A Falling Bluebird

The Grandmaster

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Oh.

Okay, okay.

He'd been right.

Loki sat ramrod straight and his eyelids shot open. Every part of his body tingled, attached to a live-wire of awareness. It was like returning to his form after astral projecting for too long; the shock of having a body, of feeling! Every sensation was new and raw, even the air rushing in and out his trachea, too hot but bearable. Too bright, then he blinked and it was less so. Like putting on sunglasses.

Now was the time. He could feel the vileness and disgust and horror rising up, from his stomach, swelling and lapping at his thoughts, acidic bile in his throat. The clarity wavered, then solidified as Loki pulled up defences, repurposed into sea walls and set to work.

It passed as a blur. Loki simply restarted his charge, every shot seen from the moment it emerged from a barrel and projected path tracked. He weaved a deadly dance, squeezing off rounds where possible, but all his concentration remained on not exploding.

He had been right; there was no way in the Nine he could have survived even a few moments without whatever he was doing.

Loki danced and dodged and weaved, grew closer and closer, fingers and arms working in a frenzied blur, reacting on instinct only. No need for thought.

And then he was through.

Loki gasped, everything snapping back to comforting dullness the moment he broke through the blockade, his hands shook and he collapsed forwards, craft sliding into a nosedive. A swift movement righted it and none too soon. The entire ship tipped, sent him flailing in his seat and alarms flared. He was hit - left wing near the back. It had burnt a hole through his power line but already secondary wires flicked on. Not as much energy as the primary, but it would have to be enough.

Long seconds of desperately spinning, twisting, ducking and diving and he was away! Behind him, the roar of engines as they gave chase, but then subsided. Under orders, perhaps? They would want to recapture the Hulk far more than just little old Loki. Being underestimated was truly a phenomenal advantage.

Well, that just gave him longer to play with until they realised who the real danger was.

Loki eased up on the controls and leaned back in the pilot's seat, gasping for breath. That was intense. He hadn't known tapping into his heritage would be like that.

He wondered what it was that had triggered it. Seeing himself as Jötunn? Not resisting the knowledge, if only for a brief time? Perhaps it had something to do with the odd way in which their magic still managed to work, despite being cut off from Yggdrasil... Some sort of innate seiðr, maybe? Which could only be tapped into by the Jötnar and required a prerequisite of what? The questions circled in his head. It could be belief that was needed, which could explain Loki's ability to use Asgardian magic - the belief that he was Æsir. Despite evidence to the contrary.

An interesting line of thought and one which would require much more time to think on, but later. Loki had revenge to get to. Because leaving loose ends was not something he did, and after leaving this wretched planet, he had no intention to return.

This vessel was far faster than the Grandmaster's orgy ship they stole, so it sped onwards towards the towering skyscraper. Loki wasn't the fleeing type. Well; he was, but preferably after leaving an explosive, poisonous present behind. In the absence of readily available carbon monoxide and reactants, he instead had to settle for energy weapons. Which, considering the offenses against him, were well suited to the task.