Madness of the Serpent

The trickster god had returned to the makeshift laboratory in order to scrutinize the mortal scientist's progress. Dr. Selvig, having been re-energized by the miraculous emergence of the spirit being from inside of the sceptre's orb, had worked in a nonstop frenzy to understand the inner workings of the Tesseract. He had full, unimpeded access now that he was no longer under the watchful gaze of SHIELD, and Loki's effort to manipulate the mortal long before he had been contacted by Director Fury had been repaid tenfold. The mortal had not failed Loki in retrieving the phantom from the orb, and he would not fail in creating a stable portal for his army of Chitauri to spill forth onto the Earth.

"This is wonderful! The Tesseract has shown me so much. It's… it's more than knowledge – it's truth," the mortal exclaimed as Loki approached the clear strips of plastic that partitioned the portal stabilizer from the rest of the lab, his eyes filled with the glow of the sceptre's influence.

"I know," Loki responded with a surprising lack of malice, his tone almost gentle. "It uh… it touches everyone differently," he smiled fondly, imagining the glorious uses he would have for the otherworldly being he had regenerated from the power of the Tesseract. He could not imagine a more divine gift than a powerful spirit bound to obedient flesh, bestowed upon him by the clarity of the Cube.

"What did it show you, Agent Barton?" he asked the assassin he had pulled from guard duty in order to help coordinate the god's next movements.

"My next target," the archer said, his expression as placid as ever.

"Stick in the mud, he's got no soul," the doctor chuckled while the enslaved SHIELD agent glared at him in annoyance. "No wonder you chose this-this tomb to work in!"

"Well, the Radisson doesn't have three levels of lead-lined flooring between SHIELD and that cube," he responded with unexpected sass as Dr. Selvig nodded and smiled sheepishly.

"I see why Fury chose you to guard it," Loki said, his pale eyes watching the assassin. It was also why he had assigned the agent to watch over one of his most prized possessions.

"You're going to have to contend with him, sir," Agent Barton informed the god as they began to walk through the lab's center towards the staging area, where technical equipment was already being loaded onto the van which would soon transport the Tesseract to its final destination.

"As long as he's in the air, I can't pin him down," the skillful mortal continued. "He'll be putting together a team."

"Are they a threat?" Loki asked guardedly, looking down at his mind-slave.

"To each other, more than likely," came his unworried reply. "But if Fury can get them on track, and he might, they could throw some noise our way."

"You admire Fury," the Asgardian remarked, peering at the assassin appraisingly.

"He's got a clear line of sight."

"Is that why you failed to kill him?" Loki inquired, his tone bordering on displeasure as he walked past the assassin, who had paused in his own stride.

"It might be. I was disoriented. And I'm not at my best with a gun," Barton responded, watching the Asgardian as he began to pace like an agitated predator under the dreary lights of the abandoned underground system, his face lit from above with a bleak glow.

"I want to know everything you can tell me about this team of his," Loki spoke in a low voice, his hungry expression further intensified by the harsh lighting. "I would… test their mettle. I grow weary of scuttling in shadow. I mean to rule this world… not burrow in it," he finished, disgust in his voice for having to hide like a common criminal.

"It's a risk," came the blasé response from the assassin, as unaffected by the idea of Loki raining destruction upon his world as he was by anything else.

"Oh, yes," said the god, his mouth forming into a gleefully demented grin.

"If you're set on making yourself known, could be useful."

"Tell me what you need," Loki eagerly responded. He would attempt any task to move his plans forward, as the dank earth and the oppressive air of the tunneling system made him feel that he would soon suffocate. His disembodied dialogue with the Other continued to haunt his thoughts – at the way Thanos' Vizier had made his threats clear when Loki had dared to speak back to him, having grown confident in his possession of the celestial being, unbeknownst to the Chitauri's Master.

Knowing that he was hiding something quite significant from his allies, something that could possibly thwart any attempt of betrayal on their part, made his confidence grow to a point that clearly displeased the Other. Which would inevitably displease Thanos.

Loki should have been more concerned about causing dissatisfaction with his "associates", but he found it only made him more arrogant in his pride. While the celestial being and the Tesseract remained in his presence, Thanos could not touch him.

The god would bring order and obedience to Earth, and he would eventually give Thanos what he desired – but it would be on Loki's terms, not His.

The assassin hesitated before walking to a nearby table, opening the case which contained his curiously-designed bow – pulling the lethal weapon from the molded foam.

"I need a distraction." He jerked his arm forward and the bow sprang to life in his grip. "And an eyeball."

"For what purpose?" the trickster asked, eyeing the mortal's weapon with some vague interest. It differed greatly from the golden crossbows of the Asgardian archers or the crystal longbows of the Light Elves, but he had seen the mortal wield it well enough to know he was proficient.

"Iridium, according to Dr. Selvig's specifications. Some mumbo-jumbo about anti-protons. I located a large enough batch, no problem."

"And the eye?"

"The iridium is heavily guarded at the Schafer Institute. One Heinrich Schafer's retina pattern is needed to open the vault."

Loki's face split into a vicious grin as he said, "I derive enjoyment from the way you think, Agent Barton. Parting this Schafer from his eye should be simple enough."

"Even simpler when you use this," the assassin replied, picking up a silver pronged device from a smaller case, its sharp edges almost eager for the flesh it would soon partake in. "Jam this into his eye socket, and his ocular image will be copied to its twin," Barton explained, showing a second similar device that lacked the fang-like implements.

Yes, Loki would gladly take Agent Barton's recommendations under advisement, as the mortal had proven adept and clever in his ability to improvise and bend any disadvantage into a boon. It made him feel something approaching respect for the human.

That is, until a pair of mercenaries Loki had sent to guard the celestial being returned, their expressions closed off and tight.

"Sir! She's gone. The room was empty when we arrived."

In a flash, the god spun and grabbed the mortal who had seen Trinity last by the front of his vest.

"Find her," Loki seethed through his bared teeth, his previous genial demeanor completely shattered by the news of his creation gone missing.

"Yes, sir."

The god released Barton, whose expression had remained unconcerned despite the peril he would soon face for his negligence. Unlike the cowardly doctor who flinched whenever Loki scowled at him, the assassin never so much as blinked when Loki spat threats in his direction, no doubt due to his cultivation under SHIELD's training programs, which the god had yet to quiz him over.

Yet another reason why Loki was forced to rely on Barton's experience and knowledge regarding his enemies – he knew very little about them or the force they could bring to bear against him.

Loki's blood boiled as he watched the agent sprint from the lab, deftly moving around scientists too slow to step out of his way, bow still in hand, the other slinging the compartmentalized high-tech quiver onto his back.

The agent had barely left his sight when the unmistakable boom of a mortal weapon's discharge echoed throughout the hollowed tunnel systems. Loki's raging blood ran icy cold as an overwhelming sense of dread hit him squarely in the gut.

No…

The Asgardian's dread became black fear as he found himself running down the hallway in the direction of the single discharge, which sounded as if it had come from one of the floors above. He fled up the stone stairs, leaping them three at a time, the fear weaving its way down the back of his spine as he soon heard raised voices, unmistakably argumentative as they contended with a quieter, steadier tone.

Loki swiftly arrived on the landing where he had heard the echoing voices, and he veered around the corner to see three mortal mercenaries in black, standing side by side, their faces drawn and pale. Agent Barton stood facing them, his back to Loki, his bow held loosely by his side as he bent to examine…

There was a body on the floor, lying face-up. Black boots, pale legs, and glimpses of grey fabric were all he could see from this angle.

Loki did not figuratively see red, he actually saw the bright, bloody hue in his vision as he strode forward, honing in on the first mortal who dared open his mouth to offer banal excuses for their indefensible crime.

"I didn't know, I swear. W-we thought she was-"

The god snatched the man around his neck, lifted him into the air, and separated the vertebra in his neck with a loud crack. The gesture was done with as much effort as if he had snapped a dried twig in two.

The other two mortals flinched but remained mercifully quiet, even as the god brutally tossed aside the corpse of their colleague, his ragdoll body sliding across the dusty floor as it came to an abrupt stop against the opposite wall.

Loki stared down at his creation's still form, his breath sporadic and strained, fists shaking at his side, his pumping blood deafening to his own ears.

His plans... All of his plans, laid to waste by the idiotic, half-witted, festering piles of-

"She's alive, sir."

Loki felt his entire body go stiff, his breath catching as something hard formed in his throat.

"…what?"

"She's breathing. I don't see any entry wounds, but there's facial injury from blunt-force trauma. She might have a concussion, but it's difficult to say," the assassin replied, his tone clipped and professional as he assessed the damage. "She needs to be examined by a doctor."

The Asgardian could see a trail of blood leading from a gash on her cheekbone, the area around the wound already bruising from the force of the impact.

"Talk," Loki hissed at the two men. Neither of them spoke until he took a step forward, infuriation practically radiating from his core. One of the sweating mortals broke his silence, his non-glowing eyes wild with terror.

"We saw her approach from the stairwell toward… toward the mezzanine. Payton… he fired at her. Scared her back downstairs. When we caught up to her, I recognized her. Tried to stop him. But he struck her with the butt of his rifle-"

The Asgardian's blazing eyes caused the mortal to shrink under his withering glare. His wrath was an almost palpable sensation, causing the air to grow thick and sharp, the scent similar to the after-effects of a bolt of lightning.

Loki dragged his murderous gaze from the trembling humans, turning toward the assassin as he knelt by the prone female form of the spirit. Without needing to be told, Barton moved away from her unconscious body, and Loki reached down to hook his arms under her shoulders and knees. He lifted her limp body with ease, and as he walked past the archer with the being cradled in his arms, he softly growled, "Kill them both."

With a movement too swift to track, the assassin brought up his bow with one hand, retrieving two black arrows with the other, holding the weapon horizontal as he notched his arrows, letting them fly. The steel arrow-tips buried into the left and right eye sockets of the men standing before him, their expressions almost surprised as the shafts were buried in the grey matter in their skulls.

Their brains had ceased to function before they had even realized the mad god had spoken.

______________________________________________________________________


Loki was not a healer. His mastery of a wide assortment of sorcery and spellcraft did not include the arts of healing or cleansing. He had attempted them, on several occasions, eager in his desire to master all forms of the arcane arts. His endeavors had inevitably ended in failure, as Loki did not have the aptitude for nourishing magics.

What sort of mundane sorcery required becoming soft and weak in order to wield its powers? Pathetic. Only an unskilled sorcerer who did not have the will and ambition to employ the more perilous magics would become a healer. Loki had scoffed at the efforts of the healers as a feeble mimicry of authentic magic, much in the same fashion that Asgardian warriors had looked down at his own use of sorcery.

The irony had not been lost on him, especially now that he had great need for the paltry arts of mending.

How the Norns must be laughing at him, now that Loki wished he had given more consideration and had a stronger resolution to mastering a sect of magic he had thought unnecessary and cheap. He had stormed out of the infirmary where the healers and Mother had been attempting to teach him, hiding his shame at being unable to heal so much as a blemish by claiming healing was not true sorcery. Even being a potion-maker was more worthy of respect than being a healer, or so he had shouted defiantly.

Now Loki felt utterly useless as he looked down at the unconscious being lying on the mat he had conjured for her previously. The laceration on her cheek was no longer bleeding, as the cut was fairly superficial, but the dark bruising around her cheekbone had spread around her left eye, giving her an ailing appearance that did not sit well with him.

The imprint of a shadow-hand on her neck also caused him to experience uncharacteristic discomfort. Her state of unconsciousness and possible head trauma had been due to the mortals' crude response to her escape, but that deep bruising along her throat was caused by Loki's own hand.

But it was not his fault she had repeated the vile words of the All-Father. It was not his fault she had wandered from her confinement after Loki had defined the parameters of their relationship. The celestial creature now belonged to him, and him alone, and would be required to obey his every command. How much clearer did he need to be in regards to her new place in his world?

The god should have been angry with her, and he would be if she awoke. When she awoke. But there was little point in being aggrieved at one who was unresponsive, and the thought of almost losing his prized possession to the stupid, careless mortals had deeply shaken him. His plans had almost been brought to ruination by Agent Barton forgetting to lock a simple, cursed door, as well as neglecting to reiterate to the hired killers under his tutelage of the importance of Loki's creation.

Oh, he would exact his vengeance on the former SHIELD agent for that lapse in attention – but for now he needed the assassin functioning and at peak capacity for what was to come.

Even the mortal scientist had failed him when Loki demanded he attend to the wounds of the spirit's body. Selvig had ineffectually stammered while explaining that he was not that kind of doctor. Loki's thunderous expression had caused the mortal to tremble and shrink away, but the god had stayed his hand.

He still needed Selvig. Still needed Barton. Still had to rely on mortals when Loki should have been in Asgard, ruling the Realm Eternal as its just and chosen king.

The only being he had found worth a modicum of his attention was now at his feet, wounded, and at the moment, useless to him. It would not do.

Commanding not to be disturbed by anyone but the assassin, Loki now sat cross-legged on the floor next to Trinity's side, trying to recall the instructions and directions of Mother in his mind. She had been a skilled healer – as she had been skilled in nearly everything she attempted – and she had done her best to show him how to regrow tissue and mend broken bones. But nothing had sunk in. Even now, his memories of her were faded and hazy, as if he had not seen her in decades rather than one year.

One blurry, foggy year that seemed disjointed in his mind – accompanied by alarming holes in his memories that could not be filled. But he would not dwell on that time – it served no purpose – and it only made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as his chest filled with unease.

Loki focused back to the task at hand, peering closely at the face of the strange being he was tending. The god had never successfully mended anything in his life. There had been no need, as Thor and his friends rarely endured life-threatening injuries – though not for lack of trying.

Loki was left with no other recourse, as there was no opportunity to enslave a mortal healer, and they would need to move soon.

Stretching his arm towards her face, he took a deep breath and ignored the way her flesh was uncomfortably warm as he lightly grazed his fingertips over her cheek.

The wound was harsh and angry, an ugly mark on an otherwise smooth face. She did not seem to be in pain or distress, and her expression was as if she merely slumbered. The… woman looked so vulnerable and harmless, her gentle features disguising the impressive spirit that lay within.

Loki needed her whole and healthy while she was at his side. It was dangerous to show that one who was so important to his efforts was also so vulnerable to attack and injury.

The god closed his eyes, his palm resting against the gash with his fingers lightly covering her closed eyelid. He tried to think back to his lessons of which he paid little heed. Tried not to think of the tender voice of his mother, the way she could easily see through his constructed barriers, erected to emotionally distance Loki from everyone around him. Tried not to think about how much his traitorous heart longed to hear her voice now.

So Loki hardened his thoughts and girded his nerves, calling forth the magic which resided in his core, refusing to dwell on his brief moments of deficiency. He focused and molded the power within him, shaping his will and attempting to force his desire into reality.

The woman's body jolted under his hand, the effort of his magic too forceful as it was injected into her body, causing her limbs to tremble. He immediately halted the effort, his eyes opening in alarm.

Loki cursed himself. This was why he was no healer. He lacked a certain delicate, light touch. Impatience and forceful attempts at healing injuries often ended with the recipient acquiring worse injuries and ill health. If he continued his efforts, he was liable to cause cranial bleeding or fracture her skull rather than repair the damage the humans had caused.

Loki's expression tightened, his eyebrows furrowed as he tried a second time with more caution, attempting to concentrate his will on mending her wounds, but this time with more of his focus on coaxing the body to mend itself as Mother had shown him.

The woman's body did not tremble from the force of his magic, and that was an improvement. After a moment, he looked down at her injury, and was frustrated to see that it had done little, if anything.

Useless, futile sorcery. It is beneath me. I was the most powerful sorcerer in the realm, save the All-Father himself – what use have I for such pathetic witchcraft?

He had great use for it, and he knew it. Flustered from his ineffective actions, Loki removed his hand from the being's warm cheek as he clenched it into a fist.

Why was this so difficult for him? It should have been insultingly easy for someone of Loki's ability with the arcane and dark arts.

"You must bond with the person you are tending to on an emotional level," Mother had gently reminded him after he had stormed out of the Healing Room. "You must want them to be made whole, carrying their discomfort and pain as your own. You must be strong of mind, but with an open heart – one which is vulnerable and laid bare. Healing is as much about exposing yourself to the universe as it is about repairing bodily damage and cleansing maladies. You must wield love as effectively as you wield magic in order to mend the wounds of another."

At the time, Loki had believed this was sentimental nonsense, pointless and utterly asinine. He had been completely convinced Mother was mistaken, and he failed simply because the healing arts had been so far beneath him that his powers could not recognize it as true sorcery.

What if Mother had been correct? What if his own failure was not due to a lack of strength or will, but from his inability to form bonds and connections with others?

The idea filled him with hot anger, his teeth gritted as he glared down at the celestial creature. This was her fault – he was not to blame for her attempt at escape. It was through no fault of Loki's that he lacked certain traits that would make his mind soft, rather than the hard steel that it had been forged into.

The blame did not rest with him. It did not.

Loki's dark thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance of Agent Barton, swiftly informing him that they were ready to travel. The agent hesitated a moment before asking, "What about her?" while his glowing eyes focused on Trinity's unconscious form.

The god stopped himself from lashing out at the agent, as it was a valid query. He could not leave her here, but was she well enough for the journey?

"She is coming with me, of course," Loki responded with far more confidence than he possessed at that particular moment, as if the answer was obvious. "If she does not awaken before we arrive, I will seize the… expertise of a mortal healer," he said with as much distaste as he could muster. The primitive barbarians they called doctors on this planet had little more skill than a butcher with a cleaver, but he had no other alternative, as the Asgardian healers he had so readily dismissed were far from hand.

"Yes, sir," the agent responded, unaffected as usual by the offenses the god often slung in his presence. There was something to be said about having disciplined minions who were under his complete control, mind and body: they did not talk back or question his assertions.

Loki turned back to the woman and was about to lift her from the ground when he hesitated, his hands hovering above her form. Pressing his lips tightly together, he grabbed the blanket he had conjured for her, laid it on the floor, and carefully lifted her onto the fabric before gathering her in his arms. It was evident her mortal form was frail, and it would not do for her to awaken from her injuries only to have contracted the myriad of illnesses the humans were fraught with.

The sorcerer carried the woman through the dripping hallways, the soft orange light bathing the walls and floor in a dream-like haze. Loki would not be sorry to say farewell to this infernally depressing lair. It was a place barely worthy of the large rodents which scurried through its depths, let alone a god of Asgard.

Loki could not even bask in the fading evening light, as he and the assassin had to climb aboard one of the large, black vehicles which had been stored in an underground parking structure. Barton had informed Loki that SHIELD would be scanning for their faces from every available machine that could capture an image, including personal communication devices and traffic monitoring cameras. The windows of their vehicle were painted an impenetrable black, and he could stare at nothing but the being he cradled on his lap.

He did not hold her there for his own amusement, but Loki had nothing to secure her with, as Barton's finesse at controlling the mortal vehicle involved sharp turns and abrupt stops which sent loose objects flying.

So Loki simply held her in his grip, a vague expression of distaste on his face at the forced close proximity.

Why had the Tesseract given her such a vulnerable, defective body? What use was that to him against the inevitable wrath of the Chitauri's Master? Perhaps it had all been for naught, and his diligent, meticulous planning had already been sabotaged before it could have a chance to come to fruition.

But even now, as he looked down into her marred face, Loki could not conceive that her creation had been an act of futility. He knew, throughout his very being, that it had been the right decision, and he would reap the benefits of his scheme.

Loki did not know when, or how, this frail being would serve his purposes – he just knew she would. The Tesseract was infallible and transcendent in its infinite wisdom.

But the Tesseract did not show you the spirit still lived, or how to bring her into creation, did it?

The dissenting voice in Loki's head, as irritable and dangerous as it was, was not wrong. The Tesseract had shown him many glorious, wondrous planets and other aspects to the universe, but it had not shown him anything about the trapped spirit. Loki had believed it had been destroyed by the Other, and soon after his arrival to Earth, a fully formulated plan as to how to release the phantom had become fixated in his mind.

Why could Loki not remember how his thought processes had gone from one to the other – from realizing the celestial being still existed, to extracting her from the glowing orb? There had been no epiphany, no gradual formulation of a plan. He had just simply known, and had not doubted the veracity of his certainty.

There were many gaps in his thoughts such as this. Areas of murkiness which did not reckon with the memories he held in his mind, spots of darkness which did not hold with close scrutiny.

As Loki looked down at the still form in his arms, he wondered for the first time – in a moment of startling clarity – if he was going mad.

This will not end well for you, if that is the case, he thought silently to the creation in his arms, brushing the flat of his thumb against the angry purplish-red wound on her face.

Loki blinked in surprise. There was a tingling sensation running along the palm of his hand, and to his shock, the spirit's form stirred against his chest. She did not awaken, but now appeared to be lightly resting rather than involuntarily unconscious – her head nestling against his arm as if she were drawn to his body heat.

The wound on her face, though still grisly and unsightly, was no longer open and weeping – it was now sealed with the qualities of a wound aged several days. The skin around her cheek and eye was still bruised, but it was a faded violet shade – no longer the harsh angry shadow of black it had been moments ago. Even the dark handprint along her neck had faded to a less severe hue.

Loki repeated the gesture, running his fingers lightly across her cheek as he eagerly attempted to seize the mending powers he had wielded unintentionally. The grin which had begun to form on his face slowly faded as he saw and felt no change.

Whatever had allowed him to tap into the fickle healing arts, it was gone now, and he could not prevent the dark scowl on his face.

Despite the annoyance he felt at failing to summon the healing magics a second time, there was nothing to be done but wait and see if she healed on her own. And to make matters more irritating, Loki remained awkwardly trapped in his seat with the woman still bundled on his lap, unable to move her with Barton's haphazard driving.

The god had berated the assassin when he swerved around a corner hard enough to make Loki's shoulder jam into the door frame, but Barton had replied in a nonchalant manner that he was avoiding certain streets which were known to have "lots of cameras and lots of cops".

They could not arrive at the air harbor fast enough for Loki's satisfaction. Rushing down the Bifrost through a nebulous gas storm would have been a smoother journey than a mortal vehicle in the hands of Barton.

The trickster god opened the door and carefully lifted Trinity higher into his arms as he stepped onto the tarmac; the former SHIELD agent had parked the vehicle near the small aircraft they would be commandeering for their transoceanic crossing.

"If your flying proficiency is as competent as your driving prowess, I will no longer require your services and we shall see if you live up to your avian codename."

"Yes, sir", the agent replied obediently, pulling two black cases from the cargo compartment of the vehicle. One contained Barton's lethal bow and quiver, the other was a lead-lined case containing Loki's deadly sceptre. It had been the agent's idea to shield the weapon from possible tracking during their journey, as he suspected Director Fury would call upon the expertise of Dr. Banner to hunt down the Tesseract and Loki's sceptre by way of their gamma signatures.

Loki gave a burdened sigh. Threatening a mortal with torture and death lost its appeal when the recipient could not fully appreciate his perilous position. It was one of the reasons why he enjoyed interacting with the otherworldly creature. She valiantly tried to conceal her fear, and would have easily fooled one who was unskilled in the art of deceit. But he was the God of Mischief, and he recognized deception wherever it lay.

As he strutted confidently toward the small aircraft – which Barton had acquired from one of his mysterious "contacts" – Loki grinned down at the woman who was stirring more frequently against his torso and arms, his concern over her well-being already fading from his mind.

Yes, Loki would have her fear or her loyalty. Either would satisfy his needs.

Notes