"Red King?"
Ben's brow furrowed as the unfamiliar title registered in his mind. Sakaar should be ruled by the Grandmaster—that eccentric blue-skinned Elder of the Universe with his twisted passion for gladiatorial entertainment. The name "Red King" was completely foreign to him, suggesting that this universe had already diverged significantly from what he knows.
In many ways, this unexpected change was a relief. The Grandmaster's power as an Elder of the Universe was virtually incalculable—a cosmic entity whose abilities transcended normal understanding. Even with the Omnitrix's vast catalog of alien forms, Ben wasn't entirely certain he could emerge victorious from a direct confrontation with such a being.
This "Red King," however, was an unknown. Ben's knowledge of Marvel Comics had always been more focused on the mainstream heroes and villains rather than the deeper cosmic lore. He vaguely recalled that the Hulk had once conquered this planet and formed some kind of Warbound alliance, eventually leading an invasion force back to Earth, but the specifics remained frustratingly elusive.
Still, whether the ruler was red, green, or polka-dotted made little difference to his ultimate goal.
The thought brought a slight smile to his lips as he settled back to observe the unfolding situation with calculated patience.
Loki, predictably, was handling captivity with all the grace and dignity of a wet cat. The newly king was practically frothing at the mouth, his voice rising to near-hysterical pitches as he alternated between threats, demands, and increasingly desperate attempts to assert his royal authority. The discovery that Brunnhilde was one of Asgard's legendary warrior-maidens had only amplified his grandiose posturing.
"You dare treat Odinson like common prisoner?" Loki shrieked, his face flushed with indignation. "I am the king of Asgard! You will serve me, or face the consequences of your defiance!"
Ben found himself studying this version of Loki with genuine fascination. The God of Mischief was so different from the more complex, nuanced character he would eventually become. This Loki was raw ambition and wounded pride wrapped in a thin veneer of royal entitlement—all the arrogance of his princely upbringing with none of the hard-earned wisdom that would come from repeated failures and genuine loss.
It made perfect sense, really. The Loki of later years had been forged in the crucible of repeated defeats: humbled by mortals on Midgard, broken by Thanos' tortures, forced to confront the consequences of his own actions again and again until something resembling genuine character had emerged from the wreckage of his ego. This version, however, had yet to receive the education in humility that would transform him from petulant prince to God of Stories.
Simply put, he hadn't been beaten down nearly enough yet.
Brunnhilde's response to Loki's royal proclamations was swift and merciless.
The moment he invoked Odin's name—clearly expecting it to inspire automatic deference—her entire demeanor shifted. The casual indifference she'd displayed moments before was replaced by something far more dangerous: the kind of cold, controlled fury that spoke of old wounds torn freshly open.
Her finger found the shock collar remote with practiced ease, and she pressed it with the satisfaction of someone unloading years of frustration on a very deserving target. The device responded instantly, sending a surge of electricity through Loki's body. His eyes rolled back as he convulsed violently, limbs jerking in every direction before finally collapsing in a twitching heap.
When the sparks faded, she turned her gaze to Ben, eyes sharp and unreadable.
"Don't look at me," Ben said quickly, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm definitely not Asgardian."
"I can see that," Brunnhilde replied, her tone carrying a mixture of disappointment and assessment. "No godly energy signature whatsoever. I was hoping that anything delivered by the Rainbow Bridge would be worth something substantial..." She glanced between Ben and the still-twitching Loki with the expression of a merchant who'd just discovered her latest acquisition was fool's gold. "At this rate, I'll barely make enough to cover fuel costs."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Ben said, gesturing toward the fallen prince with a knowing smile. "He really is Odinson, you know. Sure, his combat skills leave something to be desired, but royal blood has its own market value. That's got to be worth something to the right buyer."
Brunnhilde's expression grew thoughtful, though worry lines creased her forehead.
"The potential profit is there," she admitted, "but I'm not sure the Red King would dare purchase him. Asgard's reputation extends across the known galaxy—every civilization worthy of the name has heard stories of Asgard. Taking one of Odin son could invite retaliation that even Sakaar couldn't survive."
"What's there to worry about?" Ben shrugged with calculated nonchalance. "Odin's is now on Odinsleep for who knows how long. Loki here was attempting to usurp the throne when the Rainbow Bridge sent him packing—he's essentially a political exile, maybe even a wanted criminal. Who's going to come looking for a disgraced prince?"
The logic was sound, and Ben knew it.
Right now, the only person who could possibly rescue Loki was Thor. Unfortunately, Thor hadn't regained his divine powers yet—and worse, Mjolnir wasn't even in his hands. That honor belonged to Steve Rogers.
Not that Steve had claimed it for himself. After the fight with the Destroyer, he'd respectfully set the hammer down and offered to give it back. Classic Rogers—always playing fair.
Nick Fury didn't say a word at the time. But he definitely noticed. Mjolnir was an alien WMD dressed up like a paperweight, and he wasn't about to leave something that powerful lying around unaccounted for. SHIELD protocol was clear: you find something that dangerous, you secure it. Preferably in a deep bunker with a thousand surveillance feeds.
Still, Fury wasn't stupid.
Asgard had a weapon that made nukes look like firecrackers—the Rainbow Bridge. It could flatten a planet if someone on the other side got twitchy. That meant keeping the hammer wasn't just about control. It was about diplomacy.
So, he played nice.
There was just one complication.
Thor couldn't lift the damn thing.
He gave it an honest try, straining with everything he had, but Mjolnir didn't budge an inch.
Fury didn't react. Not outwardly. Just kept that blank, unreadable stare. But inside? Yeah, part of him was already drafting the SHIELD file titled "Subject: Thor Odinson (Currently Unqualified)."
He didn't say a word about it. Didn't need to. But a thought did cross his mind: Maybe next time, the hammer should come with a user manual.
Still, when he finally spoke, his tone was all smooth edges and plausible deniability.
"Looks like the hammer isn't ready for you yet," Fury said casually. "Don't take it personal. Might just be acting out. You know how temperamental enchanted weapons can be."
Then, with the barest twitch of a smirk: "I heard anyone who can lift it qualifies to rule Asgard. What do you think, Rogers? Want to be king?"
The Asgardian warriors didn't find it funny. Four sets of piercing eyes locked on Fury with the kind of weight that made lesser men sweat.
He raised both hands in mock surrender.
"Alright, alright. Relax. No one's claiming anything. Steve will hold onto it for now. Strictly safekeeping. You wouldn't want it left out here in the desert. Someone might trip over it. Or—God forbid—it gets... rusty."
Volstagg actually scoffed. "Rusty? It's forged in the heart of a dying star!"
Fury gave him a look. "And yet, you let it hit dirt."
Thor said nothing. Just stared at the hammer with a mixture of longing and disbelief. The realization that he still wasn't worthy hit harder than any blow he'd taken in the battle.
And so, Steve Rogers—ever the soldier—picked up the hammer one last time and walked away with it.
The desert fell quiet. The storm was over.
But Thor—powerless, humbled, and hammerless—chose not to return to Asgard just yet.
Back on Sakaar, Brunnhilde's attitude toward Ben had undergone a noticeable improvement following his analysis of Loki's market value.
"You're sharper than you look," she said with something approaching approval. "I'm Brunnhilde, by the way. How'd you feel about working as my assistant? I could use someone with actual brains on my team. Don't worry—I'll sell Prince Charming here first, so I won't need to liquidate you for drinking money anytime soon."
The offer was tempting, Ben had to admit. Working alongside a legendary Valkyrie, exploring the chaotic wonders of Sakaar, possibly gaining access to advanced technology and combat techniques... there were worse ways to spend his time.
But he shook his head with genuine regret.
"Thanks, but I can't," he said. "I've only got about a month before I need to get back to Earth. School starts again soon, and I have a company to manage."
Brunnhilde stared at him as if he'd just announced his intention to juggle live grenades for fun.
"You traveled across space," she said slowly, "fought through whatever circumstances brought you here, survived capture and imprisonment... and you're worried about school?"
"I'm sixteen," Ben explained, as if that should make everything clear. "What about you?"
The question caught Brunnhilde off guard. For a moment, the mask of cynical detachment slipped, revealing something almost vulnerable beneath.
"Just... try to survive the month," she said quietly, avoiding his eyes.
After a pause, she added, "You might actually have a chance. The current champion isn't particularly interested in fighting weaklings—considers it beneath her dignity. If you can handle the opening matches and avoid drawing too much attention, you could potentially last long enough to see home again."
"The champion?" Ben asked, his curiosity piqued. "Who exactly are we talking about here?"