that still hasn’t really gone away. 

Sakaar is a cruel planet, she reminds herself. It’s survival of the fittest here. Still, the image of the man she sold to the Grandmaster’s arena lingers in her mind. He had put up an impressive fight when he fell from the sky, and something about him had seemed different, almost regal, despite his predicament. But she has sold people before. She’ll do it again. The people on this planet don’t care about each other or what happens to one another; she can’t afford to do so either. She had to learn that young. 

She shakes her head, clearing the thoughts as she nears the outskirts of the city. The noise fades slightly as she lowers herself into the ravine, replaced by the quiet hum of machinery and the occasional shout from other scrappers nearby. The modest home she shares comes into view, its exterior worn but sturdy. 802 practically skips the last few steps, pushing the door open and bursting inside. 

“Val!” she calls out, her voice echoing in the dimly lit space. A grin is plastered on her face, fangs shining as she kicks the door shut behind her. “Guess what?”

Val looks up from where she’s lying across the threadbare couch, lounging with a bottle of half drunken liquor. Her eyes soften when they land on her, and she sets the bottle on the wooden table beside her, a knife wedged into the wood. 

“What is it, Ari?” She asks, “Haven’t seen you this excited in a minute.” 

Ari grins, practically skipping over to Val, her tail swishing behind her. “I did it! I did my first solo scrapping job! I sold a new arrival to the Grandmaster’s arena. Got a big payout for him, too!” She brandishes her card with the loaded credits on it as she beams with pride. She has a lot to live up to with The Scrapper 142 as her mentor. This was an important bounty. For both of them. 

Val’s lips twitch into a half-smile. “How much did you get?”

Ari opens her satchel and spills the contents onto the table; an impressive haul of shiny coins and trinkets, tossing the credit card on top of it. “Enough to keep us going for a while,” she says proudly. “I can finally get a new leg. This old one is… stiff.” She knocks at the prosthetic that begins where her leg ends, right at the knee, and it clunks. “Keeps locking up.” It’s been about five years since she got a new one and she’s itching for an update. 

A weird shadow crosses Val’s features but it’s gone too quickly, and she ruffles Ari’s hair affectionately. “You did well, kid. This is how we survive here. Remember that.”

Ari nods, though the unease doesn’t completely fade. She looks up at Val, searching for reassurance. “Do you think… Do you think he’ll be okay? In the arena, I mean.”

Val’s gaze hardens slightly, but she softens it with a squeeze of Ari’s shoulder. “It’s out of our hands now, Ari. You did what you had to do. The Grandmaster’s arena is brutal, but we can’t afford to worry about every person we capture. It’s how we live.” 

Ari nods again, more firmly this time. “Yeah, you’re right. We survive.” A brief silence passes between the two of them as Ari looks at the ground and Val sighs softly, reaching over to punch her shoulder affectionately. 

“Besides,” Val adds, her tone turning more 
casual as she leans back on the couch, “if he’s as tough as you say, maybe he’ll last a while. Might even make a name for himself.”

Ari’s ears perk up slightly at the thought. “You think so?”

“Could be,” Val shrugs. “You never know. This planet’s full of surprises.”

Ari chuckles softly. “Yeah, surprises. Let’s hope the next one’s a good one.”

Val raises her bottle in a mock toast. “To good surprises, then.” Ari clinks an imaginary glass with her and smiles. She knows Val is probably only telling her what she wants to hear. But she still appreciates it. 

“Thanks, Val.” She says, watching the woman who’s become a sister to her as she kicks her legs up to cross and rest them on the table in front of her. She takes a long drink before humming dismissively. 

“Don’t mention it.”

Chapter Text

Loki stands in the private guest room provided by the Grandmaster, a luxurious space adorned with plush furnishings and decadent decorations. The air is thick with the scent of exotic flowers, and the distant sounds of the party preparations drift through the open balcony doors. It’s a place of shockingly high quality for the planet’s… characteristics. It makes sense, though; The Grandmaster is the king of this place. Everything he has access to should be luxury. 

Loki gazes at his reflection in the full body mirror, his fingers trailing thoughtfully along his jawline. Tonight’s plan requires a careful balance of allure and distance. The Grandmaster has not exactly made an effort to hide the fact that he finds Loki attractive, and with a man who has a mind that truly only desires one thing, he should be laughably easy to manipulate. 

If he is going to do this, he needs to find a way to tease the Grandmaster just enough to keep him intrigued but maintain enough distance to avoid any unwanted advances. He conjures clothing for himself, choosing something that hugs his form but remains modest, a dark ensemble of tight-fitting trousers and a high-collared tunic. It accentuates his physique without revealing too much, a compromise between his preference for coverage and the necessity of his charade.

He shudders at the idea of entertaining this creature’s company, but all things considered, it could be… worse. He itches for his magic, reaching out to look for Sigyn, a sign of the bond they forged to track one another in events such as these, but he comes up short.

It is like his magic hits a wall; he finds nothing. “Odd…” Loki mutters to himself, trying to quell the nervous fluttering of his heart. It must be this room, he reasons, looking around at the walls. There must be something blocking my magic. 

Interesting that there would be anything considering they apparently don’t get many sorcerers on this planet…

He will have to check for her again once he is out of here. He had used his magic earlier, so this planet obviously allows him access. He simply needs to find out where. 

With a final adjustment to his collar, he takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the night ahead. He cannot afford to lose focus. 

As Loki descends the grand staircase into the heart of the party, his eyes take in the scene from the shadows. The hall is a riot of color and sound, filled with guests from countless worlds, most of which are members of species that he can’t even identify.

His gaze sweeps the room, cataloging faces. But his attention is drawn inevitably to the Grandmaster, who stands at the center of it all, plucking a flute of some brightly colored liquid off of the tray of a passing servant. 

The Grandmaster’s eyes light up when he spots Loki approaching. The predatory smile that spreads across his face is unnerving, but Loki forces his own smile in return. He glides through the crowd, making a beeline toward the man awaiting him. 

“Ah, there he is, my star of the evening,” the Grandmaster exclaims, opening his arms in a welcoming gesture. Loki sincerely hopes that he isn’t expecting a hug. “You clean up nice, sweetheart.”

Again with the damn ‘sweetheart’, Loki thinks, but doesn’t allow his irritation to breach the surface. He bows slightly, his eyes never leaving the Grandmaster’s. “You are too kind, Grandmaster. Your celebration is truly a marvel.”

The Grandmaster steps closer, his eyes roving over Loki’s form with undisguised interest. “Not as much a marvel as you,” he purrs, his voice deep with suggestive undertones. “Come, let’s not waste any time. We have much to discuss.”

He guides Loki to a slightly more secluded area of the hall, a lavish seating arrangement draped in silks and velvet. Loki cannot shake the discomfort despite still being around many, many guests. He gets the feeling witnesses would hardly stop the Grandmaster. As they sit, a servant appears with a tray of drinks, each one sparkling with what appears to be glitter. The Grandmaster selects one and hands it to Loki, his gaze sharp and expectant.

“To new beginnings,” the Grandmaster says, raising his glass.

Loki hesitates for a fraction of a second, his instincts screaming at him to be cautious. But he raises his glass, clinking it against the Grandmaster’s. “To new beginnings,” he echoes, taking a measured sip. The drink is sweet and intoxicating, warming him from the inside out. But there is something else, a strange, creeping sensation that makes him wary.

As they talk, Loki’s heart pounds in his chest as he senses his control over the situation slipping. The tingling sensation spreads through his body, making his skin heat up in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant, but deeply alarming. He can feel the edges of his mind blurring, the drug in the drink taking hold. Desperation claws at him; he needs to regain control, to clear his head.

He needs to find out where Sigyn is now.

He forces a smile, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Excuse me, Grandmaster, I need a moment. These festivities can be quite overwhelming.”

The Grandmaster’s eyes narrow with what Loki believes to be a combination of curiosity and suspicion, but he nods, waving him off. “Of course, darling. Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

Loki offers a tight smile before hurrying away, weaving through the throngs of partygoers. His heart races, each step feeling heavier than the last.

He spots a door slightly ajar and slips inside, finding himself in a secluded room that appears to be a bathroom, though it’s unlike any he’s ever seen. The walls are lined with shimmering tiles, and a strange, iridescent liquid fills a basin in the center.

He leans against the wall, trying to steady his breathing. With a thought, he calls upon his magic, focusing on the bond he and Sigyn had established. It’s a tracking spell of sorts, a magical tether that should allow them to find each other no matter the distance. Closing his eyes, he reaches out, his magic spreading like tendrils in search of Sigyn’s familiar presence.

And when he cannot find it, he searches again.

And again.

And…

Nothing. He feels nothing.

Panic surges through him, sharper and more terrifying than before. He reaches deeper, pushing his magic further, but the result is the same- emptiness. The bond is gone, or at least, he cannot sense it. His chest tightens, and for a moment, he can’t breathe.

He reaches out, searching, straining to find the familiar presence that should be there, bound to his own by the ritual they performed. But the connection is silent, severed. Loki’s breath catches in his throat, panic clawing at his chest. That can’t be right. It can’t be. The only way to sever a bond like this would be death, and Sigyn can’t be…

He thinks back. The last he had seen of her, she and Thor were alone in the Bifrost’s stream with a bloodthirsty Hela before she shoved him out into the vastness of space. The Goddess of Death, alone with his brother and his…

“Sigyn,” he whispers, a desperate plea into the room that echoes off the tiles. “Sigyn, where are you?” There is no answer, only the heavy, aching silence that threatens to consume him, broken only by the sounds of the party that seems to be moving further and further away.

Loki’s hands tremble as he pours more of his seiðr into the effort, pushing past the alcohol still trying to sedate his mind, searching every corner of the cosmos. But Sigyn’s light, her warmth, her very essence— it is gone, vanished as if she had never been. A ragged, wounded sound escapes Loki’s lips, and he sinks to the floor. His legs refuse to hold him upright.

“Sigyn…” he whispers, his voice a choked plea.

She can’t be gone, she can’t be. Not Sigyn, not the one person who has always seen him, always loved him, no matter what. Not now…

Loki’s fingers twist into his hair, nails biting into his scalp as the truth solidifies in his mind. Sigyn is dead. His beloved, his soulmate, his everything. She is gone, and he is alone. Grief threatens to swallow him whole, a crippling, bone-deep anguish that leaves him gasping for breath, tears streaking down his reddened cheeks.

Loki curls in on himself, shaking with the force of his sorrow. He had thought, foolishly, that she would be safe, that their bond would protect her. But it had done nothing to keep her from harm. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, the words barely audible through his tears. “Sigyn, I’m so sorry.” He hopes it was swift. That she did not suffer.

He tries not to think about all the ways Hela would have made sure that she did. 

The sound of footsteps approaching jars him from his spiraling thoughts, and Loki hastily wipes at his face, schooling his features into a semblance of calm. He adds a glamor over his face for safety and rights himself, standing just as the Grandmaster opens the door. But the grief remains, an ever-present, aching void in his chest that threatens to consume him. Sigyn is gone, and Loki is utterly, devastatingly alone.

“Aw, Lo-Lo,” the Grandmaster coos upon seeing him, frowning with shallow concern. “What’s wrong, honeybunch? You look shaken.” Loki swallows hard, forcing himself to meet the Grandmaster’s gaze as he takes an unsteady step forward. His heart still pounds with the raw anguish of his loss, but he cannot show weakness here. Not in this place, not to this man who claims dominion over it.

“It’s nothing,” he lies smoothly, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. He is impressed with how he is able to hold himself together when every bit of himself feels like fragile glass. “Just… a bit overwhelmed. I am not used to so much activity.”

The Grandmaster’s frown deepens, his eyes narrowing with something almost… dark. He steps closer, his presence suffocating. “Now, now, sweetheart. You must understand, I’m very good at reading people. And you, my dear, seem quite distraught.”

Loki forces another smile, though the effort feels like it might crack him apart. “I assure you, it’s just… It has been an eventful day. I have arrived on quite the interesting planet, you must understand how overwhelming this all is. Perhaps I should retire for the evening.”

The Grandmaster’s eyes scrutinize Loki’s face for an uncomfortably long time, or at least, that’s how it feels, but he nods slowly. “Very well, darling. Rest up. We can continue our fun tomorrow.” His tone is deceptively light, but Loki can sense the undercurrent. He really doesn’t like being told ‘no’, does he? 

Loki forces what he hopes appears to be a grateful smile. “Thank you, Grandmaster. I appreciate your understanding.”

With a wave of the Grandmaster’s hand, Loki is escorted back to his room. The moment the door closes behind him, the facade crumbles. The silence of the room presses in on him, amplifying the roar of his chaotic thoughts.

Desperation claws at his chest, and he feels the walls closing in. The image of Sigyn’s lifeless form haunts him, and the thought that Thor might also be dead at the hands of Hela shatters him completely. The weight of Asgard’s impending doom crushes him, leaving him gasping for air.

His magic begins to lash out wildly. He raises his hands, and with a scream of raw agony, he releases a torrent of seiðr. The mirrors shatter, shards raining down like jagged tears. Tiles crack and split, the floor buckling under the force of his grief. Fabrics rip apart, curtains and tapestries torn to shreds by the violent outburst of his power.

Loki’s screams echo off the ruined walls, a symphony of pain and loss. He cries for Sigyn, for Thor, for the home he may never see again. His voice breaks, turning into guttural sobs that tear through him with a force that leaves him trembling.

He collapses to his knees, his strength spent, magic flickering and fading. He cries, his voice a raw, wounded thing. The room around him is a reflection of him- destroyed, desolate, and broken. Tears stream down his face, unchecked and relentless, as he stares up at the ceiling, his vision blurred by grief.

His body shakes with the force of his sobs, choked by the agony that has hollowed him out from the inside.

The tears continue to fall, tracing hot paths down his cheeks as he lies there, defeated and drained. The ceiling above blurs and swims in his vision, and he feels the brunt of his isolation.

For the first time in his life, Loki is truly, utterly alone.

To Loki’s knowledge, it’s only been a few weeks since he landed on Sakaar.

And Norns, is he tired.

He tries to wait for them. Every time there’s another haul from the Scrappers, he rushes to check, his heart hammering with a flicker of hope that quickly dies. He meticulously monitors the records, tracking those who might have been taken for food (though Sigyn and Thor are both deadly fighters; Loki doubts that they would have been taken anywhere but the arena). 

Every single day, he watches and waits, his eyes scanning the faces of new captives, trying to keep his activities hidden from the Grandmaster. After a few more agonizingly long weeks, he gets desperate and uses his magic to reach off-planet again, searching for either of them. Sigyn would be easier to find than Thor, though he is certain if he could find one, it would lead to the other. And every day, he searches.

And every single day, there is nothing.

Surely, if either was alive, he would have seen them by now. Or heard from them, felt one of them. Sigyn is just as capable of tracking Loki as he is of her, and he has not felt the slightest inkling of her magic since landing on this cancerous tumor of a planet.

At the end of Loki’s third week, something breaks. He did not realize how much he was holding himself together until it all fell apart. If the universe is so cruel, if the Norns despise him so that they have taken two golden souls for Death and left him behind, then—

Then he’s done.

Loki is done.

He tries not to think about how pathetic this is, the last of what remains of the Asgardian royal family (not family, they’re not his family, how does he continue to forget that) in this situation. He tries not to think about how his entire life was ripped away from him in a pair of seconds. And he certainly tries not to think about Thor or Sigyn, about how cruel the universe is for taking them and leaving him alive.

However, in all honesty, he tries not to think at all.

Sakaar is a bright planet, though that isn’t exactly a compliment in this context. The sky is a swirling mess of neon colors, the ground littered with the debris of countless lost souls. It’s a planet of drugs and alcohol that he didn’t even know existed. Loud, cruel, enthusiastic, blissfully and horribly distracting. Words he could use to describe both the planet and the one who rules it.

“Lo-Lo,” as if on cue, the Grandmaster reaches out for him, gently resting a hand on his shoulder, leaving Loki to briefly wonder if he actually can read his thoughts somehow. Ultimately, he decides against it and focuses his energy into trying not to outwardly scowl at the nickname. He found the source of power on this planet and latched on with both hands. Luckily, the twisted king of Sakaar found something about him entertaining enough to keep him around. “Something on your mind, sweetheart?”

“Of course not, Grandmaster,” he lies, lifting a glass to his lips. It’s not water, of course, though he’s beginning to wish it was. An endless stream of alcohol seemed like a heavenly idea when it was first presented to him in his grief, but Sakaar is a disconcertingly dangerous planet. Lowered inhibitions and awareness can be deadly.

And yet, he’s still drinking. 

He’s teetering on the edge, and the abyss below looks more inviting with each passing day.

Loki lounges in the opulent throne room, pretending to be engrossed in conversation with the Grandmaster, trying desperately to control the direction of it. “So, Grandmaster,” Loki says curiously, “I’ve been wondering how a man of your… considerable talents came to rule over such a unique planet. Sakaar is truly like nothing I’ve ever seen.” And he can say that honestly.

The Grandmaster grins, clearly pleased by the question; for a man in love with the sound of his own voice and talking about himself, this question is a goldmine. He leans back in his throne, his fingers tapping idly on the armrest. “Ah, now there’s a story,” he begins, his eyes gleaming. “You see, Sakaar wasn’t always like this. It was actually a sinfully boring place when I found it. I consider establishing my rule as a public service, really. You see, I was—”

The doors to the throne room swing open, interrupting the Grandmaster mid-sentence. Topaz strides in, dragging a man with pale green skin and black, bug-like eyes. The prisoner’s expression is one of sheer terror, his gaze darting around the room before settling on the Grandmaster with desperate pleading. 

“Oh, good!” He exclaims, righting himself and clasping his hands together. “You found him.” Topaz shoves the man forward before the Grandmaster, who leans in, eyes gleaming with a disturbing light. “Now, what was it you did again?” The Grandmaster asks, though it’s clear he already knows. “Stealing money, wasn’t it? Lifting credits from me? I don’t appreciate being stolen from.” He says, lightly. “That really upsets me, you know? I don’t like being upset.”

“I-I’m sorry, Grandmaster,” the man stammers, clicking his words in a strange accent that Loki’s never heard, his voice trembling. “Have mercy, please, I can return what I stole. I can—”

“Oh, now, don’t be such a spoilsport,” the Grandmaster says, chidingly. “We have rules here, you know? And breaking them, well… that just won’t do.” He gestures with a languid hand, and two guards force the prisoner to his knees.

Loki’s eyes are wide as he watches, his mind racing. He had known the Grandmaster was ruthless, but the casual cruelty on display here is something else entirely. The Grandmaster produces a small, sleek device from the folds of his robe, its end glowing with a malevolent light. “Let’s not waste any more time,” he says, his voice disturbingly cheerful. He steps down from his throne and approaches the trembling prisoner.

The Grandmaster kneels and places the glowing end of the device against the man’s chest. A high-pitched whine fills the air, and the man’s screams begin almost immediately. His skin bubbles and melts, flesh dissolving into a sickening puddle of blood and bone. Loki can’t tear his eyes away from the grotesque spectacle, the man’s cries cutting through him like a knife.

The Grandmaster watches with rapt attention, his expression one of almost arousal as the prisoner’s form disintegrates. “Ah, what a show!” He exclaims, clapping his hands together in delight as the last remnants of the man dissolve into a viscous, bubbling pool.

Loki’s stomach churns from the scent and he clenches his fists, nails biting into his palms as he pleads with himself not to vomit. “I do love a good execution. Thank you, Topaz, you’re a doll.” He hands the contraption to Topaz as he steps back, who accepts it with a nod and a grunt. 

Loki’s stomach turns at the sight, the casual horror of it all unsettling him deeply. He forces himself to remain composed, his face a mask of calm even as his mind reels. He had thought he understood the kind of man the Grandmaster was, but this… this is something far worse. The Grandmaster’s gaze shifts to him, and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. 

“Now, where were we?” 

“Are you enjoying my party?” The Grandmaster asks, his eyes glinting with a predatory grin. Loki already feels the alcohol seeping into his system, the familiar buzz dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts. He attempts a smile back, though it feels like it fits sloppily on his face, not quite reaching his eyes. He thinks it might slip off completely, shatter at his feet, and he prays it doesn’t. 

“Do you ever tire of asking questions you already know the answers to?” Loki replies with a drunken giggle, a slight slur to his words. There’s a hidden meaning behind those words, but he tilts his head, laughing genuinely for the first time since he came here. Because honestly. It’s all so fucking funny. In a twisted, cruel way. “Of course, I am,” he responds, his voice lilting. The Grandmaster’s smile widens, a flash of teeth that sends a shiver down Loki’s spine.

“Goodness. It’s good to see you having some fun, sweetheart. Always so tense,” the Grandmaster says teasingly. He winks at Loki before he moves off to the other side of the room. Loki watches as he lounges on a plush couch draped in golden fabric. His eyes are heavily lined with blue eyeshadow, and his robes shimmer under the colorful lights. That’s when Loki realizes. The ticket to his self-destruction is right in front of him, wrapped in opulence and gold.

He’s heard about them, the Grandmaster’s Favorites. It would be impossible not to, even if they didn’t occupy the main subject of gossip Loki picks up. Usually women, though he’s seen some men, some others, people who the Grandmaster picks. Favorites, in Loki’s experience, have never lasted long. The Grandmaster runs through them like a destructive toddler does with a new toy, the longest he’s heard of one lasting is a little over a month before breaking and being discarded.

He thinks about it for maybe two seconds before he stops trying to think at all. With a boldness fueled by desperation and drink, he downs the remaining contents of his glass and stands. He saunters over to the Grandmaster in what he intends to be a seductive manner, but his movements are clumsy, heavy with inebriation. 

The Grandmaster looks up from where he lounges on the couch in the center of the room, halting his conversation with an attractive multicolored creature to smile at Loki’s approach. He looks like he approves. “You’re finally letting loose, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea,” Loki responds, not caring about the eyes of the bystanders on him as he straddles the Grandmaster’s lap. He can feel the room’s atmosphere shift, a collective intake of breath at his audacity. The Grandmaster, however, seems positively delighted. 

“Well,” the Grandmaster says, drawing out the word with a theatrical flair, “Isn’t this an interesting little development?” His expression is one of feigned surprise, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Perhaps he anticipated that it would turn out this way. Perhaps it always would have. And that thought should disturb Loki.

But he doesn’t let it.

“Destroy me,” Loki begs, the words tumbling from his lips with a desperation that’s more raw than flirtatious. His voice cracks slightly, a tremor that he’s sure works in his favor. The Grandmaster chuckles darkly, a sound that reverberates through Loki’s bones, and grabs him roughly by the chin, pulling Loki forward into a bruising kiss that’s mostly tongue. Loki’s skin crawls, but he doesn’t let himself pull away. He does not deserve that luxury. 

“Oh, Lo-Lo,” he murmurs against Loki’s lips, his tone dripping with dark promise, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The kiss deepens, and the world around them fades into a blur of color and sound. Loki loses himself in the moment, in the feel of the Grandmaster’s lips and the numbing haze of alcohol. He can feel the Grandmaster’s hands roaming over his body, possessive and demanding, and he leans into it, letting the sensations wash over him, drowning him.

Because for now, this is all he has left. 

He can only pray that he will be broken quickly.

Chapter Text

Finally. 

Home. 

Hela strides into the grand observatory, her arrival sending shockwaves through the room as she rips through the fabric of time and space. The walls seem to quiver under her powerful presence. Her every movement exudes confidence and authority, a regal aura that commands attention.

Volstagg and Fandral, lounging about with Skurge, immediately jump to their feet, drawing their weapons warily at the sudden intrusion. The air crackles with tension, and the soft hum of magic resonates through the room.

Volstagg’s muscles tense, his grip tightening on his ax as he demands, “Who are you?” Hela’s lips curve into a sweet, almost mocking smile.

“I’m Hela.” Her tone is calm, almost casual, as if she’s stating the obvious.

With an effortless movement, two black daggers materialize and shoot towards Volstagg and Fandral. The venomous daggers slash across their bodies with lethal precision, making them cry out in pain as they drop their weapons and collapse unconscious at her feet. The toxin is powerful, but not deadly. She could still use them. Their groans echo through the silent chamber. Hela looks down at them with disdain, scoffing, “I remember when you were foolish little children.”

Hela’s gaze shifts to Skurge, who stands rooted in place, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and awe. He grips his weapon tightly, knuckles white from the pressure. Hela approaches him calmly, a vision, her every step calculated and graceful like a panther. The sound of her heels clicking against the floor reverberates in the stillness. Skurge stands his ground, eyes narrowing as she looks him up and down.

“You’ll do,” she shrugs, her tone indifferent.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Skurge demands, leveling his weapon at her. His voice is unwavering despite the tension in the air, a testament to his warrior’s spirit.

Hela’s smile drops, her expression hardening. She leans in, her voice low and threatening. “Weren’t you listening?” She stares at Skurge, her eyes piercing, waiting for his response. The air grows colder, the darkness around her seeming to pulse with anticipation.

Skurge holds his ground, jaw clenched, his gaze unwavering as he meets Hela’s intense stare. “What do you want?” He repeats, his voice a growl.

“Oh, a great many things, most of which I unfortunately cannot have.” Hela’s eyes glitter as she draws a blade from nowhere, the metal gleaming ominously in the dim light. With swift, precise movements, she presses the blade to Skurge’s throat, the cold steel biting into his skin. “However, you can help me get a few of them. How would you like a job?” Her words are a silky whisper, filled with deadly intent.

Skurge’s brow furrows as he regards Hela warily. “Why should I help you?” He growls, his voice low and gruff, yet tinged with a hint of curiosity.

Hela pretends to think, her finger tapping her chin. The metal of her blade is cold against Skurge’s throat, the sharp edge threatening to break the surface of his skin. “Let’s see.” Her grip tightens, and the blade draws a thin line of blood that trickles down his neck. The crimson drop contrasts starkly against his pale skin.

“First and foremost, your alternative is a slow and painful death. I can make you live on the brink for weeks before you succumb. Really, it’s something beautiful, so trust that I have no qualms if you decide to deny me.” She says, and the cheerfulness in her voice makes him believe that she is serious about that.

She leans in closer, her fingers pressing against his temples. Skurge can feel the cold chill of her magic seeping into his mind, coiling around his brain, and he cannot move to struggle without fear of cutting into his own throat. He can feel the warmth of her breath on his face as she whispers, “Besides, does the name Casiolena ring a bell?”

Hela’s eyes gleam with a dangerous intensity as she watches the recognition dawn on Skurge’s face. His eyes widen at the mention of Casiolena’s name. His grip on his weapon loosens as memories of her flood his mind - her smile, her laugh, the way her hair shone in the sunlight. He had loved her deeply, until the cruel hand of fate snatched her away too soon.

Hela senses the shift in his demeanor and presses her advantage. “I can see it in your eyes - you’d do anything to have her back, wouldn’t you?” Her voice is a seductive purr, filled with dark promises. “All you have to do is pledge your loyalty to me, and I’ll make sure you’re reunited with your beloved Casiolena. An eternity together, just like you’d always dreamed.”

Skurge’s resolve begins to waver as Hela’s words burrow into his heart. He had resigned himself to a life without Casiolena long ago, but the prospect of seeing her again is almost too tantalizing to resist. His eyes flick back to Volstagg and Fandral’s unconscious forms, a seed of doubt crossing his features. Their still bodies seem to silently warn him of the price of betrayal.

Sensing his hesitation, Hela tsks softly. “Don’t let old loyalties blind you, Skurge. They cannot offer you what I can. With me, you’ll have everything you’ve ever wanted - power, purpose, and the chance to be with the woman you love for all eternity.”

Skurge swallows hard, his hand trembling as he drops his weapon, allowing his sword to clatter to the ground. Hela’s smile widens, victorious, as lowers the blade from his throat. “Wise choice,” she purrs, dispelling the blade back to wherever she pulled it from. “Now, let’s get to work…” 

Skurge watches Hela as she walks from the observatory, her every movement exuding a terrifying power and confidence. He hesitates for a moment, glancing back at his fallen comrades, before following behind her. The weight of his decision hangs heavy in the air, but the promise of reuniting with Casiolena propels him forward. What other choice does he have here?

Norns, he prays silently, save us all.

Hela forces Skurge, reluctantly loyal to her for the time being, to accompany her to Asgard’s vault. As they approach, Hela moves with deadly grace, effortlessly slaughtering several Einherjar guards. She strides past their fallen bodies, unbothered, while Skurge follows, a mix of awe and fear in his eyes. 

This woman looks far too similar to Loki for it to be a coincidence. She looks almost skeletal as she moves, deathly pale and thin, emaciated. The All-Father goes missing, and then she shows up… And with no sign of Odin after all this time, he really is beginning to assume the worst.

Once inside the vault, Hela approaches the Eternal Flame. She thrusts her hand into the flames, which turn black under her touch. She smiles as she feels her strength returning. “Beautiful,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

She then walks to a hidden stairwell, playfully gesturing ‘hush’ as she descends. Hela gleefully bounds down the dilapidated steps, arriving in a crypt lined with ancient skeletons. At the center lies the massive skeleton of a wolf. She pets its paw affectionately. “My darling Fenrir,” she whispers, her voice soft with affection.

Skurge stands hesitantly on the steps, his eyes wide with uncertainty. Hela turns back to him, her grin both menacing and inviting. “Would you like to see what true power looks like?” she asks, black flames dancing in her hands. Without waiting for a response, she moves to the center of the crypt.

The flames crawl up her arms as she begins a ritual, her voice echoing with dark power. “Með hinum eilífa loga, þú ert endurfæddur!” The flames sink into the ground, and a pulse of dark energy reverberates through the crypt, reviving the skeletons of long-dead soldiers.

Their eyes glow with an eerie light as they rise, undead and loyal. Fenrir’s eyes also ignite with a sinister glow, and Hela coos at him, petting his muzzle affectionately. She kisses the tip of his nose before turning her attention back to the center of the crypt.

She draws out runes with her foot and summons a blade, slicing into her hand. Blood drips onto the runes as she whispers an ancient spell. The ground cracks open, shaking beneath their feet, and Hela looks positively elated. She drops to her knees beside the newly formed split in the earth and she reaches down into it. Skurge watches as she hauls something out of it- someone out of it. A man with a large, obvious scar around his throat, as if his head had been severed. He stands before Hela, glaring at her as she helps him to his feet. His body seems to mist oddly before solidifying, becoming real.

“You certainly took your sweet time getting here, didn’t you?” he snaps.

Hela rolls her eyes. “Oh, shut up. Your sister was more of a nuisance than I gave her credit for.” His eyebrows shoot up in what is clearly an exaggerated manner as he gasps.

“No, really? Shocking, as I believe I warned you of exactly that,” he retorts, rolling his eyes. “She has a nasty habit of meddling.” 

“Yes, but I typically make it a habit to ignore most of what you say. You do talk quite a lot,” Hela responds, her tone dismissive.

“Oh, fuck you,” he growls, and Skurge is amazed that Hela hasn’t killed him yet. Instead, she giggles, pulling the man close by his tunic, worn and dirtied with age. He wears a matching grin as she does so, wrapping his hands around her waist.

“You can do so yourself,” she flirts back. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, elevating herself on her toes to kiss him, and Skurge immediately feels as though he should not be watching this. The kiss is uncomfortably long and passionate before either one breaks it. “I’ve missed you,” she breathes against his lips.

“Mmhmm,” he hums. He looks up at Fenrir, who sits silently, towering over them all in the center of the crypt. “I see you wasted no time reviving your pet.” Hela laughs and taps the tip of his nose teasingly.

“Don’t be jealous of the sweetheart.” She says, and Skurge tenses reflectively when the man’s molten eyes flicker over to him, studying him.

“And who is this?” He asks, still holding Hela by her hips as he scans Skurge from over her shoulder. “You look like you’re about to piss yourself.”

Skurge swallows hard. “I-I’m Skurge, Hela’s… assistant.” The man looks genuinely shocked at the introduction, looking back to Hela as if looking for confirmation.

“You found someone to be loyal to you that quickly?” The man asks, clearly impressed.

“I’m charming.” Hela beams, batting her eyes at him. The man raises a brow with a playful smirk.

“Is that what you have decided to call it?” He asks, and Skurge clears his throat, interrupting their banter hesitantly.

“And, uh…” He begins, addressing the man, “Who might you be?” The man grins at him, and there is something so remarkably twisted about it, Skurge can see why the two are so attracted to one another. Wickedness knows wickedness.

“I’m Ingvar,” he introduces himself with a polite little bow, his hand still holding Hela possessively at her waist. “However, you may call me All-Father.” Skurge feels a shiver run down his spine at the twisted grin on Ingvar's face. This man exudes an aura of malice and darkness that rivals Hela’s. His grip on Hela's waist tightens as he studies Skurge with those sunken, molten eyes, sizing him up like a predator assessing its prey. Skurge clears his throat nervously.

“All-Father?” He repeats, his voice wavering slightly. He can't help but feel a sense of dread wash over him at the implication behind that. Hela lets out a low chuckle, clearly amused by Skurge's discomfort. She leans back against Ingvar’s chest, reveling in his presence.

“Ingvar’s harmless... to those who know their place.” Ingvar’s grin widens.

“Indeed. Kneel before me, and you may yet live to see another day.” His voice is a low rumble, laced with a playful threat that still manages to send a chill down Skurge’s spine. He swallows hard, caught between the desire to maintain his dignity and the primal instinct for self-preservation. He should run. He should attempt to alert Thor, find a way to contact Odin, if they’re even still alive. This is insane.

As he weighs his options, Fenrir shifts, reminding him of the beast's presence and the potential consequences of defiance.

I can make you live on the brink for weeks before you succumb. Really, it’s something beautiful, so trust that I have no qualms if you decide to deny me. 

He does nothing.

“Now,” Hela says, “I think we have a kingdom to attend to.” 

Ingvar holds Hela’s hand to steady her as she steps over the fallen corpses of Einherjar soldiers, both of them beaming brightly as if they aren’t surrounded by death. Perhaps because they are. Skurge follows along silently and obediently, watching the two of them. “Can you believe it,” Hela asks, rolling her eyes as they step into Odin’s throne room. “No one remembers me.”

Hela directs her attention to frescos on the ceiling, depicting Asgard’s shining influence over the Nine Realms. Bountiful harvests, shepherds with full flocks, common folk throwing parades for Asgard’s army. Hela’s face twists with disgust. “Has no one been taught our history?” She scoffs. “Look at these lies. Goblets and garden parties? Peace treaties?”

Hela leads them towards the throne, shaking her head. “Odin… proud to have it… ashamed of how he got it.” She lets go of Ingvar’s arm and gestures for him to stand back. He takes a single step back, but Skurge takes several.

Hela twirls and fires long black arrows into the ceiling, cracking and ripping down the plaster. Beneath the surface are older frescos. These ones are far more dark and sinister, depicting soldiers in battle. Blood. A giant war wolf. Young Odin and young Hela. Slaves building the palace.

Hela smiles, her eyes sparkling with nostalgia. “We were unstoppable. I was his weapon in the conquest that built Asgard’s empire. One by one, the realms became ours. And Odin looked upon me with pride.” Her smile falls. “But then, simply because my ambition outgrew his… he banished me, caged me, locked me away like an animal.” The resentment in her voice makes Skurge’s skin crawl as he struggles to absorb… all of this madness.

Ingvar steps forward, his voice a dark caress. “Odin’s greatest mistake was thinking he could contain you. But now, you are free, and we will make them all pay.”

Hela spins around to look at him, smiling as she takes his hands into hers, the two of them gazing at one another like a couple reciting their vows. “We will tear down everything he built on lies and blood.”

Ingvar’s hand brushes Hela’s hair from her face. “And we will rebuild it in our image. Stronger. Darker. Unyielding.”

Skurge watches from the sidelines, a growing sense of unease gnawing at him. The ferocity in Hela’s eyes, the dark power radiating from Ingvar– it’s all too much. 

Hela strides to the throne and sits, lounging on it sideways with her legs crossed and hanging over the armrest. She giggles happily, giddy like a child as Ingvar stands beside her, a twisted smirk quirking his lips. “Welcome to the new Asgard,” he announces, his voice echoing through the hall.

Skurge steps forward hesitantly. “What… What do you plan to do next?” He almost doesn’t want to know the answer. 

Hela’s eyes gleam with malevolent delight, dark and wild. “Next, we solidify our rule. We remind the realms who truly holds the power.”

Ingvar nods, his eyes flickering with that same twisted intent. “And we start with those who will fight it. Those who think they can oppose us.”

Skurge swallows hard, a chill running down his spine. He can sense the darkness growing, an all-consuming force that threatens to engulf everything in its path. The sound of Fenrir sitting just behind them makes his hackles raise, but he doesn’t dare look back at the wolf. 

“Your brother, and Loki,” Ingvar begins, effortlessly lifting Hela into his arms as he steals her place on Odin’s throne, holding her in his lap, “and my sister will be an issue to deal with. I’m assuming from your lack of giddy tales of dismemberment that you didn’t succeed in killing them?”

Hela’s fingers trace the line of his jaw, as if examining the man with a strange curiosity. The same way one would appraise an artifact, studying him. “Thor and Loki are drifting aimlessly in space,” she explains, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “As for your sister, she slipped away from me. But if she wants that child of hers to live, she will keep her distance.”

“Child?” Ingvar raises a brow, his lips twisting into a disgusted grimace. “Don’t tell me she’s carrying that Jotun’s spawn.”

Hela’s eyes flash with recognition, and she lets out a dark, amused laugh. “Ah, yes. Loki. The runt of the litter. Odin’s hypocrisy knows no bounds, doesn’t it?”

Ingvar’s eyes narrow with disdain. “The thought of a Jotun offspring… It’s a disgrace. Odin allows that creature into the halls of Asgard while banishing his true heir. It’s laughable.”

Hela leans in closer, her voice a sultry whisper. “And we will make them all pay for their insolence. Sigyn’s child will be a bargaining chip, nothing more. And Odin’s boys… well, they won’t be much of a threat soon.”

Ingvar’s hand tightens on her waist. “And what of Thor? The golden son?”

Hela’s smile is cold and sharp. “He will fall. Just like the rest. His strength is nothing compared to ours. Especially without that hammer.”

Ingvar’s grin matches hers in its cruelty. “We will crush them all. The Nine Realms will be reshaped in our image.”

Hela’s eyes sparkle with malicious glee. “They will feel the full weight of our wrath.”

Ingvar nods, his gaze dark and intent. “And when we are done, no one will dare challenge us.”

Skurge, standing silently nearby, watches with creeping terror. The malevolence radiating from Hela and Ingvar is palpable, and he can feel the weight of their ambition pressing down on him.

Hela rises from Ingvar’s lap, her movements graceful. “We begin immediately. There’s no time to waste.”

Ingvar stands as well, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Let the realms tremble. The true rulers of Asgard have returned.” 

Skurge swallows hard, steeling himself for what’s to come. He knows that the days ahead will be filled with bloodshed and terror, and he is bound to follow Hela and Ingvar into the darkness.

As Hela and Ingvar stride out of the throne room, the two of them laughing and clinging to one another like lovesick teenagers, Skurge takes a deep breath and follows. The reign of terror has begun, and there is no turning back.

This is Ragnarok. 

Chapter Text

Loki awakens with a groan, the pounding in his head matching the ache in his body. He feels sore and drained from the night’s escapades, and the sound of the Grandmaster’s voice only serves to exacerbate his discomfort. 

“Morning, sleepyhead!” He chirps, his voice grating against Loki’s already frayed nerves. Loki buries his face in the pillow, letting out a soft whimper of misery. He can sense the Grandmaster’s presence and the overwhelming scent of spices that accompanies him as he walks up beside him, and he doesn’t even have to look up to know that the man is smiling.

“Ooh, are we, ah, a bit tired?” The Grandmaster continues, oblivious to Loki’s suffering. Or completely uncaring. Loki could imagine either one being true. “I wouldn’t blame you after last night. You were practically insatiable.” He teases, dragging his nails up the line Loki’s spine, eliciting an involuntary shudder as goosebumps are left in his wake.

Loki’s face flushes with embarrassment and shame, and whines softly, the memories of the previous night flooding back with painful clarity. Insatiable is a way to describe it. He had been demanding (or as demanding as one can be when begging), wanting, needing to lose himself. The Grandmaster is skilled at what he does, and Loki had been so high on lust, on pleasure, and a number of drugs, and for a moment he thinks he might have forgotten…

The thought of Sigyn and Thor sends a pang of grief coursing through him, and he raises his head, searching for the Grandmaster. Despite the discomfort of his hangover, Loki sits up, pulling the elder into another open-mouthed kiss, seeking distraction from his tumultuous thoughts.

The Grandmaster grins, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Whatever is making you so receptive, Lo-Lo, keep doing it.” The love of my life and my brother are dead, Loki thinks, Along with the rest of my people. There is nothing I am doing. 

Outwardly, Loki forces a small smile, his heart heavy with emotion and grief. “I aim to please,” he says, and there’s a bitterness in the words he hopes doesn’t carry to the Grandmaster’s ears. If it does, the man thankfully ignores it.

“Oh, I know you do,” the Grandmaster purrs, his praise sending a shiver down Loki’s spine that’s followed immediately by a sense of crawling shame. “So sexy.” Loki blushes, hating how much he enjoys the Grandmaster’s praise. Is he truly so pathetic that he will take anything? His cheeks burn under the elder’s scrutiny, but he forces himself to meet the gaze head-on. 

The Grandmaster leans in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Oh, that red in your cheeks. So cute.” Stepping away, the Grandmaster pulls on his clashing robes with practiced ease, smiling happily. “I’m gonna be out today, sweet thing,” he announces. “Make yourself at home, you’re welcome to stay here.”

“Thank you,” Loki murmurs, grateful only because his body is horribly sore and he does not feel like walking the distance to his own rooms. 

The Grandmaster raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk at his lips. “Thank you, who?”

Loki grits his teeth, swallowing his pride as he forces out, “Thank you, Grandmaster.”

“Good boy,” the Grandmaster chuckles, leaning in to plant one last kiss on Loki’s lips before heading towards the door. “I’ll see you later, Lo-Lo! Toodles!” He wiggles his fingers in a wave as he slips through the door, disappearing from view. 

Left alone in the room, Loki sinks back onto the bed, the weight of the morning pressing down on him, staring blankly at the ceiling. With a heavy sigh, he closes his eyes, willing himself to forget.

Shuddering, he turns his face into the pillows surrounding him, his skin crawling with the ghostly touch of hands that he wishes he could burn away. Every inch of him feels defiled, tainted and he feels ill, sick with loathing at himself, for sinking so low, for allowing anyone to touch him when the last person he allowed to do so is- 

“Norns…” He curls into himself, shaking with the force of his grief. Tears slip past his eyelids, hot and relentless, as he cries with an intensity that wracks his entire body. The sounds that escape him are raw, guttural, and he bites down to stifle the sobs that threaten to rip him apart.

He has to remind himself that this is exactly what he asked for. He asked for oblivion, for the sweet release of death that he has flirted with so many times before. Anything to escape the hell that has become his existence, and it will come soon. He only has to wait.

The Grandmaster’s power is absolute here, and Loki is the next toy on fraying strings for the tyrant to play with until he breaks. He just has to hope that his breaking point comes sooner rather than later. 

He’s doing so before he realizes it, reaching inward, drawing on the faint comfort of his seidr. He pulls from his pocket dimension, and something soft and familiar materializes in his hands. Red fabric, a familiar scent.

Thor’s cape. He’d forgotten he had it, tucked away for reasons he can no longer recall. The sight of it now, vibrant against the bleakness of his surroundings, brings a fresh wave of tears.

Loki wraps the cape around his naked form, the fabric still soft against his sensitive skin. It smells faintly of his brother, and Loki clings to it, his fingers digging into the cloth as if it can anchor him. He buries his face in it, sobbing until his body has no more strength to give.

He falls asleep cocooned in his brother’s cape, and when he dreams, he is home. 

Loki awakens some time later to find an envelope at his bedside. He tries (and fails, honestly) not to let the notion that there was a stranger in his room while he slept sink in- he could have sworn that he warded his door shut- and sits up, his back propped up against the pillows as he opens it.

His eyes are sore from crying, and Thor’s cape is draped over his lap like a blanket. The note, adorned with excessive glitter and written in flamboyant script, practically screams the Grandmaster’s presence. Loki’s lip curls downwards as he reads the message addressed to him.

Lo-Lo! 

The nickname makes Loki’s skin crawl, a reminder of the Grandmaster’s unwelcome familiarity, and the contents of the note do little to improve his mood. 

Since you’re still new on this planet of mine, I want to make sure you feel comfortable! I’m inviting you as my personal guest tonight (aren’t you special?)! Really give you a feel for how things work around here! I’ll see you tonight- I’ll have Topaz drop off something cute for you to wear.

I can’t wait to see you in it. Sexy thing, you ;) 

-GM. 

Loki sets aside the glittery note, its gaudy residue staining his fingertips in a way he’s sure will stick with him. He eyes the neatly folded clothes on his bed cautiously, knowing all too well the type of attire favored by the Grandmaster.

The outfit, sheer and revealing in a soft shade of green, leaves little to the imagination. He unfolds it and blinks in shock when something falls out of the middle, landing heavily on the mattress. It’s a strap of leather, and when he picks it up, there is a charm dangling from the center, shaped like a heart. 

Engraved with the word ‘Kitten’. 

A collar. 

Loki hisses through his teeth and tosses the thing aside as his cheeks burn with humiliation. He doesn’t know what he expected. This is exactly what he signed up for. A pet. A little toy, a glorified sex object, this is exactly what he asked for. 

No, what he asked for was death, this just happens to be the quickest and least painful way to get there. Or he thought it was. 

He could refuse. He could fight back, break free of this. This is a planet full of drugs and substances, surely there’s something in this place that could be strong enough to overdose on. But then…

He is in the Grandmaster’s sights now. He has seen the Grandmaster go as far as to raise people from the brink of death to prolong their suffering, he has seen what the Grandmaster does to those who displease him.

He has witnessed the wrath that can be unleashed with a smile and far too much pleasure. The punishments are not swift or merciful in this place. 

Loki swallows hard, his resolve wavering. Self-destruction, when chosen, can be a form of rebellion. He had chosen it when he initiated this… relationship. But his destruction is not his own to wield as he thought.

The Grandmaster would take pleasure in breaking him, would ensure that his suffering was prolonged and intense. Loki has been at the mercy of powerful men before, but he is not sure how much of him there is left to break before he shatters completely. 

Loki imagines himself donning the provocative attire, paraded around at the Grandmaster’s party. The thought fills him with a sickening mixture of revulsion and perverse anticipation. There’s no way around it.

With a resigned sigh, Loki lifts the collar and fastens it around his neck. The leather is cool against his skin, the charm resting just above his collarbone. He catches his reflection in the mirror and swallows back bile. 

Just a few weeks ago, he was a king. 

Loki descends into the chaos of the party, the cacophony of loud music and swirling lights an assault upon his senses. His eyes squint against the blinding flashes of neon colors, straining to hear himself think over the relentless beat of the otherworldly music. The air is thick with the mingling scents of sweat, alcohol, and alien perfumes. And the Grandmaster’s signature scent of spices. 

He navigates his way through the throngs of revelers, his movements purposeful yet guarded. His gaze flits from one hedonistic spectacle to another, observing the debauchery surrounding him. People on this planet have no shame…

Amidst the swirling chaos, a familiar voice cuts through the din and reaches Loki easily. “Sweetheart!” The Grandmaster’s call is unmistakable, drawing Loki’s attention. His stomach churns as he spots the Grandmaster seated at the center of a group of scantily clad, gyrating women of various species.

The Grandmaster’s grin widens as Loki draws near, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Lo-Lo, there you are!” He exclaims, gesturing for Loki to join him. “I was wondering when you’d grace us with your presence. You almost worried me, I thought you weren’t coming.”

Loki forces a tight smile, masking his discomfort as he takes the drink offered to him. He stares into the glass for a second, wondering if it has been drugged, before deciding that it doesn’t matter. Whatever the Grandmaster wants to happen, it will whether he drinks or not.

He downs half of it in one gulp, relishing the burning sensation that sears down his throat. This, clearly, pleases the Grandmaster. “Having fun, are we?” the Grandmaster purrs, making a gesture for Loki to sit. 

Loki works his jaw and sits, crossing a leg over the other with a show of practiced nonchalance. His cheeks are already burning, either from the potency of his drink, or just the way the Grandmaster is looking at him. The thought of the latter just makes him want to drink more. “Just getting started,” he replies, and that false smile is beginning to fit too easily onto his face. 

The Grandmaster chuckles, a sound that sets Loki’s nerves on edge. He raises his glass in a toast, his eyes lingering on Loki’s body. “Well then,” he says, his voice heavy with insinuation, “you should let me help you.”

Loki forces himself to nod in agreement, and he knows exactly what the Grandmaster’s idea of fun entails. As Grandmaster’s eyes flick down to Loki’s neck, he suddenly becomes acutely aware of the weight of the collar. His smile widens. Satisfied.

“And look at that!” He says, cheerily. “You wore my gift!” He claps his hands together as he leans forward, admiring it. “You have the most gorgeous neck, you know,” he mutters, his fingers ghosting along the skin of Loki’s throat not obscured by the leather. There’s a shiver that runs through him, followed by a profound sense of loathing.

“What do we say?” He asks, as if speaking to a child, and for a second Loki struggles to remember exactly why he shouldn’t conjure a knife and rip into the Grandmaster’s throat. 

Still, he manages to force out the words, “Thank you, Grandmaster.”

“Such a good boy.” He says, and there’s a side of Loki that pathetically responds to that praise. The Grandmaster’s hand drifts lazily over the back of the lounge chair, tapping rhythmically. “I think you might be becoming my favorite Favorite, Lo-Lo.” 

“I’m honored.” Loki says mechanically before knocking back the rest of his drink. He tries not to focus on the Grandmaster watching him but it’s very hard when he can literally feel his eyes on him like hands. 

“Here.” The Grandmaster holds out his hand, a little orange pill resting in the center. Loki looks down at it before looking back at him questioningly. “For your nerves. You’re always so tense, it stresses me out. I don’t like being stressed.” 

“…What is it?” Loki asks. The Grandmaster wiggles his hand for him to take it, and when he doesn’t do so immediately, he rolls his eyes before taking the pill himself. A second later, he reaches into his robe and pulls out another identical one. 

“Let loose, honeybunch. Always so suspicious of everything.” He licks out his tongue at Loki, showing him the orange pill fizzing and dissolving on his tongue. Loki knows the difference between an order and a suggestion, though, and he takes what is offered to him. He pops it into his mouth and it explodes with a pleasurable burst of citrus. 

“Thank you, Grandmaster.” The effect is… shockingly quick. It only takes a few minutes before he can feel it, a sort of floating sensation as it dissolves in his mouth, a euphoria spreading down to his bones. 

“Of course, sweet thing.” He says, and this time when he runs a hand up Loki’s thigh, the disgust and revulsion, and crippling hatred toward both himself and the Grandmaster is absent. And he feels good. “I treat my favorites right.”

A sound almost like a giggle bursts from Loki’s lips, and he swipes another drink off of a tray from a passing servant in the same practiced way he’s seen the Grandmaster do it, already bringing it to his lips. Everything seems a little less horrible. A little less real. 

Maybe there are good things about this deplorable planet. 

Loki lounges on the Grandmaster’s lap, his body tingling with chemical numbness. The air is thick with decadence and the unique blend of spices that make up Grandmaster’s unique fragrance.

Loki absently swirls the drink in his glass, lost in thought. He watches the pink liquid shimmer and settle before he lifts it to his lips again, sweet and delightfully strong. At this rate, he’ll hardly be lucid anymore. 

Good. 

The conversation around him is a distant murmur, the voices blending into an indistinct hum. His mind drifts aimlessly, and he is tempted to let it, resting against the Grandmaster’s chest. But then, a sharp interruption cuts through the numbing haze, drawing his attention as a scrapper addresses the Grandmaster directly.

“She took out my entire unit before I managed to get her.”

Loki's gaze jerks up, glass slipping dangerously in his grasp, and he spills a bit over the sides of his hand. His heart pounds in his chest as his eyes lock onto the figure seated nearby; Sigyn, bound to the display chair, unconscious but undeniably alive.

Gloriously alive.

The conversation around him turns to a blurry cacophony of sound against his ears and Loki focuses on not reacting to her, keeping his face neutral. He burns the majority of the drugs and alcohol from his system, trying to ensure that what he’s looking at is real, that’s Sigyn, and oh, that’s Sigyn. 

He sets his drink down with trembling hands, the liquid inside threatening to spill over the rim. “What do you think, Lo-Lo?” The Grandmaster asks. Loki swallows against a dry throat, part of himself screaming to lash out at the scrappers holding onto Sigyn as though she is an object. The rest of him remains frozen. And the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest is all that keeps him from cracking completely. 

“You are asking for my opinion?” Loki asks, his tone carefully neutral, and it feels like a safe answer. He decides it must have been when the Grandmaster presses a kiss against his forehead. A gesture he might have somewhat enjoyed about five minutes ago has soured significantly. 

“Mm, no, not really.” He waves his hand, telling the scrappers to take Sigyn away, possibly to the arena or worse, and Loki feels a jolt of nausea. He forces himself to breathe evenly. Showing too much emotion, too much care is especially dangerous right now. 

“Grandmaster,” Loki says, trying to make the words come as easily as they should. He turns to Loki with a curious smile, swirling a brightly colored drink in the hand that isn’t currently holding Loki’s waist. 

“Yes, kitten?” Loki gestures at the scrappers taking Sigyn away, and it takes great effort to speak evenly without sounding like he is rushing. It would take time to prepare her for the arena. He does not have much time, but he has enough of it. 

“Do you think… Perhaps I could keep her?” The Grandmaster’s eyebrows raise up and when his smile falters, Loki can feel his heart sink. 

“Keep?” 

“Not permanently. Use,” he corrects himself and hates himself for doing so, loathes every bit of himself for daring to speak about Sigyn as if she is as low as him, as worthless, “Just for the night. She is awfully pretty. It would be a shame to lose such a body to the arena.”

He is proud of himself for the control in his voice, however strained it may be. “I merely thought... it would be a waste to not appreciate her beauty. After all, we are here to entertain and indulge in our desires, are we not?” The Grandmaster chuckles, grinning almost wickedly and he leans close to Loki, his lips brushing against his ear. 

“My kitten wants a treat, hm?” Disgust rises in Loki’s throat like bile and he feels a surge of resentment for this man, but he does not pull away. The Grandmaster’s hand runs up his thigh and he bites the shell of Loki’s ear, making him tense as an embarrassing noise slips past. Shame crashes into him like a wave and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to think of Sigyn. 

He is no more successful than he usually is. 

The Grandmaster eventually pulls back, pressing an open mouthed kiss against Loki’s lips, fingers hooked in the slack of his collar, before smiling. “You have been good,” he grins, and Loki hates the part of him that brightens to hear that, “I guess you do deserve a gift.” The relief Loki feels is so sweet he could cry. He will only be able to protect her like this for so long, but he clings to the hope that he can find a way to free her and get her off of this planet as soon as possible. 

“Thank you, Grandmaster,” Loki says, nearly breathless. “Thank you.” He goes to stand but there’s a hand hooking in the collar again, almost choking him as he’s pulled right back into place. The Grandmaster looks at him expectantly. 

“I love ‘thank you’s, sweet thing, but why don’t you- Why don’t you show me how grateful you are?” Loki’s stomach lurches, dread and disgust tangling together in his intestines, already knowing precisely what display of gratitude is expected of him.

Just minutes ago, it wouldn’t have mattered. It would not have made a difference, anything the Grandmaster asked him to do, because he’d wanted oblivion, he’d wanted punishment, but Sigyn… 

She would hate him for this. 

But ‘no’ is a forbidden word on this planet. 

“Of course,” Loki says, sinking to his knees as he’s done countless times now, for any number of people, the Grandmaster especially. But it does not matter. He’s done it before. The Grandmaster smiles down at him and Loki turns off his brain as he undoes the man’s robes. 

“Good boy.” 

He has already been tainted by this planet. He will not let it have Sigyn.

Chapter Text

Loki paces anxiously in his private room, chewing at his nails in anticipation. He has changed, discarding the collar and fitting a robe over the scant attire that the Grandmaster favors so vocally. Waiting for her. 

For Sigyn. 

Alive. 

The realization is both gratifying and painful to him for a number of reasons. Why couldn’t he sense her before? He’s been holding tightly onto the energy of their connection since she’s arrived here, clinging desperately to it. He can feel it now. What changed? And what in the Nine could be taking them so long to bring her? 

Just as he thinks it, there is a heavy handed knock at his door. Loki rushes to open it without a moment of hesitation, opening it to find two of the Grandmaster’s scrappers. 

And Sigyn standing limply in their arms. 

Loki’s heart lurches painfully at the sight of her and he shoots the scrappers a livid, deadly glare as he takes her into his arms. “Leave us,” he snarls through gritted teeth, slamming the door abruptly behind him. As the scrappers depart, leaving Sigyn bound and drugged in the revealing attire of a Sakaaran courtesan, Loki rushes to sit her at the edge of his bed. 

She follows him, limply, dazedly looking at his face like she cannot quite recognize him or understand what’s happening. He cradles her face, brow furrowed with concern, and begins to burn the drug from her system with his seidr. Sigyn gasps, eyes widening as she is jolted back to awareness. Her eyes dart around before she focuses on his face again, this time with clarity. 

“Loki?” She breathes, tears welling as her voice breaks. She pulls him into a desperate embrace, clinging to him as if afraid he might vanish. “Oh, Norns, Loki!” Loki’s own eyes sting with unshed tears as he holds her, burying his face against her shoulder, breathing her in. He never thought he would have this luxury again, holding her, feeling her… 

The two stand there for a moment, sobbing quietly in one another’s arms, before Sigyn tearfully speaks, “I was so scared that you were dead. What is this place?” Loki holds Sigyn tightly, his body trembling slightly as waves of relief and joy wash over him. He pulls back just enough to gaze into her eyes, cupping her face tenderly. 

“I am sorry,” he murmurs, because it only feels right that it is the first thing he says to her, his voice thick with emotion. His thumb brushes away the tears from her cheek as he looks at her, really looks at her, committing every detail to memory after fearing he would never see her again. “Are you alright?” He asks, scanning. “Did they hurt you? I swear, if they laid a finger on you…”

“No, I’m okay,” Sigyn whispers, leaning against him. “I’m okay…” 

“This place is called Sakaar,” he explains, “A planet at the ass-end of the universe. I was captured and brought here against my will, forced into servitude by a being called the Grandmaster.” 

Reluctantly, he separates from her, keeping his hands on her face as he searches her gaze. He aches to kiss her, to feel the warmth of her lips against his own, but he cannot bring himself to do so. He is unclean, tainted by this planet. Unworthy, utterly and completely unworthy of her. Sigyn’s eyes roam over his robe and he pulls it further closed, his cheeks burning with shame as he pulls away from her completely. He does not deserve to touch her. Not after all of this. 

“How long have you been here?” She asks, eyebrows creased with worry. He turns his back to her, unable to meet her gaze any longer. 

“Too long,” he replies, his voice strained. “Long enough for this wretched place to sully me in ways I cannot begin to describe. Time loses meaning on this planet.” 

“And what of Thor?” She asks, and Loki clenches his jaw, a familiar pang ripping through him at the reminder of his brother. 

“I have not seen any sign of him,” Loki says. “You are… the first. I had thought that Asgard was lost, that you and Thor… That I was alone.” Loki turns back to face Sigyn, his expression a mixture of guilt and longing. He reaches out as if to touch her face again, but falters, letting his hand drop. “I thought I had lost you forever,” he whispers brokenly. 

“Hela nearly killed me,” Sigyn admits tearfully, and the only reason Loki allows himself to take her into his arms again is because of her obvious need for comfort. “I was barely able to escape with my life. I attempted to worldwalk, but I fell off the paths. I plummeted through darkness for what seemed like…” 

“An eternity,” Loki finishes for her, knowing all too well the sensation of falling aimlessly through the void. Sigyn nods. Loki holds Sigyn tightly, her familiar warmth soothing to the aching emptiness he has carried. His throat constricts with emotion as he breathes in her comforting scent, allowing himself to revel in her presence despite the self-loathing that gnaws at him. 

“I searched for you, for any sign of you or Thor,” he says, his voice thick. “But this cursed place is a labyrinth, and… Your journey through the void made you inaccessible to me.” He pulls back slightly, cradling her face in his hands as he studies her features, committing every detail to memory once more.

He will miss her. So very much. 

“If I am alive,” Sigyn says, “Then… It makes sense that Thor must be as well. Hela pushed him from the Bifröst stream after you, and you survived.” She reasons, and the wheels Loki’s mind begin turning rapidly. Lost things… They arrive here. That is the thing with this planet, the Lost become Found. “Perhaps Thor…” 

“I will keep my eye out. In the meantime,” Loki says, still thinking, “We have to be careful. The Grandmaster only allowed me to see you privately because he was under the impression that I wanted you for sex. He does not- cannot be made aware that we know one another.” He does not look at her face when he tells her that, fearful of what he might see. “He will want you in the gladiator pits due to the attention the slaughter you managed before you were captured caused. It will not be easy, but with your magic and your strength, I believe you can-” 

“Loki,” Sigyn interrupts him with a trembling voice and he does meet her eyes again immediately upon hearing it, concern overwhelming his strategic mind. Sigyn swallows hard, her hand trembling as it comes to rest on her abdomen. “I… I cannot keep fighting like this.” She says, and Loki moves to her side swiftly, kneeling in front of her. 

“Are you hurt?” He asks, lifting her hand to check her for any wounds, but he did not see any when she was brought in, and he does not see any now. 

Sigyn shakes her head tearfully, and it clicks in Loki’s mind a fraction of a second before she says it. “I’m pregnant.” 

Loki freezes, his eyes widening as the revelation sinks in. A torrent of emotions floods through him- disbelief, fear, elation, and an overwhelming sense of protectiveness. His gaze drops to her abdomen, imagining the tiny life growing within her. In that moment, everything else fades into the background. He gently places his hand over hers, feeling the warmth of her skin against his. 

“How...?” He breathes, shakily, his mind reeling, “How long?” Sigyn’s eyes shine with unshed tears as she meets Loki’s questioning gaze. 

“A couple of weeks, I believe,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “I only realized it recently, but…” She trails off, biting her lip. Loki feels his heart pounding in his chest, a mixture of joy and trepidation coursing through his veins. 

A child. 

Their child. 

The thought is almost too much to comprehend. 

He reaches out, cupping Sigyn’s face tenderly with his free hand as she begins to weep quietly. “Why did you not tell me sooner?” He asks, his thumb caressing her cheek.

“I was afraid,” she confesses, leaning into his touch. “With everything happening, the preparations, the dangers we face... There never seemed to be an opportune time, and I didn’t want to burden you further.” Loki shakes his head, a small, disbelieving laugh escaping his lips. The very idea is ludicrous. “Though I suppose now is not particularly ideal either.” 

“You could never be a burden to me.” He shifts closer on his knees, resting his forehead against hers. “We will… I will find a way to keep you safe,” Loki promises. “The Grandmaster cannot know about this. Pregnancy puts you at much greater risk on this planet. I will have to find a way to keep you separated from him.” 

He shudders to imagine what he will have to agree to in order to curb the Grandmaster’s suspicions long enough to get Sigyn to a safer location. But he does not let it show, schooling his features to neutrality. “For tonight, though… You must rest. I cannot imagine how exhausted you must be.”

She nods, reaching up to caress his face tenderly. “I will rest, my love. But you must promise me the same- to take care of yourself as well.” She looks into his eyes and holds his gaze intently. “We are in this together, no matter what lies ahead.” 

Loki leans into her touch, his expression softening. Allowing himself this. Just… Just for a second. “Come here,” she commands, and he obeys, crawling into bed beside her and settling into her arms. Breathing her in. Holding her. Her heartbeat beneath his ear is the most beautiful sound he thinks he’s ever heard. “I love you.” She says, and it’s enough to give him pause, his voice a vicious hiss of all the reasons she shouldn’t. But then her fingernails are running along his scalp, a touch that doesn’t disgust him, chaste contact that does not make him feel stained, and he melts into it. A few tears slip down his cheeks before he can manage to prevent it.  

“I love you too.”

Loki is summoned to the Grandmaster’s chambers early the next morning, and he can feel his intestines squirming with dread at the knowledge of what the tyrant wants with him. He feels even more disgusted with himself, knowing he will have to engage with Sigyn here, pregnant with his child and in danger while he is getting fucked into the mattress by this planet’s ruler.

Loki slips from bed beside her, leaving her to sleep as he goes to shower, turning on the water as hot as he can take it, stepping under the stream. 

Sigyn cannot know what transpires between himself and the Grandmaster. It would disgust her, a betrayal that would break her heart, and he cannot do that to her. He will have to find a way to get her off of this planet, but… He will have to stay. After what he has become, it is the obvious choice.

The scalding water pounds against Loki’s skin, turning it an angry red. He grits his teeth, leaning his forehead against the cool tiles. Loki’s fists clench as shame and rage war within him. He has never been a stranger to lying. It comes easily to him, and often it is much easier than facing the truth, losing yourself in a lie. But lying to Sigyn… It is a beast of a different kind. 

Loki dries himself, shutting off the water as he steps out of the shower, his pale skin red from the heat. He feels faintly dizzy but he ignores it, running a hand through his wet hair. He pauses when he sees Sigyn already awake, fixing her hair in a mirror at their bedside. She turns upon hearing him and smiles. “There you are,” she says, and there’s a tenderness in her face that threatens to shatter him. 

Loki swallows hard, forcing a smile as he pulls her into his arms, cherishing her warmth, her softness, her floral scent. For these fleeting moments she is his world, a solace from the nightmare his life has become. But it cannot last. He will not allow the Grandmaster to destroy the only light in his life. No matter the cost, he will get Sigyn off Sakaar. Even if it means destroying himself in the process. 

“I have to go,” he tells her. “The Grandmaster has requested my presence. There is no way around it.” He straightens, keeping the nervousness off his face as he smiles disarmingly at her, gathering clothing from the dresser. “I will be gone for a few hours. There is food and drink in the refrigerator for you if you find yourself craving, and I will try to bring more when I return.” 

Loki stands before the mirror in his quarters, staring at the outfit draped over his arm. It’s another one of the Grandmaster’s chosen ensembles: a revealing set of garments made of shimmering fabric that he’s sure will cling to his form. He feels a familiar wave of discomfort at the sight of it, but he knows better than to defy the Grandmaster’s whims. Ironic, really. Just a day ago, he had been searching for destruction and now he is doing all he can to avoid it. 

As he begins to change, Sigyn watches him from the bed, her eyes filled with concern. “Loki,” she says softly, “is this really necessary? This clothing… It is so unlike you.”

Loki forces a smile, masking his discomfort with practiced ease. “It’s standard attire here on Sakaar. The Grandmaster has a certain… taste. He likes flamboyance and extravagance. We must adapt to our surroundings, unpleasant as they may be.”

Sigyn’s worry deepens, her golden eyes searching his face. “But are you comfortable with this? It seems… degrading.” You have no idea, Loki thinks, but does not say. 

“Comfort is a luxury we cannot afford here,” he replies instead, his tone gentle but firm. He cannot let her see the depths of his suffering, not when he needs to be strong for both of them. Not with what he’s done. “I assure you, I am managing.”

She stands and approaches him, her fingers brushing against the thin fabric of his outfit. “And why does the Grandmaster summon you so often? What does he want with you?” Her broaching questions are inching a bit too close to the truth. Sigyn is no fool, if she continues poking around, she will find something. 

Loki swallows hard, fighting the urge to flinch away from her touch. “He values my company,” he lies smoothly. “We discuss strategy, politics, matters of state. He finds me… entertaining.”

Sigyn looks unconvinced, like she knows there is something more that he is not telling her, but she nods slowly. “Just… Please be careful, Loki. I worry about you,” she says, leaning forward to kiss him. 

Quickly, he reaches for her hand, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles before she can lean in properly, ignoring the way her face falls. “I will.”

She squeezes his hand, her expression softening. “Come back to me soon.”

“I will,” he repeats, pulling away. He finishes dressing, the revealing outfit making him feel exposed in a variety of ways. 

And he leaves her. 

As he approaches the opulent doors of the Grandmaster’s chambers, he takes a deep breath, preparing himself for what lies ahead as much as he can. The guards nod and let him in, their expressions impassive. Loki’s stomach churns as he steps into the lavish room, where the Grandmaster lounges on a massive bed, a predatory smile curling his lips. Open robes hang loosely off his body and he looks up upon Loki’s entry. 

“Come here, sweet thing,” the Grandmaster purrs, “Clothes off.” Loki’s hands tremble slightly, but he forces a smile, desperate to maintain the facade of compliance. He undresses, peeling away the fabric on his body. The vulnerability he feels is suffocating, but he pushes it aside, pushes everything aside.

It’s only your body, he reminds himself. That’s all it is. 

As Loki slides into bed beside the Grandmaster, his heart aches. He longs to be honest with Sigyn, but the pain and betrayal she would feel, knowing that he is being used in such a degrading manner, that he betrayed her, that he has laid with another... It would do nothing but hurt her.

“How was your night with my loan?” The Grandmaster asks, bringing up the very subject of discussion Loki wanted to avoid. His mind races, desperately searching for a response that will divert the conversation away from Sigyn. He leans in close, pressing his lips against the Grandmaster’s in an attempt to distract him. 

“She was fine,” Loki says, trying to sound disinterested. “But I hardly wish to talk about her right now.” The Grandmaster’s smile widens, his hands roaming possessively over Loki’s body, exploring with a familiarity that makes his skin crawl. Loki tries to suppress a gasp, but it escapes, and he hates his body’s involuntary response to the Grandmaster’s touch. There’s still pleasure in it, and he can’t believe that at one point, he almost wanted it. 

“Well then, we shouldn’t waste time, should we?” The Grandmaster whispers with desire. Loki makes himself smile, blood rushing to his groin as he straddles the Grandmaster, trying to appear seductive. 

“Certainly not.” 

Afterward, Loki lies on his back beside the Grandmaster as he nurses a drink, tracing patterns on Loki’s shoulder. He has to suppress the urge to slap his hand away. “Lo-Lo,” the Grandmaster says, and Loki tilts his head to look at him. “I have a question for you, sweetheart.” Loki swallows nervously, though he barely keeps the tension from showing. 

“Yes, Grandmaster?” He braces himself, his heart pounding as he waits for the Grandmaster’s question. Every part of himself is on high alert, ready to react or deceive as needed. The Grandmaster’s fingers continue tracing lazy patterns on Loki’s skin, sending shivers through him that he struggles to conceal. 

“The loan I lent you,” he begins, and Loki can feel his heart sinking, “What do you think? Fighter or not? You made a good point, it would be such a shame to lose a good body in the arena.” Of course the Grandmaster would bring it back up. Loki starts to quickly sift through any safe responses, anything, and he stiffens, his breathing catching when the Grandmaster gropes his ass beneath the blanket.

“I can’t imagine if you had gotten killed by my champions before I knew the pretty little kitten I had on my hands.” He flirts, and Loki can feel his cheeks burning in equal parts embarrassment and flattery. “Was she a good fuck?”

Both emotions are replaced with a spike of rage at the question, leaving Loki wanting more than anything in the moment to grab the Grandmaster by his throat, summon a knife, hiss ‘do not speak of her that way’. Spill his blood and watch the life drain from his eyes. But he does neither. 

He can’t. 

Loki clears his throat as he thinks, trying to find a way to divert the Grandmaster’s attention from Sigyn without landing her in the arena or someone else’s bed. Loki takes a steadying breath, calming the storm of emotions raging within him. He forces a coy smile and meets the Grandmaster’s gaze. 

“She was a fine companion, though I must admit, my tastes lean more towards... well, a certain type.” Loki’s fingers traced along the Grandmaster’s arm, his touch light. “Someone with power, confidence... an air of authority that leaves me quite breathless.” He leaned closer, feeling positively sick with himself, his lips brushing the Grandmaster’s ear. “I do hope you’ll allow me to properly express my gratitude for your generous loan. I aim to be a very appreciative guest.” Loki’s hand trails down the Grandmaster's chest, his every move calculated, copying moves that he has noticed elicit a positive response. 

He needs to divert this conversation from Sigyn before it leads anywhere dangerous. For now, playing along with the Grandmaster’s indulgent whims is the safest path. The Grandmaster kisses Loki sweetly, holding him by his chin. 

“Pretty words. You have quite the tongue on you, sweet thing,” he teases, and the double meaning is not lost on Loki. The Grandmaster’s gentle hold on Loki’s chin tightens a bit in warning, as he smiles and adds, “But I don’t, ah, appreciate you dancing around the subject.” Loki's heart races as the Grandmaster’s grip tightens, a silent warning that his evasive tactics are not going unnoticed. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

Taking a steadying breath, Loki meets the Grandmaster’s gaze with a disarming smile. “Forgive me, Grandmaster,” he says, his voice low and intimate. “She was… adequate. But I don’t recommend selling her to any of your lovely patrons. They may find themselves disappointed.” He lies, his mind scrambling for the right words, tracing a finger over the Grandmaster’s chest. 

“The reports did say that she managed to slaughter several scrappers before she was apprehended. I think she will make a very entertaining fighter.” He says, his heart hammering violently in his chest.

The Grandmaster studies his face for a few long, tense seconds before smiling, patting the top of Loki’s head like a pet before sipping at his drink. “Good boy. See? Wasn’t that easy, speaking your mind? You think too much, Lo-Lo, I mean it.” 

“…I’ll keep that in mind.” Loki says. He feels a small sense of relief wash over him as the Grandmaster seems to accept his suggestion about making Sigyn a fighter. They will want to prepare her for the arena, but if Loki can intercept before then… He will need to be fast, but he can make it work. 

He doesn’t have a choice. 

Chapter Text

Ingvar wakes up to a world devoid of color, where everything is a dull shade of grey and black. The air feels heavy, desolate, and every breath he takes fills his lungs with an eerie chill. 

Disoriented, he stumbles to his feet, trying to remember what happened. The last thing he recalls is the sharp, searing pain of Sigyn’s magic cutting through his neck. Vines coiling around him, squeezing precious air from his lungs. Panic sets in as he looks around, his mind slowly connecting the dots. 

“Norns, not here.” He mutters, and his voice sounds… strange. Broken. Wrong. 

This is all horribly wrong.

Ingvar runs a hand over his face, trying to collect his thoughts. Clearly, there’s been a mistake. He shouldn’t be here, if here is where he thinks it is. His spirit wanders aimlessly forward through the bleak landscape, struggling to process things as he walks.

His footsteps are silent. The ground beneath his feet feels insubstantial, as if he’s walking on shadows. He spots a young woman drifting nearby and rushes to her. “You! There’s been a mistake-” He attempts, but she passes through him like mist, her eyes blank and unseeing. 

“Hey! Can you hear me?” He shouts after her, desperation creeping into his voice. He reaches out to touch her, but his hand goes straight through her form. He stares at his fingertips as they ripple and mist, but ultimately, there is no reaction from the woman. He tries again with another soul, and then another, but the result is always the same. No one sees or hears him. The people here drift around aimlessly, their faces emotionless and vacant.

He is dead to every other soul here. Dead to the dead. 

Ingvar’s frustration only continues to mount as he continues walking. His hand absentmindedly moves to his throat for a sensation almost akin to an itch, but then he feels it, a jagged line stretching from one side of his neck to another. Severed. 

He remembers Sigyn raising his scythe with an undeniable ruthlessness in her eyes. Killed with his own weapon. 

Humiliating. 

Ingvar continues aimlessly forward, walking without a sense of purpose or direction. His steps lead him to a very dark, very isolated area of the realm. The shadows here are thicker, more oppressive, and the silence is almost suffocating.

As he walks further into the darkness, he spots a massive figure in the distance, a large shape, sleek and dark. The figure inside is small, almost skeletal, huddled against the bars. Curiosity piqued, Ingvar approaches cautiously. The closer he gets, he begins to realize that the figure is a young woman.

When he’s near enough to see her clearly, the woman looks up, her eyes wide and hollow. As their gazes meet, she crawls to the bars of the cage, the sound of chains rattling behind her. Her movements are frantic, filled with a desperate hope.

“You can see me?” She asks, her voice raspy from disuse.

Ingvar nods slowly, still trying to make sense of everything around him. The woman's eyes widen further, a flicker of life igniting in her otherwise deadened expression. She presses closer to the bars, her thin fingers curling around the cold metal.

“What is this place?” Ingvar asks, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and confusion.

“This is Helheim,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper. “And you… you are the first person who has seen me in a very long time.”

Ingvar stares at her, the reality of his situation sinking deeper. His mind reels at her words, the reality of his situation crashing down upon him. He takes a step closer to the cage, the first corporeal thing he has encountered since this began. “Who are you?” He asks, “Why are you caged?” 

Her eyes, shockingly green- color?- are trained on him for a long stretch before she speaks again. “I am Hela,” she whispers, and for some strange reason, he feels as if he should know that name, know that… “I am the daughter of Odin. I was imprisoned here by my father, cursed to oversee the dead but never to interact with them.” Ingvar’s breath catches in his throat at the mention of Odin’s name, and he studies the woman’s face for a bit longer, recognizing the shocking similarities she shares with the All-Father’s Jotun pet. The false skin Loki bore. It was hers. 

“I see,” Ingvar says softly, still thinking. “If that is the case, then why am I able to see you? And you, me?”

Her skeletal fingers tighten around the bars. “Simple. You are newly dead, your spirit just recently transitioned. Soon, you too will fade into the grey masses, unseeing and unseen by all but me.” A chill runs through Ingvar’s incorporeal form at the thought of his fate as a wandering shade, no concept of who he was or where he came from. He shakes his head. 

“There must be a way out,” he says, desperation creeping into his voice. “There’s been some sort of- mistake. I can’t stay here. I don’t belong here.” He belongs in Valhalla, celebrating with endless feasts and laughter, not- Not this. Hela stares at him with blank, deadened eyes. 

“If you have not noticed, you are very much dead. The Norns are not exactly notorious for taking requests regarding fate. If you arrived here, then they saw it fitting. There has been no mistake.” Ingvar’s mind races, refusal at the forefront of his mind. He paces in front of Hela’s cage, his spectral form flickering with agitation. 

“No,” he mutters, and he’s certain if he still has lungs and a working heart, he would be having a panic attack at the moment. He turns to Hela, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’re the ruler of this realm, are you not? Surely you have some power, even caged.” Hela’s laugh is hollow, scratchy and brittle in the otherwise silent realm. 

“Power? Look at me. Skeletal, dead in every way but name. I am but a shadow of what I once was.” She says, bitterly. “But you... you're different. You can see me, speak to me, even if only temporarily, you came here. Souls rarely venture this far. Perhaps…” She trails off, her gaze distant. 

Ingvar leans closer, hope kindling in his chest. “Perhaps what?” He urges. Hela’s focus snaps back to him. 

“I sense something about you. A darkness.” Hela’s skeletal fingers reach through the bars. “You have done something truly awful to get here.” He bristles at her words, growing defensive instantly. 

“Me? I was killed by my own sister for the crime of attempting to save Asgard! My sister and her- Jotun lover, they are the ones who deceived and destroyed. How am I at fault?” 

“A Jotun on Asgard?” Hela sneers, nose wrinkling as if smelling something foul. 

“A Jotun on the throne,” Ingvar corrects, “Odin has two more children. Two sons, one his own, the other a frost giant. The beast seduced my sister and turned her against me, it’s truly revolting.” Hela’s expression shifts, disgust and intrigue playing across her gaunt features in equal measure.

“My father has truly lost his mind,” she mutters, her voice dripping with contempt. “But your darkness... It is not just from your death. It is from your actions, your intentions.” Ingvar’s spectral form flickers with indignation. 

“I was trying to save Asgard! To preserve our way of life, our purity!” He exclaims, his voice echoing in the empty vastness of Helheim.

Hela’s eyes narrow, an amused smile stretching her cracked lips. “How very noble of you,” she says, “Altruistic as you may have been, your soul is corrupted now.” 

“You are mistaken. I am a good man!” He demands, his voice cracking pathetically with emotion. Hela’s smile widens, her eyes glinting with something malevolent. 

“What is your name?” He hesitates before answering. 

“…Ingvar.” 

“Ingvar,” she repeats, “I have known you for all of two minutes and I can tell you right now that you are certainly not a good man.” She says, and Ingvar’s anger and indignation must show on his face, because she raises a skeletal wrist with a rattle of chains to pause him.

“I don’t mean to offend. I am hardly a good woman either. I do not speak with judgment. However, if you are going to be wicked, I would suggest you embrace it. You look foolish attempting to deny it.” She says, folding her hands together in her lap as she shuts her eyes, an almost wistful expression on her face. “There is a certain kind of beauty in being wicked.” 

“You don’t know anything about me.” He hisses, and she looks at him through the corner of her eye before shrugging. 

“If you insist,” Hela says. “If the truth is so offensive to you, then I suggest some much needed self reflection.” Ingvar begins to turn away in his anger when he hears Hela speak again. “Where are you going?” 

“Elsewhere.” He snaps, “I do not particularly wish to stay and be insulted.”

“You will fade faster that way.” She warns. “With your spirit inactive. You might as well stay,” she says, and he can hear the undercurrent of desperation in her voice, the longing. Indifferent as she may act, she does not want him to leave. 

He shouldn’t care. He doesn’t care. But…

“I’ve nowhere else to be anyway.” He concedes, turning back against his better judgment. He sits down at the base of her cage, folding his legs beneath him.

Silence in this realm is suffocating, and he feels like it might swallow him whole if he does not attempt to fill it, so he searches his brain for a question. “How long have you been here?” is what he settles on. Hela blinks at him, as if shocked to hear him speak again. 

“I have lost count.” She says, her voice beginning to go out. Ingvar follows her gaze to tick marks scratched into the metal of the cage a little bit above her, etched into the bars. “I’ve lost count…” She repeats. 

“Tell me,” he says, his voice low and measured, “what do you remember of the world above? Of Asgard before your imprisonment?” Hela’s hollow eyes seem to light up with a flicker of long-buried memories. She shifts, mirroring Ingvar’s position on her side of the bars.

“Asgard,” she breathes, her voice a raspy whisper. “Golden spires reaching towards an endless sky. The clash of swords in the training grounds. The scent of mead and roasted meats wafting from the great hall.” She pauses, her skeletal fingers tracing patterns in the dust. “But mostly, I remember the glory of conquest. The thrill of battle, the rush of victory. Odin and I, side by side, bringing entire realms to their knees.” Ingvar leans closer, captivated by her words. 

“What changed? Why did Odin imprison you?” Hela’s face twists into a bitter snarl. 

“He grew weak. Sentimental. He no longer saw the beauty in our conquests, the necessity of our rule. He spoke of peace, of coexistence.” Her voice drops to a venomous hiss. “And so he cast me aside, locked me away in this realm of shadows and decay. His firstborn, his executioner, reduced to a forgotten relic.” 

“Believe me,” Ingvar says, “I know what it is to be betrayed by family.” He reaches up to clasp one of her cell bars at the same time she does, their hands brushing for the briefest of moments. Hela freezes, her eyes widening in shock. Her skin, pale and cold from centuries of isolation, tingles where they made contact. She draws a sharp breath, the sensation overwhelming her senses.

Ingvar starts to apologize, but the words catch in his throat as he sees her reaction. Hela’s gaze drops to her hand, then slowly lifts to meet his eyes. There’s disbelief and longing in her expression, as if she’s unsure whether to embrace the sensation or recoil from it.

“That… that was real,” she whispers, her voice trembling slightly.

Ingvar, understanding the gravity of the moment, reaches out again, more deliberately this time. His fingers touch hers, gently curling around her hand. The contact is tentative, almost reverent, as if he’s afraid she might shatter under his touch.

Hela’s breath hitches, and she blinks rapidly, fighting back emotions that have been buried for eons. The warmth of Ingvar’s hand seeps into her skin, a stark contrast to the eternal cold of Helheim. She tightens her grip, her fingers clinging to his as if he’s a lifeline in a sea of darkness.

“I had forgotten what it felt like,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible. “To be touched. To feel another’s warmth.”

Ingvar’s eyes soften, filled with a compassion he didn’t know he was capable of. “I will help you remember, then.”

A single tear escapes Hela’s eye, trailing down her cheek before she quickly wipes it away with her free hand. She draws a shaky breath, trying to compose herself, but the vulnerability in her gaze remains.

“You are the first person who’s seen me in centuries,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “You may be able to help me. There might be a way out for both of us.” 

Ingvar takes a step closer, his anger fading into cautious interest. “What way?” Hela leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. 

“My father’s magic binds me here, but it’s weakening. I can feel it. With your help, we might be able to break free.”

She leans closer, her chains rattling. “Lady Death,” Hela says, “She is an unforgiving master, but she remembers my tributes, my gifts. I was a faithful servant.” She explains. “It will take time and much of your strength, but if you can help me make a plea to her, appease her, she may be able to release me from this.” Ingvar’s spectral form shimmers with anticipation, his eyes locked on Hela's gaunt face. 

“Tell me what you need from me.”

Ingvar stands in the middle of Sigyn’s room, the dim light from a small lamp casting long shadows across the walls. His presence fills the space with an almost oppressive atmosphere, the golden glow of his scar pulsing softly in the dim room. He moves through the space with a sense of ownership, knocking over potted plants and sending soil and shards of pottery scattering across the floor. 

“Useless junk, useless junk, useless junk,” he mutters, pulling open her drawers with far too much force as he rifles through them. His movements are slow and deliberate, each act of destruction a small revenge for the pain and humiliation he has endured. Ingvar approaches her desk, rifling through the contents. It is a petty venture, he knows, touching her things for the knowledge that she would hate him doing so. 

He remembers when they were younger, how she would throw tantrums about him touching her things and ‘violating her privacy’. His fingers brush against letters, notes, and books until he finds something that piques his interest. It is a book detailing Jotun pregnancy, its cover ornate and well-worn from frequent use. He flips open the pages and cringes at the sight of the depicted diagrams of a pregnant frost giant and the fetus. 

“And she called me an embarrassment,” he scoffs, his voice echoing with a hollow bitterness. He imagines Sigyn’s reaction, the horror and despair she would feel upon seeing her sanctuary defiled, her secrets exposed. Good. She deserves that much.

Ingvar's eyes narrow as he continues to leaf through the book, his fingers tracing the intricate illustrations with a mixture of disgust and fascination. The golden scar on his face pulses more intensely, matching the rhythm of his growing anger. He slams the book shut, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. 

“Disgusting,” he hisses to himself. He imagines taking his newfound power to Jotunheim, extinguishing the wretched creatures once and for all. Sigyn would be devastated. His gaze sweeps the room, searching for something more, something that will truly wound Sigyn. In the corner, he spots a small, ornate chest. With swift strides, he approaches it, kneeling down to examine the lock. A cruel smile twists his lips as he recognizes the magical seal - one of Sigyn's own design. 

“Ugh. Of course. Always so clever,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Ingvar places his hand over the lock, concentrating his power. The scar on his face flares brightly, and with a satisfying click, the chest springs open. Inside, he finds a collection of personal mementos: dried flowers, small trinkets, and a stack of letters tied with a delicate ribbon. 

Ingvar’s hands tremble slightly as he reaches for the letters, recognizing the handwriting on the topmost envelope. It’s from their mother. A maelstrom of emotions swirls within him - rage, jealousy, and a deep, aching loneliness. He clutches the letters tightly, crumpling them in his fist. For a moment, he considers burning them, watching Sigyn’s precious memories turn to ash. Instead, he tucks the letters into his coat. He will see what words his mother felt she needed to hear over the one who stood at her deathbed.

“What are you doing in here?” Hela’s voice cuts through the silence behind him, sharp and commanding. Ingvar quickly shuts the chest and turns to face her. 

“Seeing what sort of life my sister began living after I died,” he says, “She’s no less pitiful than memory serves.” Hela scoffs, striding towards him with her usual grace, like a panther. 

“Pregnant with a Frost Giant’s child. It’s maddening, really.” 

“Disgusting,” Ingvar agrees, his eyes narrowing as he surveys the room once more. Hela reaches him, standing on her toes to wrap her arms around his shoulders, her touch cold and possessive. 

“Positively revolting,” she whispers, before kissing him deeply. When she pulls back, her eyes gleam with a sinister light. “Would spilling the blood of a few hundred guards lift your spirits?” 

Ingvar’s lips curl into a wicked grin, his golden scar pulsing softly as he leans toward her with anticipation. “You know me too well,” he purrs, his voice low and dangerous. He wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “But why stop at a few hundred?” Hela’s eyes sparkle with malicious glee. 

“Now you’re speaking my language,” she says, running a finger along his jawline. “I have been itching for a good slaughter.” She lets out a small, wistful sigh. “I have missed bloodshed.” 

“Mm, yes, but before we paint this golden palace red,” Ingvar grins toothily before lifting Hela around her waist swiftly, tossing her onto Sigyn’s bed before climbing over her. “How would you like to aid me in defiling this room?” Hela’s eyes flash with wicked delight as she gazes up at Ingvar, her fingers tracing the pulsing golden scar on his face. 

“My, my,” she purrs as she pulls him closer, her breath hot against his ear, “aren’t you full of delightfully wicked ideas today?” Ingvar’s hands roam Hela’s body, feeling her slight form shiver underneath the contact. Isolated for so long, she melts under his touch, and the rush of power that he feels…

With each caress, he tears at the bedding, shredding silk sheets and scattering feathers from the pillows. Their passionate embrace is a whirlwind of chaos, red and black magic swirling around the two of them, inflicting their destructive effects upon the room.

Bookshelves topple, trinkets shatter, and the air fills with the scent of burning parchment as Ingvar ignites Sigyn’s books, happily watching the grotesque account of frost giant pregnancy go up into flames. Their laughter, cruel and triumphant, echoes through the chamber. 

When they finally rise from the ruined bed, the room is unrecognizable.

Ingvar surveys their handiwork with satisfaction, his arm draped possessively around Hela’s waist. “Now,” he says, his voice husky with anticipation, “shall we extend our redecorating efforts to the rest of the palace?” 

0oooooo0

“You do not actually plan on keeping that fool following you alive, do you?” Ingvar’s voice is sharp as he walks by Hela’s side, the two of them having fixed their appearance from their precious moment of passion. Hela raises a brow at him, taking a few seconds to ponder before she realizes who he is referring to. 

“Skurge? Oh, of course not,” she scoffs. “He’s shockingly stupid for the replacement Watchman. It almost makes one miss Heimdall’s stoic superiority. At least he understood things.” She sighs, her tone carrying a touch of nostalgia that usually accompanies her recollection of things from her past. “No, the moment we no longer need him, I plan to dispose of him immediately.” 

Ingvar hums thoughtfully. “And what about the warriors three?” Hela claps, excitement sparking in her eyes as she latches onto Ingvar’s forearm, dragging him through the palace halls with a surprising burst of energy. They step absentmindedly over corpses, the evidence of their conquest littering the floor.

“That reminds me. I wanted to show you something.” She leads him down to a chamber in the dungeons, the air growing colder and more oppressive with each step. Ingvar allows her to lead him, passing the mostly empty dungeon cells until they come to a halt.

There, chained by one wrist to the walls, are Volstagg, Hogun, and Fandral, all three of them limp and unresponsive. Hela playfully shushes Ingvar before stepping closer to the barrier that separates the cell. She utters a single word.

“Rísa.”

Rise.

Immediately, the three warriors spring to life, their eyes black and dark veins crawling down their faces, growling and snarling like feral beasts. 

“Fascinating,” Ingvar mutters, a twisted smile curling his lips. “Are they dead?” 

“No, unfortunately. Poisoned, though. I will need to wait for more of my power to return to me before I begin raising the dead.” Hela beams at him, her pride evident. “Leaving them alive means they actually have intelligence. They will help lead our armies.” 

Ingvar steps closer to the barrier, studying the transformed warriors with a mix of curiosity and amusement. They look at him, unseeing, snarling like animals. Hela utters another word, this one lost to Ingvar’s ears, and they all go limp at once, dark veins receding. Impressive, he thinks, giving the smaller goddess a glance. “They look formidable. Perfect tools for our plans.” 

“Indeed,” Hela says, her voice brimming with satisfaction. “Once my power is fully restored, we will raise an army the likes of which the Nine Realms have never seen. With these three at the helm, nothing will stand in our way.” Ingvar turns to Hela, his eyes gleaming with a dark, shared ambition. “Lady Death will be very pleased with this tribute.” 

“And the Titan?” He asks. Hela huffs as if he’s just reminded her of something she had finally forgotten about. 

“Yes, yes, he will get what he wants.” She says, dismissively. 

“Do you think he will actually manage to woo Death with his offerings?” He asks. The Titan seems almost admirably ambitious in his endeavor. Ingvar can admire a man who has a mission, even if it is… utterly pathetic to throw yourself into such precariousness for- infatuation. It seems like such a waste of time.

Hela snorts when she laughs, hearty and loud, running through her slender form. “Oh, of course not.” She manages between thoroughly entertained giggles. “Death cannot be swayed by a mortal. But I imagine that it is probably amply entertaining for her to watch him try.” Hela rights herself and shakes her head, still chuckling softly. 

“Thanos is a fool, but a useful one. His obsession with Death serves our purposes well.” She turns away from the cell, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Let him continue his misguided quest. No matter what, it only serves us.” Ingvar smiles, taking advantage of the limited space between them to pull her into his arms again, enjoying the rush of power he feels when she melts into the contact she has been so deprived of. 

“You are wonderfully wicked.” He compliments, and Hela wraps her arms around his shoulders. 

“There is beauty in wickedness.” She muses, and Ingvar claims her lips, pressing his against hers, squeezing her waist possessively, hard enough to bruise. 

“So I’ve heard.” He pulls away and his smile is sharp when he meets her eyes, the scar across his throat glowing softly. “Now I believe you said something about guards?”

Chapter Text

Two days later, Thor crashes onto Sakaar with all the subtlety and grace of a charging Bilgesnipe, his arrival as loud and chaotic as the storm that often heralds his presence. He barrels through the busy market, a force of nature, drawing the wide-eyed stares of everyone around him.

Everyone, including Loki, who is perched on a high balcony, currently doing his best to keep a neutral face. From his vantage point, where he’s been doing his best to ignore the idle flirtations and overly familiar touches of the Grandmaster, his heart nearly stops. He feels the blood drain from his face as his legs threaten to give out beneath him. Thor— wild-eyed, ferocious, very much alive— is laying waste to the surrounding Sakaaran guards that try to subdue him with the desperation of a cornered animal.

Panic flares hot in Loki’s chest, twisting his stomach into a painful knot. So Thor is alive too. All of this…

He has done all of this for nothing.

He forces down the rising bile, acutely aware of the absurdly scant clothing adorning his body, a mocking reminder of his entrapment. Clearing his throat, Loki slides off the Grandmaster’s lap with a practiced grace, boldly moving without permission. Thankfully, the Grandmaster is far too entertained by the spectacle below to be concerned with Loki’s proximity.

“Looks like someone’s causing quite the ruckus,” Loki comments, forcing a light, careless laugh that grates against the urgency hammering in his chest. “Quite the fighter,” he adds, and that’s enough to have the Grandmaster clapping his hands together with delight. 

“Oh, and he’s a feisty one too!” His eyes gleam as he watches Thor grab one of the guards by the neck, slamming him into a nearby wall with a force that makes Loki wince inwardly. Sparks of lightning crackle at Thor’s fingertips, and with a jolt, he sends the guard crumpling to the ground, motionless. That guard is unlikely to be getting back up anytime soon.

“Ooh, and what’s that around him? Are those— Sparkles? Fancy!” The Grandmaster’s voice is filled with joyful amusement as he snaps his fingers, signaling the guards on the balcony to join the fray below. “What are the odds, sweetheart?” He muses, casting a glance at Loki that is almost too knowing. “Within the span of a few months, we have two sorcerers on our hands.” His tone is light, almost playful, but Loki detects an undercurrent of something far more dangerous.

There’s always something far more dangerous. 

“What are the odds, indeed…” Loki murmurs, trailing off interest as his gaze sharpens. A blur of blue and pink catches his eye as he watches a woman, quick and agile, move like a predator across the chaotic scene. She launches herself onto Thor’s back with the grace of a cat, her wild laughter mingling with Thor’s feral growl. Loki’s brows knit together in confusion and something close to alarm as he watches the woman cling to Thor despite his frantic attempts to dislodge her. The persistence is almost impressive. 

A second woman, this one clad in dark blue Sakaaran armor, rushes onto the scene with a swift, purposeful stride. She pulls out a weapon and aims it with the precision of someone who has done so countless times before. Loki’s breath catches in his throat, and he barely suppresses the urge to shout a warning when she fires. The projectile isn’t what he expected; it isn’t conventional ammunition, and perhaps on this twisted planet, that is far more terrifying.

An obedience disk flies through the air, attaching itself to Thor’s neck with a metallic hiss. Loki watches, heart pounding, as Thor’s expression contorts in pain and confusion. The cat-like woman leaps off his back just in time for the other woman to activate the disk. Thor’s body convulses, muscles seizing violently before he collapses to the ground, twitching uncontrollably. Loki forces himself to maintain a facade of disinterest, though every fiber of his being screams to do otherwise.

“I suppose you would like to head down there?” Loki asks, his voice as smooth as silk despite the anxiety twisting inside him. The Grandmaster, practically glowing with excitement, is already on his feet, tugging at his elaborate robes with a delighted expression. Excited for a new toy. 

Loki follows reluctantly, his mind racing as they descend toward the marketplace. He has to get to Thor, to warn him, but he must be cautious, must not draw suspicion. The stakes are too high; the Grandmaster must not know how deeply Loki cares. The thought of what the Grandmaster could do with that knowledge makes his blood run cold.

Once they reach the chaotic scene below, Loki seizes the opportunity as the Grandmaster’s attention is momentarily diverted. He conjures a duplicate of himself, slipping away unnoticed, his real self melding into the throng of guards and onlookers. He pushes through the crowd, heart hammering in his chest, determined to reach Thor quickly.

The Scrappers are already strapping Thor’s limp form into a display chair, securing him like some kind of trophy. There’s an odd combination of fury, relief, and smug satisfaction when Loki sees one of them slap a muzzle onto Thor’s mouth. 

Loki conjures proper clothing— or at least an illusion of it— before approaching, maintaining an air of detached curiosity. He approaches with measured steps, glancing around for any sign of the Grandmaster. Leaning in close, he whispers urgently, “Thor, you must trust me. Don’t fight, just—”

Thor’s eyes snap open, locking onto Loki’s with a wild, disbelieving intensity. His muffled protests are fierce, his muscles straining against the restraints as he snarls in frustration. Loki quickly glances around, his heart skipping a beat when he realizes he’s lost track of the Grandmaster’s location. Oh, of course. Why not?

“Be quiet, you dullard,” Loki hisses, his voice laced with urgency and barely concealed fear. Thor stills, if only for a moment, his wrathful gaze burning into Loki. If looks could kill, Loki is certain he would be dead a hundred times over by now. If not for the restraints, Thor’s hands would likely be throttling Loki’s neck.

“Listen. I’ve become acquainted with the ruler of this planet, the Grandmaster. He holds sway here, and I’ve gained his favor. The Bifrost brought me here weeks ago.” It doesn’t dawn upon him properly until he says it. Almost… Almost a full month. He has been the Grandmaster’s Favorite for far, far longer than he anticipated. 

Thor’s eyes narrow, suspicion darkening the blue as they bore into Loki. But before Loki can offer any further explanation, a voice whispers against his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. “What are you two whispering about?” Loki nearly chokes on a strangled sound as he whirls around, instinctively reaching to summon a blade, but his magic falters, stymied by an unseen force.

The Grandmaster stands behind him, smiling sweetly, that predatory gleam in his eyes as unnerving as ever. “Time works differently around these parts,” he says, his tone almost conversational, though the implications of his words are anything but.

The fact that Loki didn’t answer him, yet he still knows the subject of their whispered conversation… It sends ice through Loki’s veins. “On any other world, I’d be like, millions of years old, but here on Sakaar…” His gaze shifts to Loki, lingering just long enough to make his skin crawl. He averts his eyes, focusing instead on the ground, unable to meet Thor’s eyes that he can still feel looking at him. 

The Grandmaster, turning his attention back to Thor, tilts his head curiously. “You, ah, you call yourself ‘Lord of Thunder’?” Thor’s expression hardens, muscles tensing once again as his rage flares. Loki braces himself, knowing full well that Thor’s temper is nothing short of explosive. Muffled shouts— almost certainly expletives— spill from behind the muzzle. 

The Grandmaster gasps theatrically, as if suddenly remembering something. “Oopsie, would you— Oh, silly me.” With a snap of his fingers, the clasps holding the muzzle in place release, and it clatters to the ground before disappearing into nothing.

Loki nearly groans aloud in frustration, every nerve on edge. Thor with the ability to speak has rarely ended well for anyone involved. “Now, ah,” the Grandmaster says, gesturing vaguely between Thor and Loki, “What’s the story here?” Thor works his jaw, clearly relishing the opportunity to speak, and Loki wants nothing more than to stop him, to somehow keep him silent.

“I’ve never met this man in my life,” Loki blurts out, the words tumbling from his lips in a desperate bid to sever the connection. His delivery, though quick, lacks the conviction he wishes it had, but he can at least—

“He’s my brother,” Thor growls, his voice thick with anger and hurt. Loki can only manage a dismissive laugh in response, trying very much to resist the familiar urge to slap a hand over Thor’s mouth. 

“Adopted,” Loki adds hastily, though he knows it does little to diminish the truth of their bond. The damage is done.

The Grandmaster’s eyes flicker with renewed interest as he looks at Loki. “Is he any kind of fighter?” He asks, his eyes disconcertingly bright. “I mean, against a worthy opponent?” He chuckles. “I’ve seen what he can do when he’s all riled up. But, you know, in the right context…?”

Before Loki can formulate a response, Thor’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade. “If you kindly remove this disk from my neck, I will gladly demonstrate what kind of fighter I am.”

The boldness of the statement sends a fresh wave of dread crashing over Loki. He bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from lashing out, suppressing the urge to backhand his brother, to shake him, to cast a spell that would glue Thor’s tongue to the roof of his mouth. Instead, he clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms as he struggles to maintain his composure.

“Aw, listen to that, he’s threatening me.” The Grandmaster’s chuckle is light, almost amused, but there’s an edge to it, a familiar tightness in his smile that Loki recognizes all too well. It’s the same smile the Grandmaster wears before ordering an execution, and the realization makes Loki feel as though the ground beneath him is giving way. He steps forward, words of apology already forming on his tongue.

“Please excuse—” Loki begins, but the Grandmaster cuts him off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Hush, Lo-Lo,” the Grandmaster orders, not even sparing Loki a glance. The command is soft, almost affectionate, but the effect is immediate. Loki’s mouth snaps shut, his body obeying before his mind can process the command. A shiver of unease runs down his spine as he struggles with the unsettling realization that the line between his own will and the Grandmaster’s influence is beginning to blur.

Thor’s eyes flicker between Loki and the Grandmaster, confusion and concern warring on his features. Before Thor can speak again, the Grandmaster leans closer, his tone taking on a deceptively friendly air.

“Listen to me, Sparkles, if you want to get out of here, all you have to do is face my champion! All who do that are free to do as they wish.” There’s a dangerous glint in the Grandmaster’s eyes. There are likely several more complicated meanings in those words, but Loki doesn’t think he has the presence of mind or the energy to begin unraveling them all.

“Very well. I accept. Just point me in the direction of whoever’s ass I have to kick.” Thor’s voice is confident, too confident, and Loki’s irritation flares white-hot. If he could smack Thor without drawing unwanted attention, by the Norns, he would. It might be worth it to take the risk anyway. 

The Grandmaster laughs softly, a sound that makes Loki’s skin crawl. “Ooh, a fiery one. I like that,” he says, his voice heavy with a predatory satisfaction. He gestures toward his guards. “Go on, take him away.” The guards move with military precision, hauling Thor to his feet and strapping him into a wheeled contraption to be escorted out.

Loki grits his teeth, forcing himself not to follow his brother’s departure with his eyes. Instead, he pastes on a smile and leans into the Grandmaster’s side, acutely aware of the possessive arm now draped around his waist. “Scrapper 142, 802, you’ve outdone yourselves this time.”

The woman in blue armor, Scrapper 142, steps forward, her posture relaxed and confident. Beside her, the younger girl— Scrapper 802–stands awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot as she avoids meeting Loki’s gaze. The bitterness Loki feels toward her hasn’t diminished in the slightest since his own capture, and his narrowed eyes convey that sentiment clearly. 

142 bows slightly, her smirk never faltering. “We’ll take ten million credits. For the bounty.”

The Grandmaster nods eagerly, not hesitating for a moment. “Of course, of course! Anything for my favorite scrappers.” He waves a hand, and an attendant hurries forward with a credit chip. “Love you girls!”

“I thought valkyries protected the crown!” Thor hisses as they wheel him out, earning a snarl and a crude finger from the scrapper as they depart. A valkyrie… Interesting. So that is a brand he’s been seeing hidden beneath her arm bands. 

Loki hums softly to himself. He remembers reading about it; an unnamed massacre that wiped out the valkyries. All except one, whose body was never accounted for. Brunnhilde. The last valkyrie.

My, my, how the mighty do fall, Loki thinks to himself before he forces another smile, grounding himself in the present. The valkyrie aside, he needs to find for a way to keep both himself and Thor alive. He has to play this carefully, or it’s both of their hides.

And as if on cue, the Grandmaster turns to him.“So,” he begins, his tone light but curious, “Sparkles. What’s the, ah, story there, sweet thing?”

Loki shrugs, feigning nonchalance as his mind works to find the right response. “There isn’t much of one,” he replies with a smoothness and a practiced ease as he relaxes into the Grandmaster’s side. “It’s needlessly complicated,” he says, then after half a second, he adds, “and quite boring.”

The Grandmaster makes a face, and Loki thinks he sees the man physically recoil. “Ooh. Not too fond of the b-word, honeybunch,” he chides, his voice playful but with an edge sharp enough to cut.

“My sincerest apologies,” Loki says, the words dripping with the kind of insincerity that might go unnoticed— or might not. He doesn’t care to find out which.

The Grandmaster doesn’t seem satisfied, though, as he grabs a drink from a passing tray and sips it thoughtfully. “Well,” he continues, clearly unwilling to drop the topic, “any thoughts on his odds?”

The question hangs in the air and Loki winces internally. He knows that whatever answer he gives will be scrutinized, weighed. If he says Thor is too skilled, the Grandmaster might lose interest, but if he says Thor is dull, that may as well be a capital offense on this planet.

He opts for ambiguity, shrugging in a way that he hopes appears disinterested. “I’m honestly not all too sure. I hardly know him,” he says, doing his best not to lean away from the Grandmaster’s roaming hands.

The Grandmaster frowns, clearly unsatisfied with Loki’s evasiveness. “That’s a shame. Nothing special?” He presses, gaze sharp and probing.

Panic claws at Loki’s insides, and before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “No!” The sharpness of his tone catches even him off guard. He quickly regains his composure, forcing his voice into a steadier tone. “What I mean to say is, I’m not particularly able to assess his fighting ability. I wouldn’t want to steer you wrong.”

The Grandmaster smiles indulgently, reaching out to pat Loki on the head in a patronizing gesture. Loki fights the urge to recoil from the touch.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t, Lo-Lo,” the Grandmaster replies, his voice oozing with false affection. “I have no doubts about that. But I’ll be the one making all the big decisions here, hm? Just… Why don’t you just speak your mind? You know how I feel about communication! I’m no mind reader.” Loki swallows hard, his heart pounding as he realizes there’s no way out, no escape from the trap closing around him. No other way but through. 

“I suppose I could recall… a few things,” he begins, forcing a smile that he hopes looks genuine. He leans casually against a nearby counter, trying to appear relaxed despite the mounting pressure. The wrong word, the wrong tone, and Thor’s life could be forfeit.

It’s a familiar responsibility. But not exactly a responsibility he’s happy to have. 

Sigyn hums a wordless tune to herself as she sits alone in the dim light of a nearby lamp. The room is a poor substitute for the comforts of Asgard, but it is a sanctuary of sorts, a place where she can momentarily escape the harsh reality of Sakaar. She pulls a threadbare blanket tighter around her shoulders, trying to ward off the chill that seeps into her bones.

Loki’s quarters offer a small measure of luxury and safety. They are nice, clearly meant to be luxury, but on a planet where debris falls from the very skies, nice can only be so nice. Nonetheless, she is grateful for the protection.

The moment Sigyn landed on this planet, the first encounter that she had with the locals were masked strangers poking at her and wondering aloud if she would make good food. She shudders to imagine what would have been suggested had they known she was pregnant. 

The hum of distant machinery and the occasional roar of the Grandmaster’s partying guests filter through the thin walls. She wonders if this planet is ever quiet. 

Loki hasn’t come back yet. It is taking all of her patience and willpower not to drive herself utterly mad with worry. She doesn’t know the full extent of Loki’s involvement with the Grandmaster, and she’s sure he’s keeping it that way, but she has her suspicions.

The way he avoids her gaze, the lines of exhaustion etched deeply into his face, the way he returns each night with a haunted look in his eyes that he tries to hide from her; all of it speaks to a burden she can only imagine. Sigyn presses her lips together, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill over. In just a few days, everything has managed to go horribly and horrifically wrong. 

“Norns…” Sigyn whispers, wiping the wetness from her eyes before she begins weeping in earnest; she fears that if she begins, she might be unable to stop.

Closing her eyes, she begins to pray, a habit she’s clung to since childhood. “Please, let Thor be safe,” she whispers into the stillness, her voice quiet as she speaks. “Watch over him, wherever he is.” Her thoughts turn to her brave, headstrong friend, hoping against hope that he remains unharmed wherever he’s ended up. And that he finds his way back to them soon.

“And Loki…” Her voice catches, and she takes a deep breath, willing herself to keep it together. “Please protect him. Give him the strength to endure whatever he’s facing.” She knows Loki’s pride, his stubbornness, but she also knows the tender heart he keeps. The thought of him suffering, of being forced into servitude, tears at her, making her feel tremendously helpless. He has been through enough torment. More than enough.

“Whatever he is dealing with… I trust him to share when he is ready,” she whispers, mostly to herself. She still can’t escape the nagging feeling that something is very, deeply wrong. But… If it was truly a danger… He wouldn’t keep it from her. He made that promise; no more running. He will come to her. She just has to be patient. 

Her thoughts drift to her mother, a figure she hasn’t allowed herself to dwell on in years. Her mother had been a pillar of strength, but after her father passed, grief consumed her, leaving little room for anything else. There was only a shadow of the woman she once was. Sigyn remembers the hollow look in her mother’s eyes, the way she seemed to wither away, day by day, until illness took her. 

“What would you think of me now, Mother?” Sigyn wonders aloud, her voice shaking slightly. “Would you be proud of my union with Loki? Would you bless this child I carry?” Her mother had seen, before her death, the depth of Sigyn’s feelings for Loki. She hopes she would be happy. 

Sigyn places a hand over her abdomen, feeling the small, almost imperceptible swell beneath her fingers. The reality that she is carrying a new life, a part of both her and Loki, fills her with a mix of fear and hope. It’s a fragile hope, one that she clings to desperately in the midst of all the uncertainty. The thought brings a bittersweet smile to her lips. She and Loki will have a child. And they will be a beautiful, happy child. She will make sure of that. 

“I hope I’ll be a good mother,” she whispers, her fingers tracing gentle circles over her belly. The thought of becoming a mother, of bringing a child into this harsh world, is daunting and comforting at once for a multitude of reasons. Many of which she has no control over. “I want to be present, loving. Not lost in grief or overwhelmed by the past.” She does not blame her mother for what she went through. But she will be different.

“Please, watch over my little one,” she prays. “Keep them safe and strong. Let them know love and kindness, even in a universe as harsh as this.” She makes a silent vow to herself, a promise to break the cycle of pain and loss, to give her child the love and attention she herself had so desperately craved as a girl.

And she will be nothing like Ingvar.

This time, when tears spill down her cheeks, warm against the cool air, she makes no move to wipe them away. Instead, she leans back against the wall, cradling her tummy, finding comfort in the faint stirrings of life within her. She can hardly wait to start showing, though she sincerely hopes that it will wait for her and Loki to get out of this nightmare. The future is uncertain, filled with dangers and unknowns, but for now, in this quiet moment, she finds a sliver of peace in her prayers and the promise of motherhood. 

For now, this is hers. 

Chapter Text

“I have found Thor,” Loki announces as he strides into his room, his mind racing already with half formed plans. His mind is frantic, even as he tries to calm himself, his thoughts nearly going faster than he can comprehend them. 

Sigyn watches him intently from where she sits on the bed, wrapped in a shawl that he had given her to shield her from the indignity of her surroundings. Seeing her in Sakaaran prostitute clothing… It is wrong in a way he can hardly put into words. 

“He has been taken to the arena,” he explains, his voice tight with barely concealed anxiety, “He will be forced to fight, but that is not particularly a challenge for him. I will have to find a way to access his cell,” Loki continues, his voice filled with frustration as he paces back and forth. He rubs a hand over his face, trying to think of a plan that doesn’t end in disaster or a very unpleasant execution.

Sigyn watches him with a concerned frown, her hands gripping the shawl around her tightly. “You said you and the Grandmaster are close, yes?” She asks, her voice soft but hopeful. 

Loki’s heart sinks at her question, and he can feel the heat of a blush creeping up his neck. He prays it isn’t noticeable. “I’m afraid it does not work like that, Sigyn,” he replies, the words tasting bitter as they leave his mouth, “The Grandmaster does not typically do favors out of the kindness of his heart.” And Loki has already asked for Sigyn. He can already imagine the Grandmaster’s response if he were to request access to Thor as well.

‘Ah. Don’t you think you’re being a little greedy, kitten?’

Loki scowls inwardly, forcing himself to focus. He can’t afford to let his mind wander down that path. “We will have to find another way.” 

But as a knock sounds at the door, fear grips Loki’s heart like a vice. With a quick, sharp gesture, he instructs Sigyn to hide beneath the blankets of his bed while he prepares himself to answer.

Opening the door, Loki is relieved to find that it is only Topaz standing in the hallway, rather than the Grandmaster himself. He puts on a mask of annoyance, the usual expression he wears while suffering through her company, as he addresses her. “Ah, Topaz,” he greets with heavy sarcasm. “Disruptive and unpleasant as ever. What do you want? I’m busy.”

Topaz’s nose wrinkles in clear disdain as she scowls at him. “En Dwi is inviting you to the arena as his guest of honor for the fight with the Lord of Thunder,” she says, “So quit fucking your bitch and get ready.”

Loki’s smile remains fixed in place despite the fury boiling inside him. His grip tightens on the door handle enough to bend the metal and for a brief moment, he wonders if he would be able to get away with slaughtering Topaz. “Lovely,” he replies through gritted teeth. “I’ll be there.”

As Topaz leaves, Loki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He turns back to Sigyn, her concerned gaze piercing through him. For a moment, he’s unable to meet her eyes, the weight of his own shame bearing down on him. He thought he was unworthy of her before. Now… 

“I should get myself ready,” he says, his voice strained. Without waiting for a response, he retreats to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He takes a moment- just a moment- pressing his back against the door and shutting his eyes. The weight of the situation presses down on him like a physical force, and for a second, he allows himself to feel the fear, the helplessness. 

Norns, if this universe has any justice, please help me. 

Turning on the shower to muffle any sound, Loki taps into his magic, projecting an illusion of himself into Thor’s cell. Slipping a glamor over his features, Loki reaches out for Thor, using the same simple projection spell he’s used countless times before. 

When he opens his eyes, he sees his brother sitting with his back against a cell wall, a manacle fastened around his wrist keeping him tethered in place. 

Loki frowns. His brother in a disgusting cell. If he could do more, he would. But going there physically is a risk he cannot afford. Too many witnesses, too much association, and the Grandmaster is already aware that they are brothers. Any implication that Loki actually cares for Thor is a weakness far too easy to exploit, and he is already far more vulnerable under the Grandmaster’s control than he would prefer.

“Thor,” Loki greets, his tone light but urgent. Thor startles when he looks up at him before his surprised expression gives way to annoyance. Loki forces a smile, trying to maintain a semblance of levity. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” he muses, though there’s a note of genuine sympathy in his voice that he can’t quite hide. “Being lied to. Being told you’re one thing and then learning it’s all a fiction.”

Thor’s eyes narrow as he picks up a few loose stones from the cell floor, lobbing them through Loki’s translucent form. The illusion ripples like a mirage, and Loki forces a chuckle. “What? You didn’t think I’d really come and see you, did you? This place is disgusting.” It is not technically a lie. This place is a cesspool, but that is not the reason Loki is keeping his distance. The Grandmaster has eyes everywhere, and Loki can’t afford to be seen anywhere near this cell.

Clearly, his brother does not find the situation as amusing, and Thor’s jaw tightens as he hurls another stone, the projectile passing harmlessly through Loki’s illusion. He sighs, shaking his head. “Does this mean you don’t want my help?” Loki asks, his tone more serious now.

“Help?” Thor spits, his eyebrows raising in disbelief. “Where was your help when I was sedated and put in chains? Where was your help when they threw me in here?” Loki bristles but holds onto his composure.

“I’ve been busy,” he replies tersely, “What do you think I’ve been doing?”

“I think you’ve been cozying up to the man that is toying with my life,” Thor accuses, his anger palpable. 

Loki’s jaw clenches, and he takes a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure, though his mind is reeling. “Cozying up?” His voice is low, dangerous. “You think I enjoy this?” He gestures broadly, indicating disgusting surroundings of the prison cell and Sakaar behind him. “Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed to ensure our survival?”

Thor’s expression hardens “Survival?” he scoffs. “Is that what you call it? You’ve been living in luxury while I’ve been rotting in a cell.”

Loki’s frustration boils over, his illusion flickering for a moment before he regains control. Neutral emotion, he reminds himself in a voice that sounds painfully like Frigga, Too much one way or the other will shatter the working.

“You think this is luxury? This is a cage, Thor. A gilded one, perhaps, but a cage nonetheless. I’ve had to endure the Grandmaster’s whims, his games, just to stay alive.” His voice drops to a harsh whisper, “Just to keep you and Sigyn alive.”

Thor’s eyes widen slightly, his anger momentarily abating as concern takes its place. “Sigyn is here?”

Loki nods, a shadow passing over his face. “Yes. She arrived shortly before you did. I’ve been keeping her safe, hidden from the Grandmaster’s view.”

Thor’s anger fades a bit as he presses on. “Is she alright?”

“She’s… coping,” Loki says, his voice tight with the effort to maintain control. “It hasn’t been easy for her, being here, but she’s strong.” He hesitates, glancing away. “Stronger than I am, perhaps.”

Thor lips pull back into a scowl, his frustration building back quickly. “And what have you been doing? Cozying up to a madman. Have you once thought about her?”

Loki’s rage flares suddenly, overwhelming him with its intensity. “You think I do not think about Sigyn?” He snaps, his voice trembling with raw emotion. “All I do is think about Sigyn! Every miserable night in this place when I am forced to do things so far beneath me, I have thought about her! I could never stop thinking about her, and believe me, I tried!”

His illusion flickers as the connection almost breaks apart and he takes a moment to steady himself, running a hand through his hair. “…And I am doing the best I can with what is available to me, Thor.” Thankfully, Thor falls silent, his anger momentarily quelled. Loki continues, his tone grave. “We will have to be careful as we find a way off this hellhole of a planet.”

“And Asgard?” Thor asks. 

“Asgard is destroyed,” Loki replies bluntly, “I’ve no doubt Hela’s reduced it to ashes by now,” he adds bitterly, his gaze hardening. “You can thank your father for that.”

Thor bristles at the accusation, but Loki forges ahead, determined to focus on their present predicament. “Now is not the time to place blame, Loki. Now is the time to-”

“For once, please think for just half a moment before rushing blindly into battle,” Loki interrupts, his tone pleading. “If Asgard is still standing by the time I find a way out, then you can chase Hela around to your heart’s content. Until then, I would like to deal with one problem at a time, lest I begin ripping out my own hair.” He says. “I fear I may go grey by the time this ends.” Loki tightens his jaw, his eyes watching his brother’s face.

Thor has never been one to hide his emotions well and now is one of those times where it’s all plainly obvious how completely exhausted he is. He looks… older. Weary. Loki doesn’t like it. 

“I am tired, Loki. Of this.” Thor’s expression softens slightly, and he runs a hand through unkempt blonde hair. “I don’t know what to think. All I know is that we’re in this mess, and I don’t understand why you’re here, doing whatever you’re doing. I know that if you wanted a way out for yourself, you would have found it before Sigyn and I showed up. It’s like you’ve given up.”

Loki’s eyes flash, and he steps closer to his projection, even though he knows Thor can’t physically feel his presence. “I haven’t given up,” he says, ignoring the hissing voice in the back of his mind that taunts him with a yes, you did. “I’ve been trying to find a way out, for both of you. You think it’s easy to navigate the whims of a madman? You think I haven’t tried every possible angle to get you free?”

Thor’s shoulders slump slightly, and he shakes his head. “I don’t know, Loki. I just don’t know anymore.”

The silence between them is heavy, and Loki can feel every bit of that weight. It hurts, honestly, that Thor no longer trusts him the way he used to. Although, it isn’t as if Loki hasn’t given him ample reason not to. 

Finally, Loki breaks the silence, his voice softer but no less intense. “I’m going to find a way out of here. I promise you that.”

Thor looks at him, his blue eyes watching him warily. “And how do you plan to do that?” He falls silent again, and Loki takes the opportunity to reveal his plan, producing a small enchanted coin. A trinket he’s kept hidden away from a quest to Vanaheim when they were younger. The enchantment is still good. Strong.

“I need you to fight, brother,” Loki says, crouching in front of Thor. It takes a bit more concentration of his magic to do so, but he hands the coin to him through the space, allowing it to transfer from his hands to Thor’s with a soft green glow. “And I need you to win.”

The bustling streets of Sakaar teem with activity, vibrant with the clamor of merchants hawking their wares and the distant roars from the arena. Val strides through the chaos with indifference, her expression unreadable. Beside her, Ari moves with an energetic bounce, her cat-like features betraying her curiosity and the occasional flicker of unease. Ari’s ears twitch as she steals glances at Val, her tail swishing behind her. “What do you think the Grandmaster will do with the bounty?”

Val snorts, not breaking stride. “Whatever he wants, Ari. He’s the Grandmaster. Don’t waste your thoughts on it.”

Ari’s eyes dart around nervously, the guilt gnawing at her. “But he seemed different. Stronger. What if he… suffers more because of us?”

Val pauses to examine a stall filled with exotic weapons, her eyes flicking over the merchandise before she steps away with disinterest. “Suffering is part of the game here. Everyone knows that. It’s how you survive.”

Ari falls silent for a moment, her ears flattening slightly. “I just… I hoped my bounty would die in the arena. Being the Grandmaster’s Favorite is a fate worse than death.” She’s seen the way people suffer before they inevitably break. People become shattered beyond repair, beyond recognition, and the Grandmaster simply tosses them aside in search for a new one. 

Val raises an eyebrow, finally giving Ari her full attention. “Lackey’s tough. He’ll survive.”

Ari frowns, her nose twitching. “That’s sort of what worries me.” Loki hasn’t broken yet. He might be the longest surviving Favorite in years. Ari can’t remember the last time she saw someone live that long doing what he’s doing. 

Val sighs, turning away and heading towards a nearby vendor selling bottles of Sakaaran liquor. She picks up a bottle, weighing it in her hand. “Survival is all that matters here, Ari. Get used to it.” She hands over one of the chips that has their credits and tucks the bottle into her belt.

They continue walking, the neon lights of Sakaar’s marketplace cast colorful reflections on the ground, painting their path in hues of pink and blue. “He… He called you something. ‘Valkyrie’. Is that what Val means?” She asks, and she sees the way Val stiffens, some sort of tightness winding into her shoulders.

She looks at Ari with an expression that she’s never seen before, and Ari very quickly gets the sense that she has just asked a question that she wasn’t supposed to. “I don’t know how you do it,” Ari murmurs, her voice barely audible above the din. “How you stay so detached.”

Val glances at her, a flicker of something in her eyes before she looks away. “You learn, or you break. Simple as that.”

Ari’s shoulders slump slightly. “I don’t want to break.”

Val’s expression softens, and she places a hand on Ari’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You won’t. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Just don’t think too much about it.”

Ari looks up at Val, a small, grateful smile tugging at her lips. “Thanks.”

Val’s face is still pulled strangely, her eyes suddenly distant. She gestures sharply over her shoulder in the direction they’ve been walking. “Go on home,” she says, “I have business I gotta do. I’ll be back before dark.” 

“You’re not coming with me?” Ari asks, her face falling. She hates being alone in that house. “But-”

“Zuhnaria.” Val hisses and Ari’s mouth clamps shut immediately, any and all protests dying on her tongue. She knows it’s serious when Val uses her full name. Reluctantly, Ari nods, giving Val an apologetic look. She knew she shouldn’t have asked about the stupid ‘Valkyrie’ thing. She already knows how Val is about talking about her past. 

Ari turns to leave when she feels a hand on her shoulder, turning her slightly. “Remember, Ari. No matter what happens, you stick to what keeps you sane,” Val says, and there’s something in her eyes that makes Ari’s stomach squirm. “It doesn’t matter what the Grandmaster does. What matters is what you do for yourself.”

Ari watches her face for a moment as if staring could help her decipher anything. After a few seconds, she doesn’t foresee much luck for herself in that endeavor, so she forces a fragile smile and nods. “I’ll try.”

Val grunts and shoos her off, walking back in the direction they came without waiting for Ari to leave first. 

Loki makes his way through the chaotic throng of revelers, his eyes scanning for his target. He doesn’t have much time to waste before the Grandmaster expects his presence, and the man is like a petulant toddler if he does not get what he wants. The last thing Loki needs at the moment is to be on the receiving end of one of the Grandmaster’s fits. He weaves through the crowd, impatience eating at him until he finally spots Scrapper 142 at the bar, nursing a drink. Steeling himself, he approaches her, catching her just as she’s about to leave.

“142,” Loki calls, intercepting her path. She gives him a sideways glance, her expression curling into a sneer.

“Well, if it isn’t En Dwi’s bitch,” she scoffs, downing the last of her drink and slamming the glass down on the counter before rising from the bar. It always takes him half a second to connect En Dwi with the Grandmaster. He has only heard a select few people refer to him by name like that, and the fact that 142 is able to get away with it may play into his hand. Nonetheless, he has to make himself stop to breathe evenly through his nose at the comment, silently counting to ten.

“I need a favor,” He says quickly, turning swiftly to follow her as she moves purposefully through the crowd. She keeps walking, not sparing him a second glance.

“Good luck finding someone around here who gives a fuck,” she says. Loki feels his temper flare, but he forces himself to remain calm, his expression schooled into a careful neutrality.

“I will repay you with a bottle of the Grandmaster’s finest,” he offers, hoping to catch her attention. She pauses mid-step, the prospect of fine liquor enough for her to at least give him a moment’s consideration.

“Make it two, and I’ll hear you out,” she counters, turning to face him, arms folded across her chest. Loki bristles at her audacity, his nails biting into his palms behind his back. He nods curtly, and she raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

“I need you to protect someone for me. Hide them from the Grandmaster,” Loki says, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels. The Grandmaster clearly trusts this woman, or at the very least, likes her. He may not understand the reason whatsoever, but he does not need to in order to see how it would be beneficial to him. This could work to his advantage.

142 stares at him for a beat before bursting out laughing as if he had just made the best jest she’s ever heard. “Oh, fuck no,” she laughs, shaking her head. “I’ve got my own shit going on and my own people to protect without dealing with your bullshit too.” She turns to leave again, but Loki steps forward, his desperation painfully evident now.

“She’s my… friend,” he says, stumbling over the word awkwardly. It could be dangerous to reveal just how deep his bond with Sigyn goes. And either way, he is hardly worthy enough anymore to call himself much more than that. 142 narrows her eyes at him. 

“Didn’t know you knew how to make those,” she comments dryly. Loki ignores the slight against him. 

“She is pregnant. I am looking for a way to get her out of this place, but I need more time, and the Grandmaster is becoming impatient,” he explains. “You know how unkindly he takes to the word ‘no.’”

142 studies him skeptically, her gaze hard, calculating. “What makes you think you can trust me?” she asks.

“I don’t,” Loki admits, “But I trust your indulgences. You will be repaid handsomely for this, and then you will never have to speak with me again. You simply have to name your price.” He thinks for a second and then adds, “Though I prefer you remain mostly sober while you are guarding her.” 

142 remains silent for a moment, weighing her options. Finally, she lets out a long sigh, a flicker of something softer crossing her face. “Fuck. Alright, fine. I’ll do it. But this better be worth the risk.” She jabs a finger at his chest, her eyes hard and serious. “Two bottles up front, money, and triple the amount once the job is done, no questions asked. I want free access to the royal wing too while I’m hiding your little friend.”

Loki takes a deep breath, nodding. “Agreed. But we must act quickly. The Grandmaster’s patience is wearing thin, and I cannot afford for him to find out about her.”

“Fine,” she says, her tone brusque. “Where is she?”

“She’s hidden in my quarters for now,” Loki replies, glancing around to ensure they’re not being overheard. “I can’t move her without drawing suspicion.”

142 sighs again, shaking her head. “You’ve got yourself a deal, but don’t expect me to play nursemaid. I’ll keep her out of sight, but that’s it.”

“That’s all I ask,” Loki says, relief washing over him. “Thank you.”

“Save your thanks,” 142 snaps. “Just get me those bottles and keep your end of the bargain.”

Loki nods, turning to leave. “I will. Meet me at the servant’s entrance to the royal wing in one hour.”

As Loki makes his way back through the Grandmaster’s palace, he clings to the glimmer of hope he feels fiercely, knowing that it may be the only thing that can see them through this nightmare. 

Loki makes his way to his quarters with hurried steps, his boots echoing off the polished floors of the Grandmaster’s palace. The opulent corridors blur past him, his mind racing with the urgency of the situation. As he reaches his room, he pushes the door open and steps inside, his eyes immediately scanning the space. The bed is empty, and the shawl he had given Sigyn lies discarded on the floor. “Sigyn?” A brief, visceral moment of panic grips him, tightening his chest. “Sigyn!”

“In here, love,” A faint reply comes from the direction of the bathroom, and Loki’s heart leaps in his chest. He rushes over, pushing the door open to find Sigyn slumped by the toilet, her skin pale and clammy. She looks up at him with tired eyes, trying to muster a weak smile.

“Oh, Norns,” Loki mutters, immediately kneeling beside her. He reaches out to hold her hair back as she retches again, his heart aching at the sight of her so vulnerable. “I would ask if you are feeling alright, but I feel as if that would be redundant,” he says softly, trying to inject some lightness into his tone.

Sigyn lets out a weak giggle between breaths, sniffling as she flushes the toilet. She leans back against the wall, closing her eyes as she catches her breath. “Goodness,” she mutters. 

“Would you like me to check?” Loki asks, raising his hands with a gentle, questioning look. Sigyn nods faintly, and Loki carefully presses his palms against the flat plane of her belly, closing his eyes as he turns his magic inward. A soft glow emanates from his hands, and after a moment, he smiles. He can feel it, what is growing within her, and it makes his heart soar. “You’re both perfectly healthy,” he reassures her, and Sigyn visibly relaxes, though the tension in her features doesn’t entirely fade. 

“I feel awful,” she laments, and he can hear in her voice how exhausted she must be. Loki’s heart tightens with empathy, and he brushes a stray lock of hair away from her damp forehead.

“I know, my love,” he says softly, looking at her with all the tenderness in the world. He almost hates to move her now, but they don’t have much choice. “But we need to move quickly. I’ve arranged for someone to help hide you until I can figure out a way off this planet.”

Sigyn looks up at him, her eyes swimming with a gratitude beside the tired weariness. “What’s the plan?”

Loki helps her to her feet, his arm righting her as she leans unsteadily against him. “First, we need to get you dressed in something less conspicuous,” he explains, guiding her toward the bed and sitting her down gently. “The Grandmaster’s courtesan clothing will only draw very unwanted attention.” Unfortunately, he knows that from experience. 

With a flick of his wrist and a command, he summons Thor’s old cape from his pocket dimension. The rich, red fabric shimmers into existence, a comforting weight in his hands. Loki turns back to Sigyn, who watches him with a faint smile of recognition. “This will help cover you,” he says, carefully wrapping the cape around her shoulders. The fabric is warm and familiar, and Sigyn pulls it tightly around herself, the scent of home still clinging to the material.

“Thor’s cape?” she asks, a small, bittersweet smile on her lips, a spark of nostalgia softening her worn expression.

Loki nods, his gaze tender as he fastens the clasp at her throat. “Yes, I kept it. It will do for now.” He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, lingering for a moment as if drawing strength from the touch. He will miss her. Tremendously. “Now, let’s get you out of here.”

0ooooooo0

Wonderful. 

The Scrapper is nowhere in sight. Delightful. Perfect. 

Why not?

Loki stands at the edge of the rendezvous point, his jaw clenched in frustration, eyes scanning the surrounding area for any sign of movement. The shadows seem to mock him, the flickering lights of the nearby signs casting ominous shapes on the walls. The longer he waits, the tighter the knot in his chest becomes, filling with anxiety and barely restrained anger. Patrons pass them by without a second glance, but he would love it if they weren’t so plainly visible right now and they wouldn’t be, if the Scrrapper showed up on time. But what else should he expect from someone on this planet? 

“Just be patient, love,” Sigyn whispers as she holds onto his arm, her fingers gently squeezing in reassurance, though he can feel the tremor in her touch. She’s trying to calm him, but Loki can tell she’s just as tense as he is. She should not be stressing about anything, and yet here she is because of him.

“Patience is wearing thin,” Loki mutters, his tone clipped, though he immediately regrets the sharpness of his words. He glances down at Sigyn, her freckled face illuminated by the neon lights around them. She looks up at him with those soft, understanding eyes, and the anger in his chest loosens, replaced by a fierce protectiveness.

Sigyn’s stomach growls softly, and guilt immediately tugs at him. She hasn’t eaten much since she arrived, the fridge in his room can only be so sustaining. He looks around the corner at the nearby bar, chaotic noise and the mingling scents of various alien brews meeting him. If the Scrapper didn’t decide to take her sweet time…

“Forgive me,” Loki whispers. “You need sustenance. I won’t have you starve on this planet,” he murmurs. He holds her hand tightly in his, pulling Thor’s cape more securely over her body. “Stay close to me,” he says, and with that, the two of them detach from their secluded corner, making a beeline for a nearby bar. Loki scans warily for any sign of a threat among the surrounding crowd.

As Loki approaches the counter, his eyes scan the shelves, trying to discern something edible among the bizarre array of alien concoctions. The bartender is preoccupied with another customer, an alien woman with bright pink skin and four arms, each hand holding a different drink.

Loki’s gaze sweeps over the vibrant bottles, the exotic aromas wafting up to tease his senses. As tempting as it is to indulge, especially knowing that he will soon be suffering through the Grandmaster’s presence, he knows he’ll need to keep a clear head if he wants to get Sigyn and Thor out of here. 

It strikes him at that moment that he isn’t entirely sure what Sigyn would be able to eat in her delicate condition. Most things in this place are alcoholic or addictive, and what is safe is not particularly gentle on the stomach, nor safe for a pregnant woman. He scans the selections carefully as Sigyn steps to the opposite side of him, hooking their arms together.

Just as he’s about to place an order for something that looks safely non-toxic, a gruff voice from behind him pulls his attention away from the shelves. 

“Hello, beautiful.”

Instinctively, Loki’s hand moves toward the dagger hidden beneath his cloak, his grip tightening on the hilt. But he forces himself to release it, knowing the last thing they need is to draw unnecessary attention. His heart pounds in his chest as he schools his features, his mind racing through possible scenarios.

He can feel the weight of Sigyn’s eyes on him. He glances over his shoulder to see a hulking creature with dark purple skin, grinning down at him with a smile that makes Loki want to shudder in disgust. And it’s a smile that he gets directed at him often on this planet.

Loki clears his throat before forcing out a response. “I am not for sale right now.” The humiliation of saying those words stings, and Loki keeps his eyes trained on the sticky countertop, refusing to meet Sigyn’s gaze and see what expression lies there. 

“Not you,” the man says, and he almost sounds disgusted, which bothers Loki a bit more than he thinks it should. His irritation flares even further as the alien’s four magenta eyes shift, settling on Sigyn. “I was talking to her.” 

A cold wave of protective rage surges through Loki, almost blinding in its intensity. In an instant, he steps in front of Sigyn, shielding her from the leering gaze of the creature. His eyes harden into a glare, his mouth pulling into a rictus. 

“You would do well to keep your lecherous eyes to yourself, lest you wish to lose them.” Loki growls. Sigyn tenses beside him, and he can see from his periphery that she inches closer to him. The alien’s eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t back down. 

He can sense Sigyn’s discomfort, her fingers clutching his arm as she presses closer to him. “Love,” she whispers, her voice trembling just enough to make his heart ache, low enough that only he can hear, “Let’s just go.” 

The alien seems taken aback by Loki’s protectiveness, but his beady eyes glint as he smirks. “Just trying to have a bit of fun, is all,” he sneers, baring ugly, rotted teeth. Loki takes a step forward, bringing Sigyn behind him. The creature sneers, his eyes narrowing as he sizes up Loki. 

“Look, buddy, I’m trying to make conversation with the pretty lady,” he says, arrogant and rebarbative just like every other lowbred creature on this planet. “Sorry you’re not getting the attention you want, but you’re not my type. Why don’t you run along to the Grandmaster? I’m sure he’ll find someone that’ll fuck you.” Loki’s lip curls in disdain, but before he can respond, the alien reaches out and places a hand on Sigyn’s hip. “What do you say, sweetheart?” 

Fury courses through Loki like a raging inferno, his control slipping more quickly than his mind can catch up with. In one swift motion, he seizes the alien’s wrist, his grip like a vice as he twists it effortlessly, eliciting a cry of pain. Loki bends the creature’s wrist until he hears a sickening ‘crunch’, and the man roars. With a snarl, the creature lashes out, his fist connecting with Loki’s jaw, or trying to.

But Loki barely flinches as he dodges, his mind consumed by a primal fury as he summons one of his daggers, flipping it in his hand. He slams the man’s injured hand on the bar countertop before stabbing his blade through his palm, effectively pinning him in place. His eyes blaze with a cold, merciless rage as he leans in close, his lips curling into a feral grimace. 

“Touch her again and I will remove the offending appendage entirely.” His voice is little more than a guttural growl, and he feels a bit like he’s going mad. Which… granted, is a feeling he should be fairly used to at this point. The alien writhes in agony, howling curses through gritted teeth as he tries to escape. Loki is more than prepared for the hulking creature to free himself, and he does, holding Loki’s dagger in his uninjured hand as it drips with dark blue blood. 

“You little bitch,” the man snarls, stalking toward Loki. 

“Loki,” Sigyn says, worried, but Loki raises a hand to give her pause, staring at the approaching alien with a bored expression as he mutters a spell. The creature’s eyes gloss over a moment later as he stalks toward Loki and his eyes roll back before he drops to the ground.

The dagger skids across the floor from the fall and Loki stops it with his boot, leaning down to retrieve it. Silence descends upon the room as onlookers stare at the scene unfolding before them. Loki takes them in, his gaze sweeping over the crowd with a cold intensity. With a flash of green light, he dispels his blade, the glow quickly fading into nothingness. 

“Carry on,” he commands, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. And with that, life in the Grandmaster’s lounge resumes, albeit with an undercurrent of something… different. He turns back to Sigyn, his expression softening as his eyes search her for any sign of distress. Gently, he cups her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “Are you alright?” She nods, but she still looks deeply shaken. 

“Loki… You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Yes, I did.” He insists, “I will not let these people touch you.” The fury still burns hot in Loki’s veins as he pulls Sigyn close, wrapping an arm around her protectively. He can feel the tremors running through her frame and it only stokes the fire of his rage. He needs to get her out of this place. Loki’s jaw clenches as he fights to regain his composure, the desire to unleash further retribution simmering within him. 

“Did you kill him?” She asks, looking down at the unmoving body of the man that patrons are casually stepping over without a second thought. 

I thought about it, Loki thinks, but does not say, instead replying, “No. He is merely unconscious.” And having some very unpleasant dreams. Tenderly, he tilts Sigyn’s chin up to meet his gaze, wanting to see her face. “You are mine,” he whispers possessively. “That filth is fortunate I showed restraint.” 

Sigyn still looks worried, a little crease between her brows. “But the attention…” 

Loki scoffs, determined to mask the side of himself that is worried about precisely that. Luckily, the Grandmaster is nowhere to be seen at the moment. But that doesn’t always mean he isn’t watching. “Please. Altercations like this are merely happenstance on this planet. The strangest thing about this is that no one paid to view it and he is still breathing.” 

Sigyn laughs, but it sounds watery and pained, and she leans into Loki’s chest once more. “This place is awful…” Loki frowns and presses a kiss to the top of her hair, cradling the back of her head. 

“I know.” He gets her something small from the bar counter, a pastry of some kind that breaks apart like bread. It isn’t much, but it will last her until he gets her to safety. They push through the crowded bar, the noise and chaos fading into the background as Loki guides Sigyn back toward their rendezvous point.

As they round the corner, relief floods him when he finally spots Scrapper 142 leaning casually against the wall, waiting for them. Loki’s grip on Sigyn’s arm tightens just slightly, and she looks up at him with a weary smile, her trust in him unwavering despite everything. 

“Finally,” he mutters under his breath, leading Sigyn forward. But just as they approach, his eyes catch sight of a younger woman standing beside 142, no more than sixteen, vibrant pink hair obscuring the eyepatch over her left eye. Loki’s eyes narrow as he recognizes her as the scrapper who had first brought him to the arena, leading him straight into the Grandmaster’s lap. His protective instincts flare, and he immediately steps in front of Sigyn, shielding her from view.

“Why is she here?” Loki demands, his voice sharp and suspicious. His eyes flicker between 142 and the young woman, his posture tense and rigid.

142 raises an eyebrow at him before rolling her eyes. “Relax, Lackey. She’s with me,” she replies flatly, her tone matter-of-fact.

The young woman steps forward, a crooked, nervous smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I’m 802,” she introduces herself with a small wave. “I… I usually go by Ari.”

“Charming.” Loki scowls, his distrust evident. “I wasn’t aware that she would be joining us. I don’t want any more complications,” he snaps. 

142 crosses her arms, her stance defiant. “She’s my apprentice. We work together. You want my help, you take both of us,” she states firmly, her tone brooking no argument.

Sigyn, peeking out from behind Loki, finds herself charmed by the younger woman’s demeanor. “She’s adorable,” she whispers to Loki, her voice soft and almost amused.

Loki looks between Sigyn and 802- Ari, apparently- his mind weighing the risks. Personal grudges aside, he needs to get Sigyn somewhere, and this is all he has. There are no other options. Finally, he lets out a resigned sigh, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Fine,” he concedes, but his tone is tight with warning. “But if anything happens to her,” he adds, his voice dropping to a low, warning tone, “you will answer to me.”

Ari smiles sheepishly, nodding. “Understood,” she says, and there’s a tentativeness in her tone that Loki doesn’t miss. She almost seems apologetic. As if apology is enough to fix the mess of everything right now. 

Loki turns to Sigyn, his expression softening as he gently brushes his fingers against her cheek. “Be safe,” he murmurs, his voice laced with emotion that he struggles to keep under control. It goes against almost every instinct he has, but he needs to trust that these Scrappers will take care of her. 

Sigyn nods, leaning into his touch for a brief moment before stepping back. She glances at Ari and 142, then back at Loki. “I’ll be alright,” she reassures him, though there’s a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

They share a quick embrace before Sigyn steps away, pulling the cape around her as if drawing strength from it. Loki watches as 142 and 802 lead her away, his heart clenching with worry and the desperate hope that he’s made the right decision. If the Norns are unkind to him, please let them have mercy for Sigyn and their child.

As they disappear into the crowd, Loki remains where he is for a moment. The palace around him feels suffocating, the walls closing in with the enormity of the task ahead. But he knows he cannot falter now. 

He takes a long, deep breath before glancing at the clock on the wall. This planet has a tendency to distort time, and it continues to be infuriatingly difficult to keep track of it. But as he watches the clock tick on, he feels dread curling up and settling securely in the home it has made within him. He will not have very long to gather his bearings. 

There is a fight he has to watch. 

Chapter Text

Loki peers nervously out at the arena, his stomach churning as he takes in the bloodstained dirt, a grim reminder of the countless lives lost in this place. The tension knots in his chest, tightening with every passing second. Just as his anxiety reaches a peak, the Grandmaster’s voice startles him, jolting him from his thoughts.  

“Someone’s a little tense,” the Grandmaster observes with a playful lilt, his voice slicing through the ambient noise around them. Loki clears his throat, settling back into the cushion of the couch behind him with considerable effort. Truly, he struggles to recall a time where his nerves have been so frayed. And that is saying a lot. 

“Me? No.” The words slip out too quickly, too defensively- certainly not one of his more convincing lies. He forces a smile, attempting to smooth over his blunder. “I’m perfectly comfortable. Just… a tad anxious for the show to begin.” The Grandmaster’s laugh is grating. 

“Oh, I know the feeling! I always get a bit restless myself waiting for a match.” The Grandmaster slides closer to Loki on the couch, his suggestive smile sending a wave of nausea through him. “But there are other ways to entertain ourselves, you know…” He places a hand on Loki’s thigh, and despite the warning bells blaring in his mind to stay calm, Loki flinches, instinctively scooting closer to the edge of the couch.

The Grandmaster’s hand hovers in the air between them for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. The air thickens with tension as Loki’s heart drops, the gravity of his mistake sinking in. But then the Grandmaster’s lips curl into a playful smile, his tone light once more. “Oh, Lo-Lo, you tease. Fine, fine. Hands off. For later, then.” Loki manages a strained grin, clasping his hands tightly in his lap to hide the trembling in his fingers.

“I… wouldn’t have it any other way.” Loki’s voice is forced, every syllable a painful reminder of the precarious game he’s playing. The Grandmaster’s amusement seems genuine, but Loki knows better than to let his guard down. He isn’t safe yet. 

As if confirming that very fact, the Grandmaster switches topics. “You’re curious about your brother, aren’t you?”

“Ado-”

“Yes, yes, your adopted brother, whatever.” The Grandmaster waves a dismissive hand, cutting him off mid-sentence, but his smile remains firmly in place. Loki shrugs. 

“I don’t particularly care what happens to him one way or the other,” Loki lies smoothly, leaning back on the cushions in an attempt to appear casual. “We were never close.”

“Ugh,” the Grandmaster scoffs with a roll of his eyes. “Brothers. You know, I have a brother. Younger. Or maybe he’s older? Whatever, the point is, not a fan.”

Loki blinks, surprised by the sudden turn in the conversation. “I’m sorry,” he offers cautiously, unsure if more information will be forthcoming. He hopes not; he doesn’t particularly want to fill the time listening to tales from the Grandmaster’s childhood. 

“Such a spoilsport.” The Grandmaster pouts dramatically, but Loki catches a glimpse of something colder behind the façade. Loki smiles politely at him.

“How terrible,” he says with a carefully measured tone. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

The Grandmaster laughs, a sharp, almost brittle sound. “Oh, he’s not dead. At least, not that I’m aware of. He’s dead to me, though.” Loki finds himself at a loss for words, so he just nods, maintaining the polite smile he’s perfected over centuries. “Anyway, you were asking about your brother.” 

Loki shrugs again, feigning disinterest. “Not really.” 

“I think you were.” the Grandmaster teases, his voice lilting with amusement. “Anywho, my champion should give your brother a run for his money. I heard you bet against him. Not much faith in poor Sparkles, hm?” Loki’s gaze flicks nervously down to the arena, where his stomach churns with anxiety.

“I hear your champion is astonishingly savage,” he replies, choosing his words carefully. “And I have reason to believe that he is your champion for a reason.” The Grandmaster beams at him. 

“Yes! Yes, he certainly is!” He gestures excitedly towards the massive arena doors. “Just wait until you see him. You won’t regret that bet, trust me.” Loki gulps, his imagination conjuring all manner of monstrous creatures that could serve as the Grandmaster’s champion. He has only heard rumors among the many people who have watched him fight, and he has seen what kinds of terrifying species wind up here. 

“Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. You don’t think I’m making it too easy on him, do you? We could always give him a little challenge here. Make things more interesting.” The Grandmaster reaches into his robes and pulls out a remote that Loki recognizes as one that belongs to an obedience disk from the many, many occasions he’s seen them used. He remembers when he’d been asked to wear one himself- the Grandmaster was very insistent that it would be sexy and fun as a little experiment to test Loki’s obedience. 

It was neither. 

“That’s not necessary,” Loki says quickly, waving a hand. “I’m sure he’ll have his hands full on his own.” 

The Grandmaster falters, raising a brow at him. “Didn’t you say you couldn’t, ah, assess his fighting ability?” 

“I said not well,” Loki tries to correct gently, but there’s still an annoyed bite to his voice, “But your beloved champion will be a formidable opponent for him, I’m sure. This will be… quite entertaining.” The Grandmaster nods, his smile widening as he leans forward, his excitement practically falling off of him in waves. 

Loki takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes and forcing himself to relax as best he can. He tunes out the Grandmaster’s rambling monologue, his thoughts drifting back to Thor. In any other circumstance, Thor would be his first choice for a winner without contest.

Even without Mjolnir, Thor has his own formidable powers, and his seidr- his elemental magic- gives him an edge. But still, there are too many variables, too many unknowns. Thor has surprised him before, but this… This is different. He is running on limited sleep, facing an unfamiliar opponent… But he’ll be fine. He has to be fine. Thor has exceeded his expectations before, hasn’t he? 

The large projection of the Grandmaster’s image suddenly materializes in the middle of the arena with a wide, happy grin. “I give to you… Lord of Thunder!” Loki opens his eyes and his attention snaps back to the arena as Thor stumbles out, looking disoriented as if he’d been roughly shoved into the open space. He’s dressed in makeshift Sakaarian armor, the metal plates haphazardly cobbled together in a poor excuse of protective wear. He wouldn’t be shocked if the scant amount of coverage is for the Grandmaster’s gratification.

His weapons, a pair of swords, a massive mace, and a spiked shield, seem almost comically oversized. His once long hair has been buzzed short, and his face is smeared with war paint. Loki frowns deeply, an odd kind of rage and sorrow building in him at the sight of his brother. Thor would not have let that happen lightly. His hair is precious to him, and this place has stolen that. He needs to get his brother off of this planet. 

Loki forces himself to breathe deeply, reminding himself that Thor has faced worse odds before. He just needs to keep his composure. Outside, the holograph of the Grandmaster chuckles. “Watch out for his fingers. They make sparks.” 

Loki rolls his eyes, but his gaze remains locked on Thor as his brother surveys the screaming, bloodthirsty crowd. Thor adjusts his helmet, a gladiatorial helm with wings that reminds Loki of his old one. The Grandmaster’s projection swivels to the opposite side of the arena, and Loki’s attention begins to drift again.

He needs to plan, to think ahead. If Thor wins (he will, he will), he’ll be taken to the barracks to prepare for his next match, assuming the fight is entertaining enough. Loki will need to find a way to get to Thor before that happens, or Thor will have to continue fighting. And the longer that happens, the more eyes will be on him. If he doesn’t want Thor’s death to become a reality, he needs to have some idea of his next steps, even if he’ll be stumbling in the dark.

Loki considers his options carefully, but the crowd’s roar jolts him back to the present. “And now,” the Grandmaster’s projected voice booms, “Welcome my champion!” Loki leans forward on the couch and watches as the gate on the opposite side of the arena moves upward slowly, opening to reveal the challenger. Loki’s breath catches in his throat. The massive green figure isn’t just any beast, but the Avengers’ own green behemoth, the monster who disguises himself as a mortal. 

Thor’s face lights up with pure joy, a wide grin splitting his face as he bellows,“Yes!” His voice echoes across the arena, and Loki groans inwardly, exasperated by his brother’s exuberance. Thor excitedly begins to speak to Hulk, laughing excitedly. “Hey!” He turns to the crowd, waving and pointing. “We know each other! He’s a friend from work!” 

“What?” The Grandmaster’s annoyed voice is harrowing to Loki’s mounting dread. “Why aren’t they fighting?” Loki hides his face in his hands, not even bothering to listen to his brother blabber on until he hears, 

“Loki! Loki, look who it is!” Thor’s voice rings out again, and Loki immediately tenses, his eyes darting to the Grandmaster. He seems to be getting more and more irritated with each passing second, and Loki offers a nervous, dismissive laugh in response. 

Thor begins to approach Hulk slowly, a hand outstretched. He looks to be speaking to him, and the Grandmaster's eyes narrow, his patience wearing thin as he watches the unexpected reunion. The green behemoth, however, remains still, looking at Thor with a sense of recognition.

Suddenly, without warning, Hulk lets out a deafening roar that silences the entire arena. The crowd, initially bewildered, begins to cheer wildly as Hulk charges towards Thor with earth-shaking steps. Thor’s smile falters, replaced by a look of confusion.

Loki turns back just in time to see Hulk sweep Thor up by his leg, slamming him into the ground before sending him flying across the arena. The crowd erupts in a frenzy of excitement, and the Grandmaster’s mood instantly improves, a delighted grin spreading across his face. Loki can't help but feel a mix of relief and schadenfreude. 

Thank the Norns. 

Thor draws a sword and stabs it into the ground to slow his momentum. He draws the other sword and faces off against Hulk. “Banner!” He yells, “It’s me!” 

The Grandmaster claps his hands gleefully, practically bouncing in his seat. “Oh, look at him go!” The fight escalates quickly, the Hulk pounding Thor into the dirt with brutal efficiency. Loki grits his teeth, the urge to flee almost overwhelming as the situation spirals further out of control.

He stands abruptly, attempting to slip out unnoticed when he runs right into the Grandmaster, the man suddenly appearing in front of him. Loki stiffens, looking behind him to find the sofa they were sitting at completely empty. The Grandmaster stops him, a firm hand on his chest preventing his escape. “Hey, hey, hey, where are you going?” 

“I have to piss,” he snaps, forcing irritation into his voice to mask his fear. 

“Oh, why didn’t you say so? Be fast, now, you’re gonna miss it.” The Grandmaster waves him off, grinning. Loki turns on his heel and bolts for the door, throwing it open and rushing out into the hallway. He barely notices the guards stationed at the door when he pushes past them, racing in the direction of the latrines. Thor may not have Mjolnir, but he’s still a god. And if Loki can give him even a slight edge…

Loki rushes through the bathroom door, slamming it shut behind him. He reaches inward, pulling out the match to the coin he’d given Thor, and activates it, feeling the magic pulse through it. It’s a cursed object, technically. It leaches power and luck from the caster, passing it to the opposite holder. He’d kept it after one of the quests he and Thor journeyed on in their youth, stolen it from an elf. He’s seen it work, he knows it’s effective. It’s just a matter of what that means for him, but whatever it is… He’ll adjust.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Loki mutters to himself, listening intently to the sounds of the fight that echo through the enchanted coin. Hulk’s roars and Thor’s grunts of pain reverberate through the small room, each noise twisting the knot of anxiety in Loki’s chest tighter. Loki winces at the sound of a loud crack, followed by Thor’s pained cry.

Without hesitation, Loki mutters a spell, the coin in his hand burning against his palm as it activates. The enchanted coin is designed to transfer a portion of Loki’s luck and magic to the holder of its twin. But it comes at a cost, leeching power from Loki with each use. Loki can feel the drain on his magic, his strength waning as the coin works its enchantment. Quickly, he pockets the coin and rushes back to the arena box, his heart pounding in his ears. 

He bursts through the door, slamming it closed behind him as he stumbles onto the sofa, panting heavily.The Grandmaster looks at him as if startled, but it’s more than likely just dramatic exaggeration. “What happened?”

Loki points a shaking finger towards the arena, struggling to regain his composure. “It’s happening so fast! I didn’t want to miss anything!” He says, forcing a nervous smile. The Grandmaster chuckles, patting Loki on the thigh before gesturing towards the window overlooking the arena. Loki stands, his legs feeling weak beneath him, and peers out at the ongoing fight.

Thor grunts as another punishing blow from Hulk’s massive fists sends him reeling backward. Despite the enchanted coin’s boost, he is clearly outmatched against the Hulk’s sheer brute strength. Loki watches with bated breath, his knuckles white as he grips the ledge. 

Thor calls out again, “Banner! It’s me, Thor! You’re embarrassing me, I told them we were friends!” But the Hulk is beyond reason, consumed by the bloodlust that drives him to charge once more, his roar shaking the very walls of the arena. In a desperate move, Thor channels his lightning into his swords, the blades crackling with electric energy.

He meets Hulk’s charge head-on, the clash of their weapons sending shockwaves rippling through the arena. For a moment, the two are locked in a brutal stalemate, straining against each other with every ounce of their strength. Then, with a primal yell, Thor unleashes a blinding burst of lightning, enveloping the Hulk in a searing storm of electricity.

The beast bellows in fury, staggering under the onslaught. Thor seizes the opportunity, raining down a flurry of electrified strikes, each blow more powerful than the last. Loki can barely breathe, his heart hammering in his chest as he watches his brother fight with everything he has.

A thin sheen of sweat coats Thor’s brow, his muscles straining with exertion. He begins to stalk menacingly toward the Hulk, who lies dazed on the ground, the aftershocks of Thor’s lightning still coursing through him. Pride battles with dread in Loki’s chest as he watches, but he’s so focused on the fight that he doesn’t notice the Grandmaster’s expression shift.

“Now, that’s interesting.” He mutters and Loki stares out at his brother in awe until he watches him seize, twitching and writhing on the ground. Loki’s eyes widen and he turns back to see the Grandmaster holding the fob for Thor’s obedience disk, shocking him into submission.

The arena falls silent as Thor collapses, his body convulsing from the obedience disk’s activation. Loki’s heart races, his mind scrambling for a way to intervene without revealing too much. The Grandmaster’s grin widens, his pleasure at Thor’s suffering all too evident.

The Grandmaster’s gleeful expression only intensifies Loki’s desperation. Suddenly, a deafening roar breaks the silence. The Hulk, shaking off the effects of Thor’s lightning, rises to his feet, immediately moving to stomp Thor into unconsciousness.

With a sickening crunch, the Hulk’s foot connects with Thor’s chest, driving the air from his lungs. Loki winces, his fingers digging into his palms as he struggles to keep from reacting. The crowd’s roar is deafening, their bloodlust strong as they chant for the Hulk to finish off his opponent. 

The Grandmaster smiles widely, his projection materializing in the center of the arena, marking the end of the fight. “And that’s another win for my champion!” He chirps happily. Loki watches in silent agony as medics rush onto the arena grounds, gathering Thor’s battered form and moving toward the exit. His mind races, searching for a plausible excuse to leave, to ensure his brother’s safety. He can’t let them simply toss him back in that cell. 

But before Loki can utter a word, the Grandmaster’s hand lands on his thigh, freezing him in place. A familiar chill snakes its way through Loki’s body as the Grandmaster leans closer, his eyes gleaming with that predatory, hungry look Loki has come to know intimately well.

“You know how fights get me all worked up, Lo-Lo,” the Grandmaster purrs, his voice clear in its insinuation as his hand slides further up Loki’s thigh. He leans in, his breath hot against Loki’s ear. “How about it, sweet thing?”

Loki’s heart pounds in his chest, his mind screaming at him to get away, to do something, anything to escape the situation. But he’s trapped, his body betraying him as it remains frozen in place. The Grandmaster’s touch, the sickening implication in his voice, everything about this moment makes Loki’s skin crawl. He screws his eyes shut, forcing himself to remain still, to suppress the revulsion threatening to overwhelm him. 

There’s only one right answer.

“I was beginning to fear you’d forgotten,” Loki lies, the words slipping from his lips with practiced ease even as he swallows back bile. His voice is smooth, perfectly seductive, but there’s a tightness in his chest, a barely controlled panic that threatens to break him. The Grandmaster chuckles, pleased by Loki’s response, and he tightens his grip on Loki’s thigh, his fingers digging into the fabric of Loki’s trousers. 

“That’s a good boy.”

Loki manages, miraculously, to slip away from the Grandmaster before he got too far in and ended up paraded in the glass box above the arena for an audience. Again. There was an issue controlling the green behemoth after the fight, and it called for the Grandmaster’s attention. It will not keep the Grandmaster occupied forever, but it should for long enough. 

He searches frantically for the guards escorting Thor to the medical wing. If this planet even has one of those. The thought of his brother, battered and unconscious, fills him with a raw, fierce determination. He needs to get to Thor before the Grandmaster’s men can do any more damage. Or before Thor aggravates the wrong person.

Finally, Loki spots the guards escorting Thor, carrying him away from the arena. They’re headed back in the direction of the cells. Thor’s limp form is draped between them, his head lolling to one side, his face bloodied and bruised.

Loki’s breath catches in his throat, but he pushes down the surge of panic, swallowing it back and finding a relaxed, charming smile. Loki approaches the guards, his posture relaxed and confident. “Why don’t you fellows release him to me?” He purrs with honeyed persuasion. “I can take care of him. The Grandmaster won’t mind if I have a bit of fun before returning him to his cell.”

The guards exchange skeptical glances and Loki can see the doubt in their eyes, the hesitation in their movements. They’re wary, and rightly so. But he has a bit of pull as the Grandmaster’s Favorite.

“If you disagree,” Loki continues, his tone taking on a sharper edge, “I could always have the Grandmaster tell you himself.” He arches an eyebrow, his expression challenging. The threat is subtle but unmistakable, and Loki watches as the guards’ resolve begins to waver.

One of the guards, the taller of the two, narrows his eyes at Loki, clearly weighing his options. But the prospect of dealing with the Grandmaster’s wrath is enough to tip the scales. With a reluctant grunt, he releases his grip on Thor, and the other guard follows suit.

“Fine,” the taller guard mutters, stepping back. “But if anyone asks, we handed him over to you under direct orders.”

Loki’s smile widens, the glint of victory in his eyes. “Of course,” he replies smoothly. “I’ll be sure to mention your cooperation.”

As the guards turn to leave, clearly eager to distance themselves from the situation, Loki takes a subtle step forward, a sly smile playing on his lips. “Oh, and one more thing,” he calls after them in an almost playful tone. He knows that simply taking Thor won’t be enough; there’s too much at stake to risk even the smallest loose end. And if the Grandmaster asks any questions, he can’t afford to let this come back to him. 

The guards pause, glancing back over their shoulders, suspicion flickering in their eyes. “What is it?” the taller guard asks, his voice gruff and impatient.

Loki tilts his head slightly, his smile widening as he raises one hand, his fingers twitching ever so slightly. The air around him hums with energy, a faint shimmer of green magic beginning to coalesce in the space between them. The guards’ eyes are drawn to the faint glow, their expressions shifting from suspicion to confusion as Loki’s magic begins to take hold.

“Just a small request,” Loki says, his voice dropping to a soothing, almost hypnotic tone. The green glow intensifies, spreading from Loki’s fingers to the guards, the magic coiling around their minds like a serpent. “Forget about this.” 

The guards’ eyes glaze over as Loki’s enchantment takes hold, their expressions going slack, their postures relaxing. The tension in the air dissipates as the magic weaves itself deeper into their consciousness, erasing the memory of Loki’s presence, of Thor’s handover, of everything.

“Forget that you saw me,” Loki continues, his voice soft but firm. “Forget that you handed over Thor. Forget this encounter entirely.”

The guards nod numbly, their eyes unfocused, the enchantment working its way through their minds, smoothing over the cracks in their memories. They will remember nothing of this moment, nothing of Loki’s intervention. As far as they will be concerned, Thor remained in their custody the entire time and they returned him to his cell as ordered. 

Loki steps back, satisfied with his work. The green glow fades, leaving no trace of the spell behind. The guards blink, their expressions clearing, though they remain disoriented. Without another word, they turn and continue down the corridor, their minds blank, their memories rewritten. The fog in their minds will fade soon enough. At least he has managed to cover his tracks. As the guards disappear from view, Loki turns back to his unconscious brother, his expression hardening. 

The pieces are falling into place, and now, with the guards taken care of, Loki can focus on the next step in his plan. He wastes no time, carefully lowering Thor’s weight onto his own shoulders. His brother is heavy, his unconscious form a dead weight, but Loki grits his teeth and presses on, determined to get him to safety.

Loki moves quickly, half-dragging, half-carrying Thor down the dimly lit corridors of the Grandmaster’s palace. The palace is a labyrinth of winding hallways and dead ends, but Loki knows these passages well. He’s traversed them countless times, learned their secrets, and mastered the art of avoiding prying eyes. He knows which paths are empty at what times.

His mind works quickly as he searches for a place to hide Thor, somewhere safe. Allowing Thor to be taken back to his cell is out of the question; once behind bars, Thor would be inaccessible, and he can’t imagine that he would be able to even get close to accessing him without suspicion. Loki needs somewhere secluded, a place where they can regroup and plan their next move without interruption. Somewhere safe, if only temporarily.

As he rounds a corner, a thought occurs to him. Deep within the palace, there’s a small, unused chamber, a forgotten room, buried in the belly of the structure. It’s not much, little more than a storage closet, but it’s hidden. And right now, hidden is exactly what they need. Just for a moment. 

Loki slips inside, the door creaking faintly as it swings shut behind him. The room is just as he remembered: cramped, dark, and filled with a layer of dust that swirls in the dim light filtering through the narrow cracks in the walls. The space feels almost claustrophobic, a forgotten pocket of the palace where the air is stale and the scent of disuse hangs thick, mingling with the faint odor of damp stone.

He’d found this room by chance during one of his first nights in the palace, desperate to escape the unwanted attention of one of the Grandmaster’s more persistent patrons. Loki had quickly learned that Sakaar was a planet teeming with creatures that possessed fangs, claws, acidic saliva... Many of them were drawn to his Asgardian form like moths to a flame. This room had been a sanctuary then, and he hoped it would serve the same purpose now. 

Loki lowers Thor gently onto the cold stone floor, his brother’s body limp and heavy in his arms. The strain of supporting Thor’s weight leaves Loki’s muscles aching. He carefully adjusts Thor’s position, trying to make him as comfortable as possible on the unforgiving ground.

Thor’s face is ashen, his usually robust complexion now ghostly pale. His chest rises and falls in shallow, labored breaths, each one a struggle. Loki’s heart clenches at the sight of his brother, so strong, so indomitable, now reduced to this fragile state. But there’s no time for lingering on it. Loki forces himself into action, his hands hovering over Thor’s injuries as his magic flares to life. Green tendrils of energy seep into the worst of the wounds, knitting torn flesh and broken bone. He’s never been adept at healing, but Sigyn’s practice sessions have helped him a bit. Enough that he’s able to make quick work of it. 

The strain of the magic pulls at Loki’s reserves, every ounce of his strength focused on stabilizing Thor. The green glow intensifies, illuminating the small chamber with an otherworldly light that casts long shadows on the walls. Sweat beads on Loki’s brow, trickling down his temples as he works with feverish urgency.

“Stay with me, brother,” Loki murmurs, his voice low and urgent. The words are a plea as much as they are a command. Thor groans in response, a faint sound that both relieves and worries Loki.

Once Thor’s breathing steadies, his chest rising and falling in a more even rhythm, Loki steps back, exhaustion weighing heavily on him. He wipes the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Using the coin drained him far more than he expected.

He knows they can’t stay here for long. The Grandmaster’s men will eventually come looking for them, and Loki shudders to think of what the Grandmaster might do if he finds them here. He glances around the chamber, trying to think. The room is a dead end, offering no escape routes, no second chances. They need to move, and soon. But where? The Grandmaster has eyes everywhere, his influence stretching to every corner of Sakaar, and the people of this planet would not hesitate to talk if it benefits them. Loki needs somewhere safer, somewhere with a semblance of protection.

Then it hits him; the Hulk’s chambers. The beast’s quarters aren’t a cell, and they offer a kind of safety, if only because no one in their right mind would dare to intrude on the domain. Thor should be relatively safe there. Loki just has to hope that the green behemoth is still absent and that when he returns, he can recognize Thor as an ally, not a threat.

Suddenly, footsteps echo in the distance, growing louder, drawing nearer. Panic grips Loki, his pulse quickening. There’s no time to waste. He grabs Thor’s arm, pulling him close as his magic flares to life once more. The air around them shimmers with a green aura, the spell enveloping them both. Loki closes his eyes, focusing intently, and with a whispered incantation, they vanish from the dim corridor.

They reappear moments later in the stark, spartan chambers of the Hulk. The room is cold, the walls decorated with weapons and skulls of large beasts. The silence here is unsettling, the usual chaos and noise of the arena muted, as if this place exists in a separate reality entirely.

Loki breathes a sigh of relief as he realizes the Hulk is still absent. The beast’s presence is often accompanied by a suffocating sense of dread that he can’t entirely suppress. But now, the room is empty, and for that, he is grateful. He gently places Thor onto the cot, its metal frame creaking under the weight. Thor’s body sinks into the thin mattress, his face still pale, but his breathing is more even now. Loki watches him for a moment, the tension in his chest easing slightly as he confirms that Thor is, at least for now, stable.

But he knows he can’t stay here. The Grandmaster’s spies are everywhere, and his absence will not go unnoticed for long. If he’s caught here with Thor, it could ruin everything. He needs to return before suspicion arises, before the Grandmaster starts asking questions that Loki can’t afford to answer.

With a deep breath, Loki casts a quick spell, cloaking Thor in an illusion that makes him blend into the shadows of the room. It’s a simple trick, but effective, at least for now. The shadows seem to deepen around Thor, his form becoming almost entirely indistinct. 

Loki steps back, his eyes lingering on his brother’s obscured form. “Rest now, brother,” he whispers, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. “I’ll be back for you. I promise.” There’s a heaviness to those words, a weight that Loki carries as he turns and exits the room. He has to trust that Thor will be safe here, that he can come back for him once the time is right.

As Loki slips through the corridors of the palace once more, his thoughts are already on the next step, the next move. He knows he’s running out of time, and the walls are closing in. But he won’t stop. He can’t stop. Not until Thor, Sigyn, and their child are free from this hell. Loki knows he’s dancing on the edge of a knife, and one wrong step could mean their doom. But for now, he has bought them a little more time, and that is enough to keep him going.

Norns, he will never understand how Thor adjusted so easily to thinking on his feet like this. 

Chapter Text

Loki materializes in his chambers, the familiar surroundings and cold marble walls offering a momentary sense of relief. But his breath catches in his throat when he sees a figure reclining on his bed- a figure who should not be here. The shock hits Loki like a physical blow, and fear ripples through his entire being. He fights to keep his face neutral. 

“There he is!” The Grandmaster’s voice rings out, overly bright and unsettlingly warm. He lounges on the bed like a contented predator, his gaze fixed on Loki with amusement and possessiveness.

“Grandmaster,” Loki responds, trying to return the smile but it feels brittle. “You must excuse the mess in here. I didn’t realize you would be visiting.”

The Grandmaster waves a dismissive hand, his eyes roving over Loki with a casual hunger that makes Loki’s skin crawl. “Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head about that, sweetheart. I rather like the lived-in look. Glad my kitten is getting comfortable in his new home.” 

New home, Loki thinks, How lovely. He nods politely as he forces himself to step further in over the side of him that desperately wants to run. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asks, striving to keep his tone light. It occurs to him that the Grandmaster may be looking for pleasure after the fight but something tells him that isn’t… quite it. 

The Grandmaster’s smile widens, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that sets Loki on edge. It’s a look that speaks of plans within plans, and Loki can feel the noose tightening around him. “I wanted to have a little chat with you,” he says, sweetly. “Lo-Lo, I have a problem.”

Loki’s smile falters, just a fraction, but enough for the Grandmaster to notice. “A problem?” He asks, and the Grandmaster gestures for him to come closer.

“I have a problem with a certain someone,” he continues as Loki cautiously approaches. “Say, there’s this person. I gave them something recently, but they’re just— ooh, they’re being stingy, and I don’t much care for stingy people. Especially if they’re being stingy with, ah, my stuff.”

“Perish the thought…” Loki’s heart skips a beat, the implications of the Grandmaster’s words sinking in like a stone in his gut. His voice is strained. “I know that I would never dream of denying you anything, Grandmaster,” he says, trying to sound convincing. “I’m sure… Whoever it is, I’m sure that it is just a misunderstanding.”

The Grandmaster hums and reaches out, trailing a finger along the nape of Loki’s neck, earning an involuntary shiver in response. “See, though… that person is you, Lo-Lo.” His voice sharpens, and the playful edge in his smile is clipped, replaced by something far more menacing. Loki can feel his stomach drop, despite anticipating that this was the case. It’s Sigyn, he thinks frantically, He wants Sigyn. Loki swallows thickly, smiling in a way he prays helps him to appear innocent, confused. 

“I’m… not quite sure I know what you mean,” he replies, his voice a careful mix of confusion and innocence.

The Grandmaster’s expression hardens for a moment before he tilts his head back and laughs, the sound rich and dark, reverberating through the chamber like the toll of a death knell. “Oh, come now, you’re a smart boy, Lo. Don’t play coy with me. You know exactly what I mean.”

Loki is infinitely thankful that he managed to get Sigyn out of here and in a relatively safe place. She will be fine so long as Loki can deescalate this, as long as he doesn’t show connection, but he has to tread carefully. He swallows hard against the lump forming in his throat, trying to maintain his admittedly unsteady composure. “Grandmaster, if there has been some sort of misunderstanding, I assure you—” he begins, but the Grandmaster cuts him off with a raised hand.

“No misunderstandings here, kitten,” the Grandmaster says, his tone deceptively light. Quicker than Loki can react, the Grandmaster’s hand snaps up, gripping his chin with fingers that feel more like claws. The sharp points dig into Loki’s skin, drawing a wince from him as he’s forced to look directly into the Grandmaster’s eyes. “A little birdie told me that you stabbed him in the hand? And that he saw you, ah, walking around with her?” He asks, and Loki wants to swear. He knew he shouldn’t have left that bastard alive.

“See, though, I don’t like being lied to. Especially when I’ve been so nice.” The Grandmaster’s eyes narrow slightly, scrutinizing Loki’s face. “I also noticed something curious during today’s brawl,” he continues, “It seems our dear Sparkles was doing surprisingly well for himself. Almost as if he had a little help.”

Loki’s blood runs cold as he realizes where this is going. “I’m afraid I don’t follow,” he lies again, trying to keep his voice steady even as he feels as though there is a bottomless chasm opening beneath his feet. 

The Grandmaster sighs theatrically, shaking his head. “Lo-Lo, you disappoint me. You see, I thought I made it clear that I don’t like it when people try to deceive me.” He pulls out a small, glowing coin from within his robes, holding it up for Loki to see. “Recognize this?”

Loki’s eyes widen, his heart pounding in his chest. The coin. How did the Grandmaster get it? He had hidden it away in his pocket dimension, a place only he should have access to. Loki’s breathing picks up even as he tries to regulate it, to keep a straight face, but he is losing feeling in his legs, and his heart is hammering in his ears. “I… I’ve never seen that before,” he says, but the tremor in his voice betrays him.

The Grandmaster’s smile stretches too wide, his teeth appearing almost serrated, glinting ominously in the dim light. The corners of his eyes crinkle in an unsettling way, more akin to cracks forming in a fragile mask. “Oh, honeybunch… You’re not a very good liar.”

As Loki meets his eyes, he sees something that makes his blood run cold. The Grandmaster’s pupils seem to shimmer and shift strangely, unnaturally in the light. Loki’s breath catches in his throat as he glimpses something dark and formless within those eyes. It is like the Void is looking back and he can feel himself falling into it. 

What is this creature?

“You see, this little trinket of yours seems to have had quite the impact on the fight today. Almost as if someone was trying to tilt the odds in Sparkles’ favor.” The Grandmaster’s voice is softer now, but it resonates in Loki’s bones, as if vibrating through his very marrow. His skin seems to ripple, a subtle and horrifying transformation that hints at something far more monstrous lurking beneath. 

Loki always found it odd how benign the Grandmaster appears, how unassuming his form is. He looks so innocuous, so… normal. If Loki did not know any better, he would have assumed that the man was Aesir. He could even pass as human. Until moments like these. 

The Grandmaster leans in closer to Loki, his voice lowering to a whisper. “You know what that sounds like to me? It sounds like cheating.” He says, and the words carry an otherworldly echo, reverberating unnaturally. “Not a big fan of that either.”

Loki’s heart pounds louder as his mind races, desperately searching for an explanation, a way out of this. “You must be mistaken. I have no reason to interfere with the fight. Thor and I… We aren’t close. We never have been.”

The Grandmaster’s grip tightens, his fingers digging into Loki’s jaw enough to make him hiss. “Is that so? Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you care quite a bit about him. Enough to try and rig the fight.”

Loki winces, dread turning his blood to ice. “I assure you, I had no such intentions,” he insists, but the Grandmaster’s skeptical gaze tells him he’s not buying it. “Please, Grandmaster,” Loki tries again, “I would never lie to you.”

The Grandmaster’s eyes narrow, his grip tightening, and Loki feels the bite of his nails puncture deeper, sending a jolt of pain down his neck. The Grandmaster’s smile never wavers, but there is a predatory glint in his eyes that never leaves.

“Sweetheart,” the Grandmaster croons, “I have been exceedingly patient with you. But my patience is not limitless.”

Loki nods as much as the Grandmaster’s hold allows. “I understand,” he says, speaking quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush, “I am grateful for your patience. Truly. If I have done something to displease you, let me make amends.”

The Grandmaster’s expression softens slightly, but the dangerous edge remains. “Amends,” he repeats. “Yes, you will make amends. But first, I want to hear you admit what you’ve done.”

Loki’s mind whirls with panic. Admitting to aiding Sigyn’s escape would likely only incite more wrath, and it would prove that he cares about her, knows her. He can’t risk that, she’s far too vulnerable, too valuable. But he needs to give the Grandmaster something to placate him. And continuing to lie will only dig a deeper hole for him. 

“I… I apologize for the incident with Thor,” he says carefully, his voice strained. “I may have… overstepped my bounds in my eagerness to prove myself.” He watches the Grandmaster’s face for indication that his attempt is working, though he finds himself too afraid to look directly into those eyes again. “I only wanted you to be thoroughly entertained.”

The Grandmaster releases Loki’s chin, but his eyes remain fixed on him, unblinking. “Ah, yes, the little duel,” he says, feigning contemplation. “And my loan?”

She is not yours, Loki thinks viciously, You are not to touch her. 

“I am sorry,” Loki continues, “that I allowed for her to escape.” His heart pounds loudly in his chest, but he forces a contrite smile. “I assure you, Grandmaster, everything I do is in service to you.”

“Mmm,” The Grandmaster purrs, “I like the way you worded that.” He moves forward, pressing an insistent hand into Loki’s chest and pushing back, guiding Loki until his knees hit the edge of the bed. “See, though, sweet thing, trust is so easily broken… So hard to rebuild.”

Loki nods. “Of course,” he says, his voice steady despite the terror clawing at him.“Tell me how I may please you.”

The Grandmaster’s smile widens, and he steps closer, his presence overwhelming. “Oh, I have just the thing in mind,” he says. He lifts a hand, tracing a slow, deliberate line up Loki’s collarbone to his throat, sending shivers down his spine.

“Grandmaster,” Loki begins, trying to keep his voice steady, “I am at your disposal.”

The Grandmaster’s eyes gleam with cruel amusement. “Oh, I know you are.” Suddenly, the Grandmaster’s hand shifts positions and seizes Loki’s neck, squeezing just enough to make breathing difficult. “But I’m not entirely certain that you know it.”

Loki’s mind screams at him to fight back, but he knows better. The Grandmaster’s power is immense, far beyond his own. Any attempt to resist would be futile— worse than futile, it would be fatal, lethal. Instead, he forces himself to remain still, meeting the Grandmaster’s gaze with as much composure as he can muster. He can handle what is about to happen. It doesn’t matter.

It’s only his body. 

The room is dim, lit only by the flickering glow of neon lights that filter through the cracks in the haphazardly constructed walls. The space is cramped, cluttered with an assortment of weapons, armor, and trinkets scavenged from the many objects that plummet from the sky. 

Sigyn sits on a patched up couch, pushed against the wall. Her fingers curl protectively around her still-flat stomach, a subconscious gesture of anxiety as she surveys her surroundings. The room is small, an open space with a couple of makeshift beds pushed against one wall, a table cluttered with bottles and scraps, and a few crates that serve as storage. In the far corner, Ari is curled up on one of the beds, her tail twitching as she watches Sigyn with curious, cat-like eyes. She’s a unique little alien creature; aquatic and feline at once. 

Sigyn glances around, noting the small personal touches in the room that speak to the lives lived here. A pair of boots tossed carelessly under the table, a set of knives meticulously laid out for cleaning, a half-empty bottle of some unknown liquor resting on a crate that serves as a makeshift nightstand. 

Val is already settled into a battered armchair, her legs stretched out in front of her as she hands Sigyn a blanket, light blue and rough looking. “Here. Make yourself comfortable,” she says, though her voice lacks true hospitality. It almost makes Sigyn wonder when the last time they had a visitor was. If they ever have. 

“Thank you,” Sigyn says, her throat tight. She accepts the blanket from her, pulling it around her as best she can. The fabric is rough against her skin, but she’s too exhausted to care. The journey to this place, the constant fear of being discovered, and the strain of her pregnancy have taken their toll. She rests the back of her head against the top of the couch as she watches Val uncork another bottle with a practiced motion. She’s had at least two since they’ve been here, and those are only the ones that Sigyn has seen. The sound echoes in the stillness of the room, drawing her attention.

“How many of those have you had?” Sigyn asks, her voice carrying a note of unease as she watches Val tip back the bottle. She can’t help but notice the look in Val’s eyes, the way her shoulders sag. 

“Enough to keep me sane on this hellhole of a planet,” she replies bitterly, her gaze distant, lost in memories she clearly doesn’t want to revisit. Sigyn immediately gets the idea from the weary bitterness in her tone that it wouldn’t bode well for either of them if she pressed. Still… She can probably imagine. She has read tales of the All-Father’s Valkyries, a legion of women warriors who were slaughtered mysteriously. All bodies accounted for except for one. 

Valkyrie. Val. 

She understands too well the need to escape, to numb oneself to the harsh realities that surround them. That was what her garden was.

Sigyn sighs, shutting her eyes for a moment as she tries to steady herself. Chaotic emotions inside her swirl like a storm, and she instinctively places a hand over her stomach. It’s still flat, unchanged, but the knowledge of the life growing within her feels heavy to her. She can’t stop herself from imagining how it will feel when she starts showing, when this new reality becomes undeniable.

“I’ve never been around anyone pregnant before,” Ari chimes in, breaking the tense silence. She’s still curled up in the corner, her cat-like pupils dilating with curiosity as she watches Sigyn intently. Her tail flicks behind her, the movement almost hypnotic. “Pregnant people don’t last long out here. People like to cut the baby out and eat it.” 

The bluntness of Ari’s statement sends an uncomfortable shiver down Sigyn’s spine. There’s no malice in Ari’s tone, only a matter-of-factness that underscores the brutality of their surroundings. Webbed ears flick when Sigyn sighs heavily through her mouth, a gesture that speaks to the exhaustion she’s trying to hide. This planet is truly awful. 

“I do not know what I’m going to do,” Sigyn admits softly. The reality of her condition still feels distant, unreal. It isn’t as though she isn’t happy or excited at the prospect of having a child, especially if that child is with Loki. It all just… came so suddenly, this realization of new life inside her, and she’s honestly still a bit shell-shocked that it happened at all. She and Loki aren’t exactly frequently intimate, and he’s always made a habit of being very careful.

The thought of Loki brings a fresh wave of anxiety. He’s out there somewhere, navigating the dangers of Sakaar, risking everything to ensure her safety. She wants to believe he’s fine, that he’ll talk to her when he is ready, when it is safe enough for him to do so. But that hardly stops her from worrying.

Val’s voice cuts through her thoughts, blunt and unyielding. “I’d say just get rid of the damn thing,” she suggests, her tone brutally honest as she takes another long drink from her bottle.

Sigyn’s eyes widen and she stares at Val, appalled by the suggestion. It’s not something she’s prepared to hear, and certainly not something she wants. “Excuse me?” Her voice trembles slightly as she struggles to keep her emotions in check. The very idea makes her feel indescribably awful. “I am not—”

“Listen,” Val interrupts, her tone impatient but not entirely unkind, “I’m not trying to be an ass. But you’re not exactly on a child-friendly planet right now.” She sets the bottle down, leaning forward slightly as she speaks. There’s a hard edge to her voice, but Sigyn can sense the concern beneath it.

“You have a child,” Sigyn retorts, gesturing toward Ari, who offers a toothy, fanged smile that somehow still manages to convey warmth. 

“And if you didn’t notice, she’s missing an eye and a leg,” Val counters, her tone hardening as she makes her point. “Besides, her ass is already here. Your kid is probably the size of a walnut, if that.” Her words are sharp, practical. Painful. “If anyone gets an idea that you’re pregnant, you’re gonna be in deep shit. That’s a vulnerability that we can’t afford right now.”

Sigyn’s eyes sting with the threat of tears as she considers Val’s words. The reality of what she’s facing is undeniable. She knows Val isn’t wrong, that being in such a vulnerable position with an unborn child is dangerous, reckless even. But it isn’t so easy as… what she’s suggesting. 

“But…” Her voice wavers, the instinct to protect her unborn baby clashing with the cold, hard reality of where they are and what they face. It isn’t as if she hadn’t considered this; she knows that things are dangerous right now, and it is extremely inconvenient for them to have a baby right now. But the thought of ending this life before it has even begun feels like a betrayal. And it feels… precious, this thing within her. She imagines raising this child with Loki, holding her baby in her arms, and she can’t. 

“You and Lackey can just make another one when we’re out of here, can’t you?” Val’s voice is softer now, though her words still carry a sting. She’s trying to be practical, to make Sigyn see reason. She is not trying to suggest anything that would be unnecessarily cruel. And it is logical. But…

“I will hide it,” Sigyn says firmly, her voice hardening with determination. She’s uncompromising on this point. “But I will need to speak with Loki before I… make any further decisions.” The thought of making such a choice without him feels wrong, like she’s cutting him out of something that belongs to both of them. He has been… occupied with the Grandmaster since she arrived, but she hopes the two of them will have a chance to talk— truly talk when he comes to give the scrappers the payment that was promised in exchange for keeping her safe. Her and their baby. 

Val sighs, running a hand through her hair in frustration. “I’m telling you, it’s dangerous,” she insists, but there’s a note of reluctant respect in her voice, as if she knows Sigyn won’t be swayed. Val is a warrior, a survivor, and she knows the risks better than anyone. But she also knows that some fights aren’t worth picking.

“And I’m telling you that I will discuss it with Loki,” Sigyn snaps, her voice sharp with the conviction that this is not a decision she can make alone. Val raises her hands in mock surrender, her expression one of resignation as she reaches for the bottle once more.

“Alright, alright. No need to bite my head off,” Val mutters, taking another drink, her gaze softening slightly as she watches Sigyn. 

Sigyn sighs softly, her hand moving in slow, gentle circles over her stomach, trying to find some semblance of comfort in the action. The room is quiet save for the distant hum of the city outside, the neon lights casting an eerie glow through the cracks in the walls.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy, until Val’s voice cuts through it and startles Sigyn out of her thoughts. “You’re not going to start crying, are you?” Her tone is flat, almost bored as she watches Sigyn with a raised eyebrow.

Sigyn’s cheeks flush, embarrassment and irritation bubbling up inside her in equal measure. “Are you always this rude?” she retorts, her voice sharper than she intended. She’s already on edge, and Val’s bluntness isn’t helping.

Val smirks, unbothered by Sigyn’s reaction. “Depends on who you ask,” she says with a casual shrug, taking another swig from her bottle. The alcohol has taken the edge off her usual wariness, and it shows in the looseness of her posture. 

A tense silence falls between them, the air thick. Sigyn shifts in her seat, trying to calm herself, to steady the whirlwind of emotions that threaten to overwhelm her. She glances over at Ari, who is lounging upside down against the wall, her legs kicking idly in the air. The younger scrapper reminds her of Loki around her age, and the playfulness he sometimes allowed her to see. 

Sigyn takes a deep breath, trying to focus on something other than the gnawing anxiety that’s been eating away at her since she arrived on this cursed planet. “What is that man?” She finally asks, breaking the silence. “The ‘Grandmaster’?”

“King of this shithole,” Val replies. Sigyn rolls her eyes.

“Yes, I gathered that,” Sigyn presses on, her voice edged with frustration. “I mean, what is he? He looks almost Aesir, but the energy, the power I sense from him… it’s something else entirely.” It’s unsettling, is what it is. 

Val shrugs, her expression closed off. “Shit, I don’t know. He’s some sort of ancient being. Been around since the beginning of everything. He’s insanely fucking powerful.” 

“He’s an Elder,” Ari chimes in. Her legs are propped against the wall, and her tail swishes lazily back and forth. “One of the first beings to exist, like… ever, I guess. He’s older than he looks. Like, a lot older.” There’s a note in her voice despite the casual way she speaks about it, as if the Grandmaster’s age and power are so far beyond comprehension that they’re almost meaningless.

Sigyn hums thoughtfully, her mind trying to piece the information together. The image forming in her mind is unsettling, a patchwork of vague details and half-understood concepts that only serve to deepen her unease. And then when you add Loki into it… “I’ve only ever seen Loki speak with such fear of someone once,” she says, more to herself than to the others. “It unsettles me that the Grandmaster inspires that same unease.” Her chest is tight with anxiety, her hands finding their way into her hair as she begins to fidget with her curls.  

Val scoffs, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “I mean, he didn’t seem too afraid when he was getting dicked down every night when he first got here.”

The words hit Sigyn like a physical blow, and she sits up straight, her eyes wide with shock and anger. “He— What?” Her voice is barbed, incredulous, and her hands tremble slightly as she stares at Val, trying to process what she just heard. “I beg your pardon?” She demands, her voice rising as her emotions surge to the surface.

Val’s expression falters, and she mutters under her breath, “Shit.” There’s a flicker of regret in her eyes, as if she realizes she’s said too much, but it’s quickly buried beneath her usual nonchalance.

Sigyn’s heart pounds in her chest, her mind racing as she tries to make sense of Val’s words. “What do you mean? Are you saying that Loki and the Grandmaster…” She can’t bring herself to finish the sentence, the thought too horrifying to fully articulate.

Val shifts uncomfortably, her gaze dropping to the floor. She’s not used to being the bearer of such personal, painful news, and it shows in the way she fidgets with the bottle in her hands. “Look, I wasn’t trying to upset you,” she says, her voice softer, almost apologetic. “I didn’t know you didn’t…” She grimaces to herself and shakes her head. “But yeah, when he first got here, the Grandmaster… took a special interest in him.” She hesitates, glancing up at Sigyn. “He wasn’t exactly in a position to say no.”

The room feels like it’s closing in on Sigyn, the walls pressing in on her as she struggles to breathe. She had a feeling. It was in the way that Loki danced around the subject, the clothing she had seen him try to hide from her, the way she’s heard people talking about him. But she didn’t want to believe it. Especially if it didn’t come from Loki first. 

The thought of Loki being subjected to the Grandmaster’s whims, of him being forced into such a situation, makes her blood boil. She feels a deep, burning need to protect him, to pull him out of this nightmare, but she’s also painfully aware of how little power she has in this place.

Ari, who has been watching the exchange silently, finally flips herself upright, her expression surprisingly serious. “It’s not like he had a choice, you know,” she says. “The Grandmaster doesn’t take no for an answer.”

Sigyn swallows hard, her throat tight with unshed tears. She nods slowly, her mind whirling with the implications of what she’s just learned. Loki had always been so careful, so guarded with his emotions, with himself. And she has seen him speak about the Grandmaster. That fear in his eyes… The only other time she has seen it is when he mentions the Titan. He’d been trying to protect her, to shield her from the ugly truth of what he’d endured. But he’s been lying. 

“I need to talk to him,” Sigyn says, “I need to know everything.”

Val watches her for a moment, then nods. “He’s a tough one, your man,” she says quietly. “He’s lasted longer than anyone I’ve seen in the position he’s in.”

Sigyn nods, her heart aching with the knowledge that Loki has been enduring this torment in silence. She won’t let him continue to suffer alone. Not now, not ever. 

The silence in the room is thick with tension, but it’s Ari who breaks it, her voice quiet and almost hesitant. “You’ll be able to talk to him soon,” she says, her gaze flicking away from Sigyn’s, a flash of guilt crossing her young face. “He’s coming here.”

Sigyn’s breath catches in her throat, relief and dread coming together within her. She wants nothing more than to see Loki, to hold him and reassure him that they’ll get through this together, but she’s also terrified of how he might react. He’s started lying to her. She already knows that in his mind, the lies are justified, kinder than the truth, but it means he is hiding from her again. Running from her. But she can’t pretend like she doesn’t know this now. She can’t just ignore it for the sake of avoiding discomfort. 

Val watches her carefully, her usual brusque demeanor softened by a rare hint of empathy. “Listen,” she says, her voice low and steady, “I don’t know what you’re going to say to him, but whatever it is, just… This planet does shit to people, okay? Makes you do things you never thought you’d be capable of.”

Sigyn nods, swallowing back the tightness in her throat. “I know,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. The words are more for herself than for Val. Whatever Loki has done, what he has been forced to do, does not define him. But it’s not just the planet, is it? It’s everything. The weight of his past, the scars he carries, the darkness that always seems to find him. It seems like he’s always chasing after his own destruction. 

Val seems to sense the turmoil inside Sigyn, and she sighs, setting her bottle down on the table with a soft clink. “Alright,” she begins, her voice uncharacteristically gentle, “I’ve seen enough shit in this place to know when someone’s fighting for more than just themselves. Loki’s hanging on, and he’s doing it for you. But that doesn’t mean he’s not gonna stumble, or that he won’t try to push you away. You’ve just gotta hold on tighter.” She says, and then after a beat, she adds, “And don’t expect any more heart to heart bullshit out of me, I’m maxed out.”

Despite the crack at the end, those words resonate with Sigyn, and she finds herself nodding again, this time with a bit more strength. “I will,” she says, her voice firmer. “I won’t let him push me away. Not this time.” Not again. They’ve done this dance before and she knows all the moves. She knows where it leads and she will change the steps. 

She knows this conversation with Loki won’t be easy, but it’s necessary. She can’t let him continue to carry this burden alone, can’t let him retreat into the shadows of his pain and guilt. She loves him too much to let him disappear behind a wall of lies and half-truths.

“I’m going to talk to him,” Sigyn says, her voice steady. “And then we’re going to figure out how to get out of here.”

Ari shifts in her seat, fidgeting with her tail. “He’s been fighting, you know,” she says, her voice soft but earnest. “He’s been fighting to keep you safe, to keep himself sane. It’s not easy, what he’s doing.” Sigyn can’t imagine the strength it must take for him to endure what he has, to keep going despite the horrors he’s faced. She feels a deep sense of admiration for him, but also a crushing guilt that she wasn’t there to help him sooner. That she didn’t push when she felt something was amiss. With Loki, there usually is.

Val leans back in her chair, the bottle clutched loosely in her hand as she prepares to finish off what’s left. Her eyes are half-lidded from drink and exhaustion. She swirls the remaining liquid around before bringing the bottle to her lips, her movements slow and deliberate.

“You’ll get out of this hellhole,” Val says, her voice rough with a weariness that only comes from years of hard living. She takes a long swig, draining the bottle dry before setting it down with a dull thud. “The important thing is that you want to leave. Most people don’t.”

Sigyn’s brows knit together in confusion, her head tilting slightly as she tries to understand. “Really?” She asks. The idea of anyone choosing to stay in a place like Sakaar, where every day is a battle for survival, seems incomprehensible to her.

Val’s gaze shifts to the side, staring at the far wall as if she can see beyond it, into the grim reality of the world outside. “The people who live here… Their minds are broken,” she says, her tone flat, almost detached. There’s a bitter edge to her words. “They don’t know how to live anywhere else. Here, you kill each other, you eat each other, you drug each other, or you fuck each other. It’s the way things are, and the Grandmaster keeps it that way.” Her eyes flicker back to Sigyn, sharp and piercing. “Some people just want to spend their lives feeling good until they die and… Well, you can find that here.”

As she speaks, Val’s hand absently traces the rim of the bottle, the action almost unconscious, a way to keep herself grounded. Her expression hardens, the lines of her face deepening with the weight of too many memories, too much pain.

Sigyn watches her closely, trying to absorb what Val is laying out for her. The room feels colder, the neon lights from outside casting an eerie glow that seems to make the shadows dance along the walls. The oppressive atmosphere of Sakaar presses in on her, the air thick with a sense of hopelessness that she struggles to shake off.

“Does… anyone ever leave?” Sigyn asks, her voice tentative, almost afraid of the answer. Her hands rest on her lap, fingers intertwining as she tries to steady herself. “Successfully?”

Val’s eyes meet hers, her gaze hardening further. “Rarely,” she admits, her voice taking on a darker tone. “Most people are killed if they get too close. Others give up before they even try.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she speaks, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “This place… it eats away at you. Breaks you down until there’s nothing left but the desire to survive, no matter the cost.”

The weight of Val’s words settles heavily on Sigyn’s shoulders, and she feels a pang of fear deep in her chest. She glances over at Ari, who has been unusually quiet during the conversation. The young scrapper sits with her legs drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them as if trying to make herself smaller, less noticeable. There’s a vulnerability in her posture that Sigyn hasn’t seen before.

“It would be nice to leave, though,” Ari says quietly, her voice soft and hesitant. She lifts her gaze, timidly meeting Val’s eyes, and for a moment, there’s a silent exchange between them that speaks volumes. It’s clear that this isn’t the first time they’ve discussed the idea of leaving Sakaar, and equally clear that it’s a conversation that always ends the same way.

“Yeah,” Val finally says, exhaling a long, tired sigh. “It would be nice, kid. But nice doesn’t mean easy.” She takes a slow sip from the bottle, as if to punctuate the finality of her words. “And it doesn’t mean it’s possible.” 

Ari shifts uncomfortably, her gaze dropping to the floor. Her tail flicks nervously, betraying her unease. “I know,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “But I still think about it.”

Sigyn watches the exchange, her heart going out to both of them. It’s one thing to dream of escape, to long for a life beyond the confines of this brutal, unforgiving planet. But it’s another thing entirely to believe that such an escape is possible, to hold onto hope in a place that seems designed to crush it.

Val sighs, setting the bottle down with a soft clink. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to leave, with wanting something better. But you’ve gotta be realistic, too.”

Ari nods, her expression resigned, but there’s a hint of something in her eyes, something that looks a lot like hope, fragile and tentative, but still alive. “I just… I don’t want to die here,” she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. Ari leans her head against her knees, her tail flicking restlessly behind her. 

Sigyn feels a deep, aching empathy for both women, understanding all too well the desire to escape, to find a place where one can be free from the chains that bind. Ari hugs her leg, the bright teal prosthetic standing out awkwardly against her light blue fur. She’s so young, and to have already lost so much…

Sigyn has seen that look before; in Loki’s eyes, in her own reflection during the darkest moments of her life. It’s the look of someone who’s been beaten down, who’s been told time and time again that there’s no way out, but who still holds onto that small, stubborn spark of hope.

“We’re not going to die here,” Sigyn says, her voice firm with conviction. She looks at both Val and Ari, determination burning in her. “We’re going to find a way out. All of us.”

Val meets her gaze, and for a moment, the hardness in her eyes softens. “You’ve got spirit,” she says, a hint of admiration in her tone. But then, as if catching herself, she shakes her head slightly, retreating behind her usual flippancy. “But we’re staying put,” she adds, her voice firm, final.

Ari, who had been listening quietly, glances up at Val, her eyes searching for something in the older woman’s face. When she doesn’t find it, she huffs softly. Without a word, she turns away from them, curling up into a tight ball on the bed, her back facing the two women. The rejection in her posture is clear, and it tugs at something deep within Sigyn’s heart.

Val swears softly under her breath, the tension in the room thickening. She reaches for another bottle, her movements sharp, almost angry. Sigyn watches her in silence, noting the way Val’s hand trembles ever so slightly as she uncorks another bottle. It’s a small tell, but one that speaks volumes about the battle raging inside her.

Sigyn’s eyes narrow slightly as she studies Val, the pieces of the puzzle starting to come together in her mind. “Your fear is keeping you here,” she says, her voice calm, “You say most people don’t want to leave this place. Why don’t you?”

Val freezes for a split second, the bottle halfway to her lips. Her eyes flicker with something, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared. She takes a long drink, the liquid burning down her throat, before she finally sets the bottle down with a heavy sigh.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Val mutters, her tone gruff, dismissive. Brittle. “This place… it’s all some people have left. Out there?” She gestures vaguely, indicating the world beyond Sakaar. “There’s nothing for us out there. Nothing but more pain, more loss.” She says, staring down at her reflection in the bottle. “Reminders.”

Sigyn steps closer, her gaze softening as she tries to reach Val through the walls she’s built around herself. She’s an expert at breaking through. She just has to find out where. “There’s pain here too,” she says gently. “And more loss than any of us deserve. But staying here out of fear… it’s not living, Val.”

Val’s jaw clenches, her hands curling into fists as she fights back the emotions threatening to spill over. “You think it’s that simple?” She snaps, her voice rough. “You think I haven’t tried? That I haven’t thought about leaving? It’s not just fear. It’s reality. Out there, it’s just more of the same. At least on this planet, you know what you’re getting.”

Ari shifts slightly, her ears flicking in Val’s direction as she listens, her back still turned but clearly paying attention. The tension in her small frame speaks of a shared pain, a shared history that binds her to Val in ways Sigyn can only begin to understand. She wonders how they came to find each other. Sakaar doesn’t really seem like a ‘familial relationship building’ place.

Sigyn takes a deep breath, trying to find the right words to reach them both. “I’m not saying it will be easy,” she says, “But we can’t let this place take everything from us. Not our hope, not our will to fight for something better.”

Val looks away, her eyes narrowing as she stares into the middle distance. “You don’t know what it’s like,” she mutters, more to herself than to Sigyn. “You don’t know shit.”

“I don’t,” Sigyn agrees, looking silently at Val as she drinks again. “And I do not judge you for your choices made in anguish. But I do know that if you want something better… You have to want to find it.” Val’s shoulders sag, the fight seeming to drain out of her as she slumps back into her chair. She rubs a hand over her face, as if trying to wipe away the exhaustion that clings to her like a second skin. 

“You’re one stubborn woman, you know that?” She asks, deadpan voice sounding endlessly tired. 

Sigyn smiles, relief washing over her like a wave. “I’ve been told that before,” she admits with a small laugh. “But sometimes, stubbornness is what keeps us going.”

It’s what keeps her fighting. And she certainly doesn’t plan on losing. 

Warning for the following section!!

This isn’t worth it, Loki thinks. This isn’t worth it.

He wanted destruction, he wanted oblivion, and he is getting it, but this… He should have done it himself, should have found a good blade and slit his own throat, should have found the nearest high ledge and thrown himself off of it (no, no more falling, Norns, no more falling). Anything… Anything would have been better than this.

All the talks of the short lives of the Grandmaster’s favorites, and Loki is the one who has lasted the longest. Of course, he would be. Since when has his suffering ever been cut short?

Loki lies spreadeagled on the bed, his limbs aching, his mind a foggy mess of conflicting emotions. The restraints are tight, threatening to cut into his wrists, sharp enough to draw blood if he struggles. It’s a warning not to.

The Grandmaster hovers over him, watching intently, and Loki’s chest heaves with ragged breaths, his skin slick with sweat as he tries to brace himself for what’s coming. He hates how his body trembles beneath the Grandmaster’s gaze, hates that he can’t stop the anticipation from curling in his gut like a viper.

The Grandmaster runs a hand down Loki’s abdomen, his touch almost gentle, but it’s the gentleness that makes Loki’s skin crawl. “The name of the game is honesty, sweet thing,” the Grandmaster murmurs, his voice a low, seductive purr, “And I think you’ve been holding out on me. I think it’s time we corrected that.” 

Without warning, the Grandmaster’s hand lashes out, striking Loki across the face with a force that sends him reeling. The sharp sting of the blow reverberates through his skull, but Loki doesn’t cry out. He bites down on his tongue, swallowing the pain, his head snapping to the side from the impact. His vision blurs for a moment, stars dancing at the edges of his sight.

“You’re such a pretty little liar,” the Grandmaster murmurs, almost to himself, as he studies the red mark blooming on Loki’s cheek. He lifts his hand again, this time to grip Loki’s chin, forcing him to look up, to meet those cold, piercing eyes. Meet the terrifying darkness within them.

He can feel a tingle from where the Grandmaster holds his face, the sensation of foreign magic creeping into his body. Warning alarms are screaming in his head, but they’re quickly muffled, silenced by a blanket sensation of pleasure. “But I don’t like being lied to, Lo-Lo. You know that.”

Loki’s breath hitches, his pulse racing as he tries to find the right words, something that might placate the Grandmaster. As if it matters. “I didn’t mean to deceive you,” he says, his voice tight, strained. “I only wanted to entertain you.”

The Grandmaster’s grip tightens, his nails digging into Loki’s skin. “Entertain me?” He echoes, his tone dangerously light. “Oh, you will, sweetheart. You will.”

Before Loki can respond, the Grandmaster’s hand slides lower, fingers wrapping around Loki’s hardened length with a possessive grip. Loki gasps, his body betraying him once again as a jolt of unwanted pleasure shoots through him. He bites down on his lip, desperate to keep the sounds inside, to deny the Grandmaster the satisfaction of hearing him break.

But the Grandmaster is relentless, his strokes slow and purposeful. “You see,” the Grandmaster continues, his voice almost conversational, “honesty is so important in a relationship. And you, my dear, have been very dishonest.”

Loki shakes his head, his breath coming in harsh, uneven bursts. “I haven’t—” he begins, but the words die in his throat as the Grandmaster’s grip tightens, his movements becoming more insistent, more demanding. That sensation of magic within him feels more intense, more pronounced. It’s ecstasy, and Loki can’t decide if he wants it gone or if he wants more. 

“Lying is such a nasty habit,” the Grandmaster chides, his tone light, nearing playfulness. “And you’ve been lying a lot, haven’t you, Lo-Lo?” He asks, pressing his thumb against the underside of Loki’s cock in a way that makes him draw in sharp breath. “Lying to me. Lying to yourself.” 

Loki’s teeth sink into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as he tries to suppress the moan that’s building in his chest. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want any of it, but his body is a traitor, responding to the Grandmaster’s touch with a desperation that sickens him.

The Grandmaster’s hand continues to work Loki with expert precision, every stroke calculated to push him closer to the brink, to blur the line between pain and pleasure until Loki can’t tell the difference anymore. His body arches involuntarily, a shuddering gasp escaping his lips despite his best efforts to stay silent.

“That’s it,” the Grandmaster coos, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “I can see it, you know. I can see how much you’re enjoying this. You’re such a good boy when you want to be, Lo.”

Loki wants to scream, to tear himself away from the Grandmaster’s grasp, but his body won’t obey him, and the restraints won’t allow it. Every nerve ending is alight with sensation, every touch sending waves of conflicting emotions crashing through him. He can feel the pressure building, the heat coiling low in his belly, and he hates himself for it, hates that the Grandmaster knows exactly how to play him, how to break him down piece by piece.

With a cruel smile, the Grandmaster shifts, opening his robes and moving to stand between Loki’s legs. Those eyes never leave Loki’s face. “And you like being good. You want to be honest, don’t you, sweet thing?” He asks, his voice deceptively soft. “I think it’s time we got to the truth of it.”

The Grandmaster’s gaze roams over Loki’s body, lingering on the places he knows are most sensitive. With a casual wave of his hand, a bottle of lube appears out of thin air, hovering in the air for a moment before settling into his palm. He unscrews the cap slowly, as if savoring the moment, his eyes never leaving Loki’s.

He pours a generous amount of the cool, slick liquid onto his fingers, the lube glistening in the dim light of the room. His other hand rests on Loki’s thigh, spreading him open with an ease that makes Loki’s stomach twist.

Loki bites the inside of his cheek, bracing himself as the Grandmaster’s slick fingers press against him, circling teasingly before pushing in. The intrusion is maddeningly slow, meant to make Loki squirm, to remind him of just how thoroughly the Grandmaster controls him. And despite his best efforts to stay silent, a sharp gasp escapes his lips as the first finger slides inside.

“There we go,” the Grandmaster murmurs, his tone almost soothing, as if he’s comforting a frightened animal. “You’re always so tense, honeybunch. Trust goes both ways. If you want me to trust you, you need to learn to trust me more.”

Loki’s breath hitches as the Grandmaster’s finger curls inside him, finding that sweet spot with terrifying accuracy. His muscles twitch, a wave of unwanted pleasure coursing through him, and he has to bite down hard on his lip to keep from making any more noise. But the Grandmaster is patient, methodical, adding a second finger and then a third, each one stretching him further, working him open with practiced ease.

The slick sounds of the lube fill the room, mingling with Loki’s ragged breaths and the soft, infuriating hum of the Grandmaster’s satisfaction. Loki’s body— his traitorous, repulsive body— begins to respond, a heat pooling low in his belly despite the revulsion curling in his gut. The pressure is mounting, every calculated movement of the Grandmaster’s fingers pushing him closer to the edge.

“See how easy it is?” The Grandmaster purrs, his fingers moving with a steady rhythm. “You’re practically begging for it already.”

Loki’s nails dig into the sheets, his mind a fog of conflicting sensations. He hates how easily the Grandmaster manipulates him, how his body yields to the touch despite his every instinct screaming for him to fight back. But it’s too late for that, and they both know it.

When the Grandmaster finally withdraws his fingers, Loki can’t suppress the whimper that escapes him, the sudden emptiness almost more unbearable than the violation itself. But it’s only a brief reprieve. The Grandmaster spreads Loki’s legs wider, positioning himself with that same, terrifyingly calm precision, his slick hand guiding himself to Loki’s entrance.

Loki closes his eyes, his heart hammering in his chest, as the Grandmaster leans in, his breath warm against Loki’s ear. “Now, let’s see how honest you can be.”

Loki’s heart races, panic and anticipation surging through him as the Grandmaster pushes forward, sliding into him with a quick, harsh thrust. The sensation is overwhelming, pleasure that leaves Loki gasping, his vision swimming. He bites down on the pillow beneath his head, trying to stifle the cries that are building in his throat, but it’s no use. The Grandmaster knows his body too well, knows exactly how to make him unravel.

The Grandmaster’s pace is unhurried, methodical, each thrust calculated to push Loki further. “Go on, sweet thing. Tell me how it feels.”

Loki’s mind is a haze, his thoughts fragmented and disjointed. He can’t form words, can barely think beyond the relentless sensation of the Grandmaster’s body moving against his, inside him. All he can do is moan, the sound muffled by the pillow, as his body responds with a fervor that he despises. Still, the Grandmaster sounds pleased. “Isn’t it better when you’re honest?” He asks, his voice dark with amusement. “Isn’t it better when you don’t fight it?”

Loki nods his head weakly mainly because he knows that’s the response he’s meant to give. There’s only ever one answer to the Grandmaster’s questions. There are tears stinging in his eyes as he tries to hold on to some semblance of control. But it’s slipping away, and he can hear himself losing his battle to stay quiet. His body is on fire, every nerve lit up with sensation, and he can’t stop the way his hips arch up to meet the Grandmaster’s thrusts, can’t stop the moans that spill from his lips despite his best efforts.

The Grandmaster hums in approval, his hands gripping Loki’s hips with bruising force as he drives deeper, harder, drawing out every sound, every response that Loki tries to suppress. “There it is,” he purrs, his voice a low, satisfied sound. 

Loki’s body trembles uncontrollably, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. The pleasure is unbearable, twisted by the knowledge that he doesn’t want this, that he’s being used, violated. And yet his body craves it, responds to it, and he can’t stop it, can’t stop the way his muscles tighten, the way the heat builds and builds until it’s all-consuming.

The Grandmaster’s breath hitches, a sound of pleasure that makes Loki’s stomach twist in revulsion. “Oh, Lo-Lo, you take it so well,” he croons, his voice thick with satisfaction. His pace quickens, each thrust harder, deeper, the rhythm punishing in its intensity. Loki’s hands clench into fists, nails digging into his palms as he fights to keep himself together. The Grandmaster’s thrusts become more forceful, more demanding, and Loki is helpless to do anything but take it, to let the sensations wash over him and carry him away.

The Grandmaster’s hand tightens around Loki’s hip, his grip bruising, as he pushes deeper, harder. Loki bites down on his lip again, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue, but he can’t hold back the cry that escapes him. It’s a sound of pure agony, ripped from his throat as the pain reaches an unbearable peak.

Loki’s entire world is reduced to the agonizing friction, the unbearable heat of the Grandmaster inside him. The pleasure is excruciating, every thrust pushing him closer and closer to the brink. He’s been teetering on the edge for what feels like an eternity, every muscle in his body taut with anticipation. But as he approaches the point of no return, he realizes he hasn’t been given permission.

The Grandmaster’s movements become more erratic, more forceful, and Loki knows that the other man is close. His own body is straining toward release, every nerve alight with the desperate need to finish. But just as he’s about to give in and beg for permission, to plead for the mercy of release, the Grandmaster suddenly stills, burying himself deep inside Loki as he comes with a low, satisfied groan.

Loki gasps, his body still writhing with unfulfilled need, his arousal painful and insistent. But before he can beg, before he can even process what’s happening, the Grandmaster pulls out, leaving him empty and aching, still agonizingly hard.

A choked sound escapes Loki’s throat, and he whines. He’s so close, his body quivering on the edge of release, but the sudden emptiness only pushes him away. He looks up at the Grandmaster, his eyes wide and pleading, but the Grandmaster’s expression is one of cold amusement.

“Not this time, Lo-Lo,” the Grandmaster purrs, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from Loki’s forehead. “Maybe if you’re good next time, I’ll allow it.”

Loki’s breath hitches, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding back the release that’s been cruelly denied. He wants to scream, to beg, but the Grandmaster simply smiles, his gaze detached and dismissive. With a soft, almost tender sigh, the Grandmaster leans down and presses a kiss to Loki’s forehead. 

“Until then,” the Grandmaster murmurs, his voice soft and patronizing, before finally releasing Loki’s wrists from the restraints. He steps back, watching with a satisfied smile as Loki curls in on himself, his body still shaking with need.

The door closes with a soft click behind the Grandmaster, and Loki is left alone in the dimly lit room, his arousal still throbbing painfully, his mind a twisted mess of humiliation and anger. His hands shake as he reaches down, unable to bear the tension any longer. He doesn’t want to, but he has no choice; his body is screaming for release, the denial of it leaving him half-mad with need.

With trembling fingers, Loki touches himself, the slickness of the Grandmaster’s actions still present, making it easier but no less humiliating. It doesn’t take long; his body is already teetering on the edge, and within moments, he’s gasping, his back arching as the release finally overtakes him, the pleasure tainted by the sickening sense of degradation that comes with it.

He lies there afterward, staring up at the ceiling with tears blurring his vision, feeling indescribably ill. The room is cold, empty, and he’s left with nothing but the bitter aftertaste of the encounter, the sick realization that he’s been played with, toyed with, and discarded once again. The Grandmaster’s pet. He wipes his hand on the sheets, disgusted with himself, and curls into a tight ball as he sobs, trying to make himself as small as possible. As if that could somehow make him disappear.

He loses track of how long he lays there. He thinks it might have been hours before he finds the nerve or energy to move.

Loki forces himself to get up, his body protesting with every movement. Each step sends sharp pains through his limbs, but he grits his teeth and pushes forward. He limps his way to the bathroom, trying to ignore the feeling of the Grandmaster’s seed between his thighs.

In the bathroom, Loki turns on the faucet, letting the cold water run over his hands before splashing it onto his face. The shock of the cold helps to ground him, to pull him out of the haze of pain and humiliation. He grips the edge of the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looks as exhausted as he feels, bruises marring his skin, eyes red and swollen from crying.

A wave of nausea hits him suddenly, and he barely makes it to the toilet in time. He falls to his knees, vomiting into the bowl as sobs wrack his body. The retching is violent, leaving him gasping for breath as tears stream down his cheeks. Everything hurts. His muscles ache, his skin burns, and his heart feels like it’s been shattered into a thousand pieces.

When the nausea finally subsides, Loki rests his forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet. He allows himself a moment to catch his breath, to gather his strength. He can’t afford to fall apart now. He chose this path, and he must deal with the consequences. For Thor, for Sigyn. For the baby.

With a groan, he pushes himself up, leaning heavily against the wall for support. He carefully cleans himself up, splashing more water on his face and rinsing out his mouth, cleaning the mess between his thighs. His reflection looks no better, but he ignores it, focusing instead on the task at hand. He needs to dress his wounds, to make himself presentable. He can’t let Scrapper 142 or her apprentice see him like this. And certainly not Sigyn.

Loki opens the cabinet, pulling out the medical supplies. His hands shake as he cleans red cuts at his wrists, marks on his body from the Grandmaster’s teeth, hissing in pain as the antiseptic stings his raw skin. He works methodically, wrapping bandages around his wrists and ankles where the restraints had bitten into his flesh. He dresses himself carefully, choosing clothes that will hide the worst of the bruises and make him look somewhat respectable.

By the time he’s finished, he feels horrendously fragile, like a porcelain doll that might shatter at the slightest touch. But he stands tall, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin.

Limping out of the bathroom, Loki scribbles down a list of the things he needs to gather for payment for 142 and her apprentice. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He needs to check on Sigyn and the baby, to make sure they’re safe. He can’t afford to sit here and wallow in self-pity.

He’s dealt with worse. 

It’s only his body. 

Chapter Text

Loki moves through the chaotic streets of Sakaar with a deliberate stride, his body hunched under the weight of the cloak he has, the hood pulled low to obscure his features from prying eyes. Quickly, he reaches for his magic, casting a spell swiftly to send the box away to his pocket dimension. Walking around on this planet with anything of value is a surefire way to get unwanted attention.

The glamor he’s cast over himself hides the worst of the injuries inflicted by the Grandmaster, but he can still feel the bruises and cuts throbbing beneath the illusion. The sting will fade soon enough, but it’s still uncomfortable and unpleasant. The soreness, however, will be slower to heal. 

At first, despite the grief, Loki had relished the attention. After a lifetime of being overshadowed by Thor, it was intoxicating to finally be the one who drew eyes, who captivated and commanded desire. Even if he did not want sex, rarely ever felt the desire for it, it was still so nice to be wanted.

On Asgard, he was often overlooked, his sharp features and lithe frame deemed less appealing than his brother’s broad shoulders and sun-kissed hair. Thor was the embodiment of Asgardian ideals. He had everything; strength, beauty, and glory. Loki was the shadow that lingered behind, the younger sibling who could never quite measure up.

But here, on Sakaar, everything was different. Here, people gravitated toward him with a hunger that was both exhilarating and terrifying. They looked at him and they did not have Thor to compare him to. He was something unique, something desirable in its own right. He wasn’t just a shadow here; he was the center of attention, the object of fascination. And oh, how good it felt to be wanted. To be the one who drew whispered words and longing glances, who held power over those who sought to possess him. 

For a time, Loki basked in it. The leering eyes, the flirtatious comments. They fed a part of him that had starved for so long. The universe, it seemed, had finally seen fit to give him exactly what he had always wanted: validation, admiration, desire. He wasn’t the overlooked prince anymore; he was the Grandmaster’s Favorite, the one everyone wanted to touch, to claim, to adore. He was Loki and people wanted him. They craved him, and in that craving, he found a twisted sense of satisfaction. For once, he wasn’t competing with Thor. For once, he wasn’t the lesser sibling. He was special. He was wanted.

But the universe has always had a cruel sense of humor, especially where Loki is concerned. It has a way of twisting desires, of turning dreams into nightmares. And this… was no exception.

The attention that had once thrilled him began to suffocate him, the desire that had once flattered him began to feel like a noose tightening around his throat. The hands that reached for him, the eyes that undressed him, they no longer made him feel powerful. They made him feel trapped, caged, reduced to nothing more than an object of lust. The very thing he had craved became his prison.

The universe always sees fit to give him exactly what he asks for, but never in the way he expects.

The attention that once made him feel alive now fills him with dread, with disgust. Not just for those who seek him out, but for himself, for the part of him that ever wanted this in the first place. Because what he’s learned, what the universe has shown him, is that there’s a price for being wanted. A price that he’s paid in humiliation, in pain, in the slow erosion of everything he once thought he was.

As he attempts to push past two Sakaarans, their pale green skin glistening under the artificial lights, he’s forced to slow down when they sidle up to him, blocking his path. Their features are unsettlingly bug-like, large, multifaceted eyes and angular mandibles that twitch slightly as they grin at him.

Their eyes rake over him with a predatory intensity that sends a wave of nausea through his stomach. He forces himself to keep moving, trying to step around them, but they close the gap, their presence invasive and suffocating.

“Hey, pretty boy,” one of them purrs, their voice oily and dripping with unwelcome familiarity. “Where you off to in such a hurry? How about you stop and spend some time with us instead?”

The other one laughs, the sound harsh and grating. “Yeah, why don’t you show us why the Grandmaster likes you so much, huh?”

Loki feels his jaw clench, his hands curling into fists beneath his cloak. His heart pounds in his chest, and his fingers itch for the cool steel of one of his blades. But he knows better than to engage. He keeps walking, his pace quickening slightly, hoping they’ll lose interest if he doesn’t respond.

But of course they don’t. They follow him, their voices growing louder, more insistent, as they continue to taunt him. “Come on, sweetheart,” one of them says, leaning in closer, their breath hot against the side of Loki’s neck. “We could have a lot of fun together. You know you want to.”

Loki feels a wave of disgust rise in his throat, the revulsion curling in his stomach like a poisonous serpent. He wants to lash out, to wipe the smirks off their twisted faces, but he knows he can’t afford to cause a scene. Not now, not where he’s headed.

If it was bad before, when the Grandmaster simply believed Loki had a lapse, that Sigyn escaped on her own… He shudders to imagine what would await him if the truth came out. If the Grandmaster discovered that Loki had helped her escape. That he’s hiding her. That he loves her. The thought is a cold, twisting knife in his gut, and he knows the punishment would be far worse than anything he’s endured thus far. The Grandmaster would make sure of that.

“Or are you too good for the likes of us? Think you’re better than everyone else because the Grandmaster keeps you as his little pet?”

Loki’s breath catches. He knows they’re trying to provoke him, to see if they can push him into a reaction. He knows he shouldn’t give them the satisfaction. But the anger burning in his chest is too much to contain, and before he can stop himself, he turns to face them, his eyes flashing with cold fury.

“Step aside,” he hisses, his voice low and dangerous. “Unless you want to learn what happens to those who cross the Grandmaster’s Favorite.”

The Sakaarans exchange a glance, their expressions hardening. One of them sneers, stepping closer to Loki, invading his space. “Is that a threat? You think we’re scared of you?”

Loki’s eyes narrow to slits, the intensity of his glare enough to make the air around him seem to crackle with danger. His hand twitches toward the dagger concealed beneath his cloak, his fingers itching to draw it, to show them exactly who they’re dealing with. “It’s not a threat,” he replies, his voice chillingly calm, “It’s a promise. Now move before I decide to make an example of you.” Loki leans in just enough to ensure they see the glint in his eyes. “Unless you would prefer I tell En Dwi that I was harassed in the marketplace today,” he adds, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You know how he is about people… touching his things. Especially without permission.” 

There’s a tense silence as the two Sakaarans size him up, their sneers faltering as they weigh their options. Loki can see the wheels turning in their minds, the hesitation as they realize the potential consequences of pushing him too far. For a moment, he thinks they might actually try to grab him, to test their luck. His heart pounds in his chest, fear and anger fueling the adrenaline that courses through him.

But then, the taller Sakaaran snorts, breaking the tension with a dismissive gesture. He steps back, motioning for his companion to do the same. “Not worth the trouble,” he mutters as he glares at Loki. “But you’d better watch your back, slut. You won’t always have the Grandmaster’s protection.”

Loki doesn’t respond, just turns on his heel and continues on his way, his heart pounding in his chest as he forces himself to keep walking. The adrenaline from the encounter leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and he feels a wave of revulsion wash over him; not just at them, but at himself.

He’s never referred to the Grandmaster by name conversationally before. He’s disgusted by how easily he slipped into the role of the Grandmaster’s pet, how quickly he used that title as a shield. It makes him feel sick. But in this place, survival often means making choices he never thought he’d have to make.

142’s home is a small, makeshift structure nestled in an isolated area of Sakaar, far beyond the chaotic scrapping grounds. The building is a haphazard assembly of salvaged materials, rough around the edges but sturdy enough to withstand the harsh environment.

As Loki approaches, the distant hum of Sakaar’s ever-present noise fades into the background, leaving him in an eerie, almost unsettling silence. He takes a deep breath, trying to push the recent encounter from his mind, trying to focus on why he’s here. Sigyn and their child are the only reasons he hasn’t completely lost himself in this hellish place, and he clings to that thought as he steps up to the door and knocks.

The response is immediate. The door swings open quickly, almost violently, as 142 yanks it open with a force that makes the rusty hinges groan in protest. Loki flinches at the roughness of her movements, his nerves still raw and on edge. He barely has a moment to compose himself before her sharp eyes rake over him, scanning him from head to toe with a critical gaze.

“You look like shit,” she says, her voice gruff, lacking any pretense of sympathy. There’s no softness in her tone and Loki bristles at the comment, the words cutting deeper than he cares to admit. 

“Thank you for the kind observation,” he replies, his lips pulling back into a scowl. He pulls back his hood; there’s not much need for it here. 

For a brief moment, the Scrapper’s expression softens, almost imperceptibly, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came. She leans against the doorframe, arms still crossed over her chest, as she continues to study him. “You’re here to see her, I take it?” She asks, the roughness in her voice still there, but a little less sharp.

“Yes,” Loki replies, his scowl fading into something more neutral, though the tension in his body remains. “And to deliver the payment we agreed upon.” He summons the crate he had packed to materialize his hands, offering it as proof. The movement sends a spike of pain through him, and he can’t quite suppress the wince that follows. 

142 eyes the crate briefly before nodding, her stance relaxing slightly. She steps aside, motioning for him to enter. He sets the crate on a nearby counter as she shuts the door behind him. His gaze sweeps over the room, taking in the cluttered space.

It’s a hodgepodge of mismatched furniture, scattered weapons, and empty bottles. In one corner, the smaller Scraper is curled up, her tail twitching restlessly even in sleep. There’s a prosthetic leg propped up beside the bed that Loki assumes belongs to her. His eyes search the room, a trace of desperation in them as he looks for any sign of Sigyn.

“Where is she?” he asks, and it admittedly sounds more accusatory than he intended. 

142 watches him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “Relax, she’s in the spare room,” she says, “She’s asleep right now.”

The silence between them stretches, thick and heavy, until 142 breaks it with a voice laced with something sharper, more pointed. “You know,” she starts, “you neglected to mention that the baby she’s carrying is yours.” She punctuates the statement by pulling a dagger from her boot, wedging it between the crate’s lid to pry it open. 

Loki stiffens and forces himself to meet her gaze, though his composure is already cracking. “I wasn’t aware that was any of your business,” he replies, his voice low, edged with defensiveness. 

“It’s my business when I’m hiding the woman in my home,” she retorts, her eyes narrowing as she stabs the knife into the table. “If En Dwi finds out about this-”

“He will not find out,” Loki interrupts. The mere thought of the Grandmaster discovering Sigyn’s pregnancy sends a cold wave of dread through him. Anything he can imagine… He knows the Grandmaster would come up with something worse. “He believes she escaped on her own. And I’ve taken… the appropriate measures to avoid further suspicion.”

142 doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, she studies him intently, her gaze piercing as if she’s searching for cracks in his words, trying to determine if he’s telling the truth or just desperately hoping it’s enough to keep them all safe (and it’s a bit of both). The silence stretches on, tense and uncomfortable, until finally, her expression softens, just slightly; barely noticeable, but there.

“…He put you through the wringer, didn’t he?” she asks, her voice unexpectedly gentle, almost sympathetic as she offers him a bottle of alcohol from the crate she’s just opened.

Loki hesitates, staring at the bottle for a moment before taking it from her, the cold glass steadying his trembling hands. He grimaces as he uncorks it, the sharp scent of the alcohol turning his stomach, but he takes a swig anyway, hoping the burn will numb… everything. 

“You know nothing,” he snaps, his voice rough, the bitterness in his words more directed at himself than at her. The taste of the alcohol is harsh on his tongue. Of course she knows what he is to the Grandmaster. But he hardly expected her to mention it outright, aside from her occasional remarks about him being En Dwi’s whore. 

“Maybe not,” she replies with a shrug, pulling out a bottle for herself. She uncorks it with ease, taking a long, slow drink before settling onto a barstool beside him, her posture shifting into something more relaxed, almost casual. “But I’ve seen that look you’ve got before. Too many times.”

Loki’s eyes narrow at her words, a fresh wave of nausea twisting in his gut. He wants to lash out, to tell her to mind her own damn business, to keep her observations to herself. But the fight drains out of him before he can even muster a response, leaving him with nothing but a hollow, aching weariness. He sets the bottle down on the counter with more force than necessary, the glass clinking loudly against the hard surface.

“Are you finished?” He demands, his voice rough, cracking at the edges as he tries to cling to his fraying composure. The vulnerability he feels in this moment is almost unbearable, the rawness of his emotions threatening to spill over. But he will not break here. 

“Yeah, sure,” she replies, unfazed by his outburst. She swirls the bottle in her hand, watching the liquid inside with a contemplative expression before licking her lips and leaning back in her seat. “I’m finished.”

The room falls into a heavy silence, the only sounds the occasional clink of glass and the distant hum of the city outside. Loki’s mind inevitably drifts back to his plans- or lack thereof, grappling with the reality of his situation. Everything feels precarious, dangerously close to unraveling, and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s walking a razor’s edge.

Loki had expected to die. He didn’t think it would matter, assuming the Grandmaster would burn through him like all the others before him. In fact, he welcomed it. He craved the destruction that would come with it, the final release from the torment that had become his existence. He had been so high on drugs, lost in a haze of lust and alcohol, intoxicated in every way possible, and he was ready. Ready to be consumed, to be erased, to finally disappear into oblivion.

But the Grandmaster didn’t burn through him. Instead, he kept him, played with him, drew out the suffering in ways Loki hadn’t anticipated. The destruction he sought never came. He was left to languish, trapped in a body that was no longer his own (and when has it ever been?), in a mind that no longer felt like his. The oblivion he craved remained just out of reach, leaving him to drown in the very thing he thought would free him.

And then Sigyn showed up. 

“…I have plans to get her off this planet,” Loki says finally, breaking the silence. “I’ll bring the rest of your payment in a few days once everything is in place.” He hesitates, knowing what he’s about to ask is risky, but he pushes forward anyway. “You might have to hide one more person for me.” 142’s eyes bulge and she nearly chokes on her drink.

“Excuse me? Fuck no,” She hisses, her posture straightening as she glares at him, her earlier sympathy vanishing. “I’ve already got my ass on the line for your pregnant girlfriend or whatever the hell she is. I’m not about to-”

“It would only be for a few hours,” Loki cuts in urgently, desperately. “I’ve got him in a safe place for the time being. I just need them both together before I start. I’ll triple your payment.” She surveys him for a few seconds before grimacing, turning away from him again. 

“Fuck you,” she snaps, though a flicker of consideration crosses her eyes, and Loki chases it. 

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a ‘fuck you,’” she says, sighing deeply as she rubs her temples. “You’re lucky I like booze and money.”

Loki exhales slowly, a wave of relief washing over him despite the tension still coiled tight in his chest that never fully goes away. “…Thank you, 142,” he murmurs, his gratitude genuine even though his exhaustion is beginning to bleed through.

“Val,” she corrects him, waving a hand dismissively as she prepares to take another drink. “The number system is bullshit.”

“…Thank you, Val,” Loki repeats, the name feeling unfamiliar yet oddly fitting as it rolls off his tongue.

“Yeah, whatever.” She nods, her expression softening slightly as she studies him, her earlier hostility fading into something resembling camaraderie. “Don’t make me regret this, Lackey.”

Loki manages a faint, weary smile. “I’ll do my best.”

The sound of movement from the back room where Val mentioned Sigyn was staying reaches Loki’s ears, and without thinking, he leans toward it, his heart quickening. Oh, Norns, he’s missed her. The mere thought of seeing her, of holding her again, sends a rush of longing through him, a sharp ache that he’s tried to bury. But now, so close to her, that ache surfaces with a force that almost overwhelms him.

“Thanks for the crate,” Val mutters as she sets her bottle aside, her voice breaking through his thoughts. She nods in the direction of the room, her expression unreadable. “She’s been asking about you.”

The simple statement sends a pang of guilt through him, piercing and deep. He nods wordlessly and makes his way toward the spare room where Sigyn is resting. As he reaches the door, he pauses, his hand hovering over the handle. 

He takes another deep breath, trying to steady the nervous flutter in his chest, and knocks gently on the door. The sound is almost too quiet in the stillness of the house.

“Sigyn?” He calls softly, “It’s me. May I come in?”

The silence that follows is thick with tension, stretching out painfully as he waits, his heart pounding in his chest. The seconds drag on, each one amplifying his anxiety, until finally, after what feels like an eternity, he hears her voice- soft, but accompanied by something else. “Come in, Loki.”

He swallows nervously as he reaches for the handle, the cold metal almost burning against his skin. Why does he feel like something is very wrong here? The sense of foreboding gnaws at him, a cold, insidious feeling that something has shifted, something he may not be able to mend. He opens the door slowly, stepping into the doorway. 

He finds Sigyn curled up on the bed, surrounded by blankets. Thor’s cape, far too large for her, is still draped loosely over her body. His gaze softens at the sight of her, but as his eyes sweep over her, he notices the look on her face. “Sigyn,” Loki says softly, trying to find a smile. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

Her expression is unreadable, her eyes dark and stormy as she studies him. “I need to talk to you,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. There’s an urgency in her voice that sends a prickle of unease down Loki’s spine. He opens his mouth to respond, but she cuts him off before he can speak. “Now, please.”

Taken aback by the intensity in her voice, Loki hesitates, but the worry on her face pushes him into action. He nods slowly and steps further into the room, shutting the door behind him with a gentle click. 

Sigyn’s gaze remains fixed on him, and for a long moment, she doesn’t speak. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, until it feels like it’s pressing down on Loki’s chest, making it hard to breathe. “I need you to be honest with me,” she finally says, her voice calm but with a seriousness that makes Loki’s stomach twist. “Completely honest.”

Loki’s heart skips a beat as he tries to anticipate what she’s about to ask. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of a precipice, one wrong move away from a fall he might not recover from. “I… I’ve always tried to be,” he says carefully, but the words feel hollow even as they leave his mouth. 

Sigyn’s eyes don’t waver, and she doesn’t seem convinced by his weak attempt at reassurance. “Loki, this is important,” she insists, her voice tightening slightly. “I need you to tell me the truth. About everything.”

The room feels smaller, the walls closing in on him as the air becomes suffocating. Loki’s hands tremble slightly, and he fights to keep them steady, to keep his composure intact. He knows what she’s asking, knows what she’s pushing him to admit, but the thought of saying it out loud fills him with a loathing so deep it nearly paralyzes him.

But he can see it in her eyes. She’s giving him one last chance, one final opportunity to come clean, to tell her the truth himself before she forces it out of him. She’s waiting for him to take that step, to show her that he trusts her enough to share. 

Loki’s mouth goes dry, and he swallows hard, trying to find the words, the nerve to say what he knows she wants to hear. But the fear, the shame, is overwhelming, choking him, making it impossible to speak. He knows she deserves the truth, but the thought of losing her, of seeing the hurt and betrayal in her eyes… He can’t. He can’t. 

“Sigyn…” He begins, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes pleading with her to understand, to give him just a little more time. “I… What do you-” She cuts him off with a shake of her head, her expression hardening.

“Don’t,” she says, her tone sharpening with frustration. “Don’t try to dodge this, Loki.” Her hands- hands that are scarred, ruined because of him- tighten in the sheets, and there’s a rawness in her eyes that hits Loki like a physical blow. “The Grandmaster. You’re sleeping with him.” In that moment, he feels the ground shift beneath him, the precipice yawning wide as he teeters on the edge. His breath catches in his throat, and for a moment, he feels like he might fall, and he’s so, so sick of falling. 

Loki forces a chuckle, dismissive despite the rapid beating of his heart, raising a brow in feigned nonchalance. “Is this an accusation, or are you telling me?” The words come out weaker than he intended. 

“Loki.” She says his name with a weight that makes him sigh, the mask immediately slipping away, shattering like fragile glass.

He begins to fidget with his hands, his thumb rubbing harsh circles into his palm, avoiding her gaze like it might burn him. His eyes settle on the floor, where it feels safer to look, where he doesn’t have to face the pain in her eyes. “…I was going to tell you,” he admits, his voice quieter than he wants it to be, speaking around the lump lodged in his throat. “How did you…”

“Val told me,” Sigyn finishes for him, “But… I had a feeling. I just… I thought you would have told me if it was true.”

The disappointment in her voice pierces through Loki’s heart, twisting the knife of guilt that’s already lodged there. It makes him want to scream. The shame he feels is thick, suffocating. He knows he should have told her, should have trusted her with the truth, but the idea of burdening her with the ugliness of what he’s become… It was too much. It’s still too much. 

“I didn’t want you to know,” Loki admits, his voice cracking as the words spill from his lips. “Not because I wanted to lie to you, but because I didn’t want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now.” His hands continue to fidget, his nail digging into his palm as he fights the urge to run, to disappear into the shadows where he belongs.

“Love…” Sigyn begins, moving off the bed. Closing the space between them. 

“This planet runs on sex and indulgence, Sigyn,” Loki says, his voice growing more desperate as he runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “I have been here for… a while. Time loses meaning on this damned planet.” The words tumble out of him, a desperate plea for her to understand, for her to see. Nearly a month for him had only been a few days for Sigyn and Thor, and the disorientation of it all weighs heavily on him. He stops, turning to face her with a pleading look. “Trust me.”

Sigyn shakes her head slowly, stepping to stand in front of him, horribly, achingly close. “Love, you know I trust you, but this…”

“It does not mean anything,” Loki insists as he steps forward, taking her hands in his. He holds them tightly, willing her to understand that, if nothing else, this is not a betrayal of their love. “It is a means to an end. I would hardly consider leaving you for a hedonistic madman.” 

Sigyn’s eyebrows furrow for a moment, a look of hurt and confusion passing over her face. “Leave-” She scoffs softly, sighing as she takes a step closer to him, her tone gentle but filled with concern. “Norns, love, I am not jealous, I’m worried.” She places a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palm. “This is dangerous.”

She knows he would never betray her in spirit, and she knows how he feels about intimacy, how he experiences desire. The very thought that he has been forced to engage in something so twisted, so against his nature, fills her with a fierce, protective anger. If she could do so without risking their lives, she would have the Grandmaster’s head on a pike.

Loki looks down at her hand on his chest, the warmth of her touch both comforting and tormenting. She should not touch him, he should not touch her, she should not even be bound to him as she is. The guilt, the shame, it all comes rushing back, threatening to drown him. “Sigyn, everything here is dangerous,” he says, taking a step back, out of her reach, the distance between them feeling like a chasm he can never hope to bridge.

“Are you not tired of this pattern?” she asks, the words trembling slightly as she steps forward, closing the distance between them again. She reaches out this time before he can pull away, lacing their fingers together, holding on tightly. “You are constantly in situations where you must carve out pieces of yourself,” she says, her voice softening as she leans closer, her gaze locking onto his. “You won’t even let me help-”

“No. I will not,” Loki says sharply. That is one thing he will not do. “This place, the people here, they’re like wild dogs. This planet would rip you apart, Sigyn.” The fear in his voice is audible, emotion that he can no longer hide. He cannot- will not allow this place to take her as it has taken from him already.

“And what is it doing to you?” Sigyn asks, her eyes filled with tears that she struggles to hold back. She sees the toll this place has taken on him, the way it has hollowed him out, left him a shadow of the man she loves. And the thought of losing him, of watching him disappear into the darkness… She can’t do it again. She’s seen it happen far too much. 

The sight of her tears, the raw vulnerability in her eyes, cuts him deeper than any wound ever could. He lowers his head, his forehead gently resting against hers as he whispers, “Sigyn, please. I am… fine. I am dealing with it.”

The words ring hollow, even to his own ears. His body betrays him, the glamor barely holding against the throb of his unhealed wounds. “It doesn’t matter,” he insists weakly, trying to steer the conversation away from himself. “What does matter is getting you and your child off of this planet.” He hears his mistake a second too late. 

“My child?” Sigyn’s voice wavers, her brow furrowing in shock. There’s a flash of something else in her eyes, something that makes Loki want the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “Loki, this is our child.” She goes to rest a protective hand over her abdomen, and the movement makes the cape slip off her shoulders, revealing the courtesan clothing of a Sakaaran prostitute. A cold rush of guilt and horror sweeps over Loki as he sees her, her body barely covered. 

He swallows hard, his eyes closing as he tries to push back the emotion threatening to overwhelm him. “I know,” he finally says, his voice rough. “And that is why I am doing everything I can to protect you both.” Kneeling down, he picks up the cape and carefully wraps it around her shoulders again. 

Sigyn watches him, her heart aching at the sight of his trembling hands. “Do you… not wish to have a child with me?” She asks softly, the uncertainty in her voice reaching his ears. 

Loki shakes his head quickly, his voice faltering as he tries to explain. “No, it is not that,” he says, the words coming out in a rush. Never that. Not once has he thought… He wants this. Desperately, he wants this. But… “The point is that I am doing what is necessary to get you and Thor out of here.”

There it is again, the exclusion, the way he separates himself from the plan, from their future. Sigyn’s eyes fill with tears, her heart pounding in her chest as she steps closer to him. “Me and Thor,” she repeats. “And what about you?”

Loki flinches at the question, his throat tightening as he struggles to find an answer that won’t break her heart. “Sigyn, please…” He’s thought about this, truly thought. And he can’t leave this place. He can hardly remember how to be anything other than… Other than what he’s become. How could he leave? How could he pretend to be the same man she fell in love with? 

She reaches for him, holding him by his arm, needing to keep him close. “Loki, you promised me,” she cries, the tears in her eyes spilling over. “You promised me. No more running. Loki, please. I need you. Our child needs you.”

Her words, filled with so much heartbreak and desperation, pull relentlessly at Loki’s heart and he feels like he might shatter under the weight of it all. He steps back, out of her arms, unable to bear the closeness, the connection that he knows will only lead to more pain. 

“We should discuss the plan with the others,” he says, his voice hollow as he tries to evade her, pulling away from the conversation that feels like it’s tearing him apart from the inside. Sigyn lets out a soft sob, and Loki sighs, his heart breaking at the sound of her pain. “I will… leave you to compose yourself,” he says, stepping back toward the door. 

But before he can reach it, Sigyn’s tearful gaze hardens, and she moves swiftly, standing between him and the door. “No,” she says, her voice thick with tears. “Absolutely not, Loki.”

Loki blinks at her in shock, his body tense as he prepares for another emotional onslaught. “Sigyn, you don’t understand-”

“No, love,” she interrupts, her voice steadying even as the tears continue to fall down freckled cheeks. “It is you who does not understand.” She wipes her tears with trembling hands, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “Do you think I don’t know what you have been through? That I don’t know that you are damaged?” Loki’s breath hitches, and he tries to look away, to shield himself from the intensity of her gaze, but she won’t let him. “I see you,” Sigyn says, “I have always seen you, and I choose you anyway. I chose you then, and I choose you now, and I refuse to let you slip back into this habit you have of pushing me away because you fear corrupting me.”

Her hands reach up to cup his face, and he allows her to, feeling the walls he’s built around himself crumble under her touch. He leans into her palms, the warmth of her skin. “I am not some delicate creature that you risk tainting,” she continues, “I don’t need you to protect me from yourself. And I certainly don’t need you to tell me what is and is not best for me.” Her thumbs brush gently over his cheeks, wiping away the tears he didn’t realize had fallen. “I am not leaving this planet without you. You can forget your self-sacrificing instincts, you can forget whatever self-punishment you are planning, because I refuse to indulge it. Do you understand me?”

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, and the words come out like a sob. He squeezes his eyes shut, but there’s no escape, not from this, not from her. “If you stay here, you will die,” he argues, his voice strained, but even as the words leave his lips, he knows they won’t sway her. They never do. 

“If I leave here without you, part of me will die anyway,” she counters, her voice gentle yet firm. Her thumbs caress his cheeks, tracing the contours of his face with a tenderness that makes him want to crumble. She catches his tears, wiping them away. “You, me, and Thor. All three of us, or none of us. Am I clear?” For a time, he says nothing. “Loki,” she prompts, her voice a gentle demand. 

He nods, his breaths coming in shallow, shaky gasps. “Yes,” he finally croaks out, his voice rough, raw from the emotions clawing at his insides.

Sigyn doesn’t hesitate. She pulls him into a tender embrace, burying her face in his neck as she clings to him with a fierceness that matches her words. Loki’s arms come up around her, almost of their own accord, holding her tightly. He forces himself to return the embrace, to hold on as if she’s the only thing keeping him from shattering completely. She is.

“I cannot lose you, Loki,” she whispers fiercely, her breath warm against his skin. “Not again. Not to this place or to your own demons.” She pulls back slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes, her gaze burning with a fire that sends a shiver down his spine. “I am not letting you do this. You will not run from me. We face this hell together, as we have faced all else.”

Loki’s eyes are wet with tears, his vision blurring as he gazes down at her. Her heart aches for him, for the burden he carries, but she will not let him push her away, not this time. She has chosen him, flaws and all, and she will stand by that choice no matter what, because he is hers. He’s always been hers, even when he tried to deny it. 

“I know you fear for me, for us,” she continues, her voice softening, but there’s a steady strength beneath it. “But your fears do not have to become our reality. We will find a way, together. We always have.”

She squeezes his hand, her fingers lacing with his, grounding him in a way nothing else ever could. Her thumb rubs soothing circles over his knuckles, a small, comforting gesture. “No more running, Loki,” she whispers, resting her head against his chest, listening to the beating of his heart. “No more sacrifices. We stand together, or we fall together. But we do it as one.”

Sigyn prays that her words have breached the walls he so often erects, that she’s reached him. He sinks into her arms, crying softly against her as she runs her fingers gently through his hair. “I love you,” she whispers, her voice filled with a quiet intensity, “so much, Loki.”

Too much, Loki thinks frantically, the thought spiraling through his mind like a dark, unshakable truth. I fear you love me too much. And you will only live to regret it.

Chapter Text

Thor drifts, weightless, through a void of darkness. For a moment, it’s peaceful. Quiet. There’s the sense of pain somewhere, a distant ache gnawing at the edges of his consciousness, but it’s an afterthought as his surroundings begin to shift, coalescing into a landscape that he knows all too well.

Asgard. 

Home?

Thor blinks, the biting chill of the mountain air stinging his skin. He’s standing atop a ridge, the familiar peaks of Asgard’s mountains stretching out before him. The sky is a deep, endless blue, and for a brief, hopeful moment, Thor believes he’s somehow made it back. The ache in his body fades as he breathes in the crisp air, the scent of pine and snow filling his lungs. But something feels wrong. Terribly wrong.

The silence that blankets the mountains is unnatural, oppressive. There is not even the sound of wildlife, and the air is disconcertingly still. As he takes a step forward, the once-pristine landscape seems to ripple, darkening around the edges, the vibrant colors leeching away as if life is being sucked out of the very earth. Thor’s heart leaps into his throat, the comforting warmth of home quickly turning into a cold, suffocating dread.

He takes a step forward, intending to make his way down the mountains and back toward the city, but he doesn’t get in more than two steps forward before the world shifts and lurches around him again. He makes a strangled sound, a bit disoriented for a moment before he realizes that he’s somehow made it down to the city. But the Asgard that comes into view is not the Asgard he remembers. 

The golden spires that once pierced the sky are crumbling, their gleaming surfaces marred by cracks and scorch marks. Smoke rises in thick plumes from scattered fires, staining the heavens with dark, angry clouds. The streets, once alive with the energy of his people, are eerily silent, devoid of their laughter and life. The theater and stage for Loki’s play is in ruins, burned and destroyed, and the statue that was once erected has been melted down to nothing. 

Thor’s breath catches in his throat as he spots movement in the distance, his eyes focusing on two figures dancing gracefully in the ruins of a grand hall. He blinks, and he’s closer, the world shifting around him again. He instinctively hides himself behind a nearby pillar, looking on at the couple. Or who he assumed to be a couple. 

She looks so much like his brother that it’s sickening. 

He does not think he will ever forget her face, so familiar and yet so foreign. He sees so much of Loki in her, and it makes him feel vaguely ill for more reasons than he knows how to comprehend. There’s also a strange sense of protectiveness in the back of his mind, a desire to shield her when he watches her. It makes his skin crawl.

Hela twirls with a decaying corpse clutched in her arms, her movements graceful and eerily mesmerizing, her high-pitched giggles ringing out against the ruins around them. The body in her arms is blackened and charred beyond recognition and Thor shudders to imagine the gruesome way that the person might have died. The scene sends a shiver down Thor’s spine, his blood running cold. 

He tears his gaze away from the display, his heart pounding in his chest. This is not the Asgard he remembers. It’s a nightmare- a twisted, decayed version of his home. As he makes his way through the ruined city, Thor’s hope begins to wane, replaced by a slowly mounting sense of despair. The once-mighty realm lies in tatters, its people cowering in fear while a madwoman destroys their livelihoods. 

Why had Odin not told them? He could have warned them. He had all his life to prepare, and yet he still waited for the time of his death. Loki may have hidden Odin away on Midgard, but he still had ample opportunity beforehand to give either of them a fighting chance. He’d been ill for long before Thor’s banishment, and even afterward. Frigga did not speak of Hela, but… 

Thor wonders. 

Is she even mother’s? 

Thor’s movements slow as he spots a patrol of soldiers creeping by, their black armor glinting menacingly in the dim light of the setting sun. Thor’s heart races as he watches the army march past him, and there’s a thick shroud of dark energy that radiates off of them. The energy of the undead. 

Their heavy footfalls echo in the cold, desolate streets, passing Thor by as if he is not even standing there. His breath catches in his throat as he watches them, the faces of people he knows so well, people who helped raise him. And then he spots Hogun, Fandral, Volstagg, all moving in perfect, soulless unison amidst the crowd of soldiers. Leading. 

The sight is a disgusting insult to the warriors they once were. Their eyes, once full of life and fire, are now black voids, devoid of any spark of recognition or humanity. 

Desperation claws at Thor as he stumbles forward, intending to reach one of them, any one of them. He begins to reach for Hogun’s shoulder, intending to separate his friend from this soulless army and pull him back to the living, but as his fingers make contact, they pass through Hogun’s armor like mist. Thor gasps, recoiling as he stares at his hand as it returns to its solid form. His hand, though it feels real to him, cannot grasp onto anything here. 

Is he…? 

“Oh, Norns,” Thor whispers, his voice hoarse with grief as he watches them continue their march, utterly lost to him. “Have I died?”

A cold wind sweeps through the street, cutting through Thor like a knife, but it is not the wind that sends a shiver down his spine. It is the sensation of someone standing behind him. Before he can turn, a voice, calm and steady, breaks the eerie silence.

“You are not dead. You simply do not have a body here,” the voice says, resonating with a quiet, comforting strength. “They cannot see you.”

Thor whirls around, his heart leaping into his throat. “Heimdall!” He exclaims, his voice heavy with relief. He could weep at the sight of his old friend, a sight he feared he would never see again.

Heimdall stands before him, though not as Thor remembers him. His armor has been replaced by a worn cloak, pulled over his head and obscuring his face. His appearance is so uncharacteristically battered and tarnished, his regal bearing weighed down by the heavy burden of Asgard’s fall.

His eyes, however, remain the same, those all-seeing, burning amber that seem to pierce through the very fabric of reality. His dreadlocks are longer, more unkempt, and his face is marked with new lines of worry and fatigue. Yet, despite the exhaustion in his features, Heimdall still carries the same quiet, unyielding strength that has always defined him. Thor always looked up to that. 

“You can see me?” Thor asks, almost disbelieving, as he steps closer to Heimdall. 

Heimdall offers a faint smile, a rare expression and a source of warmth amid the bleakness surrounding them. “Obviously,” he replies, his voice a gentle rumble. “These eyes often see what others cannot.”

Thor feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes, feeling relief and sorrow overwhelming him in equal measure. “Heimdall… I feared the worst for you. I thought…”

“I know, Thor,” Heimdall says, cutting him off with a nod of understanding. “But there is little time for relief. As you can see, Asgard has fallen into darkness, and Hela’s grip tightens with every passing moment.” He says, and then a second later, he adds with a grimace, “She has had help.” 

Thor’s gaze drifts back to the mindless soldiers, his heart breaking anew. “I saw. My friends… Is there a way to save them? To free them from this… this horror?” He could feel the dark magic coming off of them in waves, and he can still feel the twisted energy in his hand from when he almost touched Hogun. He hopes their warrior hearts are still intact somewhere beneath Hela’s influence. 

Heimdall’s expression darkens, and Thor can’t decide what lies behind that look, or what else the old watchman may be hiding from him. “Their bodies have been claimed by Hela, bound to her will. Without a body here, Thor, you are powerless to change their fate.”

Thor’s fists clench at his sides, frustration and helplessness bubbling up within him. “But there must be something… anything! I cannot just leave them like this!”

“Your battle lies elsewhere for now, Thor,” he says, his voice firm but gentle. “There is still hope for Asgard, but not if you lose yourself in despair. You must gather your strength and find a way back. Hela can be defeated, but it will not be here, not like this.” He looks at Thor pointedly before continuing, “Before Odin’s death… I saw he gave you the sword.” It takes Thor a moment to think, to remember the exchange, the museum.

“The- Lævatinn?” He asks, and Heimdall nods.

“Yes. United with the eternal flame, it will have the power to slay Hela. It is a weapon formidable enough to take her down.” 

Thor looks into Heimdall’s eyes, searching for some semblance of reassurance, and finds the resolve he needs. “How do I get back?” He asks, his voice filled with a determination that he feared for a moment that he lost.

Heimdall’s eyes narrow as he glances over Thor’s shoulder, as if sensing the pull of the physical world, looking deep into the distance to find him. “Sakaar is a place of many doorways, but only one can lead you back to where you need to be. Find the largest gateway; it will take you home.”

Without further warning, Heimdall moves, and a small group of Asgardians emerges from a hidden alleyway that Thor did not see. He leads them down the desolate streets. Thor follows closely behind, his heart pounding as he takes in the devastation around him. The once-vibrant city is now a graveyard, every corner marked by destruction and despair. The air is thick with the acrid stench of smoke and ash, and the silence is broken only by the distant cries of those still in hiding.

They reach the outskirts of the city, where Heimdall gestures for the group to slow down. Thor’s eyes widen in horror as he spots more Butchers in the distance, patrolling the ruins with a cold, methodical precision.

Heimdall quickly ushers the refugees into a nearby alcove, just in time to avoid the Butchers. Thor joins them, his muscles tense, hating beyond words that he cannot help if need be; without a body, he is useless. Heimdall again motions for him to stay quiet until the threat passes, his eyes constantly scanning for danger.

When the patrol finally moves on, Heimdall turns to Thor, his expression grave. “I’m providing refuge in a stronghold built by our ancestors. But if the garrison falls, our only escape will be the Bifrost.”

Thor does his best to ignore the lingering stares of Asgardian refugees, huddled together and no doubt confused as to why their savior is currently holding a very serious conversation with the air. “We will need to defeat Hela soon, before our realm completely goes up in flames.”

Thor looks out over the devastated city, his heart breaking at the sight. “You’re talking about evacuating Asgard?” He asks, the weight of the words almost too heavy to speak.

Heimdall nods, his voice full of the sorrow that Thor knows all too well. “We won’t last long if we stay.” Thor’s gaze drifts back to the ruins of his homeland. The smoky aura of chaos hangs over Asgard like a dark cloud, suffocating. He can barely recognize the city he grew up in, the place he has fought so hard to protect.

“She draws her power from Asgard and grows stronger every day,” Heimdall’s voice pulls him from his thoughts, bringing Thor’s attention back to the reality at hand. His mind races as he tries to process it all. He knew Hela was powerful, but seeing the destruction she’s wrought firsthand... She truly is the All-Father’s first born. 

As Heimdall quickly leads the refugees down a safe pathway, Thor follows, his heart heavy with worry. “Hela is ravenous,” Heimdall continues, his voice a low rumble as they move. “If I let her leave, she’ll consume the Nine Realms and all the cosmos. She is angry and hurt, starved, and that hunger knows no bounds.”

They come to a stop, and Heimdall turns back to Thor, urgency burning in his eyes. “We need you,” he says. “En Dwi will not allow you to escape without a fight. He will want something in return; The man does not give up on anything he wants easily. And you have something that he wants.” 

Heimdall pauses, his gaze steady but filled with an unspoken sadness. Thor’s stomach churns at the weight of that silence. “I do?” Thor presses. It can’t be what he’s thinking, the injustice in his mind. “What could he possibly-” 

Thor freezes and falls silent at a shuffling behind him, everything going quiet when there’s a sharp sound, like metal grinding against stone. 

The Butchers have found them.

A black-clad soldier, one of Hela’s creations, rounds the corner, his lifeless eyes locking onto Heimdall and Thor. Behind him, more Butchers flood into the narrow pathway, their presence a dark, creeping shadow in the already ruined streets.

Heimdall’s expression hardens, and with a swift motion, he unsheathes his blade. “Get behind me,” he orders, his voice calm but commanding.

Before Thor can even react, Heimdall moves like a force of nature, cutting down the Butchers with lethal precision. His blade slices through the air with a whisper of deadly intent, each strike clean and final.

The Butchers fall, one after another, their soulless bodies crumpling to the ground as Heimdall carves a path through them, going for their heads. His eyes burn with a fierce light, seeing far beyond the battlefield as he guides his strikes with unerring accuracy. But Heimdall’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Thor, you must leave!” He yells, not breaking his focus as he slaughters the oncoming soldiers. “Find the gateway! Find your way back!”

Thor hesitates, his chest tightening with an unshakeable dread. The rumors of Loki being used, the hollow whispers, the perverse words that he’s heard… “Heimdall!” Thor shouts over the clash of steel and the deathly silence of the Butchers. “What did you mean? About what the Grandmaster wants?”

Heimdall slashes through another soldier, his expression grim but unwavering. “You know,” he says, his voice carrying a heavy weight, “and so does your brother.”

Thor’s heart pounds in his chest. Another wave of Butchers charges forward. Heimdall braces himself, his sword raised, cutting through the throng as Thor stands frozen, the gravity of those words settling deep within him.

The Asgardians huddled in closeness behind him prepare themselves to flee at Heimdall’s signal, and he gestures for them to begin running, following the abandoned ruins of the city. The slaughtered Butchers at Heimdall’s feet begin stirring, their heads moving to reattach themselves to their undead bodies. Thor’s skin crawls as he watches it. 

Suddenly, Thor’s vision begins to blur, the sensation of floating finding him, and he knows immediately that he’s about to wake up, that this connection is going to end. He panics, reaching out. “Heimdall, I’m-”

“I know. You’ve spent more than enough time here. Go. Find your way back.” He says, still breathing heavily from the fight. He turns to face Thor one last time, knowingly, his expression softening. “And Thor?”

“Yes?” Thor asks, and his eyes hold something that makes him feel sick to his stomach. 

“Check on your brother.”

Before Thor can respond, his surroundings begin to blur, the vivid images of Asgard fading as his consciousness is yanked back through the void. The sharp, cold air of the mountains, the distant cries of his people, and the devastation wrought by Hela all slip away, leaving him disoriented and empty as the reality of Sakaar crashes back into focus. 

This time, he finds himself lying in a heap, his back stiff from the hard surface of a cot beneath him. Every muscle in his body aches, and he’s still dirty, bruised, and beaten from the arena. As Thor begins to stir, groaning at the effort it takes to move, he realizes he’s not alone. Two women who he can only assume are nurses hover over him, their hands swabbing at his wounds with surprising gentleness. 

Thor shouts, lingering disorientation from the vision only adding to his sudden confusion. Without thinking, he thrashes out, his movements wild and instinctive, driven by the fear and confusion that have yet to fade. The nurses cry out in alarm, stumbling back as they scramble to get away from his flailing limbs. Their shrieks echo through the room, and within seconds, they abandon their task, retreating quickly and leaving him alone.

Thor breathes heavily, his pulse pounding in his ears as he tries to get his bearings. Groaning, he slowly pulls himself to his feet, each movement accompanied by a wince of pain. He surveys his surroundings, trying to make sense of the giant room he’s in.

The walls are adorned with bright, graphic patterns that seem almost disorienting. There are pieces of oversized furniture scattered about, large cushions piled in corners, and what appears to be a sleeping area encased within the skull of a massive beast.

As he gingerly stretches his sore muscles, a noise from behind him catches his attention. He startles, reflexively reaching for Mjolnir before remembering himself. But instead of another attacker, he finds the Hulk, lounging in a massive hot tub at the far end of the room, steam rising lazily from the water. For a moment, Thor blinks, utterly bewildered. Seeing the Hulk, the same creature who nearly squashed him on a battlefield in such a serene, almost comically relaxed state is jarring. 

“Hulk?” Thor says, his voice hoarse and confused. The green giant turns his head slightly, his massive arms hanging over the edge of the tub, his face half-obscured by the mist. He doesn't respond, at least not immediately, just grunts softly, seemingly unbothered by Thor’s presence. Which, all things considered, is a relief. 

Thor winces as he stretches again, feeling the deep bruises and cuts covering his body. “How long have you been… like that?” He asks, trying to mask the confusion in his voice, to sound casual despite everything spinning through his head.

Hulk’s eyes narrow slightly, his eyebrows furrowing. “Like what?” He rumbles, his voice low, almost lazy.

“Big, green…” Thor mutters under his breath, “stupid…”

“Hulk always Hulk,” the giant replies, as if that answers everything, and for him, maybe it does. Thor takes it in, nodding slowly, though his mind is racing. He takes a few cautious steps, wandering further into the oversized room. 

He looks around, trying to piece together how he ended up in Hulk’s quarters. “How’d I get in here?” 

Hulk grunts in a way that clearly means ‘I don’t know’. “Thor here when Hulk came.” Thor hums, trying to think back to what happened before he was pummeled into the dirt in front of an entire arena of people cheering for his blood. “Loki,” he mutters. He had been there, watching too, from the Grandmaster’s glass box. 

“Puny god,” Hulk replies in recognition.

“Yeah, him,” Thor says, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s alive, by the way. Again.” 

Hulk’s eyes narrow slightly. “Thor mad.”

Thor lets out a frustrated sigh, his emotions boiling over. “Yes, Thor very mad!” he exclaims, pacing back and forth as he lists off the mounting problems. “First, my brother, who I thought was dead, is not only alive, but he is courting- and she obviously knew the whole time! My father is dead, I lost my hammer, I have a sister I never knew about, and my entire home might be doomed!” He stops, breathing heavily, the reality of everything he’s just said crashing down on him. His skin prickles with the electricity that runs through his blood. His voice drops, and he feels exhausted, angry. “How am I supposed to deal with all of this?”

Hulk simply grunts again, nonchalantly splashing water in the tub. “Thor deal.”

Thor stops pacing, looking at Hulk, a mixture of frustration and helplessness in his eyes. “It’s not that simple, big guy.”

Hulk shrugs, unconcerned, and Thor realizes that, as usual, the Hulk’s response is frustratingly simple. Yet, despite the Hulk’s bluntness, Thor finds some comfort in his presence. At least there’s something familiar in this hellscape. He slumps down on the steps of the hot tub, rubbing his temples as he tries to process the mess that his life has become in a matter of days. 

“Yeah,” Thor mutters, staring at the floor, “Thor deal.” But the words feel hollow, the enormity of his situation weighing heavily on him. How does he deal with the betrayal, the loss, the looming destruction of everything he’s ever known?

Thor’s thoughts begin to spiral, the uncertainty of his future, the desperation of his situation, all swirling together in a chaotic storm of emotion. The once unshakable confidence that had defined him, that had driven him through countless battles, now feels fragile, frayed at the edges. He’s lost, adrift in a universe that seems intent on breaking him, and for the first time in a long time, he’s not sure if he has the strength to hold it all together.

He eventually makes his way toward a large window, the view outside filled with the chaotic, neon-lit sprawl of Sakaar. The city is alive with constant motion, alien ships darting through the sky, and the endless hum of activity echoing from below. He wonders if this planet is ever remotely quiet. 

His attention is drawn to a ramshackle spaceship taking off in the distance. He watches as it rockets skyward, heading quickly for one of the many opening wormholes that stretch across the planet’s sky. But before it can reach safety, a patrol ship from the Grandmaster’s fleet appears out of nowhere, sleek and heavily armed. In a blink, it fires, and the ship is blown out of the sky. The explosion illuminates the horizon, brief and brilliant, before fading into nothingness. Thor chews the inside of his cheek. 

Okay. So… Don’t do that. 

He turns back to Hulk, who has barely moved, still soaking in the water with a content expression on his face. It’s almost unsettling to see him so relaxed. And concerning, that he hasn’t turned back into Banner yet. “How’d you get here?” Thor asks. 

Hulk grunts, barely opening his eyes. “Winning,” he says simply, and there’s an obvious undercurrent of pride in his voice. 

Thor raises an eyebrow. “You mean cheating?” He asks, gesturing to the obedience disk still stuck to his neck. “Were they wearing one of these when you ‘won’? How did you arrive here? On this planet?”

Hulk makes a broad, slow gesture with his hands, mimicking the motion of a plane landing on water. “Quinjet,” he grunts. Thor’s heart leaps at the mention of the Quinjet. It’s the first real spark of hope he’s felt since arriving on Sakaar. 

“Yes!” He exclaims, excitement bubbling up. “Yes, good. Where is the Quinjet now?” Hulk rises from the hot tub, sending water sloshing over the sides and splashing onto the floor. Thor’s eyes immediately dart south. 

Huh. So it’s all green. 

Hulk walks across the room with heavy, unhurried steps, water dripping from his massive frame. He stops in front of the large window that overlooks the city and points outside with one thick finger. “Quinjet,” he repeats, his voice rumbling through the room.

Thor hurries to the window and follows Hulk’s gesture, his eyes scanning the horizon. His heart sinks as he spots the Quinjet in the distance, battered and broken amidst piles of junk in what looks like a massive scrap heap.

“Well,” Thor mutters to himself, “there goes that plan.” He turns back to Hulk, and his expression uncharacteristically calm, as though the wreckage outside doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

“Thor leave,” he says with a dismissive wave, stalking back to the tub. “Hulk happy here.”

Thor shakes his head, exasperated. “I’m trying to leave, you big green… idiot,” he grumbles to himself, but deep down, he envies Hulk’s ability to remain so calm in the chaos of this place, to be content. They’re trapped on a hostile planet with no easy way out, and the longer they stay, the more dangerous it becomes. Stuck in a prison- a colorful, noisy, maddening prison.

Thor watches as Hulk casually lounges in the water again, unaffected by everything happening around him. And for a brief moment, Thor wishes he could feel that same sense of ease, to let go of the burden of saving Asgard and simply exist in the chaos. But he knows better. He can’t afford to. His people need him. 

He sighs, looking out over the city once more, pondering his next move, knowing that escaping Sakaar will be far more challenging than he initially thought.

The Grandmaster controls this world, and without his knowledge- more likely, his approval- escaping would be near impossible. The thought sends a fresh wave of frustration and anger through Thor. He’s a warrior, a prince of Asgard, and yet he’s trapped, manipulated, and toyed with by a man who sees all of this as nothing more than entertainment. 

And then, almost reluctantly, his thoughts shift to Loki. Heimdall’s final words in the vision ring in his ears, as clear and undeniable as the ache in his bones. 

Check on your brother.

The words are simple, but the implications behind them are anything but. Thor’s heart sinks as he recalls the rumors he’s heard since arriving on Sakaar, the whispered comments and offhand remarks about Loki’s position in the Grandmaster’s court.

He had dismissed them at first, chalking it up to the usual gossip and exaggeration that spread through the barracks and cells. Loki has always had a way of ingratiating himself with those in power, and Thor had assumed it was just more of the same. But now... Now, in the harsh light of Heimdall’s warning, he’s beginning to reconsider that. 

Loki had always been good at playing both sides, at manipulating to tip the scales in his favor, finding a way to survive no matter the cost. But what had he sacrificed this time? 

I’m doing the best I can with what is available to me, Thor. 

The thought makes Thor’s stomach churn, a cold knot of dread forming in his gut. He thinks back to the last time he saw his brother, how distant and detached Loki had seemed. Had it been more than just his usual aloofness? Had Thor missed the signs, too caught up in his own struggles to see the truth?

…It would not be the first time, would it?

Thor’s hands clench into fists, the tension in his body building as the reality of the situation presses down on him. He has to find Loki. He has to know the truth, no matter how painful it might be. He has to get them both off this planet, himself, Loki, and Sigyn. 

Alright, Thor, he thinks, what would Loki suggest here?

The thought brings a small smile to his lips, despite the direness of his current situation. Loki would undoubtedly roll his eyes, sigh heavily, and call Thor an idiot for not already having a plan. He can almost hear his brother’s sharp, sarcastic tone, chastising him for his lack of foresight. Loki always did have a knack for finding a way out of impossible situations, usually by weaving some elaborate scheme only he could come up with. 

As Thor considers the predicament they’re in, he realizes that Loki’s cunning might be exactly what he needs right now. His brother wouldn’t hesitate to suggest using someone, anyone who could be an asset, someone with insider knowledge of this twisted planet and its deranged ruler. Loki would know that brute strength alone wouldn’t be enough to escape Sakaar; they need strategy, subterfuge, and someone with a reason to fight alongside them.

Thor’s mind races, sifting through the possibilities. They need someone who knows the Grandmaster, someone who understands the intricacies of this chaotic world. Someone who has lived through its madness and come out the other side. And there’s only one person who fits that description: the last Valkyrie.

He noticed it when she and her little aquatic feline friend captured him, the tattoo so carefully hidden from view beneath her arm guards, clearly Aesir. A fierce warrior, once part of an elite force tasked with defending Asgard, now fallen from grace and serving the Grandmaster. But Thor has seen the fire in her eyes, what is left of the proud warrior she used to be. She was of Asgard once. He simply has to convince her. 

“Hulk,” Thor says, his voice steady as the plan begins to take shape in his mind. “I need you to do something for me.”

Loki sits in the dimly lit room, the silence pressing down on him like a suffocating weight. Val and Ari have left, their absence only amplifying the oppressive quiet. He can’t stop replaying the conversation he had with Sigyn, the words looping in an almost obsessive manner.

“Do you think that I don’t know what you’ve been through? That I don’t know that you are damaged?”

She had spoken with such certainty, such unwavering belief in him, but Loki knows better. She can’t possibly know the depths of his depravity, the darkness that has consumed him on this cursed planet. He’s certain that if she did, she would recoil in disgust. She would turn away from him, from the child growing inside her- their child, a product of his corrupted existence.

He stares at her from across the room, his heart aching with a pain that feels like it might tear him apart. The guilt gnaws at him, relentless and unforgiving. How can she stand to look at him, let alone love him, after everything he’s done?

“How can you not be angry with me?” Loki’s voice is barely a whisper, the words trembling as they escape his lips. His eyes, usually so guarded, are wide with turmoil. “I’ve debased myself, tainted myself. How can you not see that?”

Sigyn, who has been sitting quietly on the edge of the bed, rises slowly. Her movements are fluid, almost ethereal, as she crosses the room to where Loki stands. The soft glow of the room casts a gentle light on her face, highlighting the deep emotion in her eyes. She stops in front of him, her gaze never wavering, locked onto his tormented expression.

“Loki,” she breathes. She reaches out, her fingers hovering just above his cheek, hesitant yet filled with a determination that he can’t understand. Loki flinches at the closeness, a deep-rooted sense of unworthiness surging to the surface.

He feels undeserving of her touch, of anything so loving and gentle. But Sigyn doesn’t pull back. Instead, she lets her hands settle on his face, her thumbs brushing lightly against his skin. “You have endured horrors to protect me,” she says, her voice soft but unwavering. “How could I be angry?”

Loki steps away from her touch, a sharp movement that puts distance between them. He steps back, away from her, out of her range of reach. “I did not do it all to protect you. I did it because I wanted to, because I wanted to destroy myself and my body. And I would rather you be angry than this- this indifference!” Sigyn’s eyes widen, shock and hurt flashing across her face.

“Indifference?” She echoes, looking utterly appalled. Loki continues on, his voice shaking.

“Yes!” His voice rises, his pain and frustration coming to the surface. “Yell at me! Scream at me! I have defiled your name and our relationship by lying with another! Several others! Do something, say something!”

Sigyn’s eyes flash with sudden intensity, her gentle demeanor giving way to fierce passion. “You think this is indifference?” She exclaims, her voice rising as she steps forward with purpose. “Loki, I am far from indifferent. I am burning with rage, but not at you.”

Her words are like a thunderclap, shaking Loki to his core. He watches as she closes the distance between them, her movements deliberate and forceful, and he is frozen. She stands before him, eyes blazing with anger and love.

“My anger is for the Grandmaster, for this cruel world that forced you into such an impossible situation,” she continues, her voice trembling with emotion. Her golden eyes seem to glow with rage. “You want me to be angry, love? I am furious! I am furious at the circumstances that brought us here, at the injustice of it all. I am angry enough to kill the Grandmaster, and the only reason I restrain myself is for your sake, because you have warned me not to.”

Her hands clench into fists at her sides, her knuckles aching as her nails bite into her palms. “I am angry at the people of this planet who degrade you, for believing they can use you like an object, who speak so casually of- of raping you as casually as one does discussing the weather!” She yells, almost screaming, but she lowers her tone when Loki flinches at her words. “I have barely been able to contain myself. But I refuse to direct that anger at you. You sacrificed to keep me safe, to keep our child safe, and that act of selflessness only makes me love you more fiercely.”

Loki feels a shudder run through him, as he steps back, sinking onto the floor, his head between his knees as his entire body shakes.

Sigyn kneels before him, her hands unclenching as she reaches out to him again. Her touch is no less soft, no less determined. And he does not pull away this time. “Do not mistake my lack of condemnation for indifference,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “I see your pain, your self-loathing, and it tears me apart. But I will not add to your burden by rejecting you or pushing you away. If you are looking for me to hate you, then you will be disappointed.”

She takes his hands in hers, her thumbs brushing over the roughened skin of his knuckles. “I choose, as I always do, to stand by you, to help you heal, to remind you of your worth. You are not tainted or unworthy. You are a survivor, a protector, and the man I love. Nothing the Grandmaster or anyone else has done can change that. So yes, I am angry; Furiously, passionately angry. But my anger is for those who put you in this position, never for you.”

Loki’s entire body tremors violently, his breathing turning ragged as he cries. Sigyn’s hands- those gentle, loving, scarred hands- find his face, caressing and wiping away his tears as they fall. “Oh, my love...” Sigyn whispers, and her voice is filled with affection. “You have been through far too much. You ask me why I am not angry with you. I am... hurt that you did not tell me, but I understand why you felt afraid to.” She kisses his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. “But I know you. Better than I know any other person. And I see you as you are.”

“You say you see me as I am, as if it can erase what I’ve done, Sigyn. But you don’t understand. You can’t possibly understand the depths to which I’ve sunk, the things I’ve allowed, the things I’ve done willingly.” He stands on unsteady legs, pacing in the small room like a caged animal. His breathing is ragged, his movements erratic, and Sigyn can see the desperation in him, the way he’s teetering on the edge of a breakdown.

“You should be disgusted with me,” he continues, his voice shaking, the words ripping from him as if they physically hurt. He struggles to put the distance between them, denying himself the closeness that his heart desperately needs. “You should despise me for what I’ve done.”

Sigyn stands slowly, watching him with a careful gaze, her heart breaking for the man she loves. She can see where this is going, but she doesn’t interrupt, she knows Loki needs to get this out, needs to purge himself of the poison that’s eating away at his soul. Even as it wrenches at her painfully.

Loki’s voice rises, frantic now, his hands trembling. “Do you want to know what I’ve done, Sigyn? Do you want to hear the gruesome details?” His tone turns bitter, self-loathing. “Do you want to know how many times I’ve willingly submitted, let him do whatever he wanted to me? Do you want to know how many times I’ve been on my knees, begging for more, begging for this planet to strip me of what little was left of my soul?”

He turns to face her, his eyes wild. “Do you want to know how many times I’ve enjoyed it?” He spits out, and his voice is venom, though it’s clear it’s directed at himself. He smiles at her, one of those grins of his that is meant to look unsettling. It just looks broken. “Do you want to hear how I’ve become nothing more than a toy for the Grandmaster’s amusement, how I’ve let him use my body in every way imaginable? Does that disgust you, Sigyn?”

His chest heaves as he finishes, the confession tearing through him like a storm. His body trembles, and he is clearly expecting her to flinch, to recoil in disgust, to finally see him the way he sees himself: broken, tainted, unworthy. But Sigyn doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she takes a deep breath, her gaze steady and unwavering as she steps closer to him.

“Loki,” she says softly, her voice calm. She reaches out, her fingers warm as they take hold of his hands, stilling the trembling there. “Could you have said no? Could you refuse any of it?”

“I started this,” he hisses, the shame and self-disgust pouring out with the words. His mind flashes back to that drunken night, vivid and terrible, when he had straddled the Grandmaster’s lap, kissed him, asked for this destruction. His request had been simple: Destroy me. He’d asked for it. Begged for it. How could he claim anything had been done against his will? “I initiated-”

“That is not what I asked.” Sigyn cuts him off, her voice firm but gentle. Her grip on his hands tightens just enough to ground him, to hold him in place. Her gaze never wavers, never lets him go. 

Loki falters, the momentum of his anger and self hatred grinding to a halt as her words cut through the chaos in his mind. He opens his mouth to speak, to argue, but the words die on his lips. He can’t answer. 

Sigyn steps closer, lacing her fingers with his as she looks up into his eyes, her gaze filled with a fierce determination. “You didn’t have a choice, Loki. You were coerced, manipulated, and trapped. You were in an impossible situation, and you did what you had to do to survive. That does not make you weak. That does not make you tainted. And that certainly does not make you unworthy of my love.”

Loki shakes his head, tears welling up in his eyes as he tries to pull away from her, but Sigyn refuses to let him go. “Sigyn, you don’t understand... I let it happen. I wanted to be destroyed. I wanted to feel something, anything-”

“I know,” she whispers, “I do not blame you for the things you did in your grief.” Sigyn’s heart aches for him, but she doesn’t let him retreat. She pulls him closer, her voice gentle. “Loki, you are more than what the Grandmaster has tried to make you. You are more than the pain you’ve endured, more than the shame you carry. You survived, love. And you are still here, fighting, even if you can’t see it.”

Loki’s tears spill over, his body trembling as he finally allows himself to collapse into her embrace. He clings to her as if she’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely. “What if I can’t be the man you need? What if he’s already ruined me?”

Sigyn holds him tightly, her fingers threading through his hair as she presses a kiss to his temple. “You don’t have to be anything else,” she whispers, her voice filled with love and compassion. “You just have to be you. And that’s enough for me. It always has been.”

Loki’s sobs wrack his body, the floodgates finally opening as he allows himself to break down in her arms. Sigyn holds him through it all, her own tears falling silently as she cradles the man she loves. 

When his sobs finally subside, Loki pulls back slightly, his eyes red and swollen, but there’s a hint of something else there too, fragile and hopeful. He looks at Sigyn, his voice hesitant, almost afraid. “You deserve someone whole. Someone who isn’t…” He trails off, unable to finish the thought. The shame gnaws at him like a living thing, devouring him alive. 

Sigyn tightens her grip on him, refusing to let him spiral any further. She smiles through her tears, her thumb brushing away the dampness on his cheek. “Loki,” she says softly, “I don’t want someone else. I never have. I want you. Every part of you. The broken pieces, the scars, the parts you hate; I love them all. They’re yours, and that makes them precious to me.” 

She leans in closer, her forehead resting against his, her breath warm against his skin. “I am not afraid of your flaws. I am not afraid of the shadows that follow you. You insist that you are broken. So I’ll help you put the pieces back together,” she promises. “And I’ll love every part of you, just as I always have. I will cradle those beautiful pieces of you. I will hold your heart gently.”

Loki’s breath hitches, a fresh wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. His entire body trembles and he nods, finally allowing himself to believe there’s a way forward, a way out of the darkness. A way back to her.

“Come here,” she whispers, her fingers threading through his hair again as she leans in. There’s the familiar scrape of her nails against his scalp, and a small tingle runs through his limbs. It makes him ache. “You haven’t kissed me once since I’ve arrived on this planet, and I fear I’ve been having withdrawals.”

The press of her lips against his, light as it is, sends a shiver down Loki’s spine. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been starving for this. Softness, intimacy, this genuine affection. The last time he was kissed with such love and care was before he ended up on this forsaken planet, before everything went dark. Almost two months ago, though it feels like a lifetime. Since then, every touch, every kiss, has been possessive, laden with a discomfort that makes his skin crawl. He’s been used, controlled, treated as nothing more than a toy for another’s pleasure.

But this... this is different. This is what he’s been missing, what he’s been yearning for in the quiet, agonizing moments when he thought of her. He’s missed Sigyn so much it physically hurts, and now that she’s here, now that she’s holding him, kissing him, he feels like he might break apart from the sheer intensity of it.

Loki’s lips tremble against hers as he returns the kiss, hesitant at first, as if he’s afraid something might shatter if he presses too hard. But Sigyn’s warmth envelops him, her hands gentle as they cradle his face, and he feels himself begin to melt into her embrace.

The kiss is soft, tender, and full of the love he thought he’d lost. There’s no lust here, no possession, just pure, unfiltered affection. It’s overwhelming in its simplicity, and it brings tears to Loki’s eyes. He’s been kissed a thousand times since arriving on this planet, but never like this. Never with such genuine love.

He deepens the kiss, pouring every ounce of his longing, his love, his fear, and his gratitude into it. It’s as if he’s trying to make up for the time they lost, for the distance that’s been between them. His hands find her waist, pulling her closer, needing to feel her against him, needing to ground himself in the reality that she’s here, that she still loves him, that she hasn’t abandoned him.

Sigyn responds in kind, her kisses growing more insistent, more urgent, as if she, too, is trying to fill the void that’s been left between them. Her fingers tighten in his hair, and she presses herself closer, her heart pounding in sync with his.

When they finally break apart, both of them are breathless, their foreheads resting against each other as they try to catch their breath. Loki’s eyes are filled with unshed tears, the intensity of the moment nearly overwhelming him. He’s been so starved for this, for her, and now that he has it, he’s terrified it might slip away.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’ve missed you so much, Sigyn. I don’t know how I’ve survived this long without you.”

Sigyn’s eyes are soft, filled with the same emotion that’s threatening to spill from his. She presses another kiss to his lips, gentler this time, as if reassuring him that she’s not going anywhere. “You don’t have to be without me anymore,” she whispers against his lips. “I’m here, and I’m not leaving. We’re going to get through this together.”

Loki closes his eyes, letting her words wash over him, soothing the raw edges of his soul. He knows the road ahead is still fraught with danger and uncertainty, but with Sigyn by his side, he feels like he might just have the strength to face it.

He pulls her closer, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the familiar scent of her that he’s missed so desperately. “I love you,” he whispers, the words trembling on his lips. “I love you so much, Sigyn.” Somehow saying it does not feel like enough.

Sigyn’s arms tighten around him, her own voice thick with emotion as she responds, “And I love you, Loki. Always.”

Two palace guards escort Valkyrie and Ari into the Hulk’s suite, following the Scrappers a few paces behind. The guards look nervous, eyes wide as they leave the two women to face the towering green behemoth. Hulk turns, his massive frame dominating the space, and his face brightens as he assesses the newcomers.

“Scrapping girls!” Hulk exclaims, his voice booming through the suite like a thunderclap.

Val bounds forward without hesitation and throws her arms around Hulk, her own considerable strength barely enough to make him sway as they collide. Hulk laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that shakes the walls, his massive arms engulfing her in a bear hug that would crush a lesser being.

Ari isn’t far behind, her laughter high-pitched and melodic as she pounces on Hulk, her feline tail flicking with excitement. She clambers up onto his shoulders, perching playfully as Hulk twirls in place, sending the room spinning around them.

“What’s going on? What do you...?” Val begins, her voice trailing off as Hulk sets her down with surprising gentleness, stepping aside to reveal Thor standing in the corner of the room.

The smile that had lit up Val’s face vanishes in an instant, replaced by a look of deep annoyance. Her eyes narrow, her jaw tightening as she takes in the sight of him. Hulk’s expression shifts as well, his earlier glee fading as he glances between Val and Thor, a look of sheepish guilt spreading across his face.

Ari, still perched on Hulk’s shoulder, waves at Thor with a playful wiggle of her fingers, seemingly unbothered by the sudden tension in the room.

“You’re so thick-headed that you can’t tell when someone’s hiding all the way across the universe and wants to be left alone?” Val snaps, irritation practically radiating off of her in waves.

Thor steps forward, his expression earnest, but there’s a ghost of desperation in his eyes. “We need to talk,” he says, his tone firm.

“No, you want to talk to me,” Val retorts, turning on her heel, her back to him. 

She begins to make a break for the door when Ari comes down from Hulk’s shoulders, landing almost silently on the floor. She pauses and looks at Thor, giving him a brief appraisal before her pupils narrow to cat-like slits. “You don’t think things through very much, do you?” 

The two women begin to move toward the exit, but Thor quickly steps in front of them, his voice pleading as he blocks their path. “I need you to stay.” As if he’d said nothing at all, both of them maneuver around him, going for the exit. Thor looks to Hulk pleadingly, and the green giant nods with a grunt.

Val and Ari reach the doorway just as the upper jawbone of Hulk’s massive skull bed crashes down into their path, blocking the exit. The impact rattles the doorframe, and Ari arches her back, her fur bristling as she bares her teeth at the sudden projectile.

“Fuck!” Ari hisses, her claws unsheathing as she drops into a defensive stance, her tail lashing behind her.

Val turns and sneers at Hulk in annoyance, her eyes narrowing at the green giant, but Hulk simply snorts back, unrepentant.

“Stay! Please?” Hulk says, his voice softer now, and he makes an attempt at puppy dog eyes, though it’s clear that he isn’t used to the expression.

He begins bouncing a large metal ball against the wall, the rhythmic thumping filling the room with a steady beat. Ari’s tail swishes behind her, the irritation in her expression fading into curiosity as she exchanges a look with Val.

Val marches over to Hulk’s bar, her boots thudding heavily against the floor. She scans the bottles with a critical eye, then grabs an unopened one. Hulk’s disapproving snort echoes in the room, but Val ignores him, popping the cork. “Alright, here’s the deal,” Val says, tilting the bottle toward Thor before she takes a long, deliberate swig. “I’ll listen to you till this is empty,” she declares. She wiggles the bottle in front of his face before she begins to drink. 

The liquid quickly vanishes as she gulps it down with the ease of a seasoned drinker, and Thor realizes that he should talk fast. “Asgard is in danger, and people are dying,” Thor says, his voice tight with urgency. “We need- Wow. Uh- We need to get back there.” He watches, impressed, as she downs the bottle in one go. “I need your help getting off this planet, getting to a gateway.” She finishes the bottle in record time, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before tossing the empty bottle aside with a careless motion. It clatters loudly across the floor, rolling to a stop against the wall.

“Finished. Bye,” Val says curtly, turning her back on him and moving toward the exit.

“You are the last Valkyrie.” Thor blurts out, the desperation in his voice cutting through the room like a blade.

The Valkyrie freezes mid-step, the impact of his words hitting her like a physical blow. The room falls into a heavy silence, the tension thickening as Thor watches her carefully, seeing the shift in her demeanor. Ari looks at her too, immediately pulled into the conversation with renewed interest.

Thor seizes the moment. “Odin is dead. Hela, the Goddess of Death, has invaded Asgard,” he continues, his voice steady but filled with the weight of the situation.

Val’s expression hardens as she turns to face him again. “If Hela’s back, then Asgard is already lost,” she says coldly, her eyes narrowing with the bitterness of old wounds.

“I’m going to stop her,” Thor declares, his voice firm with resolve.

“Alone?” Val asks, her tone skeptical. She’s looking at Thor as one would a naive child. 

“Nope. I’m putting together a team. It’s me, you two, and the big guy,” Thor says, glancing at Hulk, who continues bouncing his ball against the wall.

“No team. Only Hulk,” Hulk grumbles, his voice echoing through the room as he keeps his gaze fixed on the wall, his massive hand catching the ball effortlessly with each bounce. Thor clears his throat, shooting a glare at his companion for embarrassing him again. 

“It’s me and you two,” he insists, his voice firm as he meets Val’s uninterested gaze. Her eyes narrow further, her annoyance morphing into something colder, more resolute. 

“I think it’s only you,” she says, turning on her heel and heading for the door once more.

“Wait. Just listen,” Thor calls out, “The Valkyrie are legends, elite warriors of Asgard. You are sworn to defend the throne,” he says, stepping closer to Val, his eyes searching hers for any sign of softening.

“I’m not getting dragged into another one of Odin’s family squabbles. And I’m not bringing her into it,” Val snaps, gesturing sharply to Ari, who pouts defiantly, her tail flicking angrily behind her.

“I can fight!” Ari protests, her voice high-pitched with indignation as she steps forward, her claws flexing.

Val shoots her a sharp look, silencing her with a single glance before turning back to Thor. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Thor asks, confusion knitting his brow.

“Your sister,” Val explains, her voice darkened with the weight of old memories. “When she grew beyond Odin’s control, she massacred people by the thousands. When she tried to escape her banishment, he sent the Valkyrie to fight her back. I only survived because...”

Her voice trails off, her eyes growing distant as the memories flood back. She takes a steadying breath before continuing. “Look, I already faced her once back when I believed in the throne, and it cost me everything. That’s what’s wrong with Asgard. The throne, the secrets, the whole golden sham.” Thor sighs. He really should start listening to Loki. 

Thor steps closer, his hand reaching out to offer comfort, but Val is faster. She snatches his hand mid-air, their faces now mere inches apart, her grip painfully tight. “Don’t get familiar,” she warns, her voice low and dangerous.

Thor meets her gaze steadily. “I agree. That’s why I turned down the throne. But this isn’t about the crown. This is about the people. They’re dying, and they’re your people too,” he says, his voice pleading.

“Not anymore,” Val snaps, shoving him away with a force that sends him stumbling back.

Thor steadies himself, his heart racing as he sees the determination in her eyes. “Is this the life you really want?” he asks, his voice softer now, gentle. “I know what it’s like to want better for a younger sibling.” He continues, his eyes flicking to Ari before returning to Val. “I’ve been part of the problem for far too long, and I’m going to try not to be anymore. Don’t make my mistakes. Don’t blind yourself to their pain because it’s easier than facing it. What about you? Is this the life you want for her?”

Val’s jaw tightens, and her eyes flash with a potent combination of anger and pain, her voice icy as she takes a step back, putting distance between them. “I’ve made my choice,” she says, her voice cold. “This is the life I want. It’s the life I’ve earned after everything I’ve been through. I’m not going back to Asgard. And I’m certainly not dragging Ari into your mess.”

Ari, who has been watching the exchange with wide, conflicted eyes, finally steps forward, her voice small and hesitant as she looks between Val and Thor. “But Val,” she begins, her words quiet with hope. “What if he’s right? What if we can make a difference?”

Val’s gaze softens slightly as she looks at Ari, but the resolve in her eyes doesn’t waver. “This isn’t our fight, kid. We’ve done enough. We deserve peace.”

“And you have that here?” Thor steps forward again, his desperation palpable. “You deserve more than just peace. You deserve to fight for something that matters. You deserve to be heroes.”

“Yes, because trying to be heroic always ends so well, doesn’t it?” Val shakes her head, a bitter smile curling her lips. “We’re survivors. And that’s all we’ll ever be. That’s the cost of living.”

Ari’s ears flatten against her head, her eyes darting to the ground as she wrestles with her emotions. Thor takes another step towards the Valkyrie, his expression pleading. “Please, Val. I can’t do this without you. I need your strength, your skill. And Ari... She looks up to you. Don’t you want to show her that there’s more to life than just surviving?”

Val’s expression hardens again, her back straightening as she turns away from him once more, her voice flat and final. “I’ve already given up everything for Asgard once. I’m not doing it again.”

Ari takes a hesitant step forward, her gaze lingering on her mentor, her heart torn. “Val... I want to help. I want to fight for something bigger than us.”

Val’s shoulders tense, but she doesn’t turn around. “We’re done here,” she says, her voice brooking no argument. “Let’s go, Ari.”

Ari hesitates, her eyes filled with a longing that she can’t quite voice. She looks back at Thor, her expression pained. “I... I can’t go without her,” she says softly. 

Thor’s shoulders slump, the fight fading as he realizes he’s lost. “I understand,” he says quietly, his voice heavy with disappointment. “But if you change your mind... you know where to find me.”

Val strides towards the exit, her steps firm and unyielding. Ari casts one last, lingering look at Thor before following her mentor, her tail drooping in resignation. They step over the broken jawbone of Hulk’s bed, Val not sparing it a glance while Ari eyes it warily.

Hulk watches them go, his expression something akin to a pout. “Little girls go?” he asks, his voice small and uncertain.

Val pauses at the doorway, her back still to Thor and Hulk. “Yeah, big guy. We’re going.”

Thor watches them leave, his heart heavy from disappointment from their rejection. He knows he’s asking for a lot, and he can’t blame Val for wanting to stay away from the pain and loss she’s endured. But he can’t shake the feeling that they’re making a mistake.

As the door closes behind Val and Ari, Thor turns to Hulk, his resolve hardening. “We’ll find another way,” he says firmly, determination burning in his eyes. “We have to.” 

Hulk grunts in agreement, his massive shoulders slumping slightly. “Hulk help Thor,” he says simply, and Thor nods, grateful for the loyalty of his friend. Despite the embarrassment.

“…Thanks, big guy.” 

Chapter Text

Loki teleports into the cramped room, the familiar scent of stale air and metal hitting him immediately. The dim lighting barely illuminates the sleeping figure of the Hulk, sprawled out on a large, makeshift bed in the heart of the jawbone of… some sort of creature. Loki inhales sharply, knowing better than to disturb the beast. They have never quite been on friendly terms, even less so now with their conflicting positions, and the last thing he needs at the moment is for the creature to throw a tantrum and alert the Grandmaster. 

All it takes is a whispered spell and a bit of magic to render himself invisible, his steps light as he maneuvers past the green mass of muscles. “Thor,” Loki whispers, scanning the room for his brother.

Thor stands on the opposite side, facing away from him, staring out the window, his face illuminated by the neon lights of the city below, and the Grandmaster’s party that Loki really should be attending. His stomach clenches into knots thinking about it, but he pushes the idea aside. They will be out of here soon enough. And in all honesty, Loki thinks he might snap and begin screaming until his voice gives out if he has to allow the Grandmaster to put his hands on him again. 

Loki inches closer to his brother, his footsteps silent against the floor. “Thor,” he whispers, but his voice is promptly drowned out by a particularly loud snore from the Hulk asleep a few feet away. Loki’s shoulders tense as he sighs with frustration and he hisses a bit louder, “Thor, you dullard, behind you!”

Thor spins, eyes wide, searching the room. “Loki?”

“No, actually,” Loki responds dryly, rolling his eyes. “I’m your conscience. Have I told you recently that you’re an idiot?”

Thor furrows his brow, stepping closer to the source of the voice. “Very funny,” he mutters. “Why can’t I see you?”

“Because I was trying to avoid getting smashed by that thing,” he nods toward the sleeping Hulk despite the fact that Thor still cannot see him, but he feels confident in the fact that even Thor could piece together who he’s referring to. “Now come on, we need to get out of here before your… friend wakes up.”

Thor glances over at the Hulk, then back at Loki’s general direction, his expression caught somewhere between skepticism and caution. “What’s the plan?” He asks, his voice thankfully dropping to a whisper. 

Loki hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line. For a second, his confidence falters before he clears his throat and looks away, suddenly immensely thankful that Thor cannot see him. “I’ve been… playing it by ear,” he admits. 

Thor’s eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise before a laugh escapes him, barely stifled and loud enough that Loki winces and glares at him in warning. It does precious little in an invisible state. “You?” Thor manages, trying to remain quiet, but the blatant amusement is making that task more difficult than it should be. “ You’re improvising?”

Loki’s eyes narrow, his hands twitching as if considering the possibility of throttling his brother then and there. “Thor,” he says slowly, “please don’t make me stab you. Because I can say with certainty that the desire is slowly mounting.”

Thor’s laughter dies down to a chuckle, but the grin remains wide on his face. He takes a step closer to Loki, reaching out and clapping a hand on his brother’s shoulder with a warmth that hasn’t been there between them in a long time. “Well, this should be fun, then,” Thor teases, a hint of that old camaraderie sneaking back into his tone. “Don’t worry, I’m sure whatever half-baked plan you have will work out.”

Loki flinches slightly at the physical contact but doesn’t brush Thor’s hand away. Instead, he looks at his brother with something close to exasperated fondness, though he’d never admit it. And Thor cannot see it. “Half-baked?” Loki echoes, tilting his head, a small smirk curling on his lips. “This from the man who has always been the reigning king of half-baked plans?” 

Thor chuckles, shrugging unapologetically. “They always worked, didn’t they?”

“Barely,” Loki mutters, stepping away from Thor’s grip and focusing his attention on the sleeping Hulk again. His gaze sharpens, and the smile fades. “Now, if you’re done being a buffoon, we need to leave before the creature wakes up.”

Thor’s smile fades into a more serious expression as he glances back at Hulk, the massive green figure snoring softly. “We can’t leave him behind, Loki.”

Loki exhales sharply, already anticipating the headache this will cause. He crosses his arms, his expression growing dark. “Of course we can,” he retorts. “In fact, it’s quite easy. We walk away, and the problem stays here. Simple.”

Thor rolls his eyes. “Not happening.”

Loki hisses through his teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. Now really is not the time for an argument. “For once, Thor, think . I don’t exactly relish the idea of traveling a beast who is constantly one tantrum away from smashing everything in sight, and certainly not on a ship.”

Thor meets his gaze, and for a brief moment, the tension melts away, leaving behind just two brothers, facing an impossible situation together. Loki stands with his arms crossed, clearly unimpressed, as Thor glances between him and the sleeping Hulk. Thor’s face is set with that stubborn expression Loki knows too well.

“Thor, I beg you, leave the green fool, he’s doing fine here.” He’s the Grandmaster’s beloved champion, which obviously seems to be treating him well. Better than Loki has been faring as the ‘Favorite’, anyway. 

Thor shakes his head resolutely. “No way, this place sucks!”

Loki waves his hand dismissively. “So does he!”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t like him.”

“And I am an excellent judge of character.” Loki urges, voice tight. “Now come on.” 

“Loki,” Thor starts, visibly wanting to reach out and grab Loki, but uncertain of where exactly he’s moved to, “Please.” Despite his uncertainty, Thor manages to cast pleading eyes in his direction, and Loki swears under his breath as he recognizes it as the same expression he would use on Frigga to escape his punishments as a child. He hates that this is even working on him, he invented it. 

Loki stares at his brother, feeling his future headache building. “I want to make it perfectly clear that I abhor you.” Thor grins, a wide smile breaking out on his face, and Loki takes a deep breath, promptly ignoring the little side of himself that brightens with the knowledge that he has pleased his brother. Always doing whatever you can to please someone , a voice in the back of his mind hisses, You’re pathetic.  

“If we are going to bring him,” he says with reluctant resignation, “I would much rather deal with the skittish doctor than his monster. Easier to travel with anyway.” He waves his hand, turning himself visible once more, the shimmering veil of invisibility falling from him. “Now, wake him.”

“Why do I have to do it?” Thor asks, a hint of petulance in his voice.

Loki narrows his eyes at Thor, and his smile is sharp, warning. “Because you are the one who wishes to bring him.”

Thor scowls, “Well, how are you going to—”

Loki cuts him off again, voice sharp. “Just wake him. And trust me.”

Thor arches an eyebrow. “That’s a bit of a tall order.”

Loki offers a tight, sardonic smile. “I could always just leave you here, you know.”

Thor frowns, but after a beat, he walks over to the slumbering Hulk, muttering under his breath. “Alright, big guy, time to get up.” He nudges Hulk’s shoulder, then steps back as Hulk stirs, his massive form shifting with a deep rumble.

It only takes a moment before Hulk’s eyes snap open. He groans, then immediately shoots up, his face twisting with a childlike petulance. “No leave! Hulk stay!” His voice echoes through the room, rattling the walls as he throws an arm out, knocking over a metal table with a thunderous crash. Thor winces, glancing nervously behind him to Loki, only to find that his brother is nowhere to be seen. 

Hulk begins thrashing around, throwing another punch that narrowly misses Thor’s head. He shouts, shifting his weight as he stumbles to dodge, cursing Loki in the privacy of his mind. Oh, he better just be invisible. Thor dodges another one of the Hulk’s frantic swings before a soft voice cuts through the chaos. 

“Hey, big guy,” it says, calm and familiar. Thor spins abruptly to see Natasha standing in the doorway, her figure bathed in the light pouring in from the windows. Thor understands immediately. She’s holding out a hand, her expression soft but serious. “I’m gonna need you to come back to me, okay? The sun’s getting real low,” she murmurs gently. Thor watches her, his heart aching slightly. 

Hulk’s tantrum falters for a moment as he turns, eyes widening. His breaths come out heavy, uneven as he takes a cautious step back from her. “No Banner!” He shouts, slamming a fist into the wall. His voice trembles with confusion and weak defiance as he backs away, trying to fight the transformation, his massive body slamming into the wall nearby. “Hulk stay! No Banner!” Both of them watch as Hulk’s movements grow sluggish, the fight draining out of him. The massive creature stumbles, dropping to one knee as his chest heaves with heavy breaths.

With a low, booming sound, Hulk collapses onto the floor on his hands and knees, his massive form slowly shrinking and reverting. Muscles contract, bones realign, and soon, Bruce Banner is lying on the cold floor, his clothes torn and hanging loosely off his now much smaller frame. He breathes heavily, supporting himself on shaky arms as he blinks up at Natasha and Thor, his eyes glazed with exhaustion and disorientation. “Nat?” Banner croaks, his voice not much louder than a hoarse whisper.

Natasha doesn’t respond. Instead, she begins to shimmer and shift, the familiar figure of the Black Widow fading, revealing Loki standing in her place, looking down at him with faux sympathy. “Unfortunately, no.”

Banner’s eyes widen, but before he can say anything, his face contorts as if tasting something sour, his stomach convulsing. Loki watches with distaste as Banner vomits onto the floor, then collapses back with a groan, unconscious.

Thor kneels beside Banner, his face pulled in concern as he checks on his friend. Weakened, but otherwise okay. “Was that really necessary?” He asks, glancing up at Loki.

Loki shrugs, his expression nonchalant. “If you had a better idea in mind, please accept my sincere apology, I would have let you take the lead,” he says, wiping imaginary dirt from his hands. “Besides, it worked, did it not?” Thor grumbles something under his breath but doesn’t argue further. Loki claps his hands together, his voice taking on a mocking cheerfulness. “Well, then! Carry your doctor and let’s get out of here before we have any more surprises.” 

Thor kneels down, gently gathering Banner’s limp form into his arms, cradling his unconscious body with ease. “Where are we going?” 

“The Valkyrie and her apprentice have graciously lent us their home for the time being. Once we’re there, we’ll be able to…” He stops mid-sentence, his words trailing off as he takes notice of the sudden change in Thor’s expression. His face has gone rigid, his jaw tight. Loki knows that look. That’s how Thor looks when he’s been caught doing something he knows he’s going to get scolded for. Loki inhales sharply, already bracing himself. “Oh, lovely,” he mutters. “What is it? What did you do now?”

Thor smiles sheepishly, his arms shifting as he adjusts Banner’s weight. “I, um… might have, perhaps, attempted to convince the Valkyrie to join our cause?” His voice wavers, the nervousness evident as he lets out a small, uneasy laugh. “She might be a bit cross with me at the moment.”

Loki freezes, his eyes narrowing as pieces of the puzzle fall into place. He recalls the summons Val and Ari had received earlier that evening, how they’d left abruptly without much explanation. His expression darkens. “You—” Loki pauses, his eyes flashing with irritation as the realization fully hits him. “That was you? "

Thor shifts uncomfortably under Loki’s piercing glare, his sheepish smile only growing more awkward. “Well… yes.”

Ari’s fists clench at her sides, her lip caught between her teeth as she fights the urge to break the silence between her and Val as they walk side by side, headed back in the direction of their shared home. Sakaar feels more like a prison with each step, and every corner of this cursed planet seems to mock her. 

She was born here, sure, but that doesn’t make it her home. Not anymore. Not after everything it’s taken from her. Her leg, her eye, her family… It’s all etched into her, wounds she carries with every step. And she knows Val feels it too. The weight of loss. The pain. But Val isn’t saying anything. She’s just marching forward, jaw set, refusing to acknowledge the tension between them, and it makes Ari want to scream.

Ari kicks a loose stone, sending it skittering across the dirt. The sound seems to break the silence for a moment, and without meaning to, the words finally tumble out. “I don’t get why you said no.”

Val stiffens slightly, pausing in her stride, but doesn’t immediately respond. The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable, before she finally speaks. “I don’t owe them anything. Especially not ‘his royal highness’.” Her tone is sharp, dismissive, and she gestures vaguely, and she says ‘his royal highness’ the same way someone would talk about gum on their shoe. 

Val grimaces to herself as she continues ahead, not looking back at Ari. She knew this would happen. The moment she laid eyes on Loki, the face of the Grandmaster’s new favorite, she knew trouble was coming. Because Loki looks too much like her . Hela. The woman who stole everything from Val in one brutal instant. It was easy to make the connection, even after all this time to recognize him as Aesir, but even if she couldn’t guess, she could never forget that face. She’d known the past would catch up to her eventually, but she hadn’t wanted to face it. Not yet. Not when Ari had finally tasted victory, leading her first successful bounty hunt. Val hadn’t wanted to shatter her excitement. But maybe she should have. Maybe that would have been kinder.

Because now it’s all crashing down, and Val can feel it. She can feel the heavy, suffocating weight of everything she’s tried so hard to avoid.

“I know you don’t,” Ari says, her voice shaking slightly, and it takes Val a moment to find her way out of her head and back to the conversation. “But I thought maybe…” She stops, shaking her head, unsure of how to put into words what’s been festering inside her for weeks. Months. Years. “I thought maybe you owed us something.”

Val scoffs, and it’s a hollow sound. She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she starts walking again, though her pace has slowed. Ari keeps up, frustration burning like a fire in her chest. The silence presses down on her again, and everything about Val’s body language is insisting that she drop this subject, but she’s not ready to let it go.

Ari fidgets with the loose bandages on her hand, the rough fabric dirtied from her fingers. “Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?” Her voice wavers, and she hates how small she sounds, like she’s still the scared little kid Val found rooting through her trash all those years ago. “About who you used to be?”

Val’s expression shifts uncomfortably, her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes flicker away, the neon lights of Sakaar giving her face a pink glow. “It wasn’t important.”

Ari’s brow furrows, her frustration boiling over. “Are you serious ?” She takes a step forward, cutting Val off, her voice growing louder. “I think the idea that you used to be some badass warrior who fought evil goddesses for a prince is pretty important, Val!”

Val tenses, but she doesn’t respond. She just exhales slowly, shutting her eyes as if trying to keep her composure, and knowing Val’s temper, that’s probably exactly what she’s doing. Ari stares at her, waiting, searching for some explanation. For years, she’d known better than to ask, but now that it feels like everything is unraveling, she can’t stay quiet anymore. And it feels like such a big part of Val that she doesn’t know anything about. 

When Val finally speaks, her voice is low and firm, but there’s a weariness in it that Ari’s never heard before. “I thought I was pretty clear on why I don’t want to go, Ari.”

Ari shakes her head, tears stinging her eye. She clenches her jaw, trying to keep her emotions in check, but it’s no use. “No,” she says, her voice wavering. “You haven’t been clear. Not with me.” Ari grits her teeth. “You don’t want to fight for something better?”

 “Better?” Val echoes, her voice low and hard. “There’s nothing better. This is all there is.”

Ari flinches but holds her ground. She’s heard this before, but she can’t believe it, not anymore. She’s so scared that if she does, it will kill her. “You don’t believe that,” she says, her voice firmer than she expected. “You can’t.”

Val lets out a sharp breath, looking away, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. “What do you think is going to happen, kid? You think going with Thor is gonna fix everything? That we’ll take down Hela and suddenly everything will be perfect?” She shakes her head, her voice bitter. “It’s a fairytale, Ari. A lie.”

Ari’s hands curl into fists, her claws digging into her palms, but she doesn’t care about the sharpness. “At least out there we’d be doing something,” she says, the words rushing out of her in a torrent. “At least we’d have a chance. Here? We’re just… waiting to lose more.”

Val doesn’t respond right away. She stands there, her expression unreadable, but Ari knows she’s thinking about it. About the things she’s lost. Both of them, even though Ari doesn’t know everything, have lost families. And those losses have left deep scars. 

“That’s not how it works,” Val says finally, her voice quieter now, but no less strained. “You think leaving here is going to change everything? It won’t. What we’ve lost… that doesn’t go away just because we go fight another battle.”

Ari looks down at the ground, her heart pounding in her chest. “You’re my sister, Val.” She says, and her voice cracks, her steps slowing as she finally lets the words spill out. “You showed me what sisterhood was.”

Ari’s mind flashes back to the moments that solidified their bond, the countless times Val had been there when no one else was. It was Val who took her in, who had helped her when she first started figuring out who she really was, who had found her better clothes in the market when the rags she had didn’t feel right anymore. Val, who’d cut her hair, helped her pick out her new name. When Ari had looked in the mirror for the first time and felt like she was starting to see herself, Val had been there, grinning with that rare, soft warmth she only ever showed Ari.

Val had even been there during the hardest transitions, guiding her through the pain when she’d lost her leg in a scrap and made the difficult decision to replace it with the rough, clunky prosthetic she now wears. It was Val who had helped her take her first steps again, who had gripped her arm tightly and refused to let her fall.

“You’re my family in every way that matters,” Ari continues, her voice quieter now, raw with emotion. “But I just… I don’t want to spend the rest of my life here.”

Val’s gaze softens, just slightly, and she looks at Ari with something akin to pity. “Ari…” she starts, but Ari cuts her off.

“I’m sick of this place,” she says, her voice cracking as she looks up at Val, her one eye blazing with emotion. “I’m sick of the Grandmaster. I’m sick of losing more of myself every day. I just…” She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “I just want to fight for something that means something.” Val doesn’t say anything for a long beat. She just stares at Ari, her expression tight, like she’s fighting a battle inside her own mind. And in that silence, Ari feels the significance of everything she’s said, the rawness of the truth between them.

“I know what it’s like to want better for a younger sibling.” Thor’s words find Val again, ringing clearly in her mind as she looks at Ari’s teary face. “I’ve been part of the problem for far too long, and I’m going to try not to be anymore. Don’t make my mistakes. Don’t blind yourself to their pain because it’s easier than facing it. What about you? Is this the life you want for her?”

No. She hadn’t said it then, but no. It isn’t. 

Finally, Val speaks, her voice rough but quiet. “I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever fought for,” she says, her eyes distant, and the fear and pain in them are so genuine that it takes Ari’s breath away. “I don’t want to lose you too.”

Ari’s chest tightens, but she steps forward, her gaze never leaving Val’s. “You won’t,” she says softly, her voice steady despite the fear twisting inside her. “I’m not asking you to fight for me. I’m asking you to fight with me.”

Val flinches at that, and for a moment, Ari wonders if she’s pushed too hard. But then Val lets out a long breath, shaking her head with a grim smile. “You really are an annoying little shit, you know that?” she says, but there’s no anger in her voice now. Only a weary kind of affection.

Ari grins, though it’s small and shaky. “I learned from the best.”

Val rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide the faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She takes a step closer to Ari, her expression softening as she reaches out, gently resting a hand on her shoulder.

“All right, kid,” Val says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s go fight for something better.”

Thor carries an unconscious Bruce Banner through the threshold of Valkyrie’s makeshift home, his muscles straining under the scientist’s dead weight. It’s the night before they’re supposed to leave, and the air feels heavy, thick with tension. Loki trails behind quietly, eyes watching Bruce warily, as if anticipating something to go wrong and the Hulk making a reappearance. He watches as Thor carefully places Bruce onto a worn couch in the corner. With a flick of his fingers, Loki mutters a soft spell. A faint shimmer glows briefly over Banner’s form, ensuring that the Hulk will stay dormant. Extra insurance for now. 

“Let’s hope he stays that way,” Loki murmurs, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “For once, I have truly had enough chaos for one day.”

Thor straightens up, rolling his shoulder to ease the tension in his muscles. “You’re not the only one.” Silence fills the space between them, broken only by the hum of distant machinery outside. Thor’s gaze lingers on Loki, and he can’t shake the weight of everything that’s been left unsaid. Everything he’s felt, everything that’s been kept from him. Finally, Thor speaks, his voice rougher than usual. “We need to talk.”

Loki tenses slightly, his casual mask flickering for a moment, but he quickly replaces it with that neutral look that Thor hates. It’s always so hard to read him when he does that. “Now? Shouldn’t we be preparing for tomorrow?”

Thor shakes his head, stepping closer. “No. We need to talk now, Loki. I’m tired of everything being hidden. I just— I need to say it.” Loki narrows his eyes, guarded, but he says nothing, giving his brother the floor to continue. Thor takes a deep breath, the words already weighing heavily on him. “I’ve been thinking…” He begins, his voice softer now. “About us. About everything.” He hesitates, gathering his thoughts, choosing his words carefully, before finally meeting Loki’s gaze properly. There’s really only one thing to say. “I’m sorry, Loki.”

Loki’s expression falters, momentarily shaken. The words hit him with a force he hadn’t expected, leaving him speechless. “What?” Loki’s voice is low, barely audible.

“I said I’m sorry,” Thor repeats, firmer, his eyes filled with something raw, vulnerable. “For everything. For not seeing what you’ve done for me, for not understanding sooner. And for being angry… at the wrong people.”

Loki scoffs, though it lacks his usual bite. “Angry at the wrong people? Who else would there be, if not me?”

Thor clenches his fists, fighting the rising frustration inside him. “Odin,” he says quietly. “I was angry at him, Loki. But I took it out on you. I was angry because he lied to me, because he kept me in the dark about everything— about you, about our family. I didn’t want to admit that the man I looked up to, and tried to emulate for so long was… a horrible king, and a worse father, so I blamed you.”

Loki’s jaw tightens, and he turns away, not wanting to meet Thor’s gaze, even over the part of himself that feels oddly vindicated to hear those words. “You’re saying this now?”

“I’m saying it because I should have said it a long time ago,” Thor replies, his voice thick with regret. “I should have seen it, what he did to you. What he did to both of us. You weren’t the only one he kept secrets from, Loki. He kept them from me too.” Thor sighs, shutting his eyes. “And when I found out where you’d been all this time…”

Loki turning up alive… It was a moment Thor had wanted for so long, a confrontation that he imagined countless times. And yet the first thing that he did when he saw that Loki was alive—after years of crippling grief and nightmares—wasn’t embrace him. He didn’t do any of what he’d imagined. He’d reeled back and punched Loki in the jaw, his fist connecting with Loki’s face before he even had time to explain. The punch was pulled, but he doubts Loki appreciated the sentiment. He had been so upset that Loki didn’t tell him he was alive. But he never made it clear just how elated he was that Loki was alive. 

Thor swallows hard, his throat tightening. “I was hurt, Loki. You told Sigyn, but not me. You let me believe you were dead.” He keeps off the ‘again’ that wants to follow, because there’s still that horrible, aching feeling he gets thinking about the first time. Back when he watched Loki let go. That moment haunted his nightmares for years. Sometimes it still does.

“And you would’ve preferred the truth?” Thor’s chest tightens at Loki’s words, the bitterness in his brother’s voice cutting through him like a blade. He shakes his head, his throat tightening as he searches for the right words, knowing that anything he says might only drive Loki further away. He always feels helpless in these situations. “That your brother was alive and nothing more than a cowardly disappointment, hiding from his crimes?”

Thor’s eyes flash with pain, and his voice trembles. “I would have preferred my brother, alive. I grieved for you, Loki. I thought I’d lost you forever. And then when I find out you’re alive, I find out that you kept it from me. You let me believe—” He stops, his chest rising and falling with quickened breaths as he tries to rein in his emotions. “I don’t understand why you thought I wouldn’t want you here. You’re my brother.”

“You make it perfectly clear which reality you prefer,” Loki spits, his eyes flashing with anger, but beneath it, Thor can see the deep hurt that fuels it.

“Loki…” Thor’s voice cracks as he steps forward, his hands trembling at his sides. “I want you here, Loki. Alive. Happy. I swear it.”

Loki lets out a soft, bitter laugh, the sound hollow, his lips curling into a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks away, his expression closing off. “Well,” he rasps quietly, “you have me alive.”

Thor flinches, the meaning behind Loki’s words sinking in. Alive, but not whole. Not the brother he remembers, not the one he wishes he could protect from the pain, the bitterness, the self-destruction that’s eaten away at Loki for so long. Alive, but haunted by everything they’ve both lost. Haunted by this planet... “There’s… something else, Loki,” Thor says, and there’s something clearly, audibly hesitant in his voice that makes Loki stiffen. 

“Oh, lovely,” he responds dryly, his arms folding tighter across his chest. “What now?”

Thor shifts uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… I went to Asgard.”

Loki’s brows furrow, and he turns to fully face his brother. “What?”

“Not physically,” Thor adds quickly. “I, uh… I astral projected myself.”

Loki’s lips twitch into something that might have been a smile under different circumstances. “Hm. Magic, brother. About time.”

Thor doesn’t react to the jab, his expression remaining serious. “I’m not finished,” he says softly.

Loki arches an eyebrow, clearly growing impatient. “Go on, then.”

Thor takes a deep breath, steadying himself before speaking again. “I saw Heimdall. And he told me… to check on you.”

Loki stiffens immediately. His posture changes, becoming rigid, and a cold edge creeps into his gaze. He doesn’t say anything, but Thor can feel the sudden shift in the air between them. “And… I started reflecting,” Thor continues cautiously, watching his brother for a reaction. “And I need to ask, I need to know…” He pauses, his voice lowering as he dreads what he’s about to say. He’s never quite known how to properly talk to Loki without making things worse and he hopes more than anything that he’s not doing so now. “Has something… happened with you and the Grandmaster?”

Loki’s face remains impassive, but there’s something in his eyes— something dark, dangerous, that flickers for just a second before his expression hardens. “Has something happened,” Loki repeats, his voice flat and emotionless. “That’s perfectly vague. I would say that several things have happened.”

Thor’s heart pounds in his chest, the unease rising as he struggles to find the right words. Dammit. “Loki… I’m not here to pity you. I’m asking because I’m worried. I saw the way you’ve been acting. I noticed things, and—”

“Oh, did you?” Loki interrupts, every word accompanied by a sarcastic bite. “You noticed things? How observant of you.”

Thor flinches at the biting tone, but he presses on. “Heimdall made me look. He made me think, Loki. And I saw… I saw the way you flinch whenever anyone touches you, the way you look at the Grandmaster like—”

“Like what, Thor?” Loki cuts him off, his voice sharp now, almost a growl. 

“I’m not here to pity you,” Thor says again, his voice steady, refusing to let the conversation slip through his fingers like it has so many times before. He steps forward, blocking Loki’s path, forcing his brother to stop and look at him. “Loki, I need you to be honest with me. I’m not leaving until you tell me.”

Loki glares at him, his eyes cold and yet full of fire, but Thor can see the cracks forming, can see the slight tremble in his hands that he’s desperately trying to hide. He’s seeing so much now that he’s actually looking. “What is it you want to hear, Thor?” Loki snaps, stepping closer, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “Hm? Do you want me to tell you that I’m a whore now? That I’ve been fucking my way through Sakaar just to survive?” His words are sharp, cutting. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

Thor winces at the words, but he doesn’t back down. That’s exactly what Loki wants, that’s what he’s trying to do. “Loki, stop it. I know what you’re doing. Just talk to me.”

Loki cocks a brow, blinking at Thor with mock confusion. “Is that not what I am doing?” He asks, before he laughs bitterly, shaking his head as he turns away. “I am talking to you. You just don’t like what I have to say.” Loki laughs, but the sound is bitter, harsh. “Spare me your sudden epiphany,” he sneers. “You only care because Heimdall told you to. If he hadn’t said anything, you’d still be blissfully ignorant, wouldn’t you?”

Thor opens his mouth to protest, but Loki doesn’t give him the chance. “You don’t actually care about what’s happening to me,” Loki continues, his voice rising with something poisonous. “You’re just here because someone told you to check up on poor, broken Loki. You just want to feel like you’re saving someone, fixing something. You only ever care when someone else tells you to.”

Thor takes a step toward Loki, but Loki backs away, his expression turning colder by the second. “Loki—”

“Do you want me to spell it out for you, brother?” Loki snaps, his voice raw. “Do you want to hear the gory details of how I’ve become the Grandmaster’s concubine? Would that make you feel better? Because it has already happened! You can’t fix this, Thor!” 

Thor’s chest tightens with pain, but he doesn’t back down. “Loki, don’t. Don’t do this.”

“Do what?” Loki snarls, his voice thick with self-loathing. “Be honest about what I’ve become? A whore for the Grandmaster’s amusement? Is that what you’re upset about, Thor? I bet it must have been humiliating to discover that your brother has been used by every creature in this place.”

Thor’s face contorts with grief and guilt, tears welling in his eyes. “I’m upset because I should have been there for you. I should have known, and I didn’t. I didn’t see what you were going through. I let you suffer alone, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Loki.”

Loki’s shoulders shake as he tries to hold himself together, but the cracks in his armor are widening. “You don’t get it, Thor. I lost everything. Everything. And you—” He stops, the words catching in his throat, his hands trembling at his sides. “You would have preferred me dead.”

Thor’s eyes widen with shock and pain, horror at the words his brother is saying, at the thought that Loki genuinely believes that. “No… Loki, that’s not—”

“I chose this. I’m his pet. I let him have me, and now I get to enjoy the benefits.” Thor’s stomach twists, bile rising in his throat at the words. It isn’t just what Loki is saying; it’s the way he says it, the bitterness, the self-loathing he tries to hide under a veneer of mockery. 

“You’re not a pet, Loki,” Thor says softly, taking a step closer. “You didn’t choose this. And it’s not your fault.”

Loki’s body stiffens, his fists clenching at his sides. “Not my fault?” He scoffs, a harsh laugh escaping his lips. “I made the choice, Thor. I let him touch me. I let him—” His voice breaks for a second, his mask slipping, but he quickly recovers, his eyes hardening again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know anything. You think I’m a victim? Don’t insult me.” Loki’s chest heaves, his breaths ragged as he stares at Thor, the reality of everything he’s been through finally breaking through the surface. He’s lashing out, his words sharp and cruel, but Thor knows why. He knows that Loki is doing everything he can to push him away, to avoid showing just how much it all hurts.

Suddenly, all at once, Loki deflates, like all of the will to fight and argue has bled out of him, leaving something achingly raw in its place. “I made the choice.” He mutters. He slumps against the wall, covering his face with his hands. There’s a moment where Thor just looks at him, unsure of what to say or what to do, if there’s anything at all. Loki’s voice grows quiet, his eyes distant as he stares at the ground. “The toxicity of this planet was supposed to destroy me,” he says, his tone empty, flat. “In a realm full of endless substances, I was certain that I could find something that I could overdose on easily.”

Thor’s breath catches in his throat, watching his brother, his heart twisting with every word, at the idea of Loki making another attempt on his life. He doesn’t want to imagine it, how if things had gone differently, Loki might’ve already been dead by the time he got here. 

Loki’s face tightens, his jaw clenching as he continues. “But then I discovered that there are ways… ways that he could simply prevent my body from failing. I tried more than once. But trying… upset him.” He swallows hard, battling back the nausea that threatens to overwhelm him. “So I stopped.”

Thor feels his chest tighten, a wave of grief and fury crashing over him at the same time. “Loki…” He whispers, stepping closer, but Loki holds up a hand, stopping him.

“Don’t,” Loki says, his voice harsh but trembling. He takes a few unsteady breaths before forcing out a slightly softer, “…Don’t, please.”

Thor steps forward again, his voice soft but firm. “Loki, I’m sorry. I should have been there for you sooner. I should have seen it.”

Loki’s lip trembles, and for a moment, he looks like he’s going to say something else; something cruel, something cutting. But then the anger drains from his face, replaced again by exhaustion. “Why now?” Loki whispers, his voice cracking. “Why do you care now?”

“I’ve always cared.” Thor’s heart breaks at the sound of his brother’s voice, so small, so vulnerable. He steps closer and places a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “Because you’re my brother, and I love you. And I see you, Loki. I see everything you’ve done, everything you’ve endured. And I’m sorry. I should have been here to lessen your suffering, not add to it.” 

Loki’s body trembles under Thor’s hand, his walls crumbling in the face of Thor’s words. His eyes glisten with unshed tears, and for a moment, he looks so lost, so broken, that it takes Thor’s breath away. “I didn’t think you’d want me anymore,” Loki whispers, his voice barely audible. “Not after everything.”

Thor doesn’t hesitate this time. He steps forward and pulls Loki into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around his brother with a desperate kind of love. Loki tenses, his breath catching in his throat, but he doesn’t push Thor away. He stands there, frozen, the warmth of Thor’s touch burning into him.

And then he breaks.

The sob that escapes Loki is raw, unrestrained, and Thor holds him tighter as tears stream down his face. All the pain, all the anger, all the years of resentment and loneliness come crashing down, and Loki lets himself feel it. The grief, the guilt, the loss, it all comes pouring out in waves. Thor places a gentle hand against the back of Loki’s neck, tears slipping down his own cheeks as he whispers, “I’m so sorry, brother. I should have been there for you. I should have seen what you were going through. But I see you now. I see you and I’m so, so sorry it took so long.”

They stand there, holding each other, trembling under the weight of everything they’ve lost and everything they still have. Loki’s sobs finally quiet, his face buried in Thor’s shoulder. His voice is hoarse from tears as he utters a soft, “I thought you’d hate me.”

“Never, little brother.” Thor shakes his head, holding Loki even tighter. “Never.” After a few moments, Loki’s trembling finally starts to slow, and Thor’s arms remain wrapped tightly around his brother, Loki’s head resting against his shoulder. There’s a peace between them, a tentative understanding and a vulnerability that hasn’t lived between them since they were children. Thor opens his mouth to say something else when he hears a noise in front of him, emerging from behind Loki.

A soft groan escapes Bruce’s lips as consciousness returns, and his eyelids flutter open. Blinking against the dim light, he shifts, disoriented, trying to piece together his surroundings. He sits up abruptly, his eyes wide with confusion as he looks around the room, panic setting in. The sudden movement breaks the quiet between Thor and Loki. Bruce turns and locks panicked eyes with Thor as Loki stiffens in his embrace. “Thor!?” Bruce’s voice is frantic as he sits up, his eyes wide and darting around, clearly trying to make sense of where he is.

Loki pushes away, his back facing Bruce’s direction, the emotional vulnerability in him quickly snapping shut like a door slammed in haste. He pulls away from Thor, his expression hardening, walls going back into place, and it feels like a loss.

Thor doesn’t have the chance to dwell on it for Bruce’s panicked breathing in front of him, and he redirects his attention. He steps forward, hands out in a calming gesture. “It’s alright, my friend. Breathe. Your, uh… green companion making an appearance would be less than ideal at the moment.”

Bruce blinks at him, his face twisted with bewilderment. “What is this place? What the hell happened?” His voice rises high with panic as he glances down at his bare chest. “And— oh God, I’m naked.”

Before Thor can respond, a forest green robe comes flying across the room with surprising precision and lands directly on Bruce’s head, draping over his face in a comically awkward fashion. Bruce lets out a startled noise, trying to pull the fabric off his head. 

“Yes, and I would like to remedy that,” Loki says smoothly from the side of the room, his tone neutral. His mask is firmly back in place, his expression as composed as ever, and it’s eerie how quickly he was able to recover. His arms are folded loosely over his chest as he approaches them, but his eyes don’t meet Thor’s.

Thor glances at Loki, a deep frown tugging at his brow. There’s a distinct worry in his eyes as he watches his brother’s quick retreat into his familiar facade, but he says nothing, his concern lingering in the air between them.

Loki doesn’t acknowledge the look. “Hello, Bruce,” he says flatly. 

Bruce, now half tangled in the robe, starts slipping it over his shoulders, mumbling a quick “thanks” as he does so. He adjusts the robe awkwardly, tying it around his waist, his face still caught between panic and confusion. “So… uh,” Bruce begins, his voice hesitant as he tries to process everything, his eyes finally landing on Loki. “Last time I saw you, you were, uh… trying to kill everybody. Where are you at these days?”

Loki’s expression remains completely impassive. “It varies from moment to moment,” he replies, deadpan, not even a hint of humor in his tone.

Bruce stares at Loki for a beat, blinking. He looks between Thor and Loki, before clearing his throat. “Okay… right,” Bruce mutters, rubbing the back of his neck as he tries to piece everything together. “So, where are we? And why does this feel like the worst hangover I’ve ever had?”

“Ah, yes, this place tends to do that to you.” Loki adds before Thor steps forward again, attempting to explain, though his mind is still half-focused on Loki’s sudden withdrawal. 

“We’re on a realm called Sakaar. You’ve been here for… well, a while. As the Hulk. You don’t remember?”

Bruce’s eyes widen, his hand dropping from his neck. “The Hulk? No, I—” He shakes his head, his face growing paler by the second. “I don’t remember anything. The last thing I remember is… Sokovia. Ultron. And then…” His voice trails off, panic creeping back into his voice as he looks around. “How long has it been? Why can’t I—”

Thor places a reassuring hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him down. “It’s been a couple of years, Bruce. A lot has happened. But you’re safe now. You’re with us.”

“Safe?” Bruce repeats, his voice rising again. “If what you're saying is true, then I was the Hulk for years! What did I do? How many people—” He swallows, the fear in his voice unmistakable. He looks a bit like he might vomit again and Loki takes a few cautionary steps back from the splash zone just in case. 

Thor’s grip tightens slightly on Bruce’s shoulder. “Bruce, listen. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t hurt anyone here. You were… Well, you were a champion. The Grandmaster’s champion.”

Bruce stares at Thor blankly. “Champion? What does that even mean?”

Loki watches the exchange, his face unreadable, though his eyes flicker briefly with impatience. “It means you were forced to fight in an arena for the amusement of a deranged ruler,” Loki adds before Thor gets the opportunity to break the news somewhat lightly.

“Fight?” Bruce looks at Loki, his expression bordering on horror before turning back to Thor. “Thor, I thought you just said I didn’t hurt anyone here!” 

Thor quickly steps in again, cringling internally, shooting Loki a sidelong glare for not helping. “You didn’t, Bruce. Well, you did, but it wasn’t— Look, the point is, we’re getting out of here. We’re going to fix everything.”

Bruce lets out a shaky breath, his hands tugging anxiously at the robe’s belt. “Fix everything? How? What’s even happening?”

Loki, finally growing tired of the conversation, steps forward with a sharp look. “What’s happening is that we’re leaving Sakaar to deal with something far worse. We don’t have time for a lengthy explanation.”

Bruce stares at Loki, his eyes widening with confusion and disbelief. “Worse? What could possibly be worse than a gladiator pit on a planet I don’t even remember?”

Loki’s eyes darken, the humor draining from his face completely. “Hela,” he says simply. Bruce looks between Thor and Loki again, waiting for one of them to provide an explanation. Loki gestures to Thor in a way that clearly means ‘you take this one’. 

“She’s… She’s our sister,” Thor says, the weight of those words clear in his voice. “She’s taken over Asgard. And we need to stop her.”

Bruce’s jaw drops slightly. “Sister? Since when do you have a sister?”

Loki exhales sharply, his impatience clear. “There’s no time for that now. Suffice it to say, we did not know about her until recently but she’s back, and she’s more powerful than any of us. And we’re running out of time.”

Thor turns back to Bruce, trying to give him a comforting look. “The important thing is that you’re with us now. We’ll figure it out, together.”

Bruce stares at them both for a long moment, clearly overwhelmed. “I… I don’t even know where to start. This is… kind of a lot.”

Loki’s expression remains cold, but there’s a flicker of something else behind his eyes, something like pity, though he masks it quickly. “You don’t need to do anything,” he says, his voice clipped. “Just stay out of the way, and try not to turn green again. That’s all we ask.”

Thor shoots a warning glance at Loki, but his brother has already turned away, retreating to the far side of the room, his posture stiff, his expression distant. Thor watches him for a moment, worry gnawing at the back of his mind once again. 

Bruce looks at Thor, still confused but visibly calming down, even if only slightly. “So… what’s the plan?”

Thor tears his gaze away from Loki and turns back to Bruce with a determined look. “We gather our strength, leave Sakaar, and then we stop Hela.” He pauses, glancing toward Loki again. “Together.”

Bruce nods slowly, still trying to wrap his head around everything. “Right. Together.” 

Loki doesn’t say a word.

Thor straightens and opens his mouth to speak, hoping to bridge the sudden distance between him and Loki when the sound of a door creaking open interrupts him. His words falter, and he turns his attention toward the side of the room where a figure steps into the dim light. The tension in Thor’s shoulders immediately dissipates, and a wide, surprised grin spreads across his face as he sees her. 

“Sigyn!” Without hesitation, Thor strides forward, pulling Sigyn into a tight embrace. Relief washes over him, evident in every line of his body. He holds her tightly for a moment, as if her presence alone is enough to ease some of the weight on his heart. In the insanity of this, he’d forgotten to ask about her. 

Sigyn returns the embrace with equal warmth, her arms wrapping around him. “Thor! Thank the Norns, Loki found you,” she says with a smile as they pull back slightly, still holding onto each other.

Thor chuckles softly, shaking his head. “It’s so good to see you.”

“I didn’t know you were here.”

“Surprise,” He says, and Sigyn’s smile is bright as she beams at him. Her eyes drift toward the corner where Loki stands, arms folded, his posture closed off from the rest of them. The tension in his form is visible only to those who know how to look, and she frowns slightly, her brow knitting with concern.

Without another word, Sigyn gently steps out of Thor’s embrace and makes a beeline for Loki. Her footsteps are soft, but purposeful, and as she approaches him, her voice drops to a low murmur. “Loki,” she says softly, her eyes searching his. Loki doesn’t look at her at first, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the room, as if avoiding her would somehow protect him from inevitable conversation. But Sigyn stands there, unwavering, and eventually, Loki turns his head slightly, meeting her eyes.

The two begin a hushed conversation about something just as the sound of the front door swinging open breaks through the room. Ari bursts in, her face lighting up with excitement the moment she lays eyes on the gathered group. “Yay! Everyone’s here—” Ari’s cheerful voice suddenly halts as her gaze lands on Bruce, who is still sitting awkwardly in the green robe. Her excitement quickly shifts to suspicion, her eyes narrowing as she takes in his unfamiliar face. “Who the hell is that guy?”

Thor, still standing near Bruce, quickly jumps in, enthusiasm blurring explanation. “Ah, yes, this is Bruce! He’s, uh, the Hulk.” He gestures toward Bruce with a grin, as though the introduction should explain everything.

Ari cocks an eyebrow, her expression clearly still confused— but she supposes if she squints, she could see a resemblance. “...Okay?” She pauses, looking Bruce up and down with a doubtful glance. “He kinda feels familiar, I guess… But he’s so scrawny though.”

Bruce, still struggling to get comfortable in his robe, frowns. “Hey—”

Before Bruce can protest further, Ari’s attention snaps back to Thor, her excitement quickly returning as she nearly bounces on her heels. “Anyway!” She exclaims, “I got Val to agree! We can go with you. We can help you fight!”

Thor’s face brightens immediately, his own grin returning full force. “Marvelous news!” He says, clapping his hands together in genuine excitement. His gaze briefly flickers toward Valkyrie, who enters behind Ari, arms crossed and an amused smirk on her lips.

“She didn’t make it easy,” Val says dryly, giving Ari a sideways glance. “But yes, we’re in. You’ve got yourself some backup.”

Ari beams with pride, clearly thrilled by the decision, and Thor’s enthusiasm only grows. “With all of us together, we’ll have a fighting chance against Hela.”

Bruce, still processing everything, glances between Thor, Ari, and Val, before looking back at Loki. “So, we’re going to fight a goddess now?”

Loki, still standing in the corner with Sigyn by his side, watches the exchange quietly. His gaze finds Val and Ari, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his posture remains. Sigyn’s hand remains lightly on his arm, grounding him. 

As the others continue their conversation across the room, Sigyn stands beside Loki, her hand gently resting on his arm. She leans in close, her voice low as she whispers something that immediately catches Thor’s ear.

“You should tell him, love,” she whispers, her voice full of quiet encouragement as her eyes flick toward Thor.

Thor perks, turning his attention to the two of them. His head snaps up, his attention immediately diverted from the ongoing chatter. His eyes lock onto the couple standing in the corner. “What?” He asks, “Tell me what?”

Loki rolls his eyes, a mild look of annoyance crossing his face, though there’s a lightheartedness in it. “You would hear that,” he mutters before sighing. His hand drifts toward Sigyn, his thumb brushing against her hand for a brief moment as he turns to face Thor fully. Sigyn watches him with a patient smile, her hand still resting gently on his arm as a silent show of support.

“We…” Loki gestures between himself and Sigyn, “are having a baby.”

The room seems to still for a split second, and Thor’s eyes go wide, disbelief flashing across his face for a split second before it’s replaced with pure, overwhelming joy. “I’m an uncle?” He asks, his voice wavering with emotion as the words sink in. Without waiting for a response, he bounds forward in a few long strides, wrapping his arms around Loki and Sigyn, pulling them both into a tight, exuberant hug.

His massive form nearly lifts them off the ground as he crushes them into a tight, exuberant hug, relief and excitement radiating off of him. He would kill Loki for not telling him sooner— if it mattered and if he wasn’t so damn happy. “Norns, I’m an uncle! Congratulations, brother!”

Thor’s excitement is contagious, and it’s clear from the gleam in his eyes that he’s on the verge of tears. He pulls back slightly, his hands still resting on their shoulders as he beams at them both. His joy is palpable as he takes a step back to look at the two of them, but then a puzzled look crosses his face. His brows knit together, and the earlier excitement falters as confusion creeps into his voice, his eyes trained on Loki in particular. “Wait… You’re pregnant? How long have you been pregnant?” 

There’s a brief, awkward pause of stunned silence and Loki’s face immediately flushes crimson, his entire body stiffening. “What?” Loki sputters, completely flustered, composure leaving him for a brief moment. 

Thor blanches for a second before adding, quieter. “Who’s the father? Is it Sigyn? Please tell me that it’s Sigyn.” Sigyn presses her hand to her mouth, trying and utterly failing to stifle the sound of her laughter, her shoulders shaking with amusement. Val and Ari are in a similar position, though they do not extend Loki the same grace as Sigyn does attempting to hide her laughter, both of them laughing openly. From the background, Bruce’s voice echoes with pure confusion.

“Wait, what?”

“No!” Loki glares at Thor, cheeks reddening as he scrambles to explain. “Sigyn’s pregnant! Why would you assume it was me?” And so quickly?

Thor blinks, realization dawning slowly as what likely should have been obvious clicks. “Oh, right, right. Yes. Of course, Sigyn’s pregnant.” He clears his throat awkwardly, “ Sorry, brother.”

Bruce, looking even more bewildered now than he did when he first woke up, scratches at the back of his head. “Is that… an Aesir thing? Is that something you guys could… do?” His voice is full of genuine curiosity, though his expression is still incredulous.

Loki lets out a groan, running a hand over his face as if trying to hide from the absurdity of the situation. His embarrassment is palpable, and he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks as everyone’s attention stays firmly on him. “No!” He exclaims, but after a brief pause, he sighs heavily, glancing away. “Well… yes, but that’s not what’s happened here.” 

Bruce’s eyes widen further. “Wait, so it is possible?”

“I mean,” Sigyn interjects playfully, her voice teasing as she casts Loki a glance, “I wouldn’t be entirely opposed to trying.”

The look of sheer mortification on Loki’s face is instantaneous. His normally pale skin turns an even deeper shade of red, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and embarrassment. He opens his mouth to protest, but the words catch in his throat as Sigyn’s laughter rings out again, her hand now covering her mouth as he gawks openly at her, mouth agape. “Sigyn!” 

Across the room, Valkyrie lets out a sharp laugh, Ari’s wide grin stretching from ear to ear. “This is amazing,” she mutters under her breath, nudging Val with her elbow. Bruce sighs loudly, shaking his head. 

“I feel like I’ve woken up in the middle of someone else’s really weird dream.”

Thor, still smiling broadly, claps Bruce on the back. “Welcome to the family, my friend,” he says, barely suppressing a laugh himself. “It’s never boring around here.”

“Well,” Loki mutters under his breath, trying to ignore the crawling sensation of his skin, “this is going spectacularly.” Sigyn notices the tension in his shoulders and suddenly, her amusement leaves as quickly as it came. 

“Love—”

“Alright, alright,” Valkyrie cuts in, her voice slicing through the lingering amusement in the room. She smirks at Loki, then shakes her head, her tone all business. “Lackey’s situation aside, we really don’t have the luxury of time here. Are we getting out of this place, or what?”

Her words bring everyone back to the reality of their situation, the gravity of it settling in. All eyes shift to Loki, and the atmosphere in the room shifts from one of laughter to tense anticipation.

Loki rights himself, grateful for the shift in focus away from the more personal— and mortifying— conversation. His expression turns serious, the strategist in him taking over. “Alright,” Loki says, “The Grandmaster’s hangar has ships that authorized scrappers use every day to traverse the realm. We can use one of those to escape.”

Ari tilts her head, her brows knitting together. “Aren’t those ships password protected and guarded?”

Loki’s lips tighten slightly, but he nods. “Yes, they are,” he admits. “We will have to sneak our way to the main entrance and fight our way through if necessary. But I’ve obtained the necessary access codes for entry.”

A flicker of something dark passes through his eyes, barely perceptible, but Sigyn, standing closest to him, notices. She places a hand on his arm in silent support, but Loki doesn’t acknowledge it. He doesn’t need to. The others don’t know what it took for him to get those codes, but the memory still lingers, unwanted and cold. Loki suppresses a shudder at the thought of the Grandmaster’s hands, his insistent gaze, and the price that came with his survival on this planet.

“We will have to move quickly,” Loki continues, his voice slightly lower now, the emotion reined in. “If the Grandmaster gets any inkling of our plan, we may as well dig a collective grave.”

Valkyrie nods, her expression grim. “So it’s now or never.” 

Thor steps forward, his face set in that determined, stubborn expression that Loki has come to hate just as much as he loves. “We’ve faced worse odds before. We’ll make it through.”

Bruce, still sitting in his borrowed robe, looks between the group, wide-eyed and clearly not thrilled at the prospect of sneaking and fighting their way through an enemy stronghold. “I’m, uh… not really sure how much use I’ll be in all this. Not unless the big guy decides to make an appearance, and honestly, I’m kinda hoping he doesn’t.” He isn’t even certain how much chance there would be of coming back if he became the Hulk again. 

“You’ll do just fine,” Thor reassures him, clapping Bruce on the back with enough force to make him wince. “Besides, we’ve got Loki’s plan. What could go wrong?”

Loki gives his brother a sideways glance, arching an eyebrow. “I’d prefer if you didn’t tempt fate quite so blatantly.”

Val chuckles. “Alright then, let’s gear up. We’ve got a mad escape to plan.” She turns to Ari. “Make sure you’re ready. No messing around.”

Ari grins, clearly eager for the adventure. “Oh, I’m more than ready.”

Sigyn squeezes Loki’s arm gently, her eyes searching his face. “You’re sure about this?” She asks softly, her voice filled with concern. “Are you ready?”

Loki meets her gaze for a moment, the walls behind his eyes wavering for her before they settle. “As I’ll ever be,” he says quietly but firmly. “It’s our only chance.” He knows he won’t survive much longer on this planet; not with his sanity intact. 

Loki takes a deep breath, his mind already racing through the details of the plan. It’s time to leave Sakaar behind. And the sooner, the better.

There really is no turning back now. 

Chapter Text

In the dead of night, they make their move.

Loki and Valkyrie lead the group silently through the winding streets of Sakaar, sticking to the abandoned alleyways and crumbling buildings that provide just enough cover to keep them from prying eyes. The neon glow of the city still pulses behind them, casting strange, otherworldly hues on their faces as they navigate through the scrapping grounds. The deeper they go, the more distant the chaos seems, but Loki’s mind remains sharp, constantly scanning for any sign of danger.

Each step is precise, each movement calculated. They can’t afford mistakes, not here. Not now.

Val had stood before them in the dimly lit sitting room of her home, her expression serious as she laid something down on the table with the utmost care. There was an unmistakable care with which she unwrapped the object, revealing the gleam of an ancient weapon, its blade catching the dim pouring in through the windows. It was a weapon that held history. A weapon even Loki, a god who cared little for relics, recognized instantly.

Thor had taken a step forward, his eyes wide as he craned his neck to look, a childlike awe filling his voice. “Is that… a Dragonfang?”

Val hadn’t looked up, sharpening the blade as she responded. “It is.”

A grin spread across Thor’s face, the boyish excitement in his eyes impossible to hide. “Norns.” He turned to Bruce with an almost giddy expression, looking every bit like an excited child. “This is the famed sword of the Valkyrie.”

Bruce, awkwardly standing by the window, nodded along as he still tried to absorb all of the insanity that had become his life. Val had finally spoken after that, still working the blade with mechanical precision. “Sakaar and Asgard are about as far apart as any two known systems. Our best bet is a wormhole just outside the city limits.”

Thor turned to look out the window, his eyes landing on the largest of the swirling vortexes above the city. It was a maelstrom of energy, twisting violently in the sky. “Nope,” he said, pointing with a grin. “We’re going through that one.” Loki recognized which one Thor was referring to without even having to peer out the window to see. 

Valkyrie’s head snapped up, following his gaze before deadpanning, “The Devil’s Anus?”

Bruce had gone pale almost instantly. “Wait, whose anus are we going through?”

Thor crossed his arms, shrugging. “For the record, I didn’t know it was called that when I picked it.”

Bruce’s eyes widened, and he stared at the swirling vortex outside with disbelief. “That looks like a collapsing neutron star inside of an Einstein-Rosen Bridge. That’s… that’s insane.”

Val sighed, sheathing her sword with a swift movement. “We need a really fucking sturdy ship for that. That wormhole would tear us to pieces otherwise.” She had taken a long swig from a half-drunk bottle of liquor before setting it down with a heavy clank. "Sure hope you know what you're doing, Lackey."

Loki bristled slightly at the title. “It’s Loki,” he’d corrected sharply, “and I do.” With a calculating expression, he stepped forward. “We’ll also need a distraction,” he had said, his tone smooth and confident. “Some good chaos to cover our heads.”

Thor eyed him warily. “What are you planning, brother?”

Loki offered nothing more than a cryptic hum before vanishing in a shimmer of green light, leaving the room in silence. Sigyn had frowned, her concern deepening with each passing moment. Thor’s brow had furrowed, his confusion turning to frustration. What in the Nine is he doing?

Several long, tense minutes had passed before Loki had returned, reappearing with a gun in his hand. He had tossed it to Thor, who barely caught it in time. “Problem solved,” Loki said with a slight smile. Sigyn immediately stepped to his side, lightly scolding him for disappearing without warning, but her reprimand had been gentle. Loki had kissed her forehead in a silent gesture of penance.

Thor had stared at the massive weapon in his hands, inspecting it with a critical eye as he turned it over. “What did you-”

“I started a revolution,” Loki had interrupted casually.

As they slip through the dark streets of Sakaar, the distant sounds of chaos begin to rumble in the background. Blaster fire, clanging metal, and the unmistakable shouts of armed prisoners rise up against the Grandmaster’s forces. 

Loki motions for everyone to halt, his hand outstretched. He turns to the front of the group, his eyes narrowing as he peers ahead. The air is thick with tension and the air around them seems to hold its breath. “I can use my magic to cloak us all,” he says quietly, his voice hushed yet urgent as he addresses the others. “It will be temporary- six of us will take a lot of concentration, but I should be able to hold us long enough to get us close to the hangar.”

Before he can continue, Sigyn steps forward, her eyes sharp. “Let me help,” she insists, her voice firm.

Loki turns to her immediately, his face hardening. “Absolutely not,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You don’t need any magical strain on your body right now.” She’s been in enough stress over the last few weeks as it is, and the fact that she is beginning to show- however minuscule it is- is not helping his protectiveness. It makes it all so much more real and if something happened to her…  

Sigyn rolls her eyes, undeterred. “Loki, we are about to fight the Goddess of Death,” she counters and from the back, Bruce’s panicked voice cuts in, somewhere between a shout and a whisper.

“Goddess of what?”

Sigyn ignores him, stepping closer to Loki, taking his hand into hers. “I’m about to be under strain anyway,” she continues, her eyes softening as they meet his. “Let me take some of the burden.”

Loki’s jaw tightens, his gaze flicking to her stomach for the briefest of moments before meeting her eyes again. His voice softens, but the resolve remains. “…Do not push yourself. Cloak yourself and the child.”

“I am not a child!” Ari interjects from behind, her arms crossed and her face set in a pout that only serves to prove Loki’s point. He rolls his eyes not bothering to mask the look of exasperation crossing his face.

“I will take care of the rest.”

Sigyn stares at him for a moment, and he can see clearly in her eyes that she wants to argue that she should be able to take on more, but she relents with a small nod. She knows that they do not have the time to fight over this if they are going to get out of here. “Fine,” she says softly, her hand brushing briefly against his arm before she steps back to begin cloaking herself.

Loki raises his hands, his magic a soft green at his fingertips to match Sigyn’s gold as he murmurs the spell under his breath. A faint shimmer of green light envelops the rest of the group, fading into invisibility as it settles over them like a protective veil. Sigyn and Ari follow suit, vanishing elegantly. They can all still see each other, visible only to one another. “Stay close,” Loki says, his voice low and commanding. “Move quickly.”

They move through the streets in near silence, cloaked from view. The sounds of chaos and rebellion continue to build around them as they approach the hangar, the flashes of fire and explosions lighting up the night sky in the distance. Loki leads the way, his eyes scanning every shadow, every movement. Thor moves beside him, glancing occasionally at his brother with a conflicting mix of pride and concern. It has been so long since he had seen this side of Loki; the cunning, resourceful strategist, planning, saving them on quests countless times. But there’s something different now. Something weighed down by everything he had endured on Sakaar, and Thor can feel the heaviness that clings to his brother like a shroud. 

As they near the hangar, the noise grows louder, more chaotic. Loki raises a hand again, signaling for them to stop. He turns to the group, his eyes narrowed. “We’re close. Once we’re inside, the codes will give us access to one of the ships, but we must be quick. If the Grandmaster realizes what we’re doing before we get off this planet…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Valkyrie interjects, her hand gripping her sword. “Collective grave. Got it. Let’s move.”

Loki nods. “On my mark.”

Thor shifts beside him, still fumbling slightly with the strange gun Loki had handed him earlier. He glances at it with confusion, muttering under his breath. “You couldn’t have found me a hammer?”

“Mjolnir is not exactly easily replicable, Thor.” Loki doesn’t spare him a glance. “Please try not to shoot us.”

Valkyrie snickers softly, gripping the hilt of her Dragonfang tightly as she eyes the approaching guards with the cold precision of a seasoned warrior. “Let’s hope we don’t have to use that thing,” she mutters. Sigyn stays close to Loki, her face drawn in concentration as she maintains her cloaking spell over herself, and Ari. The demand of the magic strains her, but she presses on without complaint. Ari, eager but cautious, follows closely, her claws unsheathed. 

Bruce lingers at the back, nervously scanning their surroundings as he flanks the group, the tension working through every muscle in his body. “This… feels like a really bad idea,” he whispers.

“We’ve survived worse,” Thor replies, though his confidence wavers as his fingers tighten around the gun.

Loki motions for them to follow, leading them into the final stretch of alleyways that opens up to the hangar entrance. The doors loom ahead, heavily guarded, but they’ve come too far to turn back now. The six of them slip into the hangar like shadows, cloaked by Loki’s magic, moving with the eerie silence of seasoned predators. The chaos from the rebellion outside reverberates through the metal walls of the hangar, but inside, it’s a different kind of chaos. The blaring of alarms echoes off the high ceilings, a warning that their time is running out. Loki feels the pressure mounting as they navigate the narrow corridors, his heart hammering in his chest with every step. Invisibility gives them the upper hand, but it’s still a race against time.

Loki leads the way, his eyes sharp, calculating as he scans for any guard or sentry that could compromise their escape. Each time they encounter any units, the group works in swift, brutal unison. Valkyrie is ruthless, her sword slicing through the air with precision as guards fall before they even have time to register what’s happening. Thor moves with a restrained force, knocking out those in their way without making too much noise, opting not to use the gun, his strength measured but undeniable. Ari follows close behind Valkyrie, her movements sharp and determined as she takes down any straggling soldiers with a quiet efficiency. Bruce, meanwhile, sticks close to Thor, visibly anxious but doing his best to remain quiet, trusting the others to handle the more violent aspects of the mission. Sigyn, keeping herself and Ari, stays close to Loki, golden eyes scanning their surroundings. Loki moves with practiced ease, but his mind is racing, his pulse quickening. The Grandmaster should be preoccupied with the uprising- the revolution he had set into motion. The chaos erupting in the arena should be buying them time, but Loki knows how slippery the man is. He knows there’s only so long before the Grandmaster realizes what’s really going on.

With a sharp intake of breath, Loki reaches the main access terminal at the heart of the hangar. His fingers move quickly over the panel, punching in the access codes he’d acquired. As he works, the blaring alarms intensify, and Loki’s heart clenches with the growing urgency. Each second feels like a lifetime. Every beep of the keypad reverberates in his ears, a countdown to disaster. “Loki, hurry up,” Valkyrie mutters under her breath, her eyes watching the doors at the far end of the hangar. Guards are beginning to converge, the alert reaching the inner security. The sounds of heavy boots and comm chatter filter through the din of the alarms.

“I’m aware,” Loki hisses back, his tone sharp but controlled. He glances at the codes on the panel, his brow furrowing. Just a few more digits…

A guard turns the corner ahead of them, his eyes sweeping the room in search of intruders, completely unaware of the invisible threat lurking just ahead. His hand hovers near his radio, ready to call for backup, but before he can reach it, Thor raises the strange gun Loki had tossed to him earlier. With a loud whirring sound, a blast of energy erupts from the barrel, hitting the guard squarely in the head. The guard’s head explodes in a shower of gore, chunks of flesh and bone splattering across the walls. The body crumples to the ground, lifeless.

For a second, no one moves.

Valkyrie, Sigyn, Bruce, and Ari all take an instinctive step back from Thor, their expressions all pulled in varying degrees of shock. Even Loki, who’s busy working the console at the hangar’s entrance, pauses for a split second, casting a sideways glance at Thor.

Thor, staring at the gun in his hand, breaking the silence as he nods down at it. “Found the trigger,” he announces sheepishly.

Sigyn snorts softly as she reaches for Thor’s arm, shaking her head but smiling slightly. “Just… be careful with that thing.”

Loki presses the final button on the console, and the hangar door to their escape ship whirs to life with a low mechanical groan. The massive vessel inside flickers under the dim lighting, sleek and battle-worn, but more than capable of handling the strain of the wormhole. “It’s open. We need to move,” Loki says, his voice tight with the effort of maintaining the cloak. The strain of covering four people is beginning to wear on him, he can feel the edges of the spell fraying, and a dull ache has begun to settle at the base of his skull. It’s been far too long since he’s dared to use his magic for the fear of the Grandmaster cutting him off from it again. He feels far more out of practice with it than he should. 

As they make a dash for the ship, the hangar begins crawling with more guards- more than expected. Loki’s cloak falters for a brief second, a shimmer of light catching a guard’s eye. “There!” The guard shouts, raising his weapon. Thor moves in front of Loki, acting as a shield as he raises his gun again, but whatever he had tried the last time he fired the weapon, it isn’t working. There’s a brief look of panic on his face before he swears under his breath, giving up on trying and hurling the gun at one of the guards. It hits its mark with shocking precision, knocking him out cold. “Go! Now!” Thor yells, as they break into a full sprint toward the ship. Thor retrieves the weapon on the way, holding it awkwardly as they run.

Loki grits his teeth, his magic faltering as the strain intensifies. Sigyn, running beside him, glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “Loki, you’re pushing too hard.”

“I’m fine,” Loki says through clenched teeth, though his pallor is telling a different story. The alarm reaches a deafening pitch as more guards pour into the hangar, blasters at the ready. Val and Thor move like the seasoned warriors they are, cutting down anyone who gets too close with deadly efficiency. Valkyrie is a whirlwind of steel and precision, her Dragonfang slicing through the air in smooth, practiced arcs. Each movement is calculated, each strike deadly. She doesn’t waste energy; her sword cuts through armor and flesh as if they were paper, and she never stops moving, her agility giving her the upper hand against the guards swarming toward them. 

Thor, on the other hand, has given up on finesse entirely. He seems to have accepted the fact that firing the gun is more trouble than it’s worth. Instead, he’s chosen to use it as a blunt instrument, swinging it like a club with brute force. Every strike he lands sends guards flying across the hangar, their armor denting under the sheer power of Thor’s strikes. His movements are heavy, reckless, but undeniably effective as he barrels through the enemies that charge at him, knocking them out of his path. At least this is working.

Ari moves like a feline, darting between Valkyrie and Thor, quick and nimble, slipping through the chaos with unnatural speed. Her eyes are wide with determination, her small frame almost disappearing between the legs of the larger guards. She fights with a wild, animalistic grace, her claws and fangs bared. She targets achilles tendons even through the thick, armored boots, sending guards collapsing. She leaps onto one of the guards, sinking her sharp claws into his throat, tearing through flesh with a terrifying ferocity. Her small, unassuming frame makes her quicker, and she fights with a precision that matches her mentor.

Bruce, on the other hand, stumbles behind Thor, trying desperately to keep up. His breath comes in heavy gasps, and his eyes are wide with panic as he watches the battle unfold around him. He can feel the Hulk stirring inside him, but for some reason, he can’t seem to trigger the transformation. “This is bad. This is really bad,” Bruce mutters, stumbling as a blaster bolt whizzes past his head. He ducks instinctively, his heart pounding in his chest, but no matter how much he tries to summon the Hulk, it won’t happen. He’s stuck in his human form, vulnerable and terrified, clinging to the faint hope that his companions can keep him alive. Now is not a pleasant time to be a mortal surrounded by Gods.

Amid the chaos, Loki remains at the back, his focus split between maintaining the cloak and keeping an eye on Sigyn. His magic flickers and fades around them, the strain of protecting so many finally taking its toll. When they reach the ramp to the ship, a squad of guards opens fire, and Loki has no choice but to drop the illusion entirely. The cloak vanishes, leaving them exposed as blaster shots echo through the hangar, lighting up the dim space with bolts of energy.

With a fluid movement, like that of a trained dancer, Loki summons two of his daggers in an instant, spinning on his heel to face the incoming fire. His movements are effortless, his body flowing like water as he dodges blaster bolts and slices through the air. Each step is precise, each strike deliberate. His blades flash in the low light, cutting through the guards’ throats with ease. As the shots come faster, Loki raises his hand, summoning a shimmering shield of green energy that forms a protective barrier around himself and Sigyn. The shield absorbs the brunt of the blaster fire, but the force of the hits sends him staggering back, his knees buckling under the strain. The shield holds, but only barely.

Sigyn fights beside him, her hands glowing with vibrant golden energy as she scatters seeds, summoning vines and roots from the ground beneath their feet, breaking through the floor of the hangar. Her plant magic is precise, elegant in its control. Vines snake out of the cracks in the hangar floor, wrapping around the ankles of guards, yanking them off their feet with brutal force, leaving Ari to finish them off. She flicks her wrist, and poisonous thorns emerge from the branches, lashing out and tearing through armor and disarming the enemies around her. Even as the fight rages on, her first concern is protecting the life she carries inside her. She moves with unwavering focus, and she can tell that their window is closing. “Loki, we’re running out of time!” Sigyn calls, her voice urgent as she deflects a blaster shot with a thick vine. The plant turns to ash upon impact. 

“I’m aware!” Loki shouts back, his voice strained as he deflects another shot with his daggers. His shield falters for a moment, flickering under the intensity of the assault, but he grits his teeth and reinforces it, sweat dripping down the side of his face. He’s holding the line, but it won’t last much longer.

Thor, still swinging the gun like a club, glances back at his brother and Sigyn, worry clear on his face. “Loki, get on the ship! We’ll cover you!”

Loki grunts, spinning out of the way of another blaster shot. “We all need to get on the ship, Thor!”

Valkyrie slices through another guard, her movements as fluid as Loki’s but with the power of a warrior, however out of practice she is. “Then move, damn it!”

Bruce, still ducking behind Thor, flinches as another blaster bolt strikes the ground near him. “I really don’t like this plan!”

Loki deflects another shot, his magic flickering dangerously. “Neither do I,” he mutters, his voice barely audible, before nodding toward the ship. “Get inside!” Thor, Valkyrie, and Ari push forward, clearing a path through the guards with brute force and deadly precision. Loki stands his ground, his shield shimmering around him and Sigyn, the strain of holding it becoming painfully clear. “We need to leave, now!” Loki shouts again, urgency lacing his voice as he ushers Sigyn toward the ramp of the ship. The hangar door begins to groan open, revealing the sleek, powerful ship that waits inside. He gestures for everyone to head toward the ramp. “Go, quickly-”

But before anyone can reach the inside of the ship, something happens.

Loki watches in horror as, one by one, everyone collapses to the floor, writhing in agony. Thor, Bruce, Valkyrie, Ari, Sigyn - all of them drop like rag dolls, their bodies convulsing and spasming bodily. The sound of blaster fire, which had been ringing out moments before, abruptly ceases, leaving only the terrible sight of his friends suffering on the ground. Bruce’s face begins to turn green, veiny with the effort of trying to force a shift. Loki freezes as he watches, his heart plummeting into his stomach. He scans the room, but from what he can see, none of them had been hit by a single shot. 

“Well,” a voice drawls from behind him, smooth and languid, but with an undercurrent of something dark. Loki’s blood runs cold, his entire body stiffening as that familiar voice echoes through the hangar. No. No, no, no... “This is just… the very definition of disappointment.”

Loki slowly turns, his heart thudding painfully against his ribcage as he meets the eyes of the Grandmaster, who stands at the entrance of the hangar with an almost casual stance. His tone deceptively light, but Loki catches the flicker of something dark beneath it. He knows that tone. He knows that smile. And he knows what follows it. His stomach twists into knots as icy fear creeps through him.

“I barely see you for days,” the Grandmaster continues, his voice taking on a lilting, disappointed tone. “You ignore my invitations to my parties- which, I might add, is incredibly rude. My things start going missing, and then my prisoners are suddenly… armed. And now I find you, sneaking around, stealing from me?” He lets out a sigh, shaking his head. “The list goes on.” Loki’s throat constricts, a pit yawning open inside of him. He can feel himself trembling slightly, and he curses his body for betraying him in front of this monster. Is he shaking? Norns, don’t let me be shaking.

“Grandmaster-”

“Ah, ah,” the Grandmaster interrupts, wagging a finger, his smile widening as he steps closer. “I don’t think you’ll be sweet-talking your way out of this one, Lo-Lo.” His voice darkens, the playful mask slipping, revealing something far more dangerous lurking beneath the surface. “I’m just- Oh, I’m just not in the mood today.”

Panic claws at Loki’s chest. His magic is slipping, his strength faltering. His mind scrambles for a way out as he glances down at the others behind him, all of them still twitching in agony, their bodies wracked with pain. If he can’t protect them now… “Please,” Loki’s voice is urgent, desperate. He hates how it sounds, how weak he feels. He’s running out of options, out of time. If he makes one wrong move, if the Grandmaster’s patience runs out, they’re all as good as dead.

“I think it’s a bit late for ‘please,’ don’t you?” the Grandmaster purrs, his smile widening as he steps forward, his gaze fixed on Loki like a predator eyeing prey. He reaches out and grabs Loki by the jaw, sharp, claw-like nails digging painfully into Loki’s skin. He’s face to face with the Grandmaster now, those empty black eyes boring into him like twin voids. The Grandmaster’s voice takes on a distorted, unnatural tone as he speaks, his words wrapping around Loki like a vice. Loki’s vision wavers as he dares to meet the Grandmaster’s gaze. His eyes are those terrifying dark pits again, voids of bottomless darkness that seem to swallow everything around them. He can’t breathe, can’t think. “I don’t like being lied to, Loki,” he says, his grip tightening as his nails dig deeper into Loki’s jaw. The absence of one of those cloying nicknames makes Loki’s skin crawl more than he ever thought it would. 

He’s running out of time.

Loki’s mind races, his heart thudding in his ears as the Grandmaster’s grip tightens on his face. He has to think of something- and fast. “You like games, don’t you?” he says, his voice strained but steady, though his hands are trembling. “How would you like to play one now?” His best bet- his only shot now- is to make this entertaining. 

The Grandmaster pauses, intrigued. His grip loosens slightly, and a spark of amusement flickers in those terrifying eyes. “Oh, I’m listening,” he says, waving his hand.

Behind Loki, the five collapsed figures gasp as the agony finally releases them. The spasms stop, but they remain motionless on the ground, too weak to rise. Loki swallows hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. He’s gambling everything. “We win, we all go home,” he proposes, his voice thin. “You win…” He feels nauseous just thinking about it, but it’s all he has to bargain with. His body has gotten him this far. It isn’t as though he has much to offer otherwise. “You win, I stay. I stay, and you can have whatever you want.”

The Grandmaster’s smile grows wider, and there’s a cruel gleam in his eyes as he traces a line down Loki’s throat. “Isn’t that always the case, sweet thing?” He asks, leaning closer. Loki can smell the sickly sweet scent of spices that constantly follows him, along with something else. Something cloying, decadent, but repulsive all the same.

“It would be different.” Loki takes a shaky breath. “I will never defy or fight you again.”

The Grandmaster’s eyes gleam with sadistic delight. “Oh,” he breathes, his voice low and pleased. “I like that.” He chuckles softly, his breath hot against Loki’s ear. “And you know I love games.” The implication that he may be considering it gives Loki something to hold onto. He has to keep him interested. He has to make this work.  

“Bind it,” Loki says, forcing the words out even though his throat feels like it’s closing. “A… A cosmic bind.” His voice is shaky, but he needs this agreement to be more than a promise. It’s dangerous to enter into an agreement like that, bound by cosmic power with this man, this creature, whatever he is, but Loki has no other choice. Without the bind, this deal will mean nothing. 

The Grandmaster’s smile falters for a moment, and for a second, Loki thinks he’s made a mistake. Anger flashes across the Grandmaster’s face, a spark of pure, unmistakable rage - but then the smile returns, wider than ever. “Oh, you’ve always had a brain in that pretty head of yours, haven’t you?” He chuckles darkly, looking at Loki through half-lidded eyes. “Alright, then.” ​​The Grandmaster’s hand slides to the small of Loki’s back, pulling him closer, their bodies pressed together. He leans in, his lips brushing against Loki’s ear. “But, uh…” His voice drops to a near whisper, “I’m only going to seal this one way, sweet thing.” Loki’s blood turns to ice. He knows what the Grandmaster wants. He doesn’t have to think. He only ever wants one thing. 

For a brief, heart-wrenching moment, all Loki can hear are the ragged breaths of his companions behind him. Of Sigyn.

Without another word, Loki grabs the Grandmaster by the back of the head and pulls him forward, slamming their lips together in a kiss that makes Loki want to crawl out of his skin. He opens his mouth, allowing the Grandmaster to slide his tongue inside, tasting him. Loki hisses in pain as the Grandmaster bites into his bottom lip, his teeth feeling much sharper than they have any right to be. The metallic taste of blood mixes with the vile sweetness of the Grandmaster’s breath. The world around them seems to spin out of control.

When Loki is finally allowed to pull away, he feels the immediate drain, the heavy drag of his limbs as darkness begins to cloud his vision. The Grandmaster’s fingers linger on his skin, guiding his body down. Loki’s legs give out beneath him, and he slumps to the floor, his breathing ragged, the world fading into shadow as black spots swim in his vision. The Grandmaster kneels beside him, gently stroking his hair with sickening affection. “Oh, don’t look so frightened, sweetheart,” he coos, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “This will be fun. ”

Loki’s vision dims completely, the last thing he sees is the Grandmaster’s grin hovering above him before the darkness swallows him whole.

Norns, help them all.

Loki’s eyes flutter open, his senses slowly coming back to him as disorientation pulses through his body. Every muscle aches as though he’s been physically torn apart and sewn back together incorrectly. As he blinks against the fog clouding his mind, he realizes he’s lying on an opulent, plush couch, one disturbingly similar to the ones he’d seen in the Grandmaster’s arena booths. His heart sinks as the details of the room around him come into focus. Lavish gold trimmings adorn the walls, and strange, exotic artifacts are scattered across the room- each item glinting under the soft light as though they were treasures taken from across universes. Everything reeks of wealth, power, and control. It’s a place Loki has never seen before, and yet, there’s something familiar and horrifyingly unsettling about it. His head spins as he sits upright, his hand instinctively reaching out to summon a dagger- but there’s nothing. His magic is gone. Of course it is. His magic never works properly in the Grandmaster’s presence or without his permission.

The room is still. Eerily silent.

A large screen dominates the wall in front of him, currently blank and dark, reflecting his own bewildered and increasingly panicked expression. The cold pit in his stomach grows as he tries to piece together how he got here, why he’s alone, and more importantly, where the others are.

Before Loki can fully gather his thoughts, a voice cuts through the silence- cheerful and jarring in its brightness.

“There he is!”

Loki flinches, recoiling as his body tenses. His hand jerks up again, trying to summon any form of defense, but it’s useless. His magic doesn’t respond, leaving him vulnerable. His head snaps toward the source of the voice, and there, sitting unnervingly close to him, is the Grandmaster. The man had seemingly materialized out of nowhere, perched beside him on the couch with that same wide, unsettling grin stretched across his face. His eyes gleam brightly, and Loki already knows that nothing good can possibly come after that look. “What-What is this?” Loki croaks, his voice betraying the panic tightening in his chest. He hates the way it sounds, weak and frightened. But at this moment, it’s hard to maintain the mask of control. His head is still spinning, and the world around him feels distorted.

“Oh, nothing, sweetheart. Nothing to worry your pretty little head about,” the Grandmaster replies, “Just showing you the game!” The Grandmaster’s tone is almost playful, but it sends a cold shiver down Loki’s spine. There’s something darker at play here,  and Loki can feel it like a noose tightening around his neck. With a theatrical flourish, the Grandmaster gestures toward the large screen in front of them. It hums to life with a soft click, and the black void on the screen flickers, replaced by four separate images, each displayed in its own frame, like windows into four separate nightmares.

Loki’s breath catches in his throat.

The first screen shows Sigyn. She’s seated on a raised platform, her posture tense, her hands protectively cradling her stomach. Beside her are two empty cages, suspended ominously above the ground. The space around her is sterile and quiet, but the atmosphere is thick with dread. The second screen displays Thor, standing in the middle of what looks like a small, desolate village. He’s glancing around in confusion, his muscles coiled as though waiting for an attack. The village is eerily quiet, abandoned, with no sign of life other than Thor. The emptiness feels like a trap waiting to spring. On the third screen, Valkyrie and Ari are together, but they’re shrouded in darkness. Loki can barely even make out their figures, much less their surroundings. Ari’s eyes are wide with fear, while Valkyrie stands ready, her body tense and alert, searching for an unseen enemy. And then there’s Bruce. The final screen shows him in the arena, dressed in the gladiator armor of Sakaar. He’s standing alone, his face pale with terror as he looks around in panic. The roars of a crowd echo faintly, though no crowd is visible on the screen. Bruce looks vulnerable, scared, and painfully mortal.

Loki’s stomach drops, nausea rising in his throat as he stares at the images, his mind struggling to comprehend the horror unfolding in front of him. He swallows hard, forcing himself to speak. “What is this?” Loki’s voice is thin, trembling with barely controlled panic. “What have you done?” The Grandmaster chuckles, reaching out to pinch Loki’s cheek. Loki jerks his head away, but the Grandmaster only chuckles, clearly amused by his discomfort. As always.

“Isn’t he adorable? ‘What have you done’,” he says, mocking, and the imitation he does of Loki’s voice- so perfectly accurate- makes Loki feel bile rising in his throat. “Why, Lo-Lo! I’m playing our game!” He’s still beaming with that grotesque smile, as he claps his hands together in delight. “I gotta say, I’m quite proud of these ones. Took some extra creativity to really craft something special for each of your friends. A, ah, tailored experience, you know. I really stepped up my game here.” Loki’s jaw clenches, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The cold, pitiless amusement in the Grandmaster’s eyes makes him feel ill. “Sweetheart,” the Grandmaster coos, tilting his head as he watches Loki with feigned concern, “If you’re going to be sick, please let me know. I just hate a mess.” His voice takes on a mocking lilt, and he pouts when Loki doesn’t respond. “Come on, honeybunch! We’ve got all the pieces on the board now. All you have to do is sit back and watch.”

Loki’s stomach twists and The Grandmaster leans in closer, his voice dropping lower. “The rules are simple, really. Each of them has their own little test. A challenge. If they win, well…” He grins, gesturing dismissively, “they survive. I give you a ship. Bells and whistles and all that. And you get to leave, just like we agreed. Though I- Really, I’m a tad bit offended that you want to leave me.” His tone becomes softer, mockingly hurt. “I mean, I’m not one to hold a grudge, but you’ve been terribly disrespectful lately, don’t you think?” Loki’s fists tighten further, his knuckles whitening as he grits his teeth. The air feels thick, choking, as the Grandmaster taps a finger against the screen in front of them. The images flicker slightly, but they all remain frozen on their respective tests. “I think a bit of punishment was in order,” the Grandmaster adds, his voice so grotesquely casual.

Loki grits his teeth, his fists clenching at his sides as he fights to maintain his composure. “You bastard…” he breathes, his voice low and venomous, but the word feels empty. Powerless. Pathetic.

“Oh, come now, no need for name-calling! We’re having fun, remember?” The Grandmaster’s tone is light, playful. He moves closer to the screen, tapping the image of Sigyn. “And you didn’t tell me your little friend was pregnant! No wonder you were so protective.” 

Loki’s heart skips a beat, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he looks from Sigyn’s image on the screen to the Grandmaster. “If you hurt her-”

The Grandmaster waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Lo-Lo. I’m not going to hurt her. At least, not unless you give me a reason to.” He turns his gaze back to Loki, his smile widening. “The rules of the game are simple. They’ll each have a chance to get out alive if they play by the rules.” He winks. “It’s all in good fun, right?” Loki’s hands tremble, his nails digging into his palms so hard that he’s sure he’ll draw blood soon, if he hasn’t already. The sharp sting is the only thing grounding him as the horror of his situation becomes clearer with each passing second. He’s trapped, forced to sit and watch this twisted spectacle unfold in front of him, utterly powerless to stop it. His stomach churns with nausea as he stares at the screens, the images of Sigyn, Thor, Valkyrie, Ari, and Bruce locked in their separate nightmares. Each of them vulnerable, each of them caught in a game designed specifically to break them. And he already knows how creative the Grandmaster can be. 

“You see,” the Grandmaster purrs, leaning in so close that Loki can feel his breath on his neck, “I told you I wasn’t in the mood for sweet-talking.” His voice is low, dark, every ounce of amusement gone, replaced by something far worse. “You made a deal, and this is how we play it out. You each have to win your games, all of you. And if you win? You go free.” His grin twists into something feral, eyes gleaming with malevolent glee. “I win?” He tilts his head, leaning in so that his lips are almost brushing Loki's ear. “Well... I think you already know what happens then.”

A hollow, cold emptiness settles in Loki’s chest as he finally gathers the strength to ask, his voice barely more than a whisper. “And what…” He pauses, the words catching in his throat before he forces them out. “What is my game?”

“Your game?” The Grandmaster blinks at him, looking confused for a brief moment, his smile faltering before he shakes his head. “Oh, no, no, no. You’re much too smart for that sort of thing, doll-face.” Loki’s heart stutters.

No game?

“Ah.” He says, because he doesn’t know what else he could say. The thought sends a wave of realization through him. This isn’t a competition where he can fight back, where he can use his intellect or cunning to gain an upper hand. He isn’t a participant. He’s a spectator. Powerless.

The Grandmaster’s grin returns, wider than ever as he watches the comprehension dawn on Loki’s face. “You just have to sit back and relax,” the Grandmaster says, his tone filled with sick amusement. “Enjoy the show! There’s nothing you have to do except watch.”

Loki’s throat tightens, his pulse roaring in his ears. “Just... watch?” The words barely escape his lips. It’s not a game for him because he’s not meant to win.

“Exactly!” The Grandmaster exclaims, clapping his hands together like a delighted child. “See, you’re getting it!” Loki watches warily, doing his best to suppress the instinctual flinch as the man suddenly stands. Every muscle in Loki’s body tenses, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, but he forces himself to stay still, to show no outward signs of fear. “Now,” he continues, his tone clipped, "I have to, ah, clean up the mess you made with that little uprising you started." His smile tightens, his eyes flashing with irritation, though the playful mask never fully drops.

Loki’s heart pounds in his chest. He knows the chaos he’s caused outside, the rebellion he ignited, was a distraction, a gamble to buy time for their escape. But now with the Grandmaster looming above him, it feels like nothing more than a reckless move that only made things worse.

The Grandmaster tilts his head slightly, his lips curling into a cold smile. “Go ahead and watch, sweetheart,” he says, “I promise I’ll make it entertaining. We’ll be getting started here soon.” Loki’s stomach twists as the Grandmaster moves away, the man’s steps slow and deliberate, as though he’s enjoying drawing out Loki’s suffering. He always does.

Loki’s gaze flicks back to the screens in front of him. He forces himself to breathe, his mind scrambling for a solution, for some way out of this trap. He has to think of something. There has to be something. The Grandmaster pauses at the door, glancing back over his shoulder with a smirk. “Don’t worry, kitten,” he says, his voice soft. “I’ll be back before you know it. Try not to fall apart while I’m gone. Ta!” 

With that, the door closes behind him, leaving Loki alone in the room. The silence is suffocating, pressing down on him from all sides like a physical force. Loki stares at the screens, his hands trembling in his lap as his thoughts race. He swallows hard, bile rising in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest. This is his punishment.

He doesn’t move his eyes from the screens, even as his eyes burn and blur with the threat of tears that refuse to fall. He watches.

The games will start soon.

Chapter Text

When Thor regains consciousness, he finds himself lying on cold, rough ground. His head is throbbing, and his vision swims as he blinks up at the sky above, gray and overcast, with dark clouds rolling ominously overhead. The air is cool against his skin, carrying a faint metallic tang that makes his senses prick. He knows an incoming storm when he feels it. With a groan, he pushes himself up onto his knees. 

He takes a deep breath and looks around, trying to make sense of where he is. The world slowly comes into focus: a deserted village stretches out before him, eerily quiet. The buildings are small and old, their walls weathered and cracked, windows that stare like empty eyes. Faded banners and tattered laundry hang limp on lines strung between the houses, fluttering weakly in the occasional gusts of wind that make no sound. Everything exists in shades of black and white. It’s as if the place has been abandoned for years, and yet… It still feels like he’s being watched. 

Thor’s muscles tense instinctively, his hands clenched into fists as he struggles to shake off the disorientation. His heart begins to pound, a sense of dread crawling up his spine. The oppressive silence wears on him, making his pulse quicken as he climbs to his feet.

A chill sweeps through the air, sending a shiver down his spine. Thor instinctively scans the village for any sign of life, movement, but there’s nothing. Just the vacant streets, the crumbling buildings, and the distant rustling of leaves. It’s like the world is holding its breath, waiting for something. 

A sudden flicker of motion catches his eye, and the air in front of him begins to shimmer.

The shimmering grows brighter, and a figure coalesces from the light; a projection of the Grandmaster.

“Sparkles!” The Grandmaster exclaims, his image solidifying with a delighted expression on his face. “Good to see you’re finally awake! I was starting to get worried.”

Thor’s brow furrows, his anger flaring. Without thinking, he lunges forward and swings at the Grandmaster, but his fist passes through the hologram, striking nothing but air. The projection ripples like water disturbed by a stone, then reforms, the Grandmaster’s grin never wavering.

“Now, now,” the Grandmaster says, raising an eyebrow. “There’s no need to be rude. Someone’s a little touchy.”

“I’m more than ‘touchy,’ you níðingr!” Thor snaps, his eyes blazing with fury. “What is this place? What have you done?”

The Grandmaster’s image flickers slightly as his smile falters, his tone turning airy and dismissive. “Alright, alright. If you’d like to figure out the rules on your own, be my guest.” He gives a lazy wave, and Thor’s eyes widen as the vision of him begins to fade. 

“Wait!” Thor shouts, his voice echoing through the stillness as he takes a step forward, reaching for the fading image. “Come back!”

But the Grandmaster’s figure dissipates into the air, leaving Thor alone in the oppressive silence of the village. His chest heaves with frustration as the echoes of his shout die away, swallowed by the emptiness around him.

And then, the silence deepens, pressing in from all sides. The village seems to grow darker, the shadows stretching longer as a cold wind sweeps through, stirring the dust at his feet.

Dammit, Thor thinks. Shit. 

Figure out the rules yourself. 

What sort of twisted game is this? 

His jaw clenches as he scans the village again, but nothing has changed. The same dilapidated houses, the same abandoned streets. Whatever game the Grandmaster has set in motion, it seems Thor will have to play along if he’s to find any answers.

“Fine,” Thor spits, the word a growl in his throat. His eyes narrow as he starts walking, each step heavy with tension. He may not know the rules, but if there’s one thing he’s certain of, it’s that he won’t let the Grandmaster’s trickery get the better of him. “I grew up with a trickster, you fool,” he mutters under his breath as he walks, “and he’s much smarter than you.” Loki’s tricks were always so clever. What is this in comparison? An empty village? Laughable. Pathetic, even. There’s nothing that the Grandmaster can throw at him that Thor can’t handle. 

The quiet continues to gnaw at him as he moves deeper into the village, the wind picking up slightly and stirring the dust at his feet. His hand itches for the handle of Mjolnir, missing the weight of her at his hip. Without Mjolnir, he feels unbalanced, incomplete, like a warrior stripped of his armor.

He rounds a corner, his gaze darting around as he searches for anything that seems out of place. That’s when he hears it— a faint sound, like the soft shuffle of feet on the dirt. Thor’s muscles tense as he turns toward the noise, his heart pounding harder.

At the end of a street, there sits a figure by an old, dilapidated well. Thor freezes.

It’s a child.

The boy looks no older than five or six, his dark hair tousled, his small face streaked with dirt and tears. The boy is dressed in tattered, worn clothes, and his hair is tousled, dark. His skin is pale, and his entire figure, like the rest of the village, is cast in shades of black and white. He cries silently, making no noise. It’s jarring to look at. Thor squints, blinking as he takes a step forward. 

The boy doesn’t move.

“Hey,” Thor calls out, his voice softer now, cautious. “You there.” The boy lifts his head slowly, revealing a face that nearly stops Thor’s heart in his chest. The boy’s sharp features, the high cheekbones, the piercing eyes— Loki. For a brief moment, Thor’s breath catches in his throat, and all he can see is his brother as a child, his eyes hiding something darker, something broken. 

But this boy… this isn’t Loki, not exactly. The resemblance is uncanny, though— the curve of his lips, the way he holds himself, it all pulls Thor back into memories of his younger brother. And the boy’s tears, the dirt smeared across his cheeks, the raw fear in his eyes— it all feels so real.

Thor takes another step forward, his voice more gentle. “Who are you?”

The boy doesn’t answer. His eyes remain wide, almost fearful, as he watches Thor approach. His small body shudders slightly, as though caught in a sudden chill. Then, without a word, the boy turns and runs, his feet silent against the cracked pavement.

“Wait!” Thor shouts, breaking into a run, his long strides quickly closing the gap between them.

The boy darts around a corner, disappearing into the shadows between two buildings. Thor’s chest tightens with the urgency of the chase, his heart racing as he follows, his heavy footsteps echoing in the stillness. The wind picks up around him, colder now, biting at his skin as he rounds the corner after the boy.

But the street beyond is empty. The boy is gone.

Thor stops dead in his tracks, his pulse thudding in his ears. He turns in place, scanning the street for any sign of movement, but there’s nothing. Just the same eerie quiet, the same hollow emptiness. His frustration mounts, his breaths coming quicker as the tension gnaws at him.

“Come on, show yourself!” Thor shouts, his voice harsh as it echoes off the walls. “I won’t hurt you!” He doesn’t realize until after he’s said it that he probably doesn’t sound too convincing to a frightened child. “I promise!”

Thor spins around, eyes darting from one shadow to another. And then he sees him again— the boy, standing further down the street now, watching him with those same wide, unblinking eyes.

Before Thor can call out again, the boy turns and runs once more, his small form disappearing into the gloom.

“Dammit,” Thor hisses, setting off after him again. His legs pump harder this time, his muscles straining as he charges forward. But no matter how fast he runs, the boy is always just ahead, always out of reach, slipping away from Thor’s grasp like a snake. 

Thor’s frustration boils over as he rounds another corner, and his foot catches on a loose stone. He stumbles, catching himself against a wall. His breath comes in short, angry gasps as he presses a hand to his aching head.

And then, without warning, a scream pierces the air—sharp and sudden, cutting through the silence like a knife. Thor’s blood runs cold. The scream— the boy.

Thor bolts toward the sound, the urge to protect roaring through him. The scream echoes again, more desperate now, and Thor pushes harder, his heart racing. He rounds one last corner and skids to a halt, his breath catching in his throat.

The boy is lying on the ground, motionless, surrounded by a pool of blood that seeps into the earth, dark and thick. His small, fragile body is limp, limbs sprawled out unnaturally, his chest no longer rising and falling. Thor’s stomach churns, bile rising in his throat as his eyes lock onto the gaping wound—a deep, ragged slash across the boy’s abdomen. Blood pours from the wound, pooling around the child, staining the white fabric of his tunic a deep crimson.

The lifeless black-and-white figure, so hauntingly like Loki, lies still, his delicate face pale. The boy’s small hands, now smeared with blood, are curled slightly, as though they had tried to hold the wound closed, to stop the inevitable. But they failed.

Thor’s heart twists painfully, a knot of horror tightening in his chest as he stares ahead. “No…” He breathes, his hands trembling as he steps toward the boy. “No, no, no.”

He drops to his knees beside the body, his heart pounding in his ears. He reaches out, his fingers trembling as they hover over the boy’s chest, afraid to touch, afraid of the truth he already knows. He swallows hard, trying to steady his breathing, but the icy knot of dread only tightens in his chest.

And then, as suddenly as the boy had died, the world around Thor shifts.

A gust of wind sweeps through the street, and Thor’s vision blurs. The village seems to warp, bending in on itself like a twisted reflection in a broken mirror. He blinks hard, trying to clear his sight, but when his vision sharpens again, the scene has shifted.

Thor is standing at the well again, the same starting point, the same empty village stretching out before him.

His chest heaves with the effort of his breathing, his mind racing to make sense of it. And then, he hears it once more— the soft sobs of the child.

The boy is back, standing in the distance, watching him.

Thor’s heart sinks.

“Norns,” he whispers, realization dawning on him painfully slowly. He starts to run again, but this time the dread coils deeper in his gut. He knows what will happen. He knows as soon as that little boy meets his eyes again.

The chase begins anew.

Sigyn stirs, waking in a sterile, brightly lit room, her hands instinctively moving to cradle her stomach… only to find nothing. Her heart stutters painfully in her chest, panic clawing at her as she frantically feels for the gentle swell of her belly, the slight bump beneath her clothes, for the connection she knows should be there. But it’s gone. The life inside her, the familiar pulse she’s felt growing over the past weeks, has vanished without a trace. Sigyn sits on the platform, her hands protectively cradling her stomach, heart racing beneath her ribs as she observes the room. It’s almost completely barren, and her eyes are drawn upward, stuck on two empty cages suspended by chains near the ceiling. 

The silence around her is deafening, broken only by the faint creaking of the cages swaying in the still air. The space is sterile, almost clinical in its design, with smooth metal walls and bright, artificial light that makes everything feel harsh and exposed.

She breathes deeply, trying to calm the panic rising in her chest. Think, she tells herself, but the fear gnaws at her, a deep, instinctual dread that grips her heart when she looks up at the cages. She can feel the threat hanging in the air, as if the cages are waiting for something to be put in them.

Or someone.

The sound of a soft chime interrupts the silence, and Sigyn’s eyes are immediately drawn away from the cages. In front of her, two potted plants appear, hovering just above the ground on small floating platforms. They are extravagant species, their flowers twisting in strange, mesmerizing patterns, with colors so vivid they almost seem to glow. She doesn’t recognize them, and something about their unnatural beauty fills her with a vague sense of unease.

Before she can react, a hologram flickers to life a few feet away. The familiar figure of the Grandmaster appears, grinning at her with that infuriatingly cheerful expression.

“Hi, sweetheart!” The Grandmaster exclaims, his hologram flickering and glitching as it stabilizes in front of her. His grin stretches across his face, bright and maddeningly cheerful. “Glad to see you’re finally awake. Now the fun can finally start!”

Sigyn’s entire body tenses, her pulse hammering in her ears as she struggles to get her bearings. Her instincts scream at her to lash out, to attack, to do something. But she forces herself to stay still, knowing that any attempt to strike would be pointless. This isn’t the real Grandmaster; just another one of his projections. Her voice trembles despite her effort to keep it steady. “What is this?” She demands, the words sharp and cold. “What have you done with my baby?”

The Grandmaster’s eyes widen slightly, as if caught off guard, before his brow furrows in feigned confusion. “Baby?” He repeats, sounding genuinely puzzled for a moment. He rubs his chin, pretending to think it over, then snaps his fingers as though he’s just remembered. “Ah, yes! Right, right. You’ve got a little bun in the oven.” He gives her a dismissive wave. “Don’t worry, you’re still pregnant. I just made a few… adjustments to ensure there are no distractions during our little game.”

Sigyn’s stomach twists, her hand instinctively moving to her flat belly, where she can no longer feel the lives of her unborn children. A cold sweat breaks out across her skin. “Game?” She echoes, her voice filled with barely contained anger. “What kind of game?”

The Grandmaster’s hologram beams at her, as though delighted by the question. “Oh, I’m so glad you asked!” He exclaims, clapping his hands together like a child on the verge of opening a present. “It’s very simple, really!” He gestures toward the two flat metal plates in front of her, each one featureless and gleaming under the bright lights. “All you have to do is pick. That’s it! I’ll put two objects in front of you, and you just choose which one you like best!” His smile widens, stretching unnaturally across his face. “Easy- peasy, right? Hardly a game at all!”

Sigyn’s eyes narrow as she stares at the plates. It can’t be that simple. Clearly, nothing ever is with this man. “What about those?” She asks, pointing upward toward the metal cages. The Grandmaster hums curiously as he looks over his shoulder, as if he’d forgotten he’d even put them there. 

“Oh, don’t you worry about those. They’re not important.” Everything about the way he said that tells Sigyn that she likely should be very worried about those. But she doubts that pressing on the subject will bode well for her. This man doesn’t seem like the type to give a straight answer.

“And if I refuse?” She asks. 

The Grandmaster’s smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes darken, a hint of something cold lurking just beneath the surface of his playful demeanor. “Well, refusing would mean you lose,” he replies, tilting his head slightly. “And I would hate for you to lose just because you’re being a spoilsport. That’s just— Well, that’s just no fun.” The lightness in his tone is accompanied by a sharp edge that makes Sigyn’s skin prickle.

The hologram flickers as he steps back, his grin still plastered on his face. “Now, let’s get started, shall we?” He snaps his fingers, and the metal plates begin to hum softly. “Round one’s right in front of you, dollface!”

Sigyn stares at the two potted plants, her heart pounding in her chest as she eyes them with growing suspicion. The vibrant, twisting flowers seem unnaturally perfect, too vivid, their strange petals glowing faintly under the sterile lights. She can feel the Grandmaster’s presence lingering in the air, though he’s nowhere to be seen anymore. Sigyn’s fingers hover hesitantly over the two plants in front of her, their twisting, alien petals shifting in unnatural ways. The air in the room is sterile, cold, and her heart beats erratically in her chest. She doesn’t trust this. How could she?

She’s about to pull her hand back, uncertain, when a sudden, monotone voice cuts through the silence, almost startling her out of her skin.

“Choose.”

Sigyn jerks slightly, her breath catching in her throat. 

She wipes her sweaty palms, trying to gather her composure, but the eerie, disembodied command still lingers in the air. 

“Choose,” the voice repeats, as unfeeling and hollow as before.

Her hand trembles as she reaches toward the plants. It feels like a trick, like something horrible is lurking behind this deceptively simple choice.

“Am I not allowed time to think?” She swallows, her mouth dry. The voice provides no answer. Her eyes focus on the plant on her left. There’s something familiar about the way its vines coil, as if it’s trying to lure her in, but she can’t place where she’s seen it before. Her lips press into a thin line, and with a deep breath, she moves to touch the plant, over the one on her left; a strange, spiraling flower that emits an eerie hum.

“Choose.”

Her instincts scream that this is wrong, that whatever she chooses will have consequences she can’t predict. But she can’t just sit here doing nothing. She hesitates for just a moment, then places her hand over the plant’s vines. The soft chime that they emerged with sounds, and they vanish from the platforms. In their places, two more objects sit. A single petal. Or a book. 

The voice demands again. 

“Choose.”

The darkness is oppressive, suffocating, as Val and Ari stand back to back in the pitch-black room, their breathing heavy and labored. Neither of them can see more than a few inches in front of their faces, but Valkyrie’s instincts are razor-sharp, her sword drawn and ready, every muscle coiled for a fight. The silence presses in on them like a heavy weight, the tension so thick it feels like the very air is turning against them.

Ari stands beside her, her claws extended, her eyes wide and glowing faintly in the dim light. She moves with the grace of a predator, but even now, Valkyrie can feel the fear rolling off her in waves. The girl’s sharp inhales, the quick, barely perceptible tremor in her stance— it’s clear she’s on edge. But then again, so is Valkyrie.

Still, beneath that fear, there’s something stronger. Determination. Ari’s young, but she’s learned how to survive. She’s learned that on Sakaar, you either adapt, or you die.

“Stay close,” Val whispers, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. “If anything moves, strike first, ask questions later.”

Ari nods, her breath shallow but controlled. “What is this place?” She asks, her voice hushed, as if speaking any louder would draw the attention of something lurking just beyond their sight. It feels like they’re being watched, and they likely are. 

Valkyrie shakes her head, her eyes narrowing as she tries to pierce through the darkness. Her senses are heightened, her instincts screaming that danger is close, too close. “It’s one of his games,” she replies, keeping her voice low. “We need to be ready for anything.”

As if on cue, the air thickens, a strange weight settling over them like a smothering blanket. The ground beneath their feet trembles slightly, sending a jolt of alarm through Valkyrie’s body. And then they hear it— a low growling sound, deep and rumbling, echoing from somewhere in the shadows. It seems to come from every direction, surrounding them.

Valkyrie tenses, her grip tightening on her sword. “Stay sharp, Ari,” she mutters. “Something’s coming.”

Ari’s claws flex instinctively, her muscles tightening. “I hear it,” she whispers, her voice filled with tension.

Suddenly, the oppressive darkness shifts, and in the center of the room, a flicker of light catches their attention. Valkyrie’s sword twitches in her hand as a hologram of the Grandmaster materializes out of thin air, his brightly colored robes garish against the pitch-black backdrop. The projection activates the room immediately, bright light flashing on and illuminating the entire space. His grin is wide and infuriating as usual, his voice oozing with delight.

“Ah, there you are!” He exclaims, his tone cheerful. Ari hisses reflexively, her claws swiping at the air, her hackles rising at the sight of him. The Grandmaster chuckles, amused by her reaction. “Someone’s jumpy,” he teases, his eyes glinting. “No need for threats, girls.”

Valkyrie takes a half step forward, her sword still raised defensively. “What do you want?” She growls. She knows the Grandmaster well enough by now to realize that he never does anything without a twisted motive. Whatever this game is, it’s going to be cruel. She’s seen what happens to other poor fools who are stupid enough to challenge the Grandmaster to a game in his own domain. 

“Oh, don’t be so tense!” The Grandmaster laughs, raising his hands in mock innocence. “I’m not here to hurt you girls. Just here to present your options!” His holographic form flickers slightly, the grin never leaving his face. “You see, this is simple, really. All you have to do… is pick a door.”

A faint light illuminates the walls around them, revealing several doors lining the edges of the room, all identical in shape and size. They hadn’t been there a moment ago, but now, they seem to be waiting for the girls to choose.

“Just pick a door!” The Grandmaster repeats, clapping his hands together. “Any door! Walk through it, and you’ll be free to move on. That’s your game. Simple as that!”

Valkyrie narrows her eyes, suspicion crawling up her spine. There’s no way it’s that easy. She’s learned that nothing with the Grandmaster is ever simple. “What’s the catch?” She snaps, her grip tightening on her sword.

The Grandmaster’s hologram gives her a sly smile. “Oh, 142, why must there always be a catch? I’m just giving you choices! It’s a game, after all! The fun is in the choosing.” His image flickers one last time before vanishing completely, leaving the room eerily silent again.

Ari looks up at Valkyrie, her eyes wide with apprehension. “It can’t be that easy, right?” She asks, her voice filled with audible fear.

Valkyrie exhales sharply, her eyes scanning the doors. “Of course it’s not that easy,” she mutters, her instincts screaming that each door is a trap waiting to spring. “The bastard’s playing games. Head on a swivel, Ari. We have to be careful.”

Ari nods, her claws still extended, her body tense and ready. She’s trying to quell the rising anxiety clawing at her, but it’s hard. 

They slowly approach the nearest door, both of them moving cautiously, their muscles coiled and ready for anything. Valkyrie grips the handle, glancing at Ari for a brief moment before turning it. The door creaks open, and they step through into the unknown.

On the other side, the scene that greets them is a stark contrast to the dark room they had just left. The walls are a sickly pale green, and in the center of the room is a wrecked ship— Ari’s ship. The one she had tried to escape in when she was younger. The one that had failed, sending her crashing back to the hellscape that is Sakaar.

Ari freezes, her breath catching in her throat as she stares at the wreckage. The memories rush back— memories of hope, of desperation, and of bitter defeat. Her claws retract as she takes a shaky step back, panic rising in her chest. She can’t move. She’s frozen.

Valkyrie immediately steps in front of her, blocking Ari’s view of the wreckage. “Ari,” she says firmly, her voice cutting through the haze of panic. “Don’t look at it. It’s not real. Focus on me. Right here.”

Ari’s eyes flicker to Valkyrie’s face, and for a moment, she struggles to breathe, her heart pounding in her ears. But Val’s voice anchors her, keeps her grounded. She nods shakily, pushing the memories away. “Okay,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “Okay, I’m with you.”

Val gives a small nod before turning toward the next door. “Come on,” she says, her voice sharp and urgent. “We need to keep moving.”

They move forward, toward what appears to be an exit, but as soon as they make their way through the door, they find themselves back in the center of the room, staring at the same identical doors as before. Ari’s stomach churns. “What…?” She mutters, spinning around. “We just went through that door! How are we back here?”

Val swears under her breath, her hand gripping her sword so tightly her knuckles turn white. “It’s the game,” she growls. “It’s trying to break us.”

Ari’s frustration bubbles over, her claws flexing as her voice rises. “There’s no way out, is there? He’s just going to keep messing with us until we—”

“Until we break?” Val snaps, cutting her off. “No. We’re not breaking.” Her eyes flash with determination. “We keep going, no matter how many times we end up back here. Eventually one of those doors will be our way out.”

Ari takes a breath, nodding. She knows Val is right. They have to keep going, no matter what they face. Because that’s the only way they’ll beat this.

And together, they step through the next door.

Bruce stands in the center of the arena, his heart pounding in his chest as he tries to take in his surroundings. The vast colosseum looms around him, vaguely familiar and recognizable to him, as if he has been here before in a dream. The roar of a crowd fills the air, deafening and all-encompassing, but when he looks up at the stands, they’re empty. No spectators, no jeering, no faces. Just rows and rows of vacant seats. The sound itself feels like a cruel joke, mocking him, as if the arena itself is taunting his helplessness.

He looks down at himself, realizing with a sinking feeling that he’s dressed in the same gladiator armor he wore when he was forced to fight as the Hulk. The armor is heavy, far too large, restricting his movements. His hands tremble at his sides, and his breaths come in shallow, panicked bursts. 

Suddenly, a flicker of light catches his eye, and the hologram of the Grandmaster appears in front of him, his grin as wide and unsettling as ever.

“Ah, there he is!” The Grandmaster looks him up and down appraisingly. “Though I must say, you’re looking a bit green there, aren’t you? Though it’s, ah, not the green I’d be looking for here.”

Bruce tries to steady his breathing, but the sight of the Grandmaster only intensifies his anxiety. He feels trapped, vulnerable, and the familiar panic starts to rise in his chest. “W-What’s with all the empty stands?” Bruce stammers, glancing up at the vacant seats. “Couldn’t muster up enough cosmic power for an audience?”

The Grandmaster waves a dismissive hand, clearly unbothered by Bruce’s jab. “Oh, you know how it is. When you’re running five separate games and challenges and trying to stop an uprising, well, you kind of have to sacrifice a few minor details here and there.” He gives Bruce a wink. “But don’t worry, you do have an audience.”

Something about the way the Grandmaster says that makes Bruce’s stomach turn, his mouth going dry. He swallows hard, feeling a sense of dread settling over him like a weight.

The Grandmaster’s smile widens as he leans in, his tone dropping to something almost conspiratorial. “Tell me, will my Champion be joining us soon? Hmm?” He taps his chin, as if mulling it over. “No? Ooh, well then, looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you, don’t you?”

Bruce opens his mouth to respond, but before he can say anything, the Grandmaster vanishes in a shimmer of light, leaving him alone in the vast, echoing arena. The empty stands, the oppressive silence—it all feels wrong. So, so wrong.

Bruce paces nervously, his heart hammering in his chest. “Come on, come on, come on,” he mutters under his breath, clenching his fists. “Hulk, I need you. I need you now.”

But nothing happens.

There’s no familiar surge of anger, no transformation, no burning fire in his chest. The Hulk, his ever—present shadow, remains silent and unresponsive. Bruce grits his teeth, trying again, trying to summon the monster inside him. But it’s like grasping at smoke. The Hulk isn’t there.

He’s stuck. Alone. Vulnerable.

His panic spikes as he hears the heavy sound of metal gates groaning open behind him. Bruce freezes, his blood running cold as his eyes dart to the far side of the arena. A massive creature emerges from the shadows, its hulking form towering over him, twice the size of the Hulk. Its eyes lock onto him with a predatory gleam, and it lets out a low, menacing growl that reverberates through the arena.

“No… no, no, no…” Bruce backs away, his heart racing. His mind races with panic as the creature starts to move, its massive feet thudding against the ground with each step. “Hulk, please! Now would be a good time!”

But the Hulk doesn’t answer.

The creature charges.

Bruce’s instincts kick in, and he dives out of the way just as the creature barrels toward him, missing him by inches. He scrambles to his feet, his heart pounding in his ears, but he’s not fast enough. The creature turns, swinging a massive fist that connects with Bruce’s side, sending him flying across the arena.

Pain explodes through his body as he crashes into the ground, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He gasps for breath, his vision swimming as he tries to push himself up, but the creature is already closing in. Bruce braces himself for the end.

And then, everything resets.

Bruce blinks, disoriented, as he finds himself standing in the center of the arena again, the same deafening roar of the empty crowd surrounding him. His body is whole, the pain gone, and the creature is once again behind the gate, waiting to be released.

“What the…?” Bruce mutters, glancing around in confusion. It’s as if time has rewound itself, resetting the scene to the very beginning. He barely has time to process it before the gates open again, and the creature charges once more.

This time, Bruce is ready. He dodges the initial attack, rolling to the side and keeping his distance as he frantically scans the arena for anything— anything that he can use. His eyes land on scattered debris, scraps of metal, loose rocks, bits of broken weapons from battles long past.

A plan starts to form in his mind.

“Come on, Bruce,” he mutters to himself, his mind racing as he dodges another swing from the creature. “Think. You can do this.”

As the creature charges again, Bruce makes a dash for the nearest pile of debris. He grabs a length of chain and a few loose metal scraps, his hands moving quickly as he starts to assemble the casing for a makeshift bomb. His hands shake as he works, the pressure mounting with each passing second.

The creature roars, charging at him again. Bruce barely manages to duck out of the way, the beast’s claws grazing his arm as he dives for cover. He clutches his makeshift bomb tightly, his heart pounding in his chest.

But before he can finish, the world resets again.

Loki watches the screens with mounting dread, each display reflecting a different torment. Sigyn stands frozen before two new objects, her hand hovering in indecision. One is a simple child’s toy, a carved wooden horse, innocent, harmless. The other is a dagger that looks painfully familiar to Loki, stained with blood. She hesitates, her face drawn with tension, but she reaches out for the horse, her hand shaking. The moment she makes contact, both items vanish, and the game moves on to the next impossible choice.

On the next screen, Bruce is scrambling between resets, his face a mask of panic and determination as he pieces together some sort of contraption. He’s moving frantically, snatching up scraps and fragments from the arena floor as he works against the clock, against the creature that charges at him with each reset.

Thor is chasing after a child, his expression achingly desperate. He calls out, his voice thick with emotion, but the boy never looks back. Thor stumbles through the empty streets of the eerie village, never able to catch up. His face twists with frustration and fear, his helplessness sinking deeper with every step. Loki has already watched the child— a child he assumes to be him in some way— die gruesomely over and over. Whether the ground opens up and swallows him or he’s crushed by a building or mauled by some creature, the child never survives. And Thor never stops trying to save him. 

And Val and Ari… Loki’s heart clenches for them. They rush into one door, only to return back to the beginning, the cycle endless and cruel. They look increasingly frazzled, their bodies tense, their eyes darting around with barely restrained panic as each passage leads them back to the center, through a memory. Ari, usually so nimble and quick, looks ready to snap, her claws extended, her breathing shallow. Valkyrie is now gripping her sword as if it’s the only thing tethering her to reality. But there are no enemies to fight. 

They’re losing control.

As Loki watches, his pulse quickens, a dull throbbing in his temples growing more pronounced. This is madness. There’s no logic, no sense to these tortures. He grips the arm of the chair he’s seated in, his nails digging into the fabric as he tries to maintain composure.

Without warning, the Grandmaster’s voice slithers into his ear, far too close, filled with that infuriating, sickly sweetness. “Entertaining, hm?”

Loki swears and jerks upright, turning sharply to face the Grandmaster, who is now standing right behind him, far too close for comfort. The Grandmaster’s grin is wide and gleaming, his eyes twinkling with that twisted delight in them.

Loki’s eyes narrow, his pulse still racing as he clenches his fists. “What is the point of these games?” 

The Grandmaster’s grin widens even further, as though Loki’s frustration is exactly what he was hoping for. “Now, now, Lo-Lo, I’m not about to spoil the fun by telling you that.” He wags a finger, his tone chiding. “It’s all about the journey. No need to rush to the end just yet.”

Before Loki can snap back with a retort, the Grandmaster raises his hand, and with a snap, a giant digital clock appears on the screen, hanging ominously over the images of his friends. Its numbers tick down slowly toward zero, a constant reminder of the time slipping away. It reads an hour. 

“There, lookie,” the Grandmaster continues, his voice practically sing-song as he snaps his fingers again. A set of five lights appears underneath the clock, though none of them are lit. “Every time one of your little friends wins their game, one of these lights will glow.” He gestures to the lights as if presenting some grand prize. “And they have plenty of time, see? So stop stressing, Lo-Lo.”

Loki’s blood boils at the casual, almost patronizing tone in the Grandmaster’s voice. His eyes move from the lights to the screens, where his companions struggle in their games, and he can feel the suffocating pressure mounting with each passing second. “Plenty of time?” Loki hisses. “They’re suffering! You’re tormenting them and having them run in circles—”

“Oh, don’t be such a wet blanket, darling. It’s just a little fun! Besides, they’re strong, aren’t they? They can handle a little challenge.” His grin sharpens as he steps even closer, his arm suddenly draped around Loki’s shoulders. The casual contact makes Loki’s skin crawl. He looks at Loki’s face for a moment before frowning slightly. “Do you need a juice? You look stressed. I can get you a juice.” His eyes glitter with amusement as he adds, “Or something a little stronger, hm?”

The offer strikes deeper than it should, the Grandmaster’s words hitting him in a place he’s been trying to ignore for days. Weeks, even. The gnawing ache in his veins, that familiar tightness in his chest, the trembling in his hands that he can’t quite seem to control—it’s all been building, growing worse, and he knows he can’t ignore it forever.

The withdrawal has been creeping up on him, sinking its claws in slowly, and with everything happening, the stress, the pressure, it’s been harder to push it away. His mind feels frayed at the edges, the sharpness he once prided himself on dulled by the constant gnawing ache inside of him. A bump, a drink, it would help him think clearly… or numb everything entirely. Just enough to take the edge off. To quiet the chaos in his head, to make the withdrawal stop clawing at him from the inside out. He’s been fighting it, but the Grandmaster’s words make the temptation flare up like a wildfire.

His mouth feels dry, his pulse quickening as the thought lingers, the promise of oblivion pulling at him like a siren’s call. Something, anything, to numb the gnawing emptiness, to still the trembling in his hands, to make him feel in control again, even if it’s an illusion. And it’s always an illusion. 

The Grandmaster’s grip tightens ever so slightly on Loki’s shoulder, as if sensing the internal war raging inside him. He leans in closer, his breath warm against Loki’s ear, whispering with a sickening sweetness. “You know, darling, you’d think much clearer if you weren’t so… stressed. It’s not good for you.” 

It’s tempting. It’s so tempting…

Loki’s fists clench so tightly at his sides that his nails dig into his palms, the sting grounding him as fury boils over inside his chest. He forces himself to hold the man’s gaze, his anger barely restrained.

“This isn’t a game,” Loki hisses instead of answering the question, because he knows if he answered the question it would have been a needy, pathetic yes. “You rigged it from the start.” 

The Grandmaster laughs softly, pouring himself a drink from the mini bar in the corner of the room. “What? Did you think I was playing by your rules, sweetheart?” He tuts and shakes his head, wagging a finger at Loki as he takes a sip. “The terms of our deal never stated that I had to be fair. Could have negotiated those terms a bit better, couldn’t you have, honeypot?”

Loki’s eyes blaze with rage, and he takes a step forward, his voice trembling with barely controlled fury. “I swear, I will—”

The Grandmaster raises a hand, his expression turning serious as he interrupts. “Oh, please, by all means. Finish that sentence, Lo-Lo.” His smile turns feral, his eyes glinting with amusement and something even more dangerous, something grotesque, and part of Loki shudders to imagine the monster that lies beneath that skin. “What are you going to do?” He asks as he saunters back over to Loki, the quiet swish of his robes sweeping the floor filling the air. He leans in close, lowering his voice to a taunting whisper. “We both know that you’re in no position to bargain anymore.”

Loki’s jaw tightens, his pulse roaring in his ears. “You promised them a chance,” he spits, “You gave me your word.”

The Grandmaster’s laughter is light, almost musical, as if Loki’s words were the punchline to a delightful joke. “Yes, I did, didn’t I?” He tilts his head as if deep in thought, then gives a little shrug. “But you see, honeybunch, the rules of this game are mine to make. And if I decide to… tweak things a little, well, that’s just part of the fun.” His grin widens, his teeth gleaming in the artificial light. “What’s a game without a little challenge, after all?”

“You lied!” Loki snarls, his hands trembling with the urge to lunge at the Grandmaster, to do anything to wipe that smug smile off his face. “You’re not giving them a chance! You haven’t even told them—”

“Loki,” the Grandmaster interrupts again, and the sound of his name makes Loki’s mouth slam shut. “The terms of our little arrangement were perfectly clear. I said I would give your friends a chance. I never said anything about making it fair.” He chuckles softly. “Honestly, I thought you of all people would appreciate the subtlety.”

Loki’s breath catches in his throat as he glares at the man, his chest heaving with rage. “You twisted son of a—”

The Grandmaster’s eyes flash with a warning, his voice suddenly sharp. “Careful, Lo-Lo. You wouldn’t want to say something you’ll regret.”

Loki’s voice lowers to a dangerous growl, his gaze never wavering. “What do you want?”

“Oh, darling, it’s not about what I want,” the Grandmaster replies, his tone airy once more. “It’s about what you’re willing to give.” He steps closer, his smile turning colder. “And it looks like I’ve already gotten quite a bit from you, haven’t I?”

Anger flares at that, behind the humiliation. “You will pay for this.”

The Grandmaster leans back, chuckling as though Loki’s threat is no more than a jest. Like a declawed kitten. His grin is wide and mocking, his laughter even moreso. “Oh, I don’t doubt that, sweet thing.” He reaches out to Loki’s cheek, the gesture patronizing, a mockery of affection that makes Loki’s blood boil even hotter. “But for now, why don’t you sit back and enjoy the show?”

The instant the Grandmaster’s hand touches his cheek, Loki sees red. His control snaps. With a surge of rage, he pushes hard against the barrier holding back his magic, pushing through the white-hot agony of it and summons a dagger into his hand in an instant. His body moves before his mind can catch up, and with a vicious strike, he plunges the blade deep into the Grandmaster’s chest, aiming directly for his heart.

The blade sinks in smoothly, but the Grandmaster doesn’t flinch. He simply stares down at the wound with mild interest, unfazed. There’s something vicious, something dark, in his eyes that chills Loki to his core.

“I gotta say, Lo,” the Grandmaster drawls, his voice far too calm for someone with a blade lodged in his chest. Loki swallows hard. “I think I’ve been very nice up to this point. But if that’s how you want things to be…” His voice drops, the playful edge slipping away. “Fine. I don’t have to be nice.”

With an almost casual motion, the Grandmaster pulls the blade from his chest. Blue blood drips from it, the thick liquid staining the weapon and the floor beneath them. He holds it up, examining it for a moment before tossing it aside. 

“Let’s hope you can figure this out before that clock runs out, hm?” And then, just as suddenly as he appeared, he vanishes, his voice lingering in the air like a ghostly echo.

“Clock’s ticking.”

The room is suddenly silent, save for the ticking of the massive clock on the screen in front of Loki. He slumps back onto the sofa, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, his hands trembling in his lap. He feels hollow, the adrenaline of the moment draining out of him as quickly as it had surged. The weight of the situation crashes down on him, and for a moment, he feels utterly powerless.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his palms harshly over his face as if he can scrub it all away. His eyes move to the screen in front of him, to the five glowing lights beneath the clock. Five lights. Four games. He frowns, his mind latching onto that detail. Why are there five lights?

Why would he give the Valkyrie and her apprentice separate indicator lights if they’re playing the same game?

His heart pounds in his chest, the pieces of the puzzle slowly clicking into place. Something about this doesn’t add up. The Grandmaster had said it himself— there’s no game for Loki. He was supposed to sit back and watch, to enjoy the show.

But nothing is ever that straightforward with this man.

Loki feels the weight of realization settle over him like a heavy shroud. He isn’t just an observer. He’s a player in this game, too.

He thinks back to the Grandmaster’s words, the taunting smile, the casual dismissal. 

The Grandmaster was lying. He always is. There’s something more here, something Loki had missed.

His gaze locks onto the screen again, to the five lights. Five players.

Loki laughs softly, bitterly, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, smudging away the hot tears that had started to pool there. He can feel the realization settling heavily in his gut.

“Of course this was my game,” he whispers to himself, his voice raw.

He glances down at the bloody knife lying on the floor. The realization sinks deeper, twisting the knot of guilt and self-loathing already in his chest even tighter.

And I’ve just messed it all up, haven’t I?

He had played into the Grandmaster’s hands without even realizing it. His impulsive actions, his rage, they were all part of the trap. And now, the clock is ticking, his friends are suffering, and he’s running out of time to fix it.

Loki sits back, breathing harshly into his hands, his mind racing. He has to find a way out, a way to beat the Grandmaster at his own game. But first… First, he has to undo the damage he’s just done.

And he has what the Grandmaster wants. 

Chapter Text

Thor is running again, his breath ragged in his throat as his feet pound the ground beneath him. The village around him blurs into a familiar haze of desolation; empty houses, lifeless streets, an eerie wind that howls through the silence.

His muscles ache, his chest burns, and his heart feels like it’s going to tear itself apart from how hard it’s beating. But none of that matters. All that matters is the boy. The small child running just ahead of him, always just out of reach.

“Wait!” Thor shouts, his voice hoarse, his legs straining to carry him faster. How is it possible that this child is so much faster than him? “Please, just wait!”

But the boy doesn’t stop. He never does. His little feet move silently over the dirt, his small figure darting through the shadows like a wisp of smoke, always slipping through Thor’s grasp. The boy’s face is streaked with dirt and tears, his eyes wide with fear, and his clothes are tattered, hanging loosely from his frail body.

The child looks so much like him. Like Loki. A younger version, innocent and scared, the trickster stripped of all his mischief and bravado. Just his baby brother. But every time Thor tries to catch up, tries to save him, the boy disappears into the shadows. He always dies, only for everything to reset. The village rewinds, and Thor is back at the beginning, watching helplessly as the boy runs again.

It’s happened hundreds of times now. Maybe thousands. Thor’s lost count. Every reset is the same. He runs after the boy, desperate to save him, only for the child to slip away, dying gruesomely before the world resets again. It’s a cycle of failure, endless and unyielding.

Each reset breaks Thor a little more.

His legs scream in protest now, and his lungs feel like they’re on fire, but still, he pushes forward. He has to save the boy. He has to protect him, just like he always should have protected Loki. If he can just reach him, if he can just reach him, it’ll be enough. It won’t make up for all the times he failed his brother, but at least it would be something.

But then, something shifts in Thor’s mind.

He’s been running and running, chasing the boy, chasing his guilt, chasing the past, and yet… he’s never once caught him. He’s never once saved him. No matter how fast he runs, no matter how hard he tries. The boy always dies.

Always.

Thor’s steps falter for a moment, his breath coming in sharp gasps as the realization hits him, slow at first, then all at once. His mind swims with exhaustion, but the truth starts to take shape, rising to the surface like a sunken ship emerging from the depths.

I’m not supposed to save him.

The thought strikes him like a thunderbolt, freezing him in place.

That’s the point.

He’s not supposed to catch the boy. He’s not supposed to save him. He’s supposed to let him go. That’s what the Grandmaster wants. The truth is bitter, but it settles over Thor with a cold finality that feels like a punch to the gut. He can’t save everyone.

Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, and Thor’s heart clenches in his chest as the full weight of the lesson settles on his shoulders. He’s spent so long trying to protect everyone. His friends, his family, his people- always fighting to keep them safe, always blaming himself when he failed. But there are some things he can’t stop. Some people he can’t save. He couldn’t save Loki from the pain of their father’s lies. He couldn’t save his mother. He couldn’t even save Loki from the hell he’s been in for the last... Norns, however long it’s been. 

He can’t save this boy.

The boy doesn’t stop running. He darts down the same path as always, his small figure disappearing into the shadows of the collapsing village. Thor stands frozen, watching the boy grow smaller and smaller until he’s gone from sight.

The reset should come, just like all the times before. But it doesn’t.

Thor’s legs buckle, and he sinks to his knees in the dirt, his chest heaving as the reality of it all crashes down on him. The endless resets, the guilt, the chasing, it’s been for nothing. He wasn’t supposed to win. He was supposed to learn to let go. 

“I’m sorry,” Thor whispers, his voice breaking as he stares at the empty street where the boy vanished. “I’m so sorry.”

A gust of wind sweeps through the village, stirring the dust at his feet. The sky above him, which had been eternally gray, begins to clear, the clouds slowly parting to reveal a bright, pale sun. The oppressive weight in the air begins to lift, and Thor feels a strange sense of release, like the knot in his chest that’s been tightening with every reset has finally loosened.

Thor stays kneeling in the dirt for a long time, his body trembling with exhaustion and emotion. He doesn’t know how long he’s there, but when he finally rises to his feet, the village is still. Silent. No resets. 

He wipes the tears from his face and straightens, his chest heavy but his mind clearer than it’s been in ages. He knows, now, what the Grandmaster wanted from him. What the game was designed to teach him.

The village fades away, dissolving into the ether like dust scattered on the wind. Thor is alone in the fading light, floating in an endless, pale nothing. 

Loki looks up from where he’s sitting, his face tight, eyes stinging with tears. He watches the first light flicker on. 

Sigyn’s breath hitches in her throat as the pleasant chime rings out, signaling the end of her previous choice. The objects in front of her vanish into thin air, just like all the others before them, but this time, there’s no new set. The empty space before her remains untouched, and the room falls eerily silent.

Is that it? She wonders, her pulse quickening. That can’t be it.

The Grandmaster couldn’t have arranged this whole game for her just for her to–

And then she hears it; a faint metallic groan above her. The sound is subtle at first, but it grows louder, more pronounced, until the noise echoes throughout the chamber. Sigyn’s heart plummets as she looks up, her entire body stiffening with dread.

Suspended high above her, two cages begin to lower slowly into view, their forms shrouded in shadow as they descend. Her mouth goes dry, and she takes a step back, her stomach twisting painfully with anxiety. Those cages, she had known something would eventually happen with those cages. 

And then she sees them.

Two little boys, identical twins, sitting quietly in the cages. Their dark curly hair is tousled, their small, chubby hands gripping the bars. They don’t cry, don’t call out for her- just watch with wide, innocent eyes. Eyes that hold a recognition so deep, so personal, that Sigyn’s heart wrenches in her chest.

Her babies.

She knows them. She knows them in a way that transcends reason, that reaches down into the very core of her being. These are her children. She’s never met them, never held them, but she knows. Those are her babies. They are part of her. 

She’s having twins. 

Her mind races, the pieces falling into place. She’s having twins. Her hands instinctively move to her belly, where there should be the faint feeling of life, but the Grandmaster’s twisted illusion keeps her from feeling their presence.

Sigyn’s breath shakes as tears blur her vision. She doesn’t know what their names will be yet, hasn’t had the chance to think that far ahead. But none of that matters. She knows who they are. They’re hers. She rises on trembling legs to go to them, she needs to get them out of there. 

Before she can take another step toward them, the voice returns. Cold, detached, and unfeeling.

“Choose.”

The voice repeats the command, louder this time, and Sigyn’s world narrows to the two cages in front of her, her heart pounding in her ears. Oh, no. No, no, no. Choose? As if it’s possible for a mother to choose between her children.

She can’t. She won’t. How could she? They’re both her sons. They’re both a part of her.

Her hands tremble as her mind races, the pressure of the impossible decision crushing her from all sides. She takes a step toward the cages, her eyes wide and desperate as she tries to find a way out. There has to be a way out. Some loophole, some trick she can use. Anything.

“Please,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Please, don’t make me do this.”

But the voice doesn’t relent. It echoes again, cold and mechanical. “Choose.”

Tears spill down Sigyn’s cheeks as she stares at her boys, both of them so small, so fragile, so utterly dependent on her to save them. How could she possibly choose between them? How could she live with the guilt of condemning one of her children? Even if this isn’t real, it certainly feels it, and how could she possibly…

Her heart splinters, and her body trembles. This is cruel, needlessly cruel. Her voice breaks as she sobs, her hands reaching out helplessly toward both cages. “I can’t! I can’t—Please! Don’t make me choose between my babies!”

The voice remains unmoved. “Choose.”

The cages stop lowering, now hovering at eye level with her. She can see the boys more clearly now—one of them clutching the bars in confusion, the other sitting back, his eyes wide but trusting. Her breath comes in shallow, desperate gasps as the reality of her situation settles in.

“Both,” she says, making her decision. She can’t do it like this. She turns her head upward and yells, loud enough for the voice, for the Grandmaster, for the Norns themselves to hear her. “I choose both!” The chime that sounded whenever she made a decision before sounds again, but this time it sounds angry. Wrong. The voice commands her again. 

“Invalid. Choose.” 

Sigyn looks at the two boys in front of her, at the endless nothing that stretches below the cages. 

She has to choose. That’s how this game works. 

A choked sob escapes her as she steps forward, her body shaking violently. Her hand hovers between the two cages, her mind screaming at her, begging her not to do it. But she knows if she doesn’t choose, something even worse will happen. She’ll lose them both, or something else she can’t predict. If nothing else, during her time on this planet, she’s learned that the Grandmaster is cruel. And creative. 

With a trembling hand, she reaches for the cage on the right, the one containing the boy who is gripping the bars, his eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and hope. Her heart aches as she touches the cold metal, her choice made.

The soft chime sounds again. The choice was accepted. 

The bars of the chosen cage begin to open slowly, the child inside released. Sigyn’s knees nearly give out in relief, her heart pounding in her chest. The other cage, however, remains sealed, and the boy inside, her other son, watches with innocent eyes, and she can’t stomach looking at him. 

Sigyn takes a step toward her freed son, tears blurring her vision as she reaches out for him. But before she can embrace him, a scream of agony rips through the room.

She turns in horror to see her other son, still trapped in his cage, suddenly convulsing, his small body writhing in pain. His screams are heart-wrenching, piercing the air with a sound that tears at Sigyn’s very soul.

“No! No, no, no- What happened?!” She screams his name, the realization flooding her mind, but it’s too late. His body twists violently, his small limbs elongating, bones cracking and snapping as they reshape into something monstrous.

Her baby is turning into a wolf.

Sigyn’s heart shatters as she watches in helpless horror, her hand reaching out toward him even as her freed son clings to her leg, sobbing. The caged boy’s transformation is swift and brutal, his small body contorting into the feral shape of a snarling wolf. His innocent eyes are gone, replaced by wild, predatory things.

He’s no longer her boy.

Before Sigyn can even react, the cage door swings open. The wolf lunges at her son, his jaws closing around his brother’s throat with a sickening crunch, claws tearing through flesh with a vicious ferocity. 

Sigyn screams, her voice filled with raw, unimaginable pain as she rushes forward to stop him, but it’s too late. Blood pools at her feet as the boy’s body crumples to the ground, lifeless.

And her once sweet, innocent boy, stands over his brother’s torn body, his chest heaving with bloodlust. For a second, when she nets his eyes, there’s a flash of something. Something human, something confused. And then he vanishes in that same way the other choices did. 

Sigyn collapses to the ground, her body shaking violently as she clutches the limp form of one of her babies, sobbing uncontrollably. She holds him tightly, her mind shattered, unable to comprehend the nightmare unfolding around her.

Everything goes white. 

Loki swallows back about three pills from the Grandmaster’s stash that he’d found hidden in the mini bar when he hears the second light flick on. 

He’s running out of time. 

“Oh, what the fuck?!”

Val and Ari stand in the center of the room once again, their breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps. It’s the same room, always the same room. No matter what door they go through, no matter how many times they try to escape, they always end up back here. It’s maddening. The flickering lights, the cold, sterile air, and the silence that feels like it wants to choke them. It all feels suffocating.

Val is trembling, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles are white. The last room had been the worst. She had been forced to walk through the battlefield of the Valkyries, to relive the moment she lost her sisters, her comrades, her love, to Hela’s wrath. She had tried to block it out, to keep her focus on Ari, on getting them through this game. But the memory was too much. The blood, the screams, the sight of her sisters falling, one after the other. It was all too real.

Her entire body is coiled with frustration, with grief, with a rage she hasn’t let herself feel in years. And now, standing in this room again, back at the center of this endless cycle, she’s had it.

With a roar of frustration, Val slams her fists into the floor. Hard. The impact sends a shockwave through the room, a crack splintering through the smooth surface beneath them. She hits it again, and again, her strength fueled by years of bottled-up fury and the overwhelming need to break something.

Ari flinches at the force of Val’s blows, her wide eyes flicking down to the cracks forming beneath them. But then, something clicks in her mind. Her heart races as she realizes what’s been nagging at her this entire time, that strange feeling in her gut she hasn’t been able to place.

“They’re spinning,” Ari whispers, her eyes widening in sudden understanding.

“What?” Val snarls, pausing mid-punch, her fists still clenched tight.

“The rooms!” Ari exclaims, stepping closer to Val. “That’s what’s been happening! The rooms are spinning us around, that’s why we keep ending up back here! We’re not walking in circles, Val, the room is spinning!”

Val stares at her, trying to process the information, her breathing still ragged from her outburst. “So what do we do?” She growls, still itching for something to break.

“Keep hitting the ground!” Ari urges. “You’re breaking through the surface! We need to crack it open!” Val doesn’t need any more encouragement. She slams her fists into the floor again, harder this time, and the cracks spiderweb out across the room, growing deeper with each hit. The ground beneath them begins to tremble, the spinning sensation intensifying as Val channels all her fury, all the pain, all that grief into breaking through.

The floor finally gives way with a deafening crack, splitting open like an egg. Val and Ari fall, tumbling into the bright nothingness below, their bodies weightless for a terrifying moment before they land on separate floating platforms suspended in a vast, static void. The silence here is different, heavier, oppressive in a way that feels wrong, like the air itself is dead. They spin quickly, in circles that make cold air rush against their faces. 

Ari clings to her platform, her claws digging into the surface as her body shakes uncontrollably. Her heart is pounding in her chest, her fear spiraling out of control as the endless void stretches out beneath her. She tries to hold it together, but everything- the game, the fear, the sensation of something pulling her down, the fear that she could fall at any moment… overwhelms her.

“I’m sorry,” Ari calls out, her voice trembling. She doesn’t look at Val, her eyes locked on the blindingly white, static void below. “I’m so sorry, Val! This is all my fault! If I hadn’t wanted to leave Sakaar so badly, if I hadn’t…” Her voice breaks, and she presses her forehead against the platform, her claws scratching uselessly at the surface. “None of this would’ve happened!”

Val, hanging onto her own platform, looks over at Ari, her heart wrenching. She can hear the fear in the girl’s voice, the guilt weighing her down, and it cuts deep. Ari shouldn’t be blaming herself for this. None of this was her fault. It was Sakaar’s fault. It was the Grandmaster’s fault. But not Ari’s.

“Ari, stop,” Val says, her voice firm but gentle. “This isn’t your fault. You wanted to leave Sakaar because Sakaar is hell. I can’t blame you for that.”

Ari looks up, her eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. “But I-”

“No,” Val cuts her off, her expression softening. “Listen to me. Sakaar takes from everyone, and most people never get out. You’re not the only one who’s wanted to escape. I’ve wanted out for years, too.” Her voice softens even further. “Most people never want to leave because it would be too hard to change. They don't know how to live anywhere else. That’s what kept me here for so long. Sakaar is awful, Ari. I can’t blame you for wanting more than what it could offer. You deserve better. We both do.”

Ari sniffles, her grip tightening on the platform. “But we’re still stuck. Even if we leave, Sakaar’s still going to be with us. It’ll never really let us go.”

Val looks at her, her expression hardening with determination. “It won’t,” she agrees. “But we have each other. That’s something Sakaar can’t take.”

Ari nods, her lip trembling as she tries to hold back the tears. But before either of them can say anything more, the platform that Ari is clinging to begins to shake violently. Ari gasps, her claws scraping uselessly against the surface as she loses her grip.

“Val!” Ari screams, her voice filled with raw panic as she slips from the platform and falls into the whiteness below.

“Ari!” Val’s voice rips through the stillness as she lunges for her, but the distance between them is too great. Her heart stops, her body going cold as she watches Ari plummet, the girl’s terrified eyes locking with hers as she disappears into the dark. Val screams, her voice breaking as she stretches her arm out in desperation. But it’s too late.

Ari is gone.

Val’s breath comes in sharp, ragged bursts, her chest heaving with the shock of it all. She hangs there, her body trembling. That didn’t happen. Please, that didn’t happen.

Please, not another sister…

Then, suddenly, everything freezes. The platforms stop shaking, the void itself seems to pause, and the room grows still. It’s as if time itself has stopped. Val barely has a chance to process what’s happening before the platforms, the floating debris begins to fade away, dissolving into nothingness. 

Back in Loki’s room, another light flicks on beneath the clock, casting a cold, harsh glow over the space. Loki watches it, stares for a few seconds before knocking back the last of his drink. It burns on the way down. 

Clock’s ticking, he thinks grimly. 

Three out of five lights. That leaves only himself and Banner. His heart pounds in his chest, and he feels as if everything he’s witnessed threatens to drown him, but clarity cuts through the haze of fear. The answer is obvious now, even as it makes him sick to his core.

The Grandmaster only wants one thing from him.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly, steadying himself. He’s been here before. He’s been to this place of degradation and submission. He can’t let himself break now. Not when they’re so close to the end. He knows exactly what's expected of him here.

“Grandmaster,” he says quietly at first, his voice rough, almost inaudible. His throat tightens, and for a moment, he struggles to push the words past the knot of revulsion in his chest. He takes a breath, in through his nose, before he speaks louder, forcing the words out. “Grandmaster, I know you can hear me. I’m… I’m sorry.”

The air shifts in the room, changing with the Grandmaster’s presence before he even materializes. Loki knows he’s here, lurking just beyond his vision. But he forces himself to remain calm, to keep his gaze forward. This is the only way out.

There’s a soft, pleased chuckle from behind him, and the Grandmaster materializes on the sofa, lounging comfortably as though he’s been there the whole time. “Oh, Lo-Lo,” he says, his voice practically purring with satisfaction. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

Loki turns slowly, his demeanor one of practiced submission, even as revulsion claws at his insides. He forces himself to walk toward the Grandmaster, pushing himself forward, until he’s standing before him.

His eyes meet the Grandmaster’s, and he can feel the man’s gaze drinking in every inch of him, hungry and possessive. He knows this game. He’s played it hundreds of times before. Perhaps he should be grateful for the Grandmaster... Choosing a game that Loki knows the rules of so well.

Without hesitating, without letting himself think, Loki steps forward, straddling the Grandmaster’s lap just as he did in the beginning; back when he wanted oblivion, back when he sought out anything to numb the pain. 

The Grandmaster’s hands move to Loki’s hips immediately. Loki’s body trembles, a fine shiver running down his spine as the Grandmaster’s hands trace slow, deliberate lines across his skin.

The touch is familiar in the worst way, possessive and greedy, and Loki has to summon every last ounce of self-control to keep his body from recoiling immediately. He feels the Grandmaster’s breath against his neck, warm and oppressive as the older man leans in closer, speaking in that sickeningly soft purr.

“You’re a clever boy, aren’t you?” The Grandmaster’s hands sliding up Loki’s sides, tracing the lines of his body with slow movements. “You’ve figured out what it takes to end the game. But you know, sweetheart…” His grip tightens slightly, groping, sending a fresh wave of nausea through Loki’s gut. “It’s not enough to just be here. You have to mean it.”

Loki bites down hard on the inside of his cheek until the taste of copper spreads across his tongue, but he keeps his face neutral, playing the role the Grandmaster expects. He’s done this before, hasn’t he? Played this game. What’s one more time? He swallows the bile rising in his throat, keeping his voice low, compliant. “Yes, Grandmaster,” he says, his tone soft and obedient, the way he knows the Grandmaster likes it.

The Grandmaster chuckles, his hands sliding lower, roaming over Loki’s body as if it belongs to him, which… it does. His touch is invasive, his fingers ghosting over sensitive skin, and Loki has to fight his body’s urge to tense. He feels trapped, suffocated, but he knows better than to resist. Not yet. Not until that final light flicks on. 

“Good boy,” the Grandmaster smiles. His hands slide down Loki’s body, roaming over his skin, possessive and greedy. He tilts his head, his eyes bright with cruel amusement. There’s a slowness to his movements that makes Loki want to crawl out of his skin but he can’t help but tremble as the Grandmaster’s hands roam lower, his touch lingering. With a sudden snap of his fingers, Loki’s clothes vanish, leaving him bare and vulnerable in the cold, open air of the room. 

Loki gasps involuntarily at the sudden shock of cold against his skin, but he doesn’t pull away. He can’t. “Tell me,” the Grandmaster whispers, his breath hot against Loki’s ear as his hands continue to wander, caressing and grabbing. “Do you like it when I touch you like this?”

The Grandmaster’s fingers trail across Loki’s chest, teasing his nipples, sliding lower, exploring, claiming.

A choked sound escapes Loki’s throat- half a moan, half a gasp- before he can stop it, and his heart pounds wildly in his chest. He hates this. He hates that his body reacts, hates that it betrays him, that his flesh doesn’t seem to care about what this is doing to his mind.

Loki’s throat tightens, but he forces the words out, knowing there’s only one acceptable answer. There’s only ever been one answer. “Yes, Grandmaster.”

The Grandmaster’s eyes gleam with delight, his fingers tightening their hold. “Good boy. That’s what I like to hear.” Loki is rewarded for his efforts with the Grandmaster’s hand closing around his shaft with- fuck - the perfect amount of pressure.

Loki whines softly, his body chasing after that touch, and the Grandmaster smiles. “And you know what happens when you lie to me now, don’t you, Lo-Lo?” The Grandmaster’s voice darkens, though the smile remains, a predator playing with its prey. His spare hand slides lower, over Loki’s hips, teasing, the other one pumping lazily.

Loki’s flesh responds, eagerly, desperately, to the touches that make his mind recoil. He loathes himself for it, for every sensation that his body welcomes. There’s only one thing he’s allowed to say.

“Yes, Grandmaster.” The words taste like ash in his mouth, but they slip out more easily now, without hesitation. His voice trembles as he speaks, his breath shallow, ragged, but the answer is clear. He’s learned what’s expected of him.

The Grandmaster’s smile widens, his fingers continuing their exploration, mapping out every inch of Loki’s body with a knowing precision. He knows Loki’s body. He knows it well. “And you want to make me happy, don’t you?” His voice is honeyed, gentle. “Hm?” Loki’s body shudders, his breath catching in his throat. He wants to deny it, wants to scream that none of this is real, that this isn’t him—but part of him knows. Part of him has already accepted it.

“Yes,” Loki whimpers, his voice breaking. “I-I want… I want to.” His heart twists painfully as the words leave his lips, but it’s the truth now. It’s become the truth. He wants to make the Grandmaster happy. He needs to. Because that’s all that’s left of him.

“And you do, sweetheart. You definitely do.” The Grandmaster’s voice is almost sweet, loving, and the words sink into Loki’s skin, burrowing into the deepest parts of him. It’s why he’s still alive now. Because the Grandmaster wanted him alive. And when he was happy, so was Loki. Or at least something close to it. 

He’s not sure he remembers what happiness actually feels like. But he thinks he had it then.

“Such a pretty little thing... I’m gonna miss having you around, kitten.” Despite himself, despite everything, there’s a part of Loki—a part bigger than he wants to admit—that brightens at those words. A sick, twisted relief spreads through him, the smallest shred of approval from the Grandmaster enough to make his mind latch onto it. He’s making the Grandmaster happy. He’s doing what he’s supposed to do. He’s doing good.

And it makes Loki hate himself even more.

The Grandmaster’s hands continue to wander, his touch invasive. More questions follow, and each time, Loki responds with the same, “Yes, Grandmaster,” fighting to keep his voice steady, fighting to keep his mind from spiraling too far.

Every stroke of the Grandmaster’s hand, every touch, brings him closer to the edge, and Loki’s body- this wretched traitorous body - begins to betray him further, reacting to the Grandmaster’s touch.

It’s only a few moments until Loki hears a faint explosion from the screens behind him, followed by the sound of a fourth light flickering on. Bruce. There’s only one light left. It’s all on him now. 

Don’t look at the clock. Don’t think about it.

The Grandmaster presses closer, his body flush against Loki’s, his breath ragged as he grinds his hips against Loki, his cock sliding between Loki’s thighs. His hands grip Loki’s sides possessively, pulling him closer as he grinds harder.

Loki’s body continues to turn against him, the pleasure ratcheting too high too fast, the Grandmaster’s rough touches coaxing gasps of pleasure from him that he can’t suppress. He hates how he can’t even stop the pathetic sounds that slip from his lips.

He’s so close now, his body teetering on the edge of release, but he knows—he knows he can’t let go. Not yet. He hasn’t been given permission, and he can’t risk it. He needs permission. He needs the Grandmaster’s approval.

“And you’ll always be just a little bit mine, won’t you, kitten?” The Grandmaster’s voice is a low whisper in his ear, intimate, dark. His breath sends a shiver down Loki’s spine, a chill that freezes him in place.

Loki’s entire body trembles as the words sink in, the reality of them crashing over him with brutal clarity. The truth gnaws at him, a truth he’s been running from since the moment he stepped foot on Sakaar, since the moment he gave in.

He is the Grandmaster’s.

No matter what happens. No matter how far he runs, no matter if he leaves Sakaar, no matter if he returns to Asgard or vanishes into the void, part of him will always belong to this man. This place.

The Grandmaster’s hands tighten, his movements growing more insistent, driving Loki toward that inevitable end. “Answer me, Lo-Lo,” he says. “Say it.”

Loki’s entire body is trembling now, his hands useless, shaking things as they rest on the Grandmaster’s chest. There are tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as the truth tears him apart from the inside. He can’t escape it. And he can’t lie. He has to mean it.

“Yes, Grandmaster.”

The tears in Loki’s eyes threaten to fall as the Grandmaster’s hand moves lower again, stroking him, bringing him closer and closer to release. He can feel it building, the pleasure overwhelming, his body screaming for release. He’s on the edge, and he’s losing control, but he can’t do it yet. “Please…” Loki whispers, his voice trembling, his body shaking.

The Grandmaster’s smile is wide and cruel. “Mmm, another one of my favorite words.” His hands tighten on Loki’s body, his voice a purr of satisfaction. “Go ahead, Lo-Lo. Come.”

And with that final push, Loki’s body obeys, his release ripped from him as he gasps, spilling over the Grandmaster's hand. The Grandmaster quickly follows, painting Loki’s stomach with his release, and that smile widens, triumphant. “Good boy,” he whispers, his hands sliding up to cup Loki’s face, tilting his head down toward him.

He shuts out the revulsion, shuts out everything else. He leans in, his lips brushing against the Grandmaster’s. His breath shakes as he forces himself to close the distance. He kisses the Grandmaster, slow and purposeful. He pulls the Grandmaster closer, his hands gripping his shoulders, his lips parting to let the kiss deepen. He presses forward, kissing the Grandmaster with a desperation that he didn’t even know that he possessed.

There’s a sudden rush of bright light; a brilliant, blinding flash.

Loki pulls away, gasping for breath, his body trembling as the air around them changes, the energy shifting. The Grandmaster is no longer beneath him. 

He’s alone. 

Loki floats in an endless expanse of white nothingness, weightless, untethered. There is no sound, no sense of time, just an endless, empty white void that stretches on into infinity. For a moment, or perhaps longer, he wonders if this is it, if this is what death feels like. Silent. Blank. Empty. 

But no. Of course not.

The whiteness begins to recede slowly, like a thick fog lifting from his mind. He blinks, and the familiar harshness of the hangar fades into view, solid and cold.

The steel walls and stone floors come back into focus, and his feet find purchase on the ground beneath him once more. His clothes are back, familiar leathers covering him in a way he's missed so desperately.

The reality of Sakaar reasserts itself, and Loki exhales shakily, the relief so tangible that it nearly buckles his knees when his eyes land on the others standing nearby, alive and whole.

They’ve won. They actually won the game. 

Sigyn’s eyes find him first, golden gaze wide with shock. There’s a brief moment of hesitation, but then she bolts toward him, her legs carrying her across the hangar.

Without thinking, she throws herself into his arms, clutching him as though he might disappear if she lets him go. Loki stiffens under the sudden contact, his muscles locking as she buries her face into his chest, her body trembling against him as soft sobs escape her lips.

She’s crying, but Loki can’t move. He can’t seem to process the warmth of her in his arms, the way her tears wet his skin, or the gentle way her fingers clutch at his back. It feels surreal, like something he can’t quite connect with. His throat constricts, but no words come. He’s stuck, frozen, his mind still catching up to him after…

Loki shudders. 

He should say something, anything, but all he can do is stand there, stiff and unmoving, letting her cry against him. Thor approaches next, his footsteps heavy.

There’s worry plainly written across his face, a quiet relief underneath with the exhaustion that clings to him. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask questions, just places a firm hand on Loki’s shoulder. Behind Thor, Bruce stands awkwardly, his posture tense, still visibly rattled. His eyes move nervously between the others, like he’s still waiting for something to go wrong.

On the far side of the hangar, Valkyrie and Ari find each other, their own relief palpable. Val exhales deeply, her hardened expression softening as she grips Ari’s shoulders, pulling the younger girl into a tight embrace.

Ari’s breathless laughter fills the space and she cries in what Loki can only assume is joy. He’d seen it, the fall Ari had taken, and Val had feared the worst. She’s alive and well, though. Happy. Val’s grip tightens for a moment longer, and then she lets go, stepping back as if to reassure herself that Ari is still here.

The quiet relief in the room is fragile, tentative, as if everyone is still processing the fact that they survived. Sigyn pulls back slightly from Loki, her tear-streaked face looking up at him with a desperate urgency.

“Loki,” she breathes, her voice shaking. “In—In my game, I-I saw them, I—Our babies-”

The sharp sound of slow clapping echoes through the hangar, cutting through the fragile peace like a blade. Loki’s body goes rigid, his heart seizing in his chest as his head snaps toward the sound. 

The Grandmaster stands at the far end of the hangar, an infuriatingly casual smile plastered across his face, his hands coming together in slow, mocking applause. “Well done, you guys!” He calls out, “I just really- Really, I’m impressed!”

Loki’s blood runs cold, his hands curling into fists at his sides as he steps away from Sigyn, moving protectively in front of her. His expression twists into a snarl. “We won,” he spits, “Your insipid little game. We won.”

The Grandmaster’s eyebrow arches slightly, a smirk on his lips as he tilts his head, walking closer. “Mmm, did you?”

Loki’s jaw tightens, his voice rising with anger. “Yes! We won. So now you let me go. All of us.”

For a moment, the Grandmaster simply watches him, his smile widening, the glint in his eyes taking on an even more sinister edge. With a lazy wave of his hand, he concedes. “Oh, alright, alright. I’m nothing if not a man of my word, sweet thing. You won fair and square.”

Loki swallows hard, his voice sharp and cutting. “Loki. My name is Loki.” He’s honestly impressed that he managed to say those words without his voice breaking. 

The Grandmaster’s grin never falters, though his eyes narrow just slightly. He steps closer, his posture relaxed, casual, but there’s an underlying threat in the way he moves, in the way he holds himself. “Ooh, the angry eyes. I do love that look on you.”

Loki’s fists tighten, his nails biting into his palms as his magic hums dangerously beneath the surface of his skin. His entire body is coiled with tension, every instinct screaming at him to lash out, to destroy this man for everything he’s done. But he holds back. He knows it would be useless. 

“The game is over,” Loki growls, though this time, his voice does shake, “Let us leave.”

The Grandmaster sighs theatrically, holding his hands up in mock surrender as he takes a step back, still wearing that infuriating smirk. “You’re free to go,” he says, “You and your little friends. Go on, off with you.”

He waves his hand toward the waiting ship, the vessel sleek and pristine, its metallic surface gleaming under the hangar lights. The Grandmaster leans in closer, his voice dropping to a sickeningly intimate whisper. “Go on, Lo. I have plenty more just like it.” 

Valkyrie and Ari lead the way, Val’s shoulders tense, her eyes flicking back every few seconds as if expecting something to go wrong. Thor walks beside Bruce, the two exchanging quiet words, both clearly exhausted but determined to put this place behind them.

Loki lingers behind them, his steps slower. Sigyn is close by his side, fidgeting with her hair in that same nervous way he remembers. She’s still trembling, her eyes swollen from crying, and he can see that she’s trying to stay strong, trying to hold herself together. But Loki can feel her gaze on him, feel the questions burning on her lips. She wants to talk about what she saw, whatever it was, but she doesn’t. Not yet. He’s grateful for that. He’s not ready to face it.

The ramp to the ship extends, a low hum filling the air as it lowers to the ground. Valkyrie steps onto it first, motioning for Ari to follow. Bruce hesitates for a moment, glancing back at Loki with a look of sympathy (pity, Loki thinks) before stepping onto the ship after them. Thor hangs back, his eyes on his brother, waiting for him to move.

Loki exhales, his chest tight as he steps forward. He can feel Sigyn beside him, her presence a grounding force, even though his mind is still spinning. He has to leave this place. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to breathe correctly until he’s gone. 

But then, just as he reaches the base of the ramp, a voice cuts through the air, smooth and languid, stopping Loki dead in his tracks. “And Lo-Lo?” Loki’s entire body goes rigid. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t even have to. He can imagine that smug smile anyway. “You’re always welcome back.” He swallows hard, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs. He doesn’t turn around. He can’t.

The Grandmaster’s words are like a brand, searing into his mind. You’re always welcome back. He knows what it means. He knows that even though they’re leaving, the Grandmaster’s mark is on him, on all of them. No matter how far they go, no matter how much time passes, Sakaar will never truly let him go.

Loki’s soul is scattered across the universe.

Thor’s hand lands on Loki’s shoulder, and Loki startles at the sudden presence beside him, protective like a guard dog. His brother’s grip is firm, steady, and for a moment, Loki is grateful for it. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, doesn’t trust himself to respond to the Grandmaster’s taunt. But Thor does. His voice is low, dangerous as he ushers Loki up the ramp. “We’re done here.”

The Grandmaster doesn’t reply, but Loki can feel his eyes on them as they board the ship, watching them. Loki steps inside, making a beeline toward the back of the ship so that he can fall apart in privacy.

He’d heard it before, but now he understands. The Grandmaster never loses his games. And the Grandmaster will always have his piece of him.

“Loki,” Thor’s voice is soft behind him, hesitant. “We’re free, brother. We made it out.”

Loki glances over his shoulder at him, his face unreadable, and he forces a small nod. “Yes,” he says, his voice hollow. “We’re free.”

But even as the stars stretch out before them, Loki knows that he’s far from it.

Chapter Text

Loki sits in a shadowed corner of the ship, away from the others. He’s doing his best to stay composed, his back pressed against the cold, metallic wall, fingers twisting and picking at the leather band around his neck. It took him longer than he would like to notice that the Grandmaster had left it on him, the collar. His hands shake, but he forces them to work, ignoring the little voice that tells him to leave it where it is, to keep it on. He snaps the clasp free and pulls the band from his neck, holding it in his palm.

He stares down at the piece of leather, at the heart-shaped charm engraved with what has essentially become a second name for him. Kitten. He can hear the exact way that the Grandmaster would say it, the way that he would move a hand teasingly up Loki’s thigh as he handed him a drink or a drug to numb the pain of– everything . He runs his thumb over the worn material, and despite himself, he feels the sharp sting of something disgustingly close to loss in his chest. 

A sick, twisted part of him grieves. It shouldn’t hurt, it shouldn’t hurt, but it does. The familiarity of it, the numbing comfort, the forced obedience he clung to in those moments. A bitter laugh almost escapes his throat before he swallows it back.

Owned. Even now. 

He closes his hand around the collar, squeezing until his knuckles turn white, and with a slow, steady breath, lets his magic trickle through his fingers. He can reach it now, easily, feeling it flow through him like a river. A small, controlled flame flickers in his palm, engulfing the leather. He watches as it curls and blackens, finally dissolving into ash, the metal of the charm scorching. The ashes scatter in his hand, and he lets them fall through his fingers, ignoring the dull ache in his chest.

The sound of quiet footsteps approaches and Loki doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. Sigyn’s presence is unmistakable, grounding and steady, even as her own pain echoes in the subtle slump of her shoulders. She stops a few feet away, her gaze gentle but heavy, her hands lightly resting on the subtle curve of her stomach. The sight of that small bump twists something fiercely protective inside him with the recent memory of the twins— their twins, alive and helpless in a place he couldn’t reach them. They weren’t real. They couldn’t possibly have been. But that doesn’t change what happened, and it doesn’t change that Sigyn had to watch…

Sigyn’s eyes are still swollen from tears, her face drawn with exhaustion, yet somehow, she’s still radiant. She seems to gather herself before speaking, her voice soft and tentative. Almost fearful. “Love…” She pauses, and then, “Can we talk?”

Loki has never liked hearing those three words.

He tries to hold back the flicker of dread that runs through him, averting his eyes as he leans against the wall. His lips press into a thin line, but he nods, bracing himself. “Yes. We can talk.” The words are stiff, as if forcing them out might hold back the wave of anxiety that’s already creeping up on him. 

Sigyn takes a step closer, and Loki’s gaze drops to her hands on her belly, unable to stop himself. The barely-there bump is a small, beautiful reminder of the life they’re creating, the life he was certain they’d never have. It’s almost surreal, a small piece of hope amid the bleakness of everything they’ve endured. But that hope, however faint, terrifies him still.

She studies his face, her expression softening as if reading every fractured thought that crosses his mind. “I know you’re hurting,” she says, her tone gentle as she sits down beside him. “And I know that there are… things you don’t want to share. Things that might feel impossible to speak of.” She swallows, wringing her hands nervously. “But you don’t have to face them alone, Loki.”

Loki’s jaw clenches, his gaze moving away from her and toward the stars outside. He’s quiet for a long moment, gathering himself. Finally, he lets out a breath, his voice low and filled with an ache he can’t quite conceal. “I thought I was stronger,” he admits, his tone almost bitter. “I thought…” 

“You are.” She insists, and before he can open his mouth to point out to her why that’s simply untrue , she interrupts, continuing. “You are strong, love. Stronger than most, stronger than anyone I’ve ever seen. You have been strong for so long, it’s no wonder you’re so exhausted.” Sigyn reaches out, her hand brushing over his, her fingers curling around his palm. Her touch is warm, grounding, and despite himself, he lets her hold his hand. She brings it gently to her stomach, pressing his palm to the slight curve there. “But this… This is real,” she whispers, her voice barely above a breath. “They’re real, Loki. And they’re waiting for us. I’m here, waiting for you.”

His chest tightens, his fingers trembling against her skin as he feels the life they’re creating together, something pure and untouched by the horrors he’s endured. He wants to believe her, to believe in this future they’re building, but a sliver of doubt gnaws at him, deep and unrelenting.

Loki’s hand stays pressed against Sigyn’s growing belly, and a faint tremor runs through him as he absorbs her words. She’s watching him closely, her gaze unwavering, but Loki can sense the rawness there, the vulnerability she’s holding back.

“They’re ours,” she whispers, her voice filled with something both fragile and fierce. “I know… I know you saw what happened, but I know that what I felt was real. The Grandmaster’s games, his tricks—they could never make me feel that. I knew them, Loki. I knew exactly who they were.”

Loki’s hand tightens slightly against her stomach, his mind flashing back to the sight on the screen, Sigyn’s choice, but he forces himself to stay in the present, to ground himself in the warmth of her hand against his. She takes a shuddering breath, a tear slipping down her cheek, and Loki gently brushes it away. “What kind of mother am I?” She asks, the pain audible in her voice. “Choosing one of my own children… How could I ever…”

“No,” Loki interrupts softly, his tone steady, refusing to allow her to go down the spiraling rabbit hole he knows far too well. “Sigyn… what you went through… No mother should ever have to face something like that. You didn’t choose, not really. You had no choice. None of us did.” His thumb gently strokes her cheek, grounding them both. “It was a cruel illusion meant to break you. But it didn’t, Sigyn.”

Sigyn lets out a shaky sigh, her eyes lowering as she gathers her thoughts. “I don’t know if I’m as strong as you think, Loki.” Her voice is soft, filled with a sorrow she doesn’t often show. “I’ve already lost so much...” Her fingers tighten around his, like he’s a lifeline she’s terrified to lose. “My mother, my father, my brother…” She trails off, and he senses a part of her pulling away, drifting back into the past. “Ingvar was… horrible, cruel beyond words. I would never want him anywhere near our children. But…” Her voice cracks, raw and vulnerable. “But he was still my brother.”

Loki watches her carefully, his gaze gentle but intent, feeling her grief as though it were his own. He knows that ache of losing family—knows it well enough to know there’s no comfort, only the wound it leaves behind.

“I don’t think I can bear more loss,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I… I fear it might break me.” She turns to him in her tears as she searches his eyes. “Promise me, Loki. Promise me that, no matter what happens, you’ll stay with me. We’ll face it all together.”

He presses his forehead against hers, his voice soft as he makes that promise. “I swear it, Sigyn. No matter what comes, I will be here.” His words settle between them even as the foreboding of what lies ahead lingers like a shadow over him. Because he knows—privately, in his mind, in his heart—that if the choice ever came between them, he would give his life for hers in a heartbeat.

She is worth so much more than he is.

He knows loss intimately; knows it as a cruel, unyielding companion that has stripped pieces of him away, leaving scars that never truly heal. He’s lived with that reality for so long, that the idea of being someone’s solace, someone’s anchor, is foreign and almost unfathomable.

But as he looks at her, he sees the silent plea in her eyes, the hope threaded through her grief. She sees him as something solid, something constant. And that realization terrifies him more than any battle or enemy ever could.

The experience with the Grandmaster had changed him. Whether he wants to believe it or not. The sense of powerlessness, the forced compliance, the moments where he’d been reduced to nothing more than an instrument of someone else’s pleasure. It had left marks on him. The collar he’d just destroyed was a symbol of that, of control and submission, of a time when he’d been made to forget himself, and yet he mourned it. The degradation still clings to him, a shadow at the edge of his mind. He is the Grandmaster’s Favorite, whether he resides on Sakaar or not. 

And now, looking at Sigyn, he struggles to reconcile the person he is with the person she sees. He feels fractured, a mosaic of sharp edges and broken pieces, unable to fathom how she can hold those pieces and still see him as whole. How she can look at him, know the things he’s done, the things that have been done to him, and still find him lovable and worthy.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he whispers finally, the confession slipping out before he can stop it. His voice is strained. “How you can still see me as… worthy of any of this. Especially now, especially after…” He trails off, swallowing hard as the memory of the Grandmaster’s touch sears through him, unbidden. 

Sigyn’s hand tightens around his, grounding him, drawing him back to the present. Her eyes, still raw with emotion, hold a fierceness that surprises him. “Loki,” she says softly, “it doesn’t matter what others have done to you or what you’ve had to endure. None of that defines who you are to me. You’re more than those moments of darkness, more than the weight you carry.”

He shakes his head, a flicker of anger—at himself, at everything—crossing his face. “But it does define me, Sigyn. I can’t pretend that I’m the same. I’ve been…” His voice falters, cracks. “I’ve been broken.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver, even as tears continue to slip down her cheeks. “Then let me help put you back together,” she whispers, moving to hold his face in her hands, hands that have been scarred for loving him. “We don’t have to be whole to be loved, Loki. We don’t have to be perfect to deserve it.”

The simplicity of her words shakes him. He can’t even begin to wrap his mind around the fact that she still… “I don’t deserve you,” he admits, voice trembling, the truth of it searing his throat. He never has, least of all now. But he understands her reluctance to let go. She is pregnant with his children, and she has no one else. He is all she has, so she has no choice but to… make do with whatever little is left. 

Sigyn leans closer, pressing her forehead to his again, her voice steady as she replies, “I choose you, regardless of what you think you deserve. And I will always choose you, Loki.” She rubs her thumb against the back of his hand, and this time, Loki doesn’t argue. He wants to believe this. He wants to be the partner she needs, the person she wants him to be. For a moment… Norns, please just let him have a moment .

Sigyn’s hand moves over his, grounding him, and she offers him a faint smile, her eyes still glassy. “We’re having twins,” she says, a note of wonder in her voice, as if saying it aloud will anchor them both. She glances up at him through long lashes, golden eyes finding green. “What do you think they’ll be like?”

Loki’s lips curve as he places a hand over hers. “I imagine they’ll be just as stubborn as you,” he says, a hint of amusement softening his tone. “With your strength and my charm.” He smirks, a genuine lightness filling him for a moment.

She chuckles, the sound a comfort to the both of them, and a new warmth fills her gaze. “And clever,” she adds. “They’ll be clever, just like their father.” She pauses, a wistful look softening her expression. “What should we name them?”

Loki’s gaze drifts past her for a moment, as if lost in the space between what is and what could be. “I… I don’t know,” he admits. “It’s strange, isn’t it? To think about something so simple as names when everything around us is in ruins.”

Sigyn’s smile softens. “Maybe that’s why we need to. Maybe we need something simple, something… hopeful.”

He considers that, nodding slightly as the words settle into his heart. The names float in the back of his mind, unformed and waiting, like the first brushstrokes on a blank canvas. A tether to the life they want beyond this war. He swallows, thinking back to old stories, names whispered in the halls of Asgard’s libraries and within the chambers of his mother’s study. He thinks of resilience, of rebirth... “What about… Vali?” The name feels right in a way he can’t quite explain. 

Sigyn’s eyes soften, the corner of her mouth lifting in a tender smile. “Vali,” she repeats, letting it settle between them. “I like that.” She tilts her head, considering. “And Narvi,” she offers after a moment, the name slipping out like a secret she’s kept close to her heart.

“Vali and Narvi,” Loki repeats, tasting the names on his tongue. A sense of completeness fills the space between them. The thought of these names attached to their children—alive, free, and full of potential—brings a warmth he hadn’t realized he needed.

“It’s nice to think about something simple, isn’t it?” Sigyn whispers, her fingers intertwining with his, fingers slipping in between. 

“It is,” Loki agrees, tilting his head just enough for his eyes to lock with hers. For this moment, they allow themselves to exist here, together, away from the past that haunts them and the battle that awaits. Here, there is only the gentle thrum of hope and the names of their future whispered between them.

They share a moment of quiet, the ship’s subtle hum the only background noise as space stretches out beyond the viewport, silent and indifferent. It’s strange, thinking of names when so much uncertainty lies ahead. But it’s a comfort, an anchor in the storm, a piece of the future that belongs only to them.

Loki’s smile grows, a small glimmer of light breaking through the shadow that had hung over him for so long. “Vali and Narvi,” he repeats softly. 

“We’ll make sure they get a chance to live in a world where they know love,” Sigyn whispers, leaning her head against his shoulder. “A world where they’re safe.”

“And where they’ll never question that they are cherished,” Loki adds, his voice stronger now, edged with determination. His fingers intertwine with hers, a silent vow binding them together, stronger than any darkness that might come.

In this moment, they allow themselves to breathe, to feel the anticipation of what might come after the battle is over, after the dust settles. For just a heartbeat, the future feels like it may be theirs again, and that is enough.

As the ship breaks through the final bank of thick, roiling clouds, the devastation of Asgard sprawls below them like an open wound. The once-proud city is now nearly unrecognizable for what it once was, reduced to rubble and flame beneath an eerie, smoke-choked sky. Loki’s stomach knots as he looks down at the city that was once his home. Buildings lie shattered, broken columns jutting up like skeletal fingers. Fires burn uncontrolled across the palace grounds, a sickly orange glow cast over the dead soldiers scattered like broken dolls on the stone streets.

Val stands at the helm, her hands white-knuckled on the controls as she peers down at the devastation below, a frisson of emotion breaking through her expression. Her mouth tightens, and she draws a shaky breath. “Yep,” she mutters, “That’s Hela’s handiwork, alright.” She pauses, swallowing down whatever memories seem to rise up, her voice brittle with restraint. “I never thought I’d be back here.”

The ship shudders slightly as it clears the last layer of clouds. Standing behind Val, Bruce leans forward, his brow knit in bewilderment as he surveys the destruction. His voice comes out hesitant, almost apologetic. “I thought it’d be… nicer,” he says, trailing off as if realizing too late how inadequate the words sound. “Not that it’s not nice. It’s just… well, it’s on fire.”

Val’s expression remains stony as she taps a sequence on the console, bringing up a projected map that hovers in a soft glow over the dashboard. A bright cluster of red dots marks a point in the mountains above the city, the only sign of life among the ruin. “Here,” she says, raising a hand to indicate the lights. “Up in the mountains. Hela’s coming for them. The ones hiding… They’re all up there.”

Thor steps forward, his gaze fixed on the broken palace looming in the distance, the lines of his face set in a grim determination. He glances down at Val, taking in her words before nodding once. “Drop me off at the palace,” he says. “I’ll draw her away.”

Val shifts her gaze to him, raising an eyebrow. Her voice is low, edged with warning. “And get yourself killed ?”

Thor’s eyes never leave the screen. “The people down there matter more than I do,” he replies, the conviction in his voice unshakeable. “While I’m dealing with Hela, I need you four to help get everyone off Asgard.”

Bruce shuffles, his expression shrouded in uncertainty and anxiety as he glances between Thor and Val. “How are we supposed to do that?” 

A faint smile tugs at the corner of Thor’s mouth, though his gaze remains steely, focused on the task ahead. “I have a man on the ground,” he says, his tone lifting with a note of confidence, as if that alone is enough to turn the tides in their favor.

Loki watches Thor, a strange mix of pride and dread tightening in his chest. His focus shifts, eyes drawn to the Bifrost bridge, where an enormous, dark shape stands sentinel. “Oh, come on .” The figure prowling along the gleaming bridge is something from old tales, a creature whose very existence had been brushed off as myth. Loki’s heart skips as he realizes who it is. “Fenrir?” He whispers, barely able to believe his eyes. “He’s real ?”

Noticing Loki’s expression, Bruce squints, following his gaze. “The… giant wolf?”

Ari crosses her arms, her tone dry as she observes the beast prowling the bridge. “Yeah, I can’t say I’m crazy about that.”

Loki shakes his head, torn between bitterness and a childlike wonder. “I asked my mother if I could have him as a child. I was told he didn’t exist, that he was just a story.” His voice trails off, an annoyance simmering beneath his words, directed more at the years of lies than the sight of Fenrir himself.

Thor chuckles softly, casting a sidelong glance at him. “Honestly, I’m glad they lied. Imagining you as a child riding that thing around… that’s nightmare material.”

Loki smirks, unable to help himself. “Oh, hush. I was a saint.”

Val rolls her eyes at their banter as she grips the controls and pulls the ship into a sharp descent. “As cute as this little family moment is, we’re coming in hot,” she announces, her voice all business. In a fluid motion, she summons her armor, her white-and-gold Valkyrie set gleaming even in the ashen shadow of the city below. She unsheathes Dragonfang, her expression hard, her grip tight on the familiar weapon. “Note to everyone: don’t die.”

Sigyn, her eyes lingering on Fenrir, leans closer, her brow furrowed with worry. “There’s still the issue of the wolf. How are we going to—”

She’s cut off as Bruce steps forward, his face set with surprising determination. “Everything’s going to be okay. I got this,” he says, voice steady.

Val’s eyebrows lift as she stares at him, her disbelief evident. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Bruce draws a deep breath, glancing down as if to steel himself, and then turns back, his face set. “You’ll see.” Without another word, he launches himself out of the ship, plummeting through the air toward the Bifrost bridge below.

Ari’s eyes go wide as she watches him descend, expressive ears flattening on her head. “Oh, he’s dead. He’s so dead.”

Loki finds himself holding his breath, watching Banner as he hurtles through the air, a single human figure against the twisted skyline of his home. He’s going to make sure the Hulk comes out, Loki realizes, and he finds himself rooting for him. 

A jarring, bone-crunching thud echoes as Bruce’s body collides with the bridge, crumpling in a twisted, unmoving heap. Loki’s breath catches, his chest tightening as he stares at the limp figure, his limbs sprawled at unnatural angles, still and lifeless. Even Fenrir hesitates for a moment, sniffing the body, his massive form looming over Bruce like a shadow.

Then, with a deep, primal roar, Bruce’s body contorts, muscles expanding, skin shifting as the Hulk finally emerges. The green behemoth bursts forth, his transformation punctuated with a snarl as he swings a massive fist upward, connecting with Fenrir’s jaw in a brutal uppercut. The impact reverberates through the bridge, sending Fenrir staggering backward. Hulk roars again, the two titans locked in a brutal struggle as they tumble from the bridge, crashing into the churning waters below in a flurry of thrashing limbs.

Val’s jaw goes slack as she watches the massive creatures vanish beneath the water. She shakes her head in disbelief, her grip tightening around Dragonfang. “Well… fuck.”

Beside her, Ari grins, practically bouncing with excitement, her face lit with exhilaration. “Let’s fucking go !”

Thor laughs, a welcome break in the tension as Val pushes the ship into high gear, sending it hurtling toward the palace. They’re close now. Every second counts, and Loki feels the anticipation buzzing under his skin. 

Loki’s gaze shifts to Thor, who stands a few paces ahead. Thor’s fingers flex as he curls his hands into fists at his sides and a low chuckle escapes him, the sound lost amidst the din of battle. The ship descends rapidly, its engines humming.

As the ship makes its final approach to the palace, Thor turns to Loki, blue eyes meeting green with an unspoken understanding. They’ve reached the precipice, and there is no turning back. Loki takes a deep breath, forcing his nerves into submission as he holds out a hand. He pulls from the recesses of his magic, calling the blade to his palm. His fingers curl around the handle, and he looks down at the sword in his hands. Laevateinn . 

“Ready, Brother?” Thor asks, his voice steady as he approaches the door.

Loki’s lips twitch, an almost-smile, as he meets Thor’s gaze with a glimmer of dark humor. He takes a long, steadying breath, willing the growing dread into something sharp, something useful. “No, but when has that ever deterred us?” He replies, and it’s more honest than he’d care to admit. “Let’s go and fight a goddess of death.”

Loki steps toward the edge of the ship, preparing to leap down to the palace below where Thor is already poised for battle. Just as he’s about to leap, a warm hand closes around his arm, pulling him back. He turns and finds Sigyn standing there, her eyes fierce and unwavering, shadowed with worry.

Without a word, she pulls him close, her fingers threading into his hair as she presses her lips to his. The kiss steals the breath from his lungs as Sigyn pours all her fears and hopes into that singular touch. Loki’s fingers tremble as he lets himself be anchored by her, feeling himself melt into her warmth. When she pulls back, her gaze glistens with unshed tears, and she whispers, her voice barely steady, “Come back to me.”

A tension coils in his chest, and he lifts a hand to cup her cheek, his thumb tracing the soft curve with reverent care. “Be safe,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to hers. He studies her face, memorizing every line, every freckle committing her to memory. 

As the ship begins its descent, circling the palace to give them a clear approach, Loki lets go, taking a step back with a final nod, his gaze lingering on her as he steels himself. He and Thor exchange a brief glance before they leap from the ship, landing side by side on the balcony below, the impact loud against the broken stone.

The shattered palace awaits them as they step forward, the broken pieces of Asgard’s history scattered across the marble floor alongside the charred, decaying bodies of several Einherjar soldiers. The stories of battles long-fought linger in the jagged remains of columns and crumbling frescoes. Dust hangs in the air, catching the dim light filtering in through shattered windows. 

Thor’s boots crunch over rubble as he moves cautiously. He bends, fingers brushing the dusty remains of a fresco, the chipped paint of the plaster revealing the familiar curve of his own face. His expression hardens as he looks up, drawn to the ceiling above. 

Where the mural of Asgard’s peace once proudly adorned the ceiling, its truth has now been stripped bare. The hidden fresco stretches across the vaulted space, revealing the dark history Odin had buried deep beneath layers of painted lies.

Thor’s gaze locks onto the depiction of his father and Hela, side by side, faces cold and unyielding as they conquer the Nine Realms. Hela grips Mjolnir, wielding it with a terrifying ease, dark blades jutting outward from her. Butchers swarm beneath them as the people of the realms they send into ruin are forced into submission, their mouths twisted in silent screams.

“Well,” Loki says. He steps lightly, his eyes moving over the desecrated remains. “That certainly puts some things into perspective, doesn’t it?” His tone is sardonic, but the tension in his posture gives him away, shoulders stiff beneath his dark leathers.

Thor’s gaze shifts, catching the subtle sheen of sweat on Loki’s brow. He studies his brother’s face, noticing the faint tremor in his hands. “Are you alright?” He asks, “You look… pale.”

Loki’s eyebrow arches, his lips curling with a faint smirk, though it’s laced with something too close to bitterness. “Don’t I always?” He turns away quickly, his fingers twitching as he forces himself to focus on the room rather than the familiar ache starting to throb beneath his skin. It’s creeping in, that itching need, intense and bone-deep. He hasn’t felt it in a while, not since—

“You look sick,” Thor presses, frowning, and Loki’s jaw clenches. He shrugs and waves Thor off with a dismissive wave of his hand. Of course Thor would notice something now.

“I think we have more important matters than the state of my complexion, brother,” he says, fighting his voice to stay steady. He forces himself to ignore the growing ache as his gaze lands on the throne, the dark emptiness of it staring back at him like an accusation. He walks up to it, spotting Gungnir abandoned amidst the debris beside the throne. He reaches down for it, taking it up in his free hand for the first time in what feels like centuries. His throat tightens and he clears it, jutting out his arm to relinquish it to Thor. “Now, how do we draw her here?”

The words barely escape past his lips when they hear a voice, silken and sharp, cutting through the stillness. 

“My ears are ringing.”

Thor and Loki whirl around, their bodies tensing, instinctively slipping into defensive stances. Thor practically snatches Gungnir from Loki’s hand. Hela strides into view, the dark gleam of her headdress framing her face, making her appear both regal and monstrous. Her steps are measured, deliberate, each one heavy with a quiet, lethal power. Loki can almost feel the shadows pulsing around her, drawn to her presence like moths to a flame, twisting and writhing as if animated by her very will.

The smile on her lips is thin and sharp, a blade waiting to cut. “You two again.” Her tone is thick with audible, clear disdain. She tilts her head, her gaze hardening as it lands on them. “Can’t say I’m happy to see you.” A flicker of annoyance crosses her face as her eyes narrow. “I’m going to enjoy killing Skurge for this,” she muses softly, her voice almost amused. “Well. More than I already was.”

Thor steps forward, his posture loose and deceptively casual, though a fire smolders behind his eyes. One corner of his mouth quirks up into a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I love what you’ve done with the place. Redecorating, I see.”

Hela’s lips press into a thin line, her smile tightening as her hands flex, shadows coiling around her fingers. The air shimmers with the restrained fury radiating from her. “It seems our father’s solution to every problem was to cover it up,” she sneers, her voice a lash as she gestures to the torn ceiling above, to the dark truth of Asgard’s history. 

Thor’s gaze doesn’t follow her gesture. He doesn’t need to look; the gruesome mural of Hela and Odin’s past conquests has already been burned into his mind. His expression hardens as he looks her in the eye. “Or to cast it out.”

There’s something wild in Hela’s eyes as she surveys them both, something that Loki thinks he recognizes, resonates with. There’s madness, yes, and Loki is impossibly well acquainted with that. But something else. Something beside it. “He told you that you were worthy,” Thor continues, “He said the same thing to me.”

Hela’s gaze drifts upward to the exposed fresco, and her expression twists—a blend of nostalgia and bitterness, pride tempered by something darker. She steps forward, her stride slow, deliberate, the echo of her boots cutting through the silence. 

“You see, you never knew him. Not at his best.” Her voice is rich with poisonous pride, recounting a fond but savage memory. “Odin and I drowned entire civilizations in blood and tears. Where do you think all this gold came from?” She gestures around the palace, her fingers sweeping over the fractured pillars and gleaming surfaces now tarnished by decay. “And then one day, he decided to become a benevolent king, to foster peace, to protect life.” A sneer twists her lips as she cuts her gaze back to Thor. “To have you .”

Thor’s muscles tighten, his fingers flexing uselessly around the staff of Gungnir. He misses the weight of Mjolnir at his hip. “I understand why you’re angry—”

“ Please .” Hela’s laughter slices through his words, cruel and humorless. She steps closer, eyes narrowing to slits. “You couldn’t possibly understand a fraction of what I feel.” Her voice rises, charged with a fury that quakes through the hall. “You didn’t spend thousands of years in a cage, starving, losing your mind from isolation. You weren’t abandoned, punished to be forgotten, for doing exactly what you were raised to do.”

Thor’s jaw works as he holds her gaze, but his silence speaks louder than words.

A soft rustle of fabric draws her gaze, and Loki steps forward, his eyes steady on Hela’s. “I do,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, yet each syllable rings with clarity. He doesn’t know why he says it, but the truth of the words lingers in the air between them. A charged silence follows, the kind that prickles against the skin. “More than he does, at least,” Loki adds, nodding slightly in Thor’s direction. “Our father’s solution for you was dangerously close to what he had in mind for me.”

Hela’s eyes darken, loathing as she takes in the man before her. Her lips curl into a sneer. Her voice is a soft hiss, “Don’t even get me started on you , face-stealer.”

Loki’s expression shifts, the guarded mask slipping just enough to show sincerity. “I’m sorry,” he says, and the words fall between them. Hela’s face goes blank for a heartbeat, before it hardens again, colder than before. “I don’t believe anyone has said that to you before.”

“You think ‘sorry’ can fix any of this?” Her voice is ice, and her fingers curl into talons, shadows writhing around them. “I don’t need ‘sorry.’” Her eyes gleam, dark and hungry, starved. “I need the blood of the Nine Realms.” 

Loki doesn’t flinch, continuing before she can. “I know what it is to be abandoned for trying to live up to the All-Father’s expectations,” he says softly, filled with a pain that feels almost tangible. “I know pain intimately.” He doesn’t look at Thor, doesn’t let himself waver. This isn’t for his brother; this is for the goddess in front of him. 

His gaze holds hers, and for a moment, he allows himself to sink into that memory, the one that gnaws at the edges of his mind—the Sanctuary, the chains, the biting cold of isolation. The agony that preceded it. Odin’s voice, a harsh whisper in the recesses of his mind. No, Loki. The shame, the rejection—he understands her rage more than he cares to admit. “I cannot presume to understand what you have lived through,” he adds, his voice softening slightly. “But I can understand that much.”

Hela’s face twists, a snarl breaking free as her patience snaps. “Both of you are fools,” she shouts, her voice sharp with derision. “Sons of the biggest one.” Her gaze darkens, and with a burst of power, shadows erupt around her hands, dark blades forming as she lunges toward them, her movements fluid, lethal.

Thor and Loki exchange a brief, wordless glance, a nod of mutual understanding passing between them. Thor steps forward, muscles coiling as he braces himself, drawing Hela’s attention. The fight begins with a clash of power and fury, Hela’s dark magic flaring as Thor meets her head-on, each blow ringing out across the hall.

Loki slips to the side, hands sparking with green energy as he prepares himself. Hela’s attention is locked on Thor, her movements precise and ruthless as she drives him back. For a brief moment, Loki’s eyes meet Thor’s—a silent understanding, a mutual trust. 

He slips away. 

Sigyn stands steady, vines and roots coiled around her like living weapons, their dark tendrils thrumming with life as she fights alongside Val and Ari. The battlefield around them is a storm of chaos—echoes of clashing steel, the guttural cries of warriors, the heavy scent of smoke hanging in the air. Despite Thor and Loki’s insistence that she remain on the ship, Sigyn had refused. Pregnant or not, with the faintest hint of a swell beneath her armor, she couldn’t stand by idly while her family risked everything.

She raises her hand, and a thick vine snaps out, coiling around the leg of a towering enemy soldier and ripping him off his feet. The ground shudders beneath her as her powers surge, her heartbeat steady even in the thick of the fight.

“Hello, sister. It’s been a while.”

Sigyn’s blood freezes. The world around her blurs, the distant sounds of battle fading as an eerie chill grips her spine.

No…

It’s impossible. She killed him. She made sure of it.

Slowly, she turns, her wide, disbelieving eyes locking onto the familiar figure standing just paces away. Ingvar stands there, that same twisted smile playing on his lips, his scarred throat glowing faintly with the unnatural, golden light that marks his return from the dead. His eyes gleam as he closes the distance between them in a single stride, the twisted delight on his face freezing her in place.

“Miss me?” His hand lashes out to seize her wrist with a grip that sears. She gasps, instinctively pulling back, but his hold is iron.

Sigyn’s mind races, her breath hitching as the realization settles like ice in her veins. This isn’t real. It can’t be. But his touch burns, a nauseating heat pressing into her skin. He leans in, his face close to hers, inches away. “Let’s chat.” She opens her mouth to scream, to call out, but the world lurches, and with a sickening twist, they vanish from the battlefield in an instant. 

The last thing she sees is Val’s horrified gaze, the shout of her name muffled as the battlefield fades.

0oooooo0

When her vision clears, they’re no longer on the battlefield, but on the balcony of what once was her bedroom, high above the city. Ingvar stands with his back to the open view, his posture casual, one hand resting on the edge as he surveys the smoke-filled horizon. The distant clash of battle echoes faintly, but his focus is solely on her.

She glances around, and her heart sinks at the devastation that surrounds her.

The room is now a hollow, battered shell of its former self. Shattered pots litter the floor, the vibrant green of her beloved plants now withered and crushed beneath broken shards of ceramic. Ivy that had once crept along the walls in delicate spirals hangs limp and dead. Paintings that once adorned the walls with scenes of beauty and comfort now hang in tatters, canvas ripped and frames splintered.

The rich tapestries and silk curtains she had chosen herself are torn, hanging in ragged strips from the windows, letting in a cold, biting wind that chills her skin. Everything she had once cherished and nurtured lies in ruin, stripped of life and color.

Ingvar watches her with a twisted smirk as she takes in the carnage. There’s a cold satisfaction in his gaze as he revels in her pain, taking pride in the havoc.

“Surprised?” He mocks, “Hela thought it was fitting, bringing you back here. A place filled with memories… now nothing but ashes.”

Sigyn’s fists clench where they’re bound behind her, her gaze hardening as she fights to keep her composure. Her voice trembles with barely-contained fury as she meets his gaze. “Is this what you wanted, Ingvar? To destroy everything I ever cared about?”

He sighs and shakes his head. “This was inevitable, sister. You cling to weakness—sentiment. But look around you. That weakness has no place in Hela’s world.” His eyes flick to her abdomen, his eyebrows twitching. “And neither do the things that… taint our bloodline.” 

His smile sharpens with a cruel kind of amusement. “Imagine my surprise,” he says, his voice dripping with false cheer, “when I learned that I would be an uncle.” He steps closer, eyes narrowing as he glances over her, his lip curling with undisguised disgust. “Tell me, sister. How far along?”

Sigyn’s jaw clenches, anger sparking in her eyes even as her wrists remain bound. “How did you even find out?”

Ingvar’s smirk stretches wider, dark and gleeful, his gaze glittering with malice. “Hela,” he purrs, letting the name roll off his tongue with a kind of sick adoration. He tilts his head, his expression one of delight as he closes the distance between them. “She sensed the filth inside you the moment you crossed her path. Remarkable, really, isn’t it?” He leans in until his breath is hot against her cheek, his voice dropping to a low, venomous hiss. “Her gift, that talent for sniffing out betrayal. For discerning… weakness.”

Sigyn forces herself to stay calm, lifting her chin to meet his eyes. “Interesting,” she says coolly, her tone sharper than steel. “Strange that she can’t sense the filth that she’s allowed to follow her.”

Ingvar’s smile turns savage, his eyes alight with a twisted pride. “Hela and I… We understand each other.” His voice softens, an unsettling fondness creeping into his words. “She welcomed me back from the depths of Helheim, made me whole again. We’re kindred spirits, you see—bound by purpose, by darkness.”

He steps closer, his fingers brushing her cheek, almost tender, as his expression darkens. “And now? Together, we’re unstoppable.” His voice is close to what Sigyn could only describe as a swoon. “She’s given me the strength to do what I should have done a long time ago.”

Sigyn stiffens, her mind processing his tone, the possessive glint in his eye. She studies his face, disbelief flashing across her own as realization settles. “You’re… with her?” Her voice is barely more than a whisper, horrified and disbelieving. She makes a face, twisted in disgust. “Oh, that’s— Norns, that’s disturbing.” 

For a split second, Ingvar’s expression falters, a spark of anger flaring in his gaze. His smile fades as he leans in, but Sigyn cuts him off, her eyes gleaming. “Do you even love her?” She asks, her voice low but piercing. “Are you even capable of such a basic emotion?”

The flicker of anger intensifies, his brow twitching as her words strike a nerve. He opens his mouth to retort, but she cuts through before he can get a word in. “That was rhetorical,” she adds, a smirk tugging at her lips. “We both know the answer.”

Ingvar’s composure cracks, his voice dropping to a venomous growl. “You wish to lecture me about love?”

“Seeing as I’m the only one in this room truly capable of it,” Sigyn replies evenly, her gaze unwavering. “I’d say I’m more than qualified.”

Ingvar’s face contorts, his hands clenching as a vein pulses at his temple. His voice trembles with barely controlled rage. “Selflessness?” He spits. “You think I’m incapable of that?”

Sigyn holds his gaze, her silence a calculated weapon, the disdain in her eyes speaking volumes. The tension between them sharpens like a blade as Ingvar’s voice rises, cracking with anger.

“So was it selfishness that drove me when I cared for Mother after Father died? Was it selfishness when I nursed her, cared for her, sat with her when the healers were there because she was afraid? Was it selfishness that drove me then?” His voice shakes with fury as he yells, the scar around his neck pulsing with his temper. “And what was I rewarded with? A dead mother, a dead father, and responsibility for an ungrateful sister. So pardon me if I no longer feel particularly selfless .” 

Silence stretches taut between them, and when Sigyn finally speaks, her voice is soft. “The fact that you believe you were owed a reward for the simple act of caring tells me everything I need to know.”

Ingvar’s eyes blaze brightly, his expression twisted in rage and pain. He takes another step forward, his fists clenched, trembling as if he might strike her.

Before he can respond, a deafening crash from the battlefield below shatters the silence, the distant clash of steel reverberating through the air. The sky darkens above them, storm clouds rolling in, their shadows casting a foreboding pallor over the balcony.

A dangerous gleam returns to Ingvar’s eyes, and he glances briefly at the horizon before turning back to Sigyn, his smile darkening with satisfaction. He leans down, his face inches from hers, his voice soft, almost affectionate. “You asked me if I love her,” he murmurs, his gaze intent. “I love her wickedness.”

Sigyn meets his gaze unflinchingly, her voice steady, unafraid. “You love the power she gives you,” she replies, “But that’s not love.”

Ingvar’s eyes flash with anger at her words, but he forces a smile, his fingers digging into her arms with bruising force. “You may think that, dear sister, but I assure you, Hela and I are very close.” He leans back, rising to rock on his heels. “You see, she appreciates my talents. My devotion.” 

Sigyn can’t even suppress the laugh that bubbles up out of her at that. “ Devotion ?” She asks, and there’s still pure laughter in her voice. “I wasn’t aware you picked up a sense of humor from Hel, Ingvar. You’re a slave to your own hatred. You cling to her power because you know, deep down, you’re nothing without it.”

The smile drops from his face, his jaw tightening. Without another word, he shoves her back, tossing her away from him with a grimace. “Think what you will.” His gaze sharpens, casting a glance toward the palace. “Your frost giant is making his way to the vault. I think it’s time I paid him a visit.”

Panic flares in Sigyn’s chest, her mind racing, but she refuses to show fear. She glares up at him, her voice steady, even as dread coils within her. Her eyes glow with a fierce, molten gold. “Touch him, and I will tear you apart.”

But he only grins, stepping back and savoring her fear. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss the chance. Killing him in front of you?” His voice softens, turning cold and deadly. “Now that… would be satisfying.”

He laughs, a dark, hollow sound, before he steps backward. The shadows themselves seem to respond to him, swallowing him whole. He vanishes, leaving her completely alone, and yet his voice stays behind, lingering with an ominous laugh. 

“We’ll see, sister.”

That illusion better hold , Loki thinks as he moves swiftly and silently through the dark corridors of the palace, lithe body holding all of the grace of a serpent. It’s a risky plan, he knows, confronting Hela with an illusion of himself beside Thor, but it should be enough to buy him enough time to get to the vault. To the Eternal Flame. If he can unite the flame with Laevateinn, they will have the power to end Hela’s reign once and for all. But he has to get there first.

The air grows colder as he approaches the vault, the shadows thickening around him. Loki’s heart pounds in his chest, and his fingers tighten around the hilt of the sword. He can feel the magic of the illusion still holding with Thor and Hela in the distance, but any slip-up, any delay, could shatter it. He needs to stay focused and keep moving.  

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. A presence, sharp and familiar, cuts through the cold air.

“Hello, Loki.”

Loki freezes, his pulse quickening. He knows that voice.

Then, a shadow detaches itself from the darkness, stepping out from behind a shattered pillar. Loki’s steps falter as his gaze narrows on the figure blocking his path. The man’s face remains obscured, but a telltale golden scar gleams in the dim light, slashed across his neck. 

It’s all Loki needs to recognize him. 

His chest tightens as a fierce surge of anger—and dread—rises within him. The man finally steps fully into the dim light, his eyes catching Loki’s with a molten, eerie glow. His face stretches into a near-polite smile as he appraises Loki. “Long time.”

Loki’s hand tightens around Laevateinn, his knuckles blanching. His mind races, and he forces down the momentary jolt of panic that his heart betrays. He meets Ingvar’s gaze, eyes sharp, voice venomous. “I see death hasn’t improved your manners.” He scoffs, letting his own lips twist into a derisive sneer. “I suppose there’s only one explanation for how you’ve crawled back. Hela.”

Ingvar’s grin widens, sinister and gleeful. “Oh, yes,” he muses, “Hela has a way of… resurrecting the worthy.” His voice drips with amusement, his gaze locked on Loki with dark satisfaction. “Turns out, death isn’t so permanent when you know the right people.”

Loki’s jaw tightens, his mind calculating his options. Ingvar is too close, the path to the Eternal Flame now blocked. He can’t afford to sit here. “And what’s the price of that little deal, hmm?” His tone is scathing, his body is already coiled like a spring, ready to react. “Eternal servitude to a mad goddess?”

“Something like that,” Ingvar replies, his voice a low, menacing purr as he takes a measured step closer. “But I think the details are less important than what’s happening right now. After all, I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

Loki’s gaze never wavers, though his mind is racing. Every second Ingvar stands between him and the Flame, the danger to Asgard grows. He needs to find a way around him—or through him. He keeps his voice cool, indifferent as he glances down the hall. “Charming as ever, Ingvar. But I have places to be.”

Ingvar’s polite smile vanishes, replaced by a scowl as he steps fully into Loki’s path, blocking any escape. “Oh, I know. And I can’t let you do that.”

The air between them thickens with tension as Ingvar’s eyes darken, narrowing to fierce slits. He circles Loki slowly, his gaze fierce, like a predator sizing up its prey. Loki stands his ground, his posture tense but steady, every fiber of his being alert.

“And I come to find,” Ingvar spits, his voice trembling with barely suppressed rage, “that you’ve impregnated my sister.” Each word is venomous, “You had no right, infecting her with the filth that you are.”

Loki feels the weight of the accusation settle upon him, but he doesn’t flinch. His expression remains composed. “I don’t need to justify myself to you, Ingvar.” His voice is calm, cutting, though his muscles remain taut, ready for any movement from the man.

A harsh, bitter laugh rips from Ingvar’s throat, the sound echoing through the empty corridor. His lips pull back into a sneer, his eyes blazing with hatred as he steps closer. “Oh, but I think you do,” he snarls, his voice dripping with contempt. “Jotun scum.” 

With a sharp, twisted smile, Ingvar holds out his hand, summoning a blade from the very air itself. Fire crackles and coils, shaping into molten steel that solidifies into a wicked, serrated sword glowing red-hot with magic. Heat radiates from it, the blade hissing and spitting embers as Ingvar spins it in his grip, the fury in his eyes matched only by the searing glow of his weapon.

Loki’s instincts kick in, and he sidesteps, the molten sword slicing through the air just inches from his torso. He counters with Laevateinn, the enchanted blade glinting as it meets Ingvar’s in a clash of sparks and flame. The impact sends a tremor up Loki’s arm, but he holds steady, pushing back with equal force.

Ingvar swings again, faster and fiercer, his attacks a blur of red flame. Loki weaves and dodges, his movements swift and fluid, each evasion forcing Ingvar to twist and overextend. With every strike, the heat from Ingvar’s sword warms the air around Loki, blazingly hot near his skin, the air crackling with each swing.

Summoning his magic, Loki channels a pulse of green energy through Laevateinn, sending a blast of power toward Ingvar’s chest. Ingvar staggers back, but he recovers quickly, his fiery sword carving another deadly arc through the air. Loki parries, the metallic clang of their blades resonating through the corridor as they lock in a deadly rhythm.

“Do you think this will end well for you?” Ingvar sneers, pressing his weight into the clash, forcing Loki back a step. “You think she’ll even want you when she sees the truth of what you are?”

“Funny,” Loki retorts, blocking another strike and countering with a quick slash at Ingvar’s side. “She has seen.”

Ingvar snarls and raises a shield of his own, a shimmering wall of red flame that absorbs the blow. He pushes forward, slamming his shield into Loki’s chest, sending him stumbling back against a cracked pillar. Loki gasps as he steadies himself, quickly conjuring an illusion of himself to his right, a mirror image that darts forward to throw Ingvar off balance. Ingvar slashes at the illusion, his blade cutting through the false Loki only for it to dissolve into smoke, leaving him exposed.

Loki takes the opportunity, lunging forward with Laevateinn aimed at Ingvar’s side. The blade slices through his armor, drawing a deep cut, but Ingvar only grins through the pain, his eyes gleaming with masochistic pleasure. He channels his rage into his weapon, his grip tightening as the sword blazes even hotter, the flames licking up the length of the blade like hungry serpents.

Loki sends a shockwave of green energy through the floor, cracking the marble beneath Ingvar’s feet. Ingvar stumbles, momentarily losing his footing, and Loki lunges forward, aiming a strike at his shoulder. Ingvar recovers just in time, parrying the blow with a burst of flame that pushes Loki back.

With a vicious snarl, Ingvar feints left, then pivots, bringing his blade down in a wide arc meant to slice Loki’s torso. Loki barely dodges, twisting to the side. Loki forces Ingvar back, breaking their hold. He channels a wave of green energy into Laevateinn, the blade gleaming with an eerie light as he raises it. Ingvar snarls and summons another wave of flame, their magic colliding in a burst of sparks and smoke. 

As they clash, Loki catches a glimpse of the Eternal Flame just beyond Ingvar, its fiery glow a beacon in the chaos. He knows he has to reach it—has to end this, or all of Asgard could fall. He spins, ducking under Ingvar’s blade and lashing out with Laevateinn, his strike a hair’s breadth away from Ingvar’s throat. But Ingvar dodges, his eyes wild, and retaliates with a slash that sends flames licking across Loki’s arm, the heat searing his skin. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Loki steadies himself, making a break for the flame. 

“You’ve tainted her with your bloodline!” Ingvar’s voice roars, and with a savage growl, he surges forward, slamming Loki against a crumbling marble pillar. The force knocks the breath from Loki’s lungs, the back of his head hitting the stone hard enough to send stars dancing across his vision. Before he can recover, Ingvar’s hand clamps around his throat, squeezing with ruthless strength.

Loki gasps, his vision blurring as the edges darken. Ingvar’s face looms close, his eyes alight with the pleasure of victory. “Pathetic,” he sneers, leaning in. Ingvar wrenches Laevateinn from Loki’s grasp and holds it up. The world tilts as oxygen becomes scarce. Loki’s fingers claw uselessly at Ingvar’s iron grip, the pressure unbearable.

“Your toy,” he mocks, channeling a sickly black energy through the blade. Cracks splinter through the enchanted weapon, and with a snap, it crumbles to ash in his hands. Dread curls in Loki’s gut as Ingvar casts the remnants away, the dust scattering like lost hope. He renews his hold, both hands now choking the life from Loki, the marble pillar digging cruelly into his back.

Loki’s vision swims, the roar of blood in his ears deafening. Spots dance across his vision, darkness creeping in at the edges as he chokes, but deep within, something stirs—a cold, primal force, buried but not forgotten. He knows what it is, knows it intimately, yet he’s always kept it at bay. 

As his consciousness hovers on the edge of darkness, he digs deep, reaching through layers of fear and uncertainty until he touches the raw, frigid pulse that lives in his veins, a birthright he’s always shunned. The cold surges up like a tidal wave, fierce and unrelenting, a rush of frost that fills him with a terrifying sense of power. He surrenders to it, focusing it through his body with an intensity that sends a shudder through him.

The change is instant, his skin shifting, deepening to a glacial blue as his vision sharpens with a crystalline clarity. His eyes blaze red, burning like embers against the cold. His hands grasp at and seize Ingvar’s wrists as the other man’s hands choke him. 

Frost races from Loki’s hands onto Ingvar’s wrists, spreading fast, blackening the flesh as it bites into him. Ingvar’s eyes widen with shock, the smugness replaced by sheer, disbelieving pain. He screams, a raw sound of agony, as the frost creeps further up his arms. He jerks, struggling to pull away, but Loki’s grip holds firm. 

“No!” Ingvar thrashes, and Loki gives him a fanged smile watching with a grim satisfaction as the frost spreads relentlessly, darkening and shattering the sinew beneath. 

Loki’s eyes meet Ingvar’s panicked stare and he leans forward, his breath fogging in the cold air between them, his voice a low, deadly snarl. “This time,” he says, “do us all a favor—and stay dead.”

Ingvar’s screams are silenced as the frost claims him entirely, his body shattering into brittle shards that collapse at Loki’s feet. The silence that follows is deafening and his chest heaves as he steadies himself. 

For a moment, the only sound in the vault is his own ragged breathing. 

Loki’s gaze drops to the ruin at his feet—the scattered ashes that used to be Laevateinn. He stares down, swearing softly under his breath. 

Lovely. 

A tremor runs through his hands as he drags them through his hair, his own touch cold against his scalp. His hands, now an icy blue, catch his eye, and for a moment, those old feelings of disgust and panic crawl up his spine. Even after years, it’s overwhelming, this feeling… 

He tries to steady his breathing, forcing himself to focus, trying to push the discomfort aside. The sword, their only hope to kill Hela, is gone.

But then his eyes lift, landing on the towering presence of Surtur’s crown, looming ominously within the vault. It’s our last shot , Loki realizes. The Eternal Flame could still bring Surtur back—ignite Ragnarok. And that may be the only way to stop Hela now.

There’s no time left.

Thor swings Gungnir with all the force he can muster, but exhaustion is dragging at his limbs, slowing him down. Every strike feels heavier, every dodge slower, as Hela’s dark blades come at him with ruthless precision, unrelenting. She doesn’t give him a moment to recover, each slash a calculated, brutal effort to break him or throw him off center. The duplicate of Loki fights convincingly alongside him, darting in and out of her reach, striking where he can.

But then, a flicker—just for a second, barely noticeable—ripples through the illusion of Loki as he steps forward to strike. It’s a subtle shimmer, a wavering of form, but Hela’s sharp eyes catch it. She hesitates, her gaze narrowing as she studies the figure, her lips twitching in suspicion. The duplicate continues moving, darting forward with a dagger, but Hela’s eyes never leave it, a dangerous glint in them as she watches it move.

She feints toward Thor but shifts her focus back to the false Loki, her eyes narrowing as she notices another slight flicker in its form. Her lips pull into a cold, victorious smirk as she realizes the deception. Of course, she thinks, a dark satisfaction pooling in her gaze.

In one swift, precise motion, she pivots and drives her blade through the illusion’s chest. The false Loki shudders, his form breaking and fracturing as a haze of green light explodes around her blade. Shattered fragments of magic scatter in the air, disintegrating into nothing. Hela scoffs, kicking at the last fading wisps of the illusion with disdain. “Now that’s just sad."

Thor grits his teeth, trying to seize the opening as he charges her again, bringing Gungnir down in a powerful arc. But Hela is faster; she meets his attack with both blades crossed in front of her, effortlessly redirecting the force, sending him stumbling. They clash, the weight of Gungnir barely holding back her black blades. 

“To be honest,” she muses, her strength overwhelming him, pressing him down until his knees buckle, “I expected more from you.”

With a sharp movement, Hela twists Gungnir out of his hands, the spear clattering across the marble floor. Thor barely has time to react before she lashes out, slamming her fist into his chest, sending him hurtling back. His body smashes into a stone wall, the impact rattling through his bones, leaving him gasping. He pushes himself up, blood trickling from his lip, but she’s already on him again.

Her hand shoots forward, fingers clamping around his throat with an iron grip. Thor chokes, struggling against the crushing hold as she lifts him, his boots scraping against the crumbling wall behind him. Her face is inches from his, her gaze dark and wild with pleasure.

“Here’s the difference between us,” Hela says, her voice a sharp whisper that seems to cut into him as deeply as her blades. Her eyes glint with malice as she watches him struggle. “I am Odin’s firstborn, the rightful heir, the savior of Asgard.” Her grip tightens, her nails biting into his skin, cutting off his air. “And you? You’re nothing.”

She raises her free hand, and with a summoning gesture, a black lance materializes in her grasp, jagged and deadly. She hurls it at his chest, and Thor barely manages to twist away, the lance spearing the wall beside him, sending shards of stone flying. Desperation claws at him, but she moves again, faster than he can react, closing the distance in a few predatory steps.

Thor grits his teeth and slams his forehead into hers. The impact barely fazes her—she doesn’t even blink. Her response is immediate, her own headbutt crashing into his skull with bone-rattling force. Thor reels, stumbling as his vision blurs, his face throbbing with pain. Hela’s laugh is cold, mocking, as she closes in, lifting one clawed hand.

Before he can react, her fingers rake across his face, and Thor screams as her nails gouge into his skin, slicing deep. Blood gushes down his face as she tears out his eye with a sickening squelch, the world spinning around him as agony explodes through his skull.

Hela holds his eye up, studying it almost curiously, her lips twisting into a sadistic grin. She lets the blood drip from her fingers, watching with sick delight as she turns the eye between her thumb and forefinger. “ Now , you really remind me of Father,” she says, her tone nostalgic before she flicks the eye aside, letting it roll across the floor.

Thor can barely see through the haze of pain clouding his vision, grinding his teeth through the agony that lances through his skull. He staggers, blood soaking half of his face, his chest heaving as he tries to push back, to fight, but his movements are too slow, too clumsy. Her hands lock around his throat again, squeezing until his breaths come in shallow, desperate gasps.

With a vicious grin, Hela lifts Thor effortlessly, dragging him toward the edge of the shattered balcony, revealing the Bifrost bridge stretched out across Asgard. Below, he sees Heimdall guiding waves of Asgardian civilians toward the bridge, signaling them toward the Statesman—their last chance to escape. In the chaos, he catches glimpses of the Warriors Three, leading Hela’s forces with blackened eyes, and he wants to scream.

“You see?” Hela’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper, almost tender as she leans in close, pinning him against the ledge so he’s forced to look down. “No one’s going anywhere.” Her grip tightens, and she forces his gaze onto the scene below: frightened Asgardians flooding toward the ship in a desperate attempt to escape. The sight is chaos and fear, and a wicked smile spreads across her face as she watches the scene unfold. “I’ll activate the Bifrost,” Hela continues, “and transport my army across the realms. Even if I have to kill every single one of them to do it.”

Thor’s heart pounds as he watches the scene below, the people of Asgard fighting for every step toward freedom, led by Heimdall and their remaining warriors. His chest tightens as he sees familiar faces among the crowd, fighting against Hela’s army with a desperation born of survival. Every instinct in him wants to fight, to shout, but Hela’s grip is unyielding, her power overwhelming.

Thor’s heart sinks as he watches the scene below, his remaining eye filled with despair. He has failed. His people, his home—everything lies in ruins. 

But then something shifts. 

Out of nowhere, the ground erupts into chaos, bright light, flashes of shimmering green magic. Thor watches as hundreds of Lokis materialize on the Bifrost, each one armed and charging, illusions layered upon illusions, creating an army of tricksters. The duplicates swarm the battlefield, daggers flashing as they slice through Hela’s Butchers, creating confusion and disorder among her ranks.

Hela’s grip falters for a fraction of a second as her gaze shifts, her face twisted in disbelief. Her eyes narrow as she takes in the chaos, fury darkening her expression. “That little shit .”

Below, one Loki stands amidst the illusions, his voice carrying over the clash of battle. “Everyone on the ship, now!” He shouts, his tone commanding as he directs the remaining Asgardians toward the Statesman. The narrow bridge creates a bottleneck, the desperate refugees pushing forward, each one clinging to the sliver of hope Loki has provided.

Thor can’t help but smile.

The Lokis throw themselves into the fray, joining Heimdall and the others in an effort to hold back Hela’s forces. The bridge is a chaotic dance of battle and gore, illusions clashing with flesh and steel. 

Above, Hela’s gaze snaps back to Thor, her patience fraying, her fury reaching its peak. “A valiant effort,” she grimaces. “But you never stood a chance.” Thor’s one good eye glances down again, at the frenzied Asgardians boarding the ship, at the twilight stars flickering above them, and the relentless army below. Hela pulls him closer, her smile cruel. “You see? I’m not a queen, or a monster…” Her voice drops to a whisper, filled with the promise of oblivion. “I’m the Goddess of Death.” Hela’s words cut through the haze, a taunt. “What were you the God of again?”

Hela drives her blades into his chest, her laugh a dark, victorious sound as Thor’s scream pierces the air. Blood stains the shattered stone as everything fades to black, the world falling silent around him.

0oooooo0

Thor floats in the empty, silent void, weightless and unfeeling, a strange calm settling over him. No pain from Hela’s wounds, no heavy armor pressing down—just a sense of urgency, a nagging pull that something is wrong. He feels suspended in a space untouched by reality, almost like a dream. He thinks for a moment that he’s died. 

But he knows, somehow, that he hasn’t.

A soft green glow begins to pierce the darkness, and a figure steps forward. It’s too bright to see at first but then it begins to take shape, coalescing into the form of a person. Thor blinks a few times before he realizes that he’s looking at the familiar silhouette of his brother, bathed in ethereal green magic. Loki’s face, sharp and alive, fills Thor’s vision, and several emotions well up inside him—a rush of confusion, relief, and something he can’t quite name.

“Brother,” Loki says, his voice calm but edged with urgency. The sound seems to emerge from everywhere at once. “We have a problem.”

Thor stares at him, his mind trying to reconcile what he’s seeing. “What? What’s happening?”

Loki’s expression tightens, his eyes shadowed with a weight Thor rarely sees. “Ingvar confronted me,” he says, his tone clipped. “He destroyed the sword.”

“What?” Thor’s voice wavers. That was their shot, that was their only shot… “How else are we supposed to—”

“I can still stop her,” Loki interrupts, “I can still do it.”

“How?” Thor asks, his heart racing, struggling to see a solution.

Loki’s eyes flicker with something hard, resolute. “Surtur’s crown.”

Thor’s breath catches, realization dawning as dread sinks in. “This was never about stopping Ragnarok…” The understanding settles heavily in his chest. “We were never going to stop it, were we?”

A faint smirk tugs at Loki’s lips, but there’s no humor in his eyes. He shrugs, his head tilted slightly to the side. “It’s a bold move, brother. Even for me.”

Thor shakes his head, disbelief clouding his mind as he faces the inevitability. “She might kill me before you get the chance.” His voice is thin, and he clenches his fists at his sides before nodding to Loki. “Do it now.”

Loki steps closer, his eyes softening, a warmth that speaks of their shared history flashing between them. “The people will need their king. You need to be on that bridge, Thor.”

Thor’s eyes widen, searching Loki’s face, and he feels the pang of leaving his brother to face the impossible. “But what about you?” He says, voice cracking. “Sigyn—”

Loki’s jaw tightens, but his eyes stay steady, determined. “I will handle it,” he replies, his tone firm, a reassurance and an order all in one. “I swear to you, I will. But you,” Loki continues, his hand resting on Thor’s arm, “you need to be on that bridge. Do not fail them, Thor.”

Thor’s gaze drops, doubt clouding his vision. “She’s too strong,” he whispers, defeat creeping into his voice. His heart aches at the realization of how close they are to failure, how helpless he feels against her might. “Without my hammer—”

“Oh, for Norns’ sake, forget the hammer for a moment!” Loki snaps, his voice cutting through Thor’s despair, striking him out of it like a slap. He steps even closer, holding Thor’s gaze with a chilling intensity. “You have power, Thor. You always have. You have Seidr.”

Thor’s eyes widen, and for a moment, he’s speechless, searching Loki’s face, trying to reconcile the truth in his brother’s words with his own fears. He hates this feeling, this sense of powerlessness, of weakness. “I don’t…” He swallows, the words heavy and painful, tearing from him like a wound. “I don’t know how,” he says softly, shame coloring his voice as he looks away, downward. “I never learned.”

There’s a sparkling flash from out of the corner of his eye, and when Thor turns back, Loki’s form shimmers, his frame shrinking, his features softening, blurring for just a heartbeat before solidifying again. Thor stares, his breath catching as he realizes that he, too, has changed. He feels shorter, his hands smaller, his body wrapped in the rough red fabric of his childhood tunic. 

The grand Asgardian library surrounds them, bathed in warm, golden candlelight. The scent of worn parchment and polished wood fills the air. Thor’s heart clenches at the memory, at the room where they once spent countless hours. It feels like stepping into a dream, a fragile, precious one that could shatter with the slightest movement. In this library, under their mother’s watchful eye, he remembers that they weren’t just warriors or sons fighting for a crown; they were brothers, learning and leaning on each other.

Thor looks down, and standing before him is a younger version of his brother, eyes wide and filled with the innocence of their youth, his small hand outstretched in an offering of trust.

“It’s not hard,” Loki says, his voice light, but with a certainty that only a child could hold. A gentle, encouraging smile softens his face, and Thor feels a pang of nostalgia—a memory of simpler days where they were simply brothers, bound by something unbreakable. “I’ll show you what Mother taught me.”

Thor’s gaze drifts to the small hand offered to him, his heart aching with a tenderness he’d almost forgotten. He remembers Frigga’s teachings, her patient guidance as she taught them to harness the power within themselves. Loki always took to those lessons so much quicker and easier than he did. And he'd teased Loki for that, hadn't he? Taken to brute strength and fighting so that he didn't have to deal with the embarrassment of being worse at something than his little brother... Thor’s throat tightens as he realizes how much he’s forgotten, how much he’s lost in his quest for strength. 

He reaches out, his hand trembling slightly as it finds Loki’s smaller one. The warmth of that touch, the simplicity of his brother’s trust, anchors him. This is the answer. This is the strength he needs.

This is how they win.

Chapter Text

The library is quiet, its stillness broken only by the faint flicker of candlelight and the soft rustle of old parchment. The air carries the faint tang of aged books and melting wax, grounding Thor in a moment that feels both intimately familiar and frustratingly elusive.

He sits hunched over a low table, his broad shoulders tense, his hands hovering over a bowl of water. The surface ripples and sloshes under his touch, each movement betraying the strain of his repeated, forceful attempts to control it. Sparks of blue light skitter across his fingertips, flickering and dying as quickly as they appear.

Thor scowls, his jaw tight as he watches the water slosh violently. “This is pointless,” he growls, his voice thick with frustration. “Why won’t it work?” He pulls back abruptly, glaring at the bowl as though it has personally wronged him. His cheeks flush, his pride as bruised as his knuckles from earlier attempts. In hindsight, hitting the water was likely not the best solution. 

Loki watches from beside the table, arms folded and expression faintly amused. “Because you’re trying to wrestle it into submission, you dolt,” he says, his tone dry, though not unkind. He steps forward, his movements measured. “Seidr isn’t a hammer, Thor. And it is not something that you can just smash into obedience.”

Thor glances at him, his scowl deepening. Loki raises a brow and gestures toward the bowl, his voice softening just enough to carry a careful note of instruction. “Magic is about finesse, not brute force. It’s already in you, brother. You don’t need to break something to control it.”

Thor exhales sharply through his nose but doesn’t respond. Loki steps closer, his slender fingers brushing the bowl’s edge. He dips a single finger into the water. The ripples instantly smooth, the surface transforming into a perfect, glasslike stillness. A faint sheen of frost blooms at the edges, the ice catching the candlelight and refracting it in crystalline patterns.

“See?” Loki asks, his green eyes glinting with quiet pride. “It listens because I asked, not because I demanded.”

Thor crosses his arms, his frown deepening as he glares at the bowl. “I asked!” he protests, his voice rising indignantly.

Loki arches an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “No, Thor,” he corrects, his tone dry but plainly amused. “That was yelling.”

Thor grumbles under his breath, his fingers twitching as he leans back over the bowl. “It’s the same thing,” he mutters, though he knows Loki will hear him. He lifts his hands again, determined this time to prove his brother wrong. Thor scowls, his gaze flicking from the frozen surface of the water to Loki. “How is turning things into ice meant to help me summon lightning? They couldn’t be more opposite.”

Loki rolls his eyes, his patience fraying but not breaking. “These things are connected, Thor,” he explains, gesturing vaguely but pointedly. “Ice and lightning, water and fire, order and chaos—they’re all part of the same current. You just have to learn how to tap into it.”

He leans in slightly, his tone softening. “Seidr doesn’t care about opposites. It cares about balance.”

Loki steps aside to let Thor figure it out on his own. The quiet confidence in his expression is almost maddening, and Thor feels his jaw tighten in response. With a gesture, Loki returns the water to its previous liquid state. “Go on, then.” Thor hesitates, his hands hovering with uncertainty over the bowl. Loki’s gaze softens, losing its teasing edge as he places a steadying hand on Thor’s shoulder. “Don’t force it,” Loki says, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “Feel it. Trust it. Trust yourself.”

Thor takes a steadying breath, his brow furrowing in concentration as he closes his eyes. The silence stretches between them, heavy and expectant, the only sound the faint crackle of the candles.

His hands lower, his movements more careful this time. The sparks return, small at first, timid. But as he focuses, they grow, dancing across his fingertips with a quiet vitality. The ripples in the water settle, their chaotic motion smoothing into a gentle rhythm that mirrors the calmness Thor is beginning to find within himself.

When he finally opens his eyes, the faint glow of the sparks reflects in the still water. He looks up at Loki, his expression uncertain but tinged with the first flickers of pride. Loki’s lips curl into a faint smile.

“It’s a start,” Loki says simply, stepping back. His tone is light, but the approval in his gaze speaks volumes.

Thor straightens, exhaling as the tension in his shoulders eases. For the first time in what feels like hours, he isn’t angry with himself. He isn’t trying to prove anything. He simply is.

And he is beginning to understand.

Thor’s eyes flutter open to the sight of the sky above—dark clouds rolling and twisting, heavy with the storm he feels thrumming in his veins. Pain wracks his body, every breath a battle, but the storm is alive within him. He blinks, his vision sharpening as Hela comes back into unwelcome focus, towering above him, blood trickling down his torso from the blades she has buried into him. His vision blurs, the edges darkening as her mocking words cut deeper than her weapons.

“What were you the God of again…?” Hela taunts, her voice cold and biting, her lips curling into a cruel smile as she twists the blades deeper.

Thor yells in pain, his hands clenched into fists as he reaches inward, searching. The agony in his chest fades to the background as the memory of Loki’s outstretched hand in the library flashes in his mind. His brother’s voice echoes, and the lesson their mother had whispered into their hearts long ago rings clear in his ears: It’s already in you, brother. You don’t need to break something to control it.

For the first time, Thor lets go of Mjolnir’s absence. He doesn’t think about his lost eye or the failures that led him here. Instead, he opens himself to the relentless current of energy that has always coursed through him—a storm waiting to break.

The sky above darkens as storm clouds gather, swirling in a maelstrom of rage and power. The wind howls through the shattered palace, scattering debris across the ruined throne room. Hela’s grin falters slightly, her eyes narrowing as the oppressive atmosphere shifts.

Thor’s gaze hardens as arcs of electricity begin to dance across his body, small and crackling at first, but growing in intensity. His clenched fists tremble as the power builds, the air around him vibrating with a palpable hum.

And then, a deafening crack splits the sky.

A bolt of lightning, brighter and louder than any Thor has ever seen, ever conjured with his hammer, descends with blinding speed, striking down. The bolt engulfs them both, a cacophony of thunder and light tearing through the throne room. Hela is ripped away from him, her blades tearing free of his chest as she’s launched backward. Her body crashes through the broken walls of the palace, shattering stone and metal, leaving a jagged crater in her wake.

Asgard goes silent, save for the faint hum of residual electricity in the air.

The people of Asgard look up, their faces streaked with ash and blood, their movements sluggish with exhaustion and fear. The monstrous Butchers pause their advance, snarling in confusion as they, too, sense the shift.

On the Bifrost bridge, Heimdall steadies himself, his golden eyes lifting toward the sky, where the clouds churn with darkness and thunder. “He’s found it,” Heimdall murmurs, and the look of relief on his face overshadows the weariness for a moment. 

The false Lokis on the battlefield falter as the illusions flicker and fade, their purpose fulfilled. The real Loki, still amidst the chaos, glances toward the palace. His heart pounds as he watches the bolt of lightning illuminate the skyline, the power unmistakably Thor’s. A sharp pang of something—pride, perhaps—strikes him, though he quickly buries it beneath the task at hand.

“Get everyone on the ship!” Loki bellows, his voice rising above the din of battle. He steps forward, summoning another wave of green magic to shield the fleeing Asgardians from the onslaught of Butchers.

Thor feels the storm crackle within him, the air around him electric with energy as he surges forward. The lightning courses through his veins like a second heartbeat, his body a conduit of raw, unrelenting power. With a thunderous roar, he dives into the fray like a bolt of lightning splitting the sky. He lands on the bridge, moving with terrifying speed, jolting from enemy to enemy, leaving destruction in his wake, every motion precise and devastating.

On the far side of the Rainbow Bridge, Val charges into the battle, her blade, Dragonfang, a blur of silver and death. Every swing is precise, cutting down the Butchers with practiced efficiency, her white-and-gold armor glinting faintly through the haze of smoke and blood. Beside her, Ari moves with wild ferocity, her catlike form weaving through the fray. Her claws gleam as she leaps onto a snarling Butcher, tearing into its throat with a guttural snarl before spinning to rake another across the chest.

“Ari!” Val shouts as she slices through a Butcher trying to flank her. “Stay close!”

“I’ve got it!” Ari yells back, her voice tinged with determination. She leaps again, her fluid movements almost a blur as she pounces on another enemy.

At the center of the bridge, Heimdall stands tall, his eyes scanning the battlefield as he shepherds terrified Asgardians toward the Statesman. His voice is steady, cutting through the panicked cries. “This way! Quickly!” The refugees hurry past him, their faces pale with fear as the Butchers press closer, snarling and relentless.

The water churns violently as Hulk grapples with Fenris. The massive wolf thrashes, fangs snapping as it tries to drag the green goliath under. Hulk roars, his massive hands grappling Fenris’s jaws, holding them apart as blood streaks his skin where the wolf’s teeth have punctured it. Each blow they trade sends tremors rippling through the bridge as Hulk finally gains the upper hand. With a roar that echoes across Asgard, he hurls Fenris off the edge of the Bifrost. The massive wolf howls as it plummets into the void below, its cry fading into the abyss.

Above the chaos, Hela looms, her dark figure a palpable force of death that darkens the battlefield with every step. Her eyes land on Val as she pulls her sword from the body of one of her butchers. The smile that curves her lips is unsettling. 

“I remember you.”

The words slice through the cacophony and Val freezes for a moment, her chest tightening. Hela’s voice carries with it a mocking familiarity, an amusement as she steps closer, her piercing gaze locking onto the warrior.

“Brunnhilde,” Hela continues, tilting her head, her tone dripping with condescension. “You fought so valiantly all those years ago.  What was her name again?” She taps a finger to her chin, feigning thought. “The one who died protecting you?”

Val’s grip tightens on Dragonfang, her knuckles white as fury rises in her chest. Her body tenses, but she doesn’t move, her breath shallow as Hela takes another step closer.

Hela’s smile deepens, the malice in her voice softening into something almost tender. “Such a noble sacrifice. Foolish, of course. Pointless. But… touching, in its own way.”

Ari, standing just behind Val, hisses low in her throat. Her claws flex as she steps forward, her tail lashing. “Say one more word,” she growls, her voice wavering with barely contained rage, “and I’ll rip your throat out.”

Hela turns her gaze to Ari, her expression shifting to one of mild amusement. “I see you’ve picked up a stray too.” She waves a hand at her, a playful wiggle of her fingers. “I’d be careful, little one. You’ll end up just like her.”

The rage boils over, and Val charges, Dragonfang flashing in a deadly arc. “Stay back, Ari!” She shouts as she closes the distance. Ari ignores the command, flanking Hela and leaping at her side with claws bared.

Hela’s laughter echoes across the bridge, dark and mocking, as she meets Val’s strike with a gleaming black blade. Sparks fly as their weapons clash, and Hela moves with eerie grace, deflecting Ari’s attacks with quick, fluid motions. “Did I strike a nerve?” She taunts, twisting her blade to force Val back. “She died for nothing, you know. Just as you will.”

Ari snarls, darting under Hela’s arm and raking her claws across the Goddess’s leg. Hela grimaces, but the wound barely slows her. She retaliates with a sharp kick, sending Ari skidding across the bridge. Val seizes the moment, launching into another series of strikes, each swing of Dragonfang faster and more forceful.

Hela counters with brutal efficiency, her dark blades manifesting faster and stronger with every move. Her strikes come hard and unrelenting, pushing Val back step by step. Ari recovers quickly, diving back into the fray, her claws flashing as she works to create openings for Val.

Lightning cracks across the battlefield as Thor charges into the fight, his electrified form a beacon of raw power. His strike lands with the force of a thunderclap, driving Hela back a step. For a fleeting moment, it feels like they might have the upper hand. Thor’s attacks are relentless, each one a bolt of fury, while Val and Ari coordinate to exploit every weakness. But Hela only grows stronger, her power surging as she presses her advantage.

From the shadows of the Butchers, three familiar figures emerge: the Warriors Three. Thor freezes, his breath catching as he sees them—Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg—transformed into puppets of Hela’s will. Their eyes are black and lifeless, their movements jerky but deliberate.

“They serve the throne well,” Hela says, her voice thick with malice. “Wouldn't you agree?”

Thor hesitates, his heart breaking as he faces them. “Fandral! Hogun! Volstagg!” he calls out, desperation threading through his voice. “It’s me! Fight her!”

Val and Ari rush to his side, their movements sharp and frantic as they try to help hold off the twisted forms of the Warriors Three. The battle descends into chaos. But there is no recognition, only silence as they attack with brutal efficiency. Thor’s strikes are measured, reluctant, as he calls out to them again and again. Every blow is a heavy reminder of what Hela has taken from him.

Loki races through the crumbling halls of the palace. The acrid scent of smoke and the metallic tang of blood cling to the air, alongside the echo of distant screams and the roar of battle. His breath comes fast, his heart a thunderous drum in his chest. Panic claws at him with every passing second. He hasn’t seen Sigyn since before the battle began, and the thought of her hurt—or worse—sends a cold dread rushing through him. 

Reaching inward, Loki searches for the thread of their connection, the bond that ties their energies. It’s faint but present, fragile yet unbroken, pulling him forward like a lifeline. His focus narrows on it, drowning out the chaos around him, carnage and death be damned.

He bursts into her old room and freezes. His heart plummets.

Sigyn is there, bound to the bedpost, her wrists rubbed raw from her struggles. Her hair is a wild tangle, her face streaked with dirt and tears. The room around her is a shadow of what it once was—shattered glass glitters like fallen stars on the floor, the torn fabric of curtains and bedding hanging in tatters. Her cherished plants, once vibrant and thriving, now lie broken and lifeless, trampled among the clay pots they once resided in.

“Sigyn!” Loki’s voice breaks as he rushes to her, his steps faltering slightly as he takes in the sight of her.

Her head snaps up at the sound of his voice, and a surge of relief washes over her face. “Loki, love! Oh, thank the Norns—”

“What in the Nine were you doing!?” Loki snaps, dropping to his knees beside her. His voice is sharp, a crack of thunder born from desperation. His hands move without hesitation, summoning a dagger to slice through the bindings at her wrists. The ropes fall away, leaving behind angry red marks, and he winces as he brushes his fingers over her skin, searching for other injuries. “I told you to stay safe . Why did you join the fight?”

Sigyn lifts her chin, defiance flashing in her tear-brightened eyes. “I couldn’t just stand by and watch! I had to—”

Loki cuts her off, his hands shaking as they grip her shoulders. “I cannot lose you!” He shouts, his voice cracking under his emotions. He shakes her once, roughly, the force of his fear spilling over in his touch.

Sigyn flinches, and it’s like a knife to Loki’s chest. His grip softens immediately, guilt flooding him as he cups her face with shaking hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I just…” His thumbs brush over her cheeks, wiping away her tears as his own eyes glisten. “Please get to the ship. Be safe. I’ll find you there.” 

He steps back from her and her brows furrow as her gaze follows. “Where are you going?”

“To end this,” Loki says, his voice steadier now. “To unleash Surtur.”

Sigyn’s face pales, panic flashing in her eyes. “Loki, no. You can’t—” She grabs his forearms, holding him tightly, her fingers digging into his sleeves. Her voice shakes as she pleads, “What about Ingvar? Loki, he—he said—” Her words falter, fracturing as she recalls their last conversation.

Loki’s jaw tightens, his eyes darkening with a flicker of rage at the name. “Your brother is dead,” he says firmly, cutting off her fear before it can grow. “Again. I killed him this time. And I did not leave a body for him to return to.”

Sigyn stares at him, her breath catching as his words sinks in. Relief and anguish swirl in her gaze, but then, without hesitation, she pulls him close, her hands sliding up to cup his face. “Norns, I love you,” she whispers, her voice filled with both gratitude and sorrow. Her lips find his and Loki presses into her, his hands cradling her head as if afraid to let go. For a moment, the battle outside the ruined room fades, leaving only the two of them. 

He pulls back just enough to press his forehead to hers, his breath mingling with hers. “I love you too,” he whispers back, “Now go.”

“No—”

“I am not arguing, Sigyn.” He says, his eyes locked on hers. “For them.” His hand drifts down, resting briefly against her abdomen, feeling the faint pulse of life within her. “You must be safe.”

Tears slip down her cheeks as she searches his face, finding that stubbornness where she wishes there was none. She nods slowly, her fingers brushing over his. “Then you come back to me,” she demands, “To all three of us. Promise me, Loki.”

“I will find my way back to you,” he promises, pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles before stepping back. “Now go.”

Tears spill down her cheeks as she nods. “Be careful.”

“Only if you do the same.” Loki watches her leave, his heart heavy, before turning on his heels and running toward the vault. 

This is madness.

The battle rages all around, the clamor of steel against steel and the cries of the wounded filling the fractured palace. Thor stands in the midst of it all, Gungnir in his hands, lightning crackling through his veins. Across from him, Hela looms, her dark headdress casting jagged shadows as she summons her black blades, taunting him with every movement. 

His focus falters, drawn to the three figures standing between them: Volstagg, Fandral, and Hogun—the Warriors Three.

Thor’s heart clenches at the sight of them. Their faces are grim, their eyes blackened with Hela’s magic, twisted into monstrous reflections of the friends he once knew. They stalk toward him with weapons drawn, their once-noble forms now driven by Hela’s sinister will.

“Your brothers in arms,” Hela purrs, her voice low and mocking. “Do they bring back memories? Glorious days of revelry and battle? Don’t worry—they’re still warriors. They’ll just be dying for the right cause now.”

Volstagg charges first, his massive axe gleaming with unnatural darkness. Thor hesitates for a fraction of a second before meeting the blow, gungnir’s staff clashing with Volstagg’s weapon with a deafening crack. The strength behind the swing sends Thor sliding back, his boots scraping against the marble floor.

“Volstagg, fight it!” Thor shouts, dodging another brutal swing. His voice is desperate, raw. “It’s me! It’s Thor! Your friend!”

There’s no response, only a guttural roar as Volstagg barrels forward, his strikes relentless. Behind him, Fandral dances in, his movements fluid but wrong, the grace of his blade now twisted into something predatory. Hogun stands at the rear, his spear raised, ready to strike with calculated precision.

Thor blocks another blow from Volstagg and barely ducks in time to avoid Fandral’s blade, the edge grazing his cheek. His mind races, searching for any way to reach them, to break Hela’s hold. “You’re stronger than her!” 

Hela laughs, the sound sharp and grating. Thor snarls, surging forward and knocking Volstagg back with a burst of lightning. He turns to face Fandral, their blades locking as sparks fly between them. “You don’t have to do this,” Thor pleads, his voice achingly desperate. “We’ve fought together, bled together. You are my brothers.”

For a fleeting moment, Fandral’s hand falters, his blade wavering in his grip. His blackened eyes flicker, the darkness receding to reveal a flash of clarity. “Thor…” He whispers, his voice barely audible, strained. 

Hela’s laughter dies in her throat as she senses the shift. “No,” she snarls, her eyes narrowing. Her fingers twitch, and the shadows around the Warriors Three pulse with renewed strength. The darkness surges through them again, and Fandral lets out a cry of anguish, his free hand clutching at his head. Volstagg and Hogun stagger, their weapons dropping slightly as they, too, struggle against her magic.

“Fight her!” Thor roars, hope sparking in his chest. He can see them—the men they once were—fighting their way to the surface. “You’re not her pawns. You’re the Warriors Three. The bravest, fiercest warriors of Asgard.”

Volstagg roars, his voice no longer monstrous but filled with defiance. He lunges at Hela, his axe raised high. Fandral and Hogun follow, their movements sharp and deliberate, no longer clouded by Hela’s influence.

“Traitors,” Hela hisses, her fury palpable. She summons a wave of black blades, sending them hurtling toward the three warriors.

Volstagg meets the onslaught head-on, his axe cleaving through the shadows. “For Asgard!” he bellows, his voice resonating with the power of his conviction. His axe strikes true, cutting through the barriers Hela summons, but her magic retaliates, piercing his chest with jagged shards. He falls to his knees, blood staining his armor, yet he doesn’t waver. “For our king.”

Fandral darts in next, his blade flashing like silver lightning as he dances around Hela’s attacks. “Still light on my feet,” he mutters, a faint grin tugging at his lips even as blood drips from his wounds. He lands a strike, his sword grazing her side, but Hela’s magic lashes out, her dark blades cutting deep. Fandral stumbles, his legs buckling beneath him. He glances back at Thor, his expression a mix of pride and sorrow. “Make it count, your majesty.”

Hogun stands last, his spear steady as he faces Hela. His eyes are clear now, free of her control, and they burn with quiet determination. “We fight for Asgard,” he says, his voice calm, resolute. He hurls his spear with all his strength, the weapon piercing through Hela’s shadows and striking her shoulder. She screams, the force of the blow staggering her.

But it isn’t enough.

Hela recovers quickly, her fury igniting into a storm of dark energy. Her blades lash out, striking Hogun across the chest. He falls with a gasp, his spear clattering to the ground.

Thor stands frozen, grief coursing through him as he watches his friends—the brothers who have stood by him through every battle—fall one by one.

Hela’s mocking voice cuts through the silence. “Such noble fools,” she sneers, her lips curling into a cruel smile. Thor grips Gungnir tightly, his knuckles white as lightning crackles along its length. He steps forward, his voice a low, thunderous growl. “They could have lived in a better Asgard,” she sighs, “Ingvar will be disappointed. They had such promise.” 

Thor squares his shoulders, standing alongside Val as Hela paces toward them, her dark blades gleaming in the dim light of the battlefield. The tension crackles in the air, amplified by the distant screams of the fleeing Asgardians and the rhythmic pounding of the Butchers’ march.

“Hela.” His tone is steady, but there’s a weight behind it, a challenge that gives her pause. Her dark eyes snap to him, curiosity flickering as she arches an eyebrow.

“What is it now, little brother?” She hisses, “Another rousing speech about love and hope? About how you understand me?” She spins a blade lazily between her fingers, her confidence radiating with every word. “Spare me.”

Thor doesn’t flinch, meeting her gaze head-on. “Ingvar is dead.”

The words land like Mjolnir would have. For a moment, Hela falters, her head tilting as though she hadn’t quite heard him correctly.

“What?” she asks, her voice low, dangerously soft.

“He’s dead,” Thor continues, his voice unyielding. “Loki killed him.”

The shift is immediate. Hela’s expression tightens, her chest rising as she draws in a sharp breath. A flicker of grief—raw, genuine—passes over her features, so fleeting it’s almost imperceptible. Her hands clench at her sides, the black blades she wields shaking faintly as her composure cracks.

For a heartbeat, her mind pulls her away from the battle, to a memory she cannot suppress.

Ingvar stands beside her, his molten eyes softened, his scarred throat exposed but forgotten in the quiet moment between them. They’re in the ruins of some long-conquered world, a place where death had reigned supreme at their hands. But here, amidst the carnage, he holds a delicate flower, its white petals glowing faintly in the dim light.

“For you,” he says, his voice gravelly but warm. He kneels, offering it to her with an almost childlike sincerity.

Hela stares at him, her dark facade wavering as she takes the flower from his hand. “You’re mocking me,” she says, but there’s no bite in her tone.

“I’m not,” Ingvar replies, standing and stepping closer. His hand brushes hers, and for a moment, there’s no death, no conquest—only them. “Not everything has to be destruction, you know. There can be… this.”

She lets the flower fall, her lips curling into a faint smile. “This will wilt, Ingvar,” she says, her voice low, touched with something tender. “Like everything else.”

“Then I’ll find another,” he replies, leaning closer. “And another. As many as you want.”

For a moment, she’s startled by the sound she makes, and it takes her a second too long to recognize it. Laughter. 

Oh, when had she forgotten its name?

The memory shatters, and Hela is back on the battlefield, the faint trace of tears streaking her face. But her laughter comes again, wild and fractured, echoing through the tumult around them. It’s not the same as before—it’s sharp, manic, laced with madness that has now completely consumed her. She doubles over, clutching her sides as the tears flow freely, her cackle rising in pitch until it becomes almost inhuman.

“You… You think that matters?” She manages between bursts of laughter, straightening with an unhinged glint in her eyes. Her gaze locks on Thor, blazing with fury and despair in equal measure. “He’s dead, you say? Well, what did you expect? Everything dies. Everything.” She hurls a blade at Thor, who deflects it with a crackle of lightning. “And so will you.”

Her madness surges as she charges forward, her movements erratic and vicious. The memory of Ingvar fuels her rage, turning her strikes into something desperate and uncontrollable. Thor struggles to match her intensity, his own wounds slowing him.

Val watches the scene unfold with mounting frustration. Finally, she dives into the fray, intercepting one of Hela’s blackened blades before it can pierce Thor’s side. With a grunt of effort, she drives the blade back and shoots Thor an incredulous glare.

“Great job, Thor,” she snaps, “Telling the unstable madwoman that her lover’s dead? Genius strategy. Really working out well for us.”

“I thought it would give us an opening!” Thor blocks another strike from Hela, the lightning crackling along Gungnir lighting his grimace. “And what was I supposed to do? Lie ?”

“Yes!” Val huffs, slamming her sword against one of Hela’s conjured blades and sending it flying into the water below. “Lie! Stall! Literally anything but that! For fuck’s sake, Thor!”

There’s something else in her eyes, something fractured. The grief is still there, buried beneath the madness, and it makes her all the more dangerous. She fights like a storm, wild and unrelenting, the battlefield bending to her rage. 

They press forward together, their attacks synchronized as they try to hold their ground against the overwhelming force of Hela’s wrath. But as Thor summons a surge of lightning, Hela meets it head-on, her laughter echoing once more.

Thor blocks another of Hela’s strikes, the force rattling through Gungnir as he’s driven back a step. His lightning crackles weakly, his energy flagging under the onslaught. Between desperate breaths, his gaze flickers toward the distant palace, where Loki should be completing his task.

“Come on, Loki,” Thor mutters under his breath, his voice a mix of frustration and urgency. “Anytime now…”

0oooooo0

On the Statesman, chaos erupts as Butchers claw their way aboard. The air is filled with screams, the metallic clash of weapons, and the snarls of Hela’s forces. Asgardian refugees huddle together in terrified clusters, their faces pale with fear as the Butchers close in. Skurge watches from the shadows, his heart pounding, his breath heavy. His grip tightens on the massive double-headed axe in his hands—a relic of Asgard, its steel nicked and battered from years of use.

He had wielded it in Hela’s service. Now, it feels heavier than ever, the reality of his choices pressing down on him. His gaze drifts to a nearby family—a mother shielding her children, shaking in terror as the Butchers advance. His mind flashes to Casiolena, her face burned into his memory, her voice soft with love. Hela had promised to bring her back. That promise had kept him in chains.

But now, as he looks at the terror in the refugees’ eyes, something shifts. He knows the truth. Casiolena is gone, and Hela will never make good on her word. All that remains is a chance to do something right, even if it costs him everything.

For her. If nothing else. 

Shrugging off his cloak, he steps forward into the fray, axe gleaming in the light of Asgard’s sun. With a roar, he swings the axe in a wide arc, cleaving through the first wave of enemies. The blade slices through the air, biting deep into flesh and bone of any and all butchers he can reach.

He steps between the Butchers and the refugees, creating a barrier of steel and sheer willpower. “The rest of you! Go, now!” He yells at the terrified civilians, his voice booming over the calamity. They scramble toward safety, but the Butchers press on, relentless.

Skurge fights like a man possessed. The axe becomes an extension of himself, carving through the enemy ranks as quickly and efficiently as possible. Blood spatters his armor, his muscles screaming with exertion, but he doesn’t falter. Each swing is a declaration, a defiance of the man he has become. 

Then, across the battlefield, his voice cuts through the din.“Hela!”

Hela turns, her eyes narrowing as they find him. Her lips curl into a disdainful sneer as she watches him. “How disappointing,” she says softly, her voice dripping with venom. With a flick of her wrist, she summons a jagged black blade. Skurge meets her gaze, his jaw set, his breaths ragged but unyielding. He knows what’s coming. He’s known since the moment he stepped forward. But he doesn’t waver.

The blade flies through the air, swift and deadly. It strikes true, piercing his chest. Skurge staggers, the axe slipping from his hands as blood blossoms across his armor. His knees hit the bridge, and his vision blurs as pain radiates through his body.

But even as the darkness creeps in, a faint smile crosses his lips. He looks up at the Statesman, now lifting into the air, carrying the people of Asgard to safety. His chest heaves with the effort of one final breath, and his thoughts turn to Casiolena. I hope you’d be proud . 

Skurge falls, lifeless, the axe lying at his side. Behind him, the Statesman ascends unfettered, the refugees safe. 

0oooooo0

The Eternal Flame burns ferociously, licking the air with unnatural intensity as Loki places Surtur’s skull into its roaring depths. The inferno engulfs the skull, and almost immediately, the ancient relic begins to shift and grow.

“With the Eternal Flame,” Loki murmurs, his voice steady as the fire crackles wildly around him, “you are reborn.”

The fire erupts louder, the room vibrating with the sheer energy radiating from Surtur’s awakening. The skull stretches and expands, molten edges glowing red as it begins to form the monstrous figure of the fire giant.

———

Hela has Val in her clutches, her black blade pressed tightly against her throat. Val struggles, but the jagged edge bites into her skin, leaving her frozen in place. Hela’s fury is uncontained, her eyes blazing as she surveys the aftermath of Skurge’s defiance against her. The Statesman, now ascending beyond her reach, carries the last of the Asgardians to safety. Around her, the Butchers scatter. 

A few paces away, Ari crouches low, her feline form practically vibrating with restrained energy. Her fur, dampened by blood and sweat, bristles as she watches Hela’s blade dig closer to Val’s neck. Her eyes flash with rage and fear.

“Val!” Ari’s voice is sharp as she screams. Her claws scrape loudly and unpleasantly against the bridge’s surface, her chest heaving. Her tail lashes, and for a heartbeat, it seems she might charge, reckless and unthinking.

“Ari, no!” Val’s voice is strained, her body rigid in Hela’s grip. “Stay back!”

Hela glances at Ari, a cold, amused smile spreading across her face. “Oh, by all means,” she sneers, “I would love to see that.”

Ari bares her teeth, a low growl rumbling deep in her throat. She takes one hesitant step forward, claws flexing. “Let her go,” she snarls, her voice shaking. “I’ll tear you apart.”

Hela laughs, sharp and cruel, pressing her blade harder against Val’s throat. “Oh, little beast. You’re welcome to try.”

With a feral snarl, Ari leaps forward, claws outstretched, her lithe body cutting through the air with shocking speed. She slams into Hela’s side, knocking her off balance just enough for Val to twist free.

“Zuhnaria , no!” Val shouts, but the young warrior is relentless, slashing at Hela’s exposed side. Hela snarls, throwing up a dark blade to block, but Ari is already darting out of range, her speed keeping her ahead of the goddess.

Hela recovers quickly, her anger boiling over. “You insolent wretch!” she hisses, summoning a jagged spear and hurling it at Ari.

Val catches the moment and leaps in, Dragonfang flashing as she intercepts the spear midair, deflecting it with a shower of sparks. She lands beside Ari, placing a steadying hand on her sister’s shoulder. “That was a dumbass move, you know that?”

Ari growls low in her throat but steps back, her ears pinned against her skull. “She was going to kill you,” she says, her voice unsteady with both fury and relief. 

Val nods, tightening her grip on Dragonfang as she stares down Hela. “I know.”

The three women survey one another, scrutinizing for any sudden movement. Before either can make another attack, Thor’s voice cuts through the tension. “Hela!” He yells, his voice thundering, tone sharp enough to halt even her next strike. “Enough.”

Hela turns, her black blade still poised, as Thor steps forward. For a moment, Hela looks almost amused as she assesses Thor. Her lips curl into a mocking smirk. “Have you finally accepted what we both know?” She taunts, her voice low and dangerous. “That you cannot defeat me?”

Thor doesn’t respond right away. A faint rumble shakes the ground beneath them, subtle but unmistakable. Thor feels it—deep, resonant—as though Asgard itself is groaning in its final moments. He knows Loki has done it. Surtur has risen.

Thor’s gaze doesn’t waver. He takes a step closer, raising Gungnir before lowering it with deliberate care, laying it down across the bridge.

“You want Asgard?” He asks, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what’s about to happen. “It’s yours.”

The heat is unbearable.

Loki stumbles back, his skin prickling as the inferno swells, molten rock and searing flames intertwining as Surtur’s form grows ever larger. 

The fire demon’s awakening is a symphony of roaring flames and molten stone grinding together, the air vibrating with oppressive heat. Every breath Loki takes scorches his lungs, and his vision swims from the unbearable temperature. The walls of the vault seem to melt, bending and twisting under the intense pressure of the Eternal Flame.

He needs to leave. Now.

The thought drives him forward, but his legs feel like lead. Loki reaches for his seidr, but the magic comes sluggishly, as though it’s wilting under the heat. His hands tremble, the residual effects of exhaustion clawing at him after everything—Hela, the battles, the projections to Thor. Still, he forces himself to focus, dragging the last reserves of his strength into a single point.

A bead of sweat drips from his brow, hissing as it meets the blistering floor. His lips move, chanting weakly, the words fractured and hesitant as he focuses on an image of the Statesman—the last sanctuary for his people, the moving ship where safety awaits. His breath catches as the flames surge toward him, the fire roaring louder, hungrier, threatening to consume him whole.

The air around him distorts, his magic finally sparking to life. Loki grits his teeth, holding the fragile thread of power with all his will. It’s now or never. With a jarring lurch, his body vanishes, the space he once occupied swallowed by a wall of fire.

Loki crashes onto the cold metallic floor of the Statesman’s storage unit with a loud thud. For a moment, he lies motionless, his body wracked with exhaustion, his mind blank as he struggles to process what just happened. The contrast between the vault’s sweltering heat and the Statesman’s chill metallic air is so stark that it sends a shock through his system, like plunging into icy water.

Slowly, he gasps for air, each breath rasping in his throat. His chest heaves as he rolls onto his side, his limbs trembling violently. The lingering heat clings to his skin, a cruel reminder of how close he came to being reduced to ash. He forces himself to sit up, his hands pressing against the cold floor for stability, only to wince as he notices the scorch marks on his sleeves, the burns on his armor. 

If he had stayed a second longer… 

He presses a hand to his arm, his sharp features twisting in pain as he hisses through his teeth. His body feels drained to the point of collapse. He knows what this could’ve meant for him. The idea of being consumed by fire makes his chest tighten, a cold dread replacing the heat that lingers in his bones. 

“Alive,” he mutters hoarsely, his voice barely audible. “Barely.”

He staggers to his feet, his legs shaking beneath him, and leans heavily against the wall for support. The faint hum of the Statesman’s engines fills the air, grounding him. Slowly, he moves toward a nearby window, his hand pressed against the cool glass as he looks out.

The view takes his breath away. Asgard, once golden and magnificent, is engulfed in a sea of fire. The spires that once reached for the heavens now crumble under Surtur’s fury. The great fire demon looms over the realm, his fiery sword slicing through what is left of ghe palace with devastating ease. The destruction is absolute, and Loki’s stomach churns as he watches it unfold.

Relief, guilt, grief—they are dancing within him, each emotion clawing at his already frayed nerves. He had saved himself. He had saved Sigyn. He had saved the rest of Asgard. But at what cost? He presses his forehead against the glass, the cold surface a small comfort. 

A sudden clatter behind him jolts him from his thoughts. He whirls around, his instincts flaring as his hand moves to summon a blade. But the magic flickers weakly, barely sparking to life. He braces himself, his breath catching in his throat—only to stop short when he sees who it is.

Sigyn.

She stands there, her chest heaving, her golden eyes wide and tear-streaked. Her disheveled hair frames her face, and the sight of her is enough to unravel the tightly wound knot in Loki’s chest. The moment her eyes lock on him, she rushes forward, throwing herself into his arms.

“You’re alright…” She sobs into his chest, her voice filled with broken relief. She clings to him with a desperation that makes his heart ache, her fingers curling tightly into his armor as though afraid he might vanish again.

Loki’s arms wrap around her instinctively, pulling her close. His own exhaustion melts away for a moment as he buries his face in her hair, his voice soft and hoarse. “I promised, didn’t I?” The words are quiet, almost fragile, as though saying them too loudly might shatter the moment.

Her tears wet his skin, and for a moment, the world outside fades away. The roar of destruction, the hum of the ship, even the ache in his burned skin—it all disappears, leaving only the warmth of her presence anchoring him. He tightens his hold, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple.

The sound of footsteps echoes in the corridor, and Loki lifts his head as Thor appears. He steps into the room, armor is battered, streaked with blood and grime, and the patch covering his missing eye only adds to the weariness etched into his face.

Thor stops a few steps away, his gaze softening as he takes in the sight of them. Without hesitation, he moves forward, wrapping both Loki and Sigyn in his arms. His embrace is strong and steady, a silent reassurance that they are still here, still together, even after everything.

The three of them stand there, united in their grief, relief, and the enormity of what they’ve endured. Tears come silently as they hold each other. After a long moment, Thor pulls away, swiping at his face as he looks at his brother. Loki’s gaze moves over Thor’s features, lingering on the black patch covering his missing eye. Despite everything, a faint smirk tugs at Loki’s lips. “You look like Odin.” 

Thor rolls his remaining eye, shaking his head with a wry smile. “Shut up.”

The massive cruiseliner glides silently through the endless expanse of space, the stars twinkling like scattered diamonds in the void.

Thor steps onto the main deck of the Statesman, his footsteps heavy with the weight of his new responsibilities. The room is filled with a sea of faces, each one marked by exhaustion and grief, but also by hope. They part as he walks through the crowd, creating a quiet path toward the front.

The scene is a stark contrast to his grand coronation from so many years ago. There are no cheers, no trumpets, no fanfare. The people look up at Thor with quiet gratitude, offering him humble smiles and small, respectful bows. There is no arrogance in him now, no flash of bravado. Thor’s demeanor is calm and stately, his eyes shadowed with the wisdom of what has been lost and what must come next.

At the end of the procession, Val, Heimdall, Loki, and Hulk wait by the captain’s chair. Behind them stands the window, a vast view of the star-streaked cosmos.

Val steps forward first, her face soft but serious. “Your throne,” she says simply, motioning to the chair.

Thor pauses, his gaze lingering on the seat for a moment. The reality of everything, the expectations of his people—it presses on him like it never has before. This… This is what he should have understood before. This is what his arrogance and bloodlust blinded him to. He nods, a display of quiet acceptance as he approaches humbly. Just as he’s about to sit, a voice cuts through the quiet.

“Wait!” Ari steps forward, her bright eyes holding a nervous energy as she skitters toward them. In her hands, she holds something—a makeshift crown, forged from scraps of metal. It’s lopsided, clunky, and garishly painted in reds, yellows, and blues that don’t quite match. It looks more like a child’s art project than a royal symbol.

Thor stares at it, blinking, and for a moment, the room is utterly silent.

“I, uh… I thought you needed one,” Ari says, holding it out to him. Her voice is quieter than usual, almost bashful. “I mean, you’re a king, right? You can’t be a king without a crown.”

Loki snorts softly behind him before swiftly receiving an elbow to the ribs from Val. Thor’s gaze is locked on Ari, the way her hands shake slightly as she offers him the crown, the way she avoids meeting his eyes, as if bracing for rejection.

A faint smile tugs at Thor’s lips. He lowers himself slightly, bowing his head toward her. “Then crown me,” he says softly.

Ari’s eyes widen, her cheeks flushing, but she steps forward. Carefully, she places the makeshift crown on his head, standing on tiptoe to settle it amidst his hair. It wobbles slightly, sitting askew, but she adjusts it with determined hands until it feels steady. She steps back, surveying her work, and then beams at him. “Perfect.”

Thor straightens, the crown atop his head, and for a moment, the gravity of the scene lifts. Loki shakes his head, though his lips twitch with something close to amusement. Thor reaches up to touch the crown lightly, as if testing its weight. It’s absurd, yes—but it’s also endearing. He lets it stay.

Val clears her throat, her tone turning serious again. “Your throne,” she repeats, motioning once more to the captain’s chair.

Thor steps forward this time, his acceptance resolute. He sits down, the room feeling heavier, but also steadier. The Asgardians watching him don’t cheer, don’t shout their approval. Instead, they bow their heads in quiet respect, their trust in their king unspoken but deeply felt.

Val and Heimdall flank him on either side, Hulk looming silently behind. Loki steps forward, his expression unreadable as he joins the group. He stands just behind Thor’s right shoulder, Sigyn’s hand in his. A figure apart but present nonetheless.

Heimdall looks at Thor, his amber eyes glimmering with quiet pride. “So, King of Asgard,” he says, “Where to?”

Thor looks past him, his gaze sweeping over the thousands of people who have placed their hopes in him. They stare back, waiting silently for their new king to speak. For a long moment, Thor says nothing. 

Finally, he breathes deeply, his gaze steadying.

He has one place in mind. 

0oooooo0

Thor and Loki stand side by side, staring through the massive window at the stars streaking by. The silence between them is comfortable, though the faint tension of what lies ahead lingers, unspoken. The ship’s hum fills the quiet, a soft undercurrent to their thoughts.

“So,” Loki says at last, breaking the stillness. His voice is dry, teasing. “Vanaheim? I can’t say I expected you to make such a sound decision without my input. It’s almost as if you don’t need me anymore.”

Thor smirks, his eye still fixed on the vastness beyond the glass. “Oh, I’ll always need you, brother,” he replies, his voice warm with sincerity.

Loki’s gaze flicks upward, his lips quirking upward as he studies the ‘crown’ perched on Thor’s head. It’s lopsided and absurd, one of the edges catching the faint glow of the stars.

“You know,” Loki says, leaning slightly closer to his brother, “you look ridiculous with that thing on your head.”

Thor glances at him, smile widening. “She worked hard on this,” he counters, “It’s… symbolic.”

“Oh, it’s something,” Loki replies, tilting his head as if to examine the crown from a different angle. “Symbolic of what, exactly?”

Thor chuckles, the sound low and genuine. “Of hope,” he says after a moment, his expression softening. “And of those we’re protecting.”

Loki’s teasing grin falters slightly, his gaze lingering on Thor’s face. He lets out a faint scoff, waving a hand. “Fine, then. But if she tries to crown me next, I’m running.”

Thor lets out a laugh, clapping Loki on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, brother. I don’t think you’d wear it half as well.”

Loki’s lips part, a retort already forming, but he stops as he feels familiar arms slide around his waist from behind. He leans back instinctively, his shoulders losing some of their tension. Sigyn presses her chin to his shoulder, her gaze following theirs out to the stars. She doesn’t say anything, but her presence anchors him in a way nothing else can.

For a moment, it feels almost peaceful.

But then Thor’s expression falters, the corners of his mouth tightening as his gaze shifts to something outside. A shadow seems to creep over his face, and Loki stiffens beside him, instantly attuned to the change.

“What is it?” Loki asks sharply, following Thor’s line of sight.

Through the window, a massive warship looms into view. Its dark hull stretches endlessly, eclipsing the stars and dwarfing the Statesman like a predator sizing up its prey. The ship’s ominous silhouette is unmistakable, its form bristling with weapons and menace. It casts a suffocating shadow over the smaller vessel, a harbinger of destruction.

Loki’s face drains of color, his sharp features tightening with dread. His breath catches, and his words come in a whisper, barely audible. “Oh, Norns.”

Sigyn tightens her arms around him, her fingers clutching at his armor as her eyes widen in alarm. “What is that?” she asks, her voice unsteady, unsure as she senses the shift in both brothers.

Loki swallows hard, forcing himself to speak even as his mind races. He can feel himself spiraling, can hear himself screaming, and he’s shocked to find that it isn’t aloud. “That,” he says quietly, his gaze fixed on the approaching vessel, “is death.”

This is the Asgardian refugee vessel Statesman. We are under assault, I repeat, we are under assault - The engines are dead, life support failing. Requesting aid from any vessel within range. We are 22 jump points out of Asgard. Our crew is made up of Asgardian families, we have very few soldiers here. This is not a warcraft. I repeat, this is not a warcraft!

The Statesman is in chaos.

The ship shudders violently as the invading forces breach the hull, sending everyone into a frenzy. The once-calm corridors are now filled with the sounds of panicked screams. 

Loki stands amidst the disarray, his face pale, his mind almost racing faster than he can keep up with. He moves methodically, adjusting the settings on one escape pod after another, the faint glow of the control panels reflecting on his sharp features. His hands tremble slightly, but his movements are precise—practiced, even. There’s no room for hesitation, no time to let fear win.

“Go, now!” Loki barks at a family of three, guiding them into the pod with a sharp motion. He looks to the next group, gesturing frantically. “You’ll be safe—move!”

The desperation around him is palpable. People clamor for safety, their voices rising above the din as they push forward, driven by sheer terror. But not all of them are fleeing. Many of the remaining Asgardians, warriors to their last breath, stand firm, gripping weapons that they had managed to bring. Their faces are set in grim determination, their pride refusing to let them run. Loki spares them only a fleeting glance before turning his attention back to the pods.

Then he hears it—a voice he knows better than his own.

“Loki!”

He spins around to see Sigyn rushing toward him, her eyes wide with fear, her hair wild. Relief and dread twist in his chest simultaneously. She comes to a halt in front of him, her breath coming in quick bursts. “What’s happening? Why are they attacking us?”

Loki grabs her hand, pulling her close, urgency in his every motion. “The Titan and his followers have caught up with us,” he says. He glances over his shoulder toward the distant sounds of fighting. “He wants the Tesseract, and he will destroy everything in his path to get it.”

Sigyn’s eyes widen further, and she grips his arm tightly. “You brought it?” Her voice is tinged with something Loki hopes isn’t disappointment. He doesn’t have the courage to meet her gaze and confirm it.

“I couldn’t leave it on Asgard,” he says, defensively. “It cannot be destroyed. And I thought—” He breaks off, his voice faltering as he realizes how foolish his reasoning sounds now. His plans, once so calculated, are unraveling before his eyes.

Sigyn’s face softens as she moves back into his field of vision, making him look at her, her fear shifting into a raw vulnerability. “Come with me, Loki,” she pleads, her hands gripping his arm tighter. “If we get to Earth, we can find the Avengers. They’ve defeated an army like this before, haven’t they?” She asks, “They may not have faced the Titan himself, but… But they can help us protect the Tesseract.”

Loki hesitates, her words stirring a flicker of hope in his chest. But he knows better. And he thinks that she does too. She's suggesting this out of desperation. The first time was different. It was only himself and the army he was given, and he had been… out of his mind at the time. The first time would hardly compare to this. The Avengers are useless here. He knows what Thanos is capable of, the lengths he will go to, the lives he will end without hesitation. He looks at her, her golden eyes filled with fragile hope, and for a moment, he smiles—a rare, genuine expression that lights his weary face.

The ship lurches violently again, and the sounds of destruction grow closer, but Loki doesn’t flinch. Instead, he cups Sigyn’s face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over her freckled cheeks. “I can’t, Sigyn,” he says softly, his voice barely audible over the chaos. He presses his forehead to hers, his breath warm against her skin.

Her lips part, a protest forming, but he silences it, his lips finding hers. One hand rests gently on her abdomen, the other cradling her by the back of her neck as he kisses her. Tears well in his eyes as he breaks away, resting his forehead against hers. He swore that he would do anything to protect her. This… This is how.

“Loki,” she begins, her voice breaking, “please. Whatever you’re thinking, please don’t.”

He steps back, his features hardening into something she can’t read. From his armor, he removes a gilded band, the serpent-like design coiling in his palm. He takes her hand— her beautiful, scarred hand— and slips the ring onto her finger. “I thought I would have more time,” he whispers, pressing his lips to her knuckles, his voice tight. “I’m sorry.”

Sigyn’s tears spill over as she shakes her head, clutching at his arms. “No,” she says, her voice rising with desperation. “No, Loki, please don’t do this. You promised me, you promised—”

“I know,” he says, his voice breaking, raw with emotion. He cups her face again, and there are tremors in his fingers against her skin. “And I’m sorry.”

Before she can respond, he whispers a spell, the words flowing from his lips quickly. Sigyn’s body stiffens as the magic takes hold, her eyes wide with panic. “Loki, no—don’t—please,” she pleads, her voice weakening as the spell begins to pull her under. “Loki…” Her voice trails off, her body going limp as her eyes flutter closed. Loki catches her, cradling her gently as he fights back the sob that threatens to escape his throat.

He carries her to the nearest escape pod, his breaths shallow as he moves her carefully. The chaos around him blurs as he focuses solely on her, her peaceful face, the weight of her in his arms. He secures her in the pod, his hands shaking uselessly as he adjusts the settings.

“Midgard,” he murmurs to himself, locking the coordinates. “She’ll be protected on Midgard.” There is nowhere truly safe ; he learned that a long time ago. But if nothing else, he hopes the Norns will take mercy on him and spare her. 

The pod’s hatch begins to close, sealing Sigyn inside. Loki stands there, watching her through the glass, committing every detail of her to memory. The ship rocks violently, but he doesn’t move until the pod jettisons into the void of space, carrying half his heart with it.

Loki takes a shaky breath, turning back toward the destruction he knows is happening. The faint sound of laughter echoes down the corridor, cruel and mocking. Clenching his jaw, he steels himself, his hands balling into fists. His heart aches with every step as he prepares to face the inevitable.

The Statesman shudders again, the vibrations resonating through Loki’s bones as he makes his way down the corridor. The distant clash of metal and screams of dying Asgardians echo in his ears. 

He pauses at the junction of two hallways, his hand pressed against the cold metal for balance. His chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath, the enormity of what’s happening crashing down on him. Sigyn is safe, he tells himself. And so are the twins. That has to be enough. It has to be.

Thanos is close. 

Loki’s heart clenches, and fear is a sharp, visceral thing in his chest. His magic is drained, barely flickering at his fingertips. His body aches with every movement, his reserves spent from the battle and the spell he’d cast on Sigyn. He’s running on sheer willpower now, and he knows it won’t be enough.

He grips the edge of the wall, his knuckles whitening as his mind races. He’s going to die. The truth of it is undeniable. But dying isn’t the part that scares him.

He was never going to escape this.