The Helicarrier was impressive.
Even to me—a being who has seen the golden spires of Asgard and the infinite void between worlds. Humans had built a flying fortress, armed to the teeth, capable of vanishing from radar and soaring through the clouds like a mechanical Leviathan. In a mere seventy years since the invention of the airplane, they had achieved this. An impressive speed for a race that, by cosmic standards, lived in caves only yesterday.
I was led through a labyrinth of corridors—steel walls, flashing panels, the smell of recirculated air and machine oil. Agents in black uniforms followed me with their gaze, hands on their holsters.
The cell where I was placed was cylindrical, made of tempered glass and vibranium alloys. I recognized the handiwork—similar designs had been used to contain particularly dangerous entities since ancient times. The principle remained the same: transparency creates an illusion of control, while in reality, it simply allows one to observe the beast in a cage.
Beneath the floor was a hatch. I felt the void under my feet even before I saw the mechanism. Thirty thousand feet of free fall for anyone who attempted to escape. Or for anyone they decided to drop.
"Impressive," I said aloud, knowing I was being listened to. Cameras in every corner, microphones in the walls. "Though, I assume this wasn't built for me?"
The speaker above the door came to life:
"For someone a lot stronger."
Fury's voice. The Director appeared behind the glass a few seconds later—stepping out of the shadows as if waiting for a moment to make a dramatic entrance. An eye patch, a black trench coat reaching the floor, the expression of a man who desperately wanted to shoot someone but let his professionalism hold him back.
"Ah, yes," I smiled, letting my voice ooze with condescension. "The green monster. Banner-hakase. Do you keep him on a leash?"
"We work together."
"Of course. As long as he is useful." I walked around the cell, touching the glass with my fingers. Cold, smooth, about twenty centimeters thick. "And when he stops being useful? When the green beast inside him decides it's tired of playing the hero?"
Fury did not answer. Instead, he approached the control panel. His finger hovered over a red button.
"Thirty thousand feet. Straight down. Want to find out if gods can fly?"
"Not particularly. But thank you for the offer."
We stared at each other through the glass. Two masks, two sets of hidden intentions. Fury did not trust me—it was readable in every line of his body, the tension in his shoulders, and how his single eye never left my face for a second. I did not trust him. An honest relationship, if you think about it.
"Why do you want the Tesseract?" he asked.
"Why do you?"
"I asked first."
"And I am a god. My questions are more important."
Fury smirked—briefly, without mirth, pulling one corner of his mouth.
"You're not a god. You're an alien with a superiority complex and a magic stick."
"The Scepter."
"What?"
"It is a Scepter. Not a stick. The difference is roughly that between your pistol and a water gun."
He shook his head.
"You know what I see when I look at you?"
"Enlighten me."
"I see a being used to getting everything he wants. Someone who has never heard the word 'no.' And who is facing, for the first time, a world that won't bend to his desires."
"An interesting theory."
"It's not a theory. It's experience. I've seen types like you. Dictators, tyrants, madmen with megalomania. They all thought they were special. They all ended the same way."
I let my smile widen.
"The difference, Director, is that they were mortal. I am not."
Fury turned away from the cell.
"We'll talk again."
"I look forward to it."
His footsteps echoed in the corridor. The door closed with a quiet hiss.
I was left alone.
The Mind Stone pulsed somewhere far away—the Scepter lay in the laboratory, under guard and scanners. But the connection remained. A thin thread stretched through walls and bulkheads, allowing me to feel the ship.
And to see.
The Helicarrier's electronics were complex but not impenetrable. Surveillance cameras operated on digital signals, and digital signals are just information. Information that the Mind Stone could... intercept.
Not control. Just eavesdropping.
The Avengers were gathered in the command center—a round table, holographic screens, faces I knew from movies. Now they were real, three-dimensional, with all the wrinkles and scars that cinema cameras couldn't convey.
Tony Stark sat in a chair, feet on the table, fiddling with a device. His mind glowed on the periphery of my perception—bright, chaotic, like fireworks in a confined space. A genius hidden behind armor of sarcasm.
"So, the reindeer is in the cage," he said, not looking at the others. "What's next?"
"Interrogation," that was Steve Rogers. Captain America. His mind was different—structured, almost geometrically precise. A man who knows exactly what is right and what is wrong. A dangerous type. "We need to know where the Tesseract is."
"He won't talk."
Natasha Romanoff. I focused on her. Red hair, green eyes, a gaze that evaluated everyone in the room as a potential threat. Her mind was... strange. Not the chaos of Stark, nor the geometry of Rogers. Something like a hall of mirrors—reflections of reflections, masks beneath masks.
"He won't talk right away," she continued. "He likes to play."
"Do you know him?" Stark asked.
"I know the type. A manipulator. A narcissist. He wants us to ask."
"Then we won't ask."
"No." She shook her head. "We will. But not about what he expects."
Thor stood by the window, looking at the clouds. His mind was... heavy. Like a block of granite shot through with golden veins of lightning. He remained silent, but I felt his emotions even from here—confusion, pain, a hope he didn't want to admit.
Mjolnir lay on the table beside him. None of the others dared approach the hammer.
"He is my brother," Thor finally said.
"He destroyed the Pegasus base, killed our people, and stole the Tesseract," Romanoff countered.
"He's adopted."
Stark snorted. Rogers cast a disapproving glance at him—one of those that had probably been practiced in a mirror.
"We need a plan," the Captain said. "Romanoff, you talk to him. Stark, Banner—track the Tesseract via radiation. Thor..."
"I will be nearby," the God of Thunder interrupted. "In case he tries anything."
Banner—short, nervous, in thick-rimmed glasses—raised his hand. His mind was the strangest of all. Two layers superimposed: a quiet, almost shy scientist on the surface, and something enormous, green, and boiling underneath.
"What if he wants us to catch him?"
Silence.
"Explain," Fury demanded.
"He surrendered. In Stuttgart. He could have escaped—he didn't. He could have fought—he didn't. It's... illogical. Unless being a prisoner is part of the plan."
Stark nodded, tossing the device onto the table.
"Bruce is right. Reindeer Games is playing some game of his own. The question is—which one?"
Romanoff stood up.
"I'll find out."
I closed my eyes, breaking the connection with the cameras.
Smart, I thought. All of them. Banner sees the pattern. Stark suspects a trap. Romanoff looks for weaknesses.
Good. Let them look. Let them think they understand.
They will only see what I allow them to see.
She entered the bay fifteen minutes later.
I heard her footsteps long before the door opened—soft, almost silent, the steps of someone used to sneaking. But not completely silent. She wanted me to know she was coming.
Romanoff stopped three meters from the glass. She crossed her arms. She studied me with the expression of an entomologist examining a rare insect.
I mirrored her.
Up close, she was... interesting. Not beautiful in a classical sense—too many sharp angles, too much control in every movement. But magnetic. As a knife is magnetic—cold, dangerous, perfectly balanced.
"Agent Romanoff," I bowed, as much as the cell's space allowed. "Finally, someone interesting."
"You wanted to be caught."
Not a question. A statement. She went straight on the offensive—a good tactic against those used to controlling the conversation.
"What makes you think that?"
"Because you're not an idiot. And going against the Avengers alone is idiocy."
"Perhaps I am overconfident."
"No. You are calculating. Every word, every gesture—deliberate. You're playing a role."
I let a smile slide across my lips.
"Everyone plays roles, Agent. You are no exception." I tilted my head, studying her. "Natasha Romanoff. Former KGB agent. The Red Room. How many names have you changed? How many faces have you worn?"
Her expression didn't change. Not a single muscle twitched.
"We're talking about you, not me."
"Why? Your story is surely more interesting. A girl turned into a weapon. A woman trying to wipe the red from her ledger." I moved closer to the glass. "Tell me, Agent, do you truly believe that working for S.H.I.E.L.D. will atone for everything you've done?"
"You're trying to bait me."
"I'm trying to understand. You are a puzzle. I like puzzles."
Romanoff stepped closer.
"What do you really want?"
"World domination. Isn't it obvious?"
"That's a facade. What's underneath?"
"Even more facade. I am like an onion—layers to infinity. If you keep peeling, you'll only end up crying."
"Funny."
"I try."
She fell silent, shifting tactics. I could almost see the gears turning in her head.
"Barton," she finally said. "You're controlling him."
"Perhaps."
"What will happen to him?"
"Whatever I decide."
"Can you release him?"
"I can do many things. The question is—will I want to?"
Her eyes narrowed slightly—barely noticeable, for a fraction of a second.
"He's my partner."
"He is my soldier. A good soldier. Loyal. Obedient." I pressed my palm against the glass, mirroring her posture. "Tell me, Agent, how does it feel—knowing your friend is following my orders? That every thought, every action belongs to me?"
"You're trying to make me angry."
"I'm trying to entertain you. Boredom is a terrible thing, especially in a cage."
Romanoff remained silent. Waiting. A classic interrogation technique—letting the subject fill the silence.
I didn't fill it.
"You're looking for a weakness," I said at last. "A crack in the armor. Something to latch onto." I spread my arms. "Look. Maybe you'll find it. Or maybe—I am simply what I appear to be. A god who grew bored with the sky and wanted something... grounded."
"No one is what they appear to be."
"A profound thought. Did you come up with that yourself or read it in a psychology textbook?"
Romanoff took another step. Now there was only a meter of glass between us.
"You've killed," she said quietly. "At the base. In Stuttgart. You are capable of violence."
"Naturally."
"But not senseless violence. Every death had a purpose."
"You flatter me."
"I am stating a fact. You could have killed dozens—you killed a few. That speaks of control. Of a plan."
"Or laziness."
"You aren't lazy."
"How would you know?"
"Because the lazy don't conquer worlds."
I laughed—sincerely, for the first time in this conversation.
"Bravo, Agent. You almost made me believe you understand me."
"I don't claim to understand. Only to observe."
"And what do you observe?"
"A being playing the role of a mad conqueror. But beneath the role—is something else."
"And what exactly is that?"
She smiled—the first time during the whole conversation.
"That's what I'm trying to find out."
Romanoff turned toward the exit.
"We'll talk again," she threw over her shoulder.
"I'll be waiting with bated breath."
The door closed.
I watched her go, maintaining my mask of bored superiority.
Smart, I thought. Very smart. She sees patterns. Notices inconsistencies.
But she got nothing. Not a single concrete lead.
Let her think she is close to the answer. Let her search for meaning where there is none.
That, too, is part of the game.
The hours dragged on.
I sat in the center of the cell, legs crossed, eyes closed. From the outside, it looked like meditation—and in part, it was. But the main action was happening inside.
The connection to the Mind Stone pulsed like a thin thread. The Scepter lay somewhere in the lab—I felt it as one feels their own hand in the dark. Stark and Banner were studying it, conducting scans, trying to understand how it worked.
They didn't understand.
An Infinity Stone cannot be understood with instruments. It is like trying to measure the ocean with a ruler.
Through the connection, I felt something else—Barton. His mind was far away, beyond the Helicarrier, but the thread of control stretched across the distance. He was preparing. Gathering men, weapons, transport. Executing the orders I had left before my capture.
Soon.
I opened my eyes.
A new visitor appeared behind the glass.
Thor stood in silence, looking at me.
Without Mjolnir—the hammer remained somewhere in the command center. Without armor—only simple clothes that humans considered "earthly." He looked... tired. Not physically—gods don't tire from such trifles. He was tired inside.
"You aren't sleeping," he said finally.
"Gods do not require sleep the way mortals do."
"We both know that isn't true. Even Odin sleeps."
"Odin is an old man. He's earned it."
Thor didn't smile. His eyes—blue, bright, unbearably honest—searched for something in my face.
"Loki... what happened to you? After the fall?"
"Nothing interesting."
"Tell me."
"Why?"
"Because I want to understand."
I stood up and approached the glass. We looked at each other—centimeters of transparent barrier between us.
"Understand what, Thor? That your younger brother turned out not to be who you thought? You already know that."
"You are my brother. You always were."
"I am a Frost Giant. Son of Laufey. Enemy of Asgard from birth."
"That does not define who you are."
"No?" I laughed. "Then what does? Upbringing? Odin lied to me for a thousand years. My environment? All of Asgard looked at me like a curiosity—the strange prince with his strange magic. You?" I leaned closer to the glass. "You were always in front, Thor. Always in the light. And I—always in the shadow."
"I didn't know you felt that way."
"Of course you didn't. You never looked closely enough."
Thor pressed his palm against the glass. A gesture intended to be conciliatory.
"Come back with me. To Asgard. We will face everything together."
"Together?" I stepped back from the glass. "No, Thor. 'Together' is an illusion. It always was. You are the heir. I am the spare. That is how Odin intended it, and that is how it was."
"Father loved you."
"Father used me. As a tool. As a bargaining chip for negotiations with Jotunheim." I turned my back to him. "Love? Don't make me laugh."
"Then Mother," Thor's voice wavered. "Frigga loved you. Truly."
Something stirred inside. A memory—not mine, but Loki's—of golden hair, a soft voice, hands that taught the first spell.
I suppressed it.
"Frigga loved the idea of me. A son who could be taught, molded, guided. Not who I actually turned out to be."
"That's not true."
"Were you there? In her thoughts? Do you know what she felt looking at the blue skin of her 'son'?"
Thor remained silent.
"Precisely," I said.
"Give me a chance to make it right," his voice was quiet. Almost pleading. The God of Thunder, pleading with his younger brother.
A pathetic sight, I thought.
And immediately: No. Not pathetic. Sincere.
I turned around.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because some things cannot be fixed. One can only move forward."
"Where? What are you moving toward?"
"To what is mine by right."
"Midgard is not yours by right."
"Midgard is the beginning. The first step."
"To what?"
I smiled—coldly, remotely.
"You'll see."
Thor struck the glass. The cell shuddered.
"Enough riddles! Speak plainly!"
"I am speaking quite plainly, brother. You simply do not wish to hear."
He looked at me for a long time. There was something in his eyes—pain? hope? anger?—I couldn't tell.
"I won't give up," he finally said. "I won't give up on you. No matter what you do."
"Your choice. Unwise, but yours."
Thor turned and left. His footsteps thundered in the corridor—heavy, resolute.
I was left alone.
Sentimental fool, I thought.
But the words sounded hollow. Unconvincing even to myself.
Night on the Helicarrier was relative—just dimmed lights and less movement in the halls. The war machine didn't sleep, but it slowed down.
I sat in the cell and waited.
The connection with Barton was becoming clearer. He was approaching—a Quinjet taken from a S.H.I.E.L.D. warehouse, a few mercenaries recruited over the past few days. Explosives. Weapons. A plan.
My plan.
The time had come.
An alarm siren shattered the silence.
Red lights flashed throughout the ship. A voice from the speakers—mechanical, emotionless—announced combat readiness. The thumping of feet in the corridors, shouted orders, the clatter of weapons.
The first explosion came from the engines.
The Helicarrier shuddered. The floor tilted, something groaned in the walls. Emergency lighting flickered, bathing everything in red.
The second explosion—closer. The glass of my cell vibrated.
I stood up, calmly brushing non-existent dust from my clothes.
Barton is working.
Through the connection, I felt him—a cold, focused mind performing a task. He moved through the ship like a ghost, bypassing patrols, setting charges. A professional.
The door to the cell bay opened. Two men entered—tactical gear, masks, assault rifles.
"Get him out," one said.
"Belay that."
A voice behind them. Thor.
He stood in the doorway, Mjolnir in hand. Lightning danced across his body, illuminating the corridor behind him with flashes of white light.
"Leave," he told the mercenaries.
They looked at each other. Raised their weapons.
Thor threw the hammer.
The first was sent flying against the wall with a crunch that left no doubt about the state of his ribs. The second tried to run—and Mjolnir, returning to its master's hand, slammed into his back.
Two bodies on the floor. Thor wasn't even winded.
"Loki," he turned to me. "What is happening?"
"Isn't it obvious?" I spread my arms. "I'm being rescued."
"Is this your doing?"
"You wound me. I am locked in a cage. How could I have organized anything?"
Another explosion. The Helicarrier tilted further. Somewhere deep in the ship, something caught fire—I could smell smoke seeping through the ventilation.
"Stop them," Thor said.
"Why on earth should I?"
"People are dying!"
"People are always dying. It's their specialty."
Thor stepped toward the control panel.
"I will release you. You will help stop this."
"Or?"
"Just help, Loki." His voice changed. Not a command—a plea. "For the sake of everything that was between us."
A second. Two.
"Fine."
He pressed the button. The glass slid aside.
I stepped out—and Thor went flying into the cell.
The strike was fast. A palm to the chest, a shove amplified by the remnants of my magic. The God of Thunder ended up exactly where I had just been—inside the glass cylinder.
I pressed the close button.
"You are far too trusting, brother."
"LOKI!"
The glass sealed. Thor struck it with Mjolnir—the cell shuddered and groaned, but it held.
"This is designed to hold the Hulk," I reminded him. "You are strong. But not that strong."
"Let me out!"
"Not right now."
I turned toward the exit.
And froze.
Coulson.
He stood by the door, blocking the path. In his hands was a bulky weapon, its barrel glowing orange. Not standard issue. Something experimental.
"Prototype," Coulson said calmly. His voice didn't tremble, though his heart was surely racing. "Built from the scraps of the Destroyer. The one you sent to New Mexico."
"Impressive."
"Step away from the panel."
I assessed the situation. Four meters to him. A weapon of unknown power—if it truly came from the Destroyer, it could be dangerous even for an Asgardian. Coulson was not a fighter, but he was trained and determined.
"Are you ready to die for this?" I asked.
"If I have to."
"Why? What is S.H.I.E.L.D. to you? What are these people to you?"
"They are what I believe in."
"Belief," I shook my head. "Such a human weakness."
Behind my back, Thor struck the glass again. The cell creaked—a crack ran across the surface.
There was no time.
An illusion—simple, honed to perfection. A copy of me remained standing at the panel, while the real me slipped into the shadows, using the moment Coulson blinked.
He fired—the orange beam passed through the illusion and slammed into the wall behind it. The metal melted and hissed.
A dangerous weapon, I noted.
But it was too late.
I was behind him.
I didn't have the Scepter—it was still in the lab. But a dagger, hidden in the folds of my clothes, was ready. The blade entered his side—not deep, between the ribs, avoiding vital organs.
Coulson gasped. The weapon fell from his hands.
"Nothing personal," I said, pulling the dagger out.
He slid down the wall, clutching the wound. Blood flowed between his fingers—a lot, but not fatal. The liver wasn't touched. Major vessels—likewise.
If the medics arrive within the next ten minutes, he will survive.
I walked to the control panel.
"LOKI!" Thor beat against the glass. The cracks were spreading, but the cell held. "DON'T YOU DARE!"
I pressed the drop button.
The hatch beneath the cell opened. Thor and the glass cylinder plummeted down—into the clouds, into the void, into thirty thousand feet of free fall.
He would survive. The hammer would save him—it always did.
I picked up Coulson's weapon—it might be useful—and headed for the exit.
On the floor behind me, the agent wheezed. His eyes—clouded with pain but still conscious—followed me.
"Why... didn't you finish me?" he rasped.
I didn't answer.
Because dead heroes make bad heroes, I thought.
But saying that aloud was forbidden.
I walked into the corridor without looking back.
The Helicarrier was burning.
Smoke filled the halls, emergency lights flashed red. People ran, screamed, tried to manage the chaos. One engine had been destroyed—the ship was listing, losing altitude.
I moved through it like a ghost. Illusions hid me from cameras and stray glances. Agents ran past, not noticing.
The laboratory was close.
The Scepter was waiting.
The door gave way under the impact—the lock burned out by the orange beam from the stolen weapon. It was empty inside—Stark and Banner had evacuated during the attack.
The Scepter lay on the table, surrounded by scanners and wires.
I took it in my hand.
The Mind Stone responded instantly—a wave of warmth, recognition, almost joy. Like meeting a lost part of oneself.
Missed you, a thought came. Not mine—the Stone's.
Likewise, I replied.
Through the connection, I reached out to Barton. He was on the flight deck, preparing a Quinjet.
We're leaving.
Understood, came the reply.
I headed for the exit.
Past burning corridors, screaming people, a crumbling ship. All of it was a backdrop, a stage set. Only one thing was important—getting to the Quinjet, leaving the Helicarrier.
Next stop—New York.
Next act—invasion.
The Quinjet took to the air while the Helicarrier was still fighting for its life.
I sat in the cargo bay, Scepter in hand, and looked out the porthole. The flying fortress receded—smoking, tilting, but still holding in the air.
They would manage. The second engine would be restarted. The ship wouldn't fall.
But time—had been won.
Barton sat in the pilot's seat, silently controlling the craft. His mind was calm, focused—the perfect soldier.
Soon, I thought. Soon you will be free. Romanoff will find a way. Or someone else will.
But not now. For now, I still need you.
The Quinjet gained altitude, turning eastward.
New York was waiting.
The portal was waiting.
--
100 power stones= 1 Bonus Chapte
advance chapters available on{P@treon/Anna_N1}