Stuttgart greeted me with rain.
A fine, unpleasant, typically European drizzle — it hung in the air more like fog than precipitation. Drops settled on the shoulders of my suit (earth-made, Italian, stolen by Barton from some boutique — Loki could not appear in public wearing just anything), on my slicked-back hair, on the Scepter disguised as a cane.
The square before the museum was full of people. An evening reception — a charity event, judging by the number of diamonds on the ladies' necks and the self-satisfaction on the men's faces. The elite. The cream of society. Those accustomed to the world bending to their desires.
Soon they would learn what real power was, I thought.
And immediately corrected myself: No. Soon they would play their role in the performance.
Selvig needed iridium. A rare metal that stabilized the portal, without which the entire structure would collapse after a minute of operation. There were only a few places in the world where it could be obtained in sufficient quantity.
The Stuttgart Museum of Natural History housed a seventy-seven-gram sample — part of a meteorite that fell in Bavaria in the nineteenth century. Enough for our purposes. And public enough to attract attention.
Attention, I reminded myself. That was the goal. Not the iridium. The attention.
Thanos awaited results. The army awaited the signal. And I — I awaited the moment when I could lose beautifully.
Barton was already inside. I could feel him through the connection — focused, calm, methodically neutralizing the guards. No killings — I had ordered it. Broken arms, dislocated shoulders, a few concussions — but all alive.
Small victories, I thought. Collect small victories while you can.
The three guards at the Pegasus base still stood before my eyes.
I entered the museum.
Marble, gilding, crystal — Europeans knew how to build temples to their wealth. Guests in evening attire drifted through the hall, unaware that a being from another world walked among them. Waiters glided by with trays of champagne. An orchestra played something classical — Strauss? Mozart? Loki's memory did not understand earthly music.
Now, came Barton's signal. The vault is open.
I allowed the Scepter to return to its true form.
The golden shaft materialized in my hand, the blue light of the Mind Stone flooding the space around me. Someone screamed. Someone dropped a glass. The orchestra faltered.
"Good evening," I said, and Loki's voice filled the hall. Velvety, commanding, tinged with amusement. "Forgive the intrusion, but I have an appointment with your director."
The museum director — an elderly man in a tailcoat — went pale and stepped back.
"W-who are you?"
"No one important," I smiled. "Not yet."
A guard to my right reached for his holster. I did not even look at him — I simply waved the Scepter. A blue beam hurled him against the wall. Not fatal. Painful.
"I would not advise that," I added, addressing the others. "It spoils my mood."
Panic began predictably: screams, a crush at the exits, shattered glass. People ran like a herd, obeying the most ancient instinct.
Good, I thought. Run. Tell others. Record everything on your phones.
I saw them — dozens of screens pointed at me. Smartphones, tablets, even someone's professional camera. Within an hour, these recordings would be on every news channel in the world.
Alien attacks Stuttgart. Extraterrestrial threat. The world in danger.
Exactly what was needed.
Barton emerged from a service corridor carrying a container. Iridium — seventy-seven grams of a future portal.
"Done," he reported.
"Excellent. Now — the second act."
I stepped out onto the square.
The rain had intensified, but the crowd had not dispersed. People fled the museum but stopped outside — curiosity stronger than fear. They stood in clusters, filming on their phones, whispering.
Spectators, I thought. Every performance needs spectators.
I raised the Scepter.
The Mind Stone responded — not with attack, not with control. Something subtler. A wave of mental pressure spread across the square, touching every mind. Not enslaving — suppressing. Fear, uncertainty, the sense of one's own insignificance before a higher power.
People froze. Some dropped to their knees — instinctively, without understanding why.
Enough, I commanded the Stone. No more.
The pressure weakened. But the effect remained.
"On your knees!" my voice rang across the square, amplified by magic. "I said — ON YOUR KNEES!"
Illusion helped. Three copies of me appeared at different points around the square — identical, threatening. People did not know where to look, where to run. It was easier to obey.
They knelt. One by one. Hundreds of people kneeling before a god.
Or before one who pretends to be a god, the inner voice corrected.
I walked among them, tapping the Scepter against the wet asphalt. The mask was in place — arrogance, contempt, absolute confidence in my own superiority.
"Isn't this easier?" I said, my voice almost gentle. "Is it not simpler to accept your nature? You were made to submit. It is written in your genes, in your history, in every cell of your bodies."
The Mind Stone recorded their reactions. Fear — in most. Hatred — in some. Acceptance — in those too weary to resist.
Humans, I thought. So different. And so predictable.
"You need a ruler," I continued. "You crave submission. And I have come to give it to you."
Thanos was watching.
I felt his approval through the Scepter — distant, yet real. The Mad Titan saw his servant breaking the will of mortals. Saw Loki who hated humanity, despised it, ready to destroy it for his own greatness.
The perfect mask, I thought. The perfect lie.
And then he stood up.
An old man. Gray-haired, gaunt, with eyes that had seen too much. He stood in the center of the kneeling crowd — the only one still on his feet.
"No."
One word. Quiet, almost lost in the sound of the rain.
I stopped.
"What?"
"No," he repeated louder. "I will not kneel."
The Mind Stone reached toward him automatically, without my command. And what I saw…
Scars.
Not physical — mental. Deep, old, healed yet not gone. Images: barbed wire, striped uniforms, smoke from chimneys that smelled of burned flesh. Eyes of people walking into gas chambers. Children's shoes piled in heaps.
And a voice — not the old man's, but another, from his memory: "We are the master race. You are subhuman. Kneel."
He had not knelt then. Survived — by some miracle. And he would not kneel now.
"There are always men like you," the old man said. His voice grew stronger, ringing out. A German accent breaking through his English. "And there will always be those who say no."
Courage, I thought. Or stubbornness. Or simply humanity.
Something stirred inside me. Not in the mask — beneath it. In the part of me that remembered another life. That had read about the Holocaust in school textbooks and watched documentaries.
He had gone through hell. Real hell, not metaphorical. And he had not broken.
I raised the Scepter.
"Courage," I said aloud. "A rare quality. Foolish — but rare."
The Mind Stone charged. Blue light concentrated at the tip.
Thanos is watching, the inner voice reminded. He expects you to act.
I took aim.
And at that moment — a shield.
A red-white-and-blue disc struck the Scepter, knocking my weapon aside. I lost my balance, stepped back — and saw him.
Steven Rogers. Captain America.
He landed between me and the old man — out of nowhere, like a comic book character. A blue suit, a white star on his chest, a jaw sharp enough to crack nuts.
"You know," he said, catching the shield, "the last time I was in Germany and saw a man forcing people to kneel, we didn't get along."
"Super-soldier," I said, straightening. "A man from the last century. You are seventy years too late."
"Maybe. But I'm still here."
He attacked.
The shield flew again — I deflected it with the Scepter, but it was a distraction. Rogers was already close, his fist aimed at my jaw.
The body reacted before the mind. Dodge, block, counterstrike — millennia of training woven into Loki's muscles. The Captain stepped back, rubbing his ribs.
"Fast," he admitted.
"I am a god," I reminded him. "You are a laboratory experiment."
"Funny. The last guy who said that also thought he was a god."
He charged again.
We circled the square, trading blows. Rogers was strong — the serum had pushed him to the limits of human potential. But I was beyond. Asgardian physiology combined with Jotun heritage — even weakened, I surpassed him in speed and strength.
The problem was something else.
He was good.
Not merely strong — tactically skilled. Every strike of the shield had purpose. Every movement calculated. He read my attacks, adapted, learned.
Super-soldier, I thought with reluctant respect. Not just strength. Mind.
Illusion — three copies attacking from different directions. Rogers hesitated for a fraction of a second, struck the nearest.
It scattered into sparks.
The real me moved behind him, Scepter aimed at the back of his head.
"Surrender, soldier. You've lost."
The roar of engines interrupted my victory speech.
I looked up — and saw him. A red-and-gold silhouette against the gray sky. Repulsors humming, ready to fire.
Iron Man.
"Hey, Rudolph," Stark's voice sounded through the armor's speakers, amplified and mocking. "Maybe step away from the national treasure?"
Rudolph, I translated. A reindeer. Because of the horns on my helmet.
"Stark," I said aloud. "At last, someone interesting."
"Flattered. Now hands up, spear on the ground, or I test how fireproof you are."
The repulsors in his palms glowed brighter. A warning.
I surveyed the square.
Rogers before me, shield ready. Stark in the air, aiming. Civilians finally scattering, realizing the show had become dangerous. Barton already gone with the iridium — I felt him at the edge of the city.
Mission accomplished, I thought. Iridium secured. Now — the next stage.
I lowered the Scepter.
"All right," I said. "You win."
Rogers frowned.
"That easy?"
"Were you expecting an epic battle?" I smirked. "Sorry, soldier. I'm not in the mood."
Stark landed beside him. The faceplate of his helmet lifted, revealing the familiar face — dark eyes, pointed beard, the expression of a man convinced he was the smartest in the room.
"Something's off," he said, studying me. "You're giving up too easily."
"Perhaps I'm simply tired."
"Perhaps you're planning something."
Smart, I noted. Too smart. Must be careful.
"Perhaps," I agreed. "But doesn't that make the game more interesting?"
Handcuffs snapped onto my wrists — some composite alloy, clearly not standard. The Scepter was taken. I allowed it, maintaining a faint smile.
All according to plan, I reminded myself. Let them think they've won.
The Quinjet waited at the edge of the square — a dark mass from which S.H.I.E.L.D. agents emerged. They led me inside, Rogers on my left, Stark on my right.
"Where are we flying?" I asked.
"To a place where you can answer some questions," Rogers said.
"An interrogation? How delightful. I hope your methods will be more creative than those of my previous… masters."
Something flickered in the Captain's eyes. Curiosity? Suspicion?
Good, I thought. Let him wonder. Let him doubt.
The Quinjet rose into the air.
I sat in the cargo hold, strapped to a bench, watched by half a dozen agents. Rogers stood by the wall, arms crossed. Stark near the cockpit, checking something on a holographic display of his armor.
"I don't like this," Rogers said quietly enough that I should not have heard. But Loki's ears were sharper than human. "He surrendered too easily."
"Agreed," Stark replied. "This guy's playing his own game. The question is — which one?"
"And whose side is he on?"
I allowed myself a barely noticeable smile.
My own, I answered silently. Always my own.
Lightning split the sky.
The Quinjet shuddered — violently, as if a giant had struck its hull. The lights went out for a moment, then flickered back.
"What the—" Stark began.
Another bolt of lightning. Closer. Brighter. I felt it — not with my eyes, but something deeper. Energy familiar to Loki's body on the level of DNA.
Thor.
He smashed through the hatch.
Not opened — smashed. Metal tore apart like cardboard, and in the opening stood a silhouette I would recognize among thousands. Broad shoulders, red cloak, hammer in hand. Eyes blazing with reflected lightning.
My brother.
No — Loki's brother. Thor Odinson. God of Thunder. Heir of Asgard. The one always favored by Father, while I…
Stop, I ordered myself. Those are not your emotions. They are the body's memory. Control them.
But the emotions would not obey.
They surged like water through a broken dam. A thousand years — resentment, jealousy, disappointment. Moments when Odin looked at Thor with pride, and at me with… what? Regret? Disappointment? Pity?
"You were both born to be kings," echoed in memory. A lie. From first word to last.
Thor seized me by the throat.
In one motion — a jerk, and we were outside, falling through the clouds, wind striking my face. The Quinjet remained somewhere behind, Stark and Rogers shouting something — too far to hear.
We crashed onto a cliff.
Thor landed on his feet — of course he always landed on his feet. I slammed into rock, rolled, rose again. The handcuffs crumbled from the impact — good, no need to waste strength.
"Brother," Thor's voice was thunder. Literally. The sky darkened, lightning danced around him. "Where is the Tesseract?"
I laughed.
"Brother? Seriously? After everything?"
"Loki…"
"No!" I had not planned to shout. Had not planned to lose control. But the words burst forth, unstoppable. "You have no right to call me that! Not after I learned the truth!"
Thor froze.
"What are you talking about?"
"That I am a monster!" I stepped toward him, and something in my face made him step back. "That Odin stole me like a trophy! Used me as a tool for peace between realms! Lied for a thousand years — and you knew? Did you know what I truly am?"
"I did not—"
"A FROST GIANT!"
The words echoed across the cliffs. Thor stared at me — and for the first time in Loki's life I saw in his eyes not condescension, not pity.
I saw pain.
"You are my brother," he said quietly. The lightning faded. The sky cleared. "Always have been. Always will be. It does not matter what blood flows in your veins."
He believes it, I realized through the Mind Stone. The connection worked even without the Scepter — weaker, but present. He truly believes.
And somewhere deep beneath the mask, beneath the layers of defense, a part of me — the part that inherited Loki's memories and feelings — responded.
Brother.
He had searched for me. Crossed space to find me. Not to kill — to bring me home.
I stepped back.
No, I ordered myself. It's a trap. Sentimentality is a trap. Thanos is watching. Always watching.
The mask returned.
"Touching," I said coldly. "Truly touching. But too late, Thor. Far too late."
"It is never too late, brother. Come back with me. To Asgard. Father—"
"Father?!" The laugh burst out again, bitter and broken. "Odin is not my father. He is my jailer. A liar. And if you think I will return there to spend eternity in his dungeons…"
"No dungeons. I will speak to him. Explain—"
"You understand nothing."
I turned my back on him. Dangerous — but necessary. Thor would not strike from behind. That was the one thing I could trust.
"There are powers greater than Odin. Greater than Asgard. And they are coming, Thor. They are already on their way."
"What do you mean?"
"You will see soon enough."
Iron Man slammed into Thor like a torpedo.
They rolled across the rocks — flashes of repulsors, hammer strikes, the crash of breaking stone. Rogers landed beside me — jumping from the Quinjet without a parachute, using his shield to absorb the impact.
"Stop!" he shouted at Thor and Stark. "We're on the same side!"
They did not listen. Testosterone and adrenaline — a volatile mixture.
I watched.
The Avengers, I thought. Here they are. Gathering. Uniting. Against me.
Exactly as I planned.
Thor and Stark finally stopped fighting — perhaps exhausted, perhaps realizing the absurdity of the situation. Rogers stood between them like a teacher separating quarrelling children.
"He comes with us," the Captain said, pointing at me. "No arguments."
Thor looked at me.
I looked at him.
Something passed between us — no words, no gestures. Understanding? Regret? Promise?
We are not finished yet, his gaze said.
I know, mine answered.
"Very well," Thor said at last. "But the Tesseract…"
"After the interrogation," Stark cut in. "First — answers."
They led me back to the Quinjet. I walked in silence, letting them believe they controlled the situation.
Thor stayed close. I felt his presence — warm, familiar, irritating.
Brother.
The word refused to leave. Lodged somewhere inside like a splinter.
He came for me. Across space. Across the broken bridge. He…
No, I cut myself off. It changes nothing. Nothing changes.
But when I took my place in the cargo hold — once more under guard, once more in restraints — I caught myself feeling something strange.
For the first time since arriving on Earth, I felt something beyond calculation.
Regret?
Or hope?
I did not know.
And that frightened me more than Thanos.
The Quinjet gained altitude, carrying us toward the Helicarrier.
To the next act of the performance.
The game continues, I reminded myself.
But somehow those words sounded different than before.
--
100 power stones= 1 Bonus Chapte
advance chapters available on{P@treon/Anna_N1}