Mastering Illusions

28

The Avengers.

The name's been used since the disastrous events of the Endgame, yes, but only in the arena, where it was assigned to the contenders who tended to ally together in the beginning, typically from the same districts, year after year. And in that sense, it was used in snide, mocking derision for the universe's supposed saviors, those who had tried so desperately to defeat Thanos just to fail, all the same.

And yes, I do realize I quoted Thanos there.

But now, in the middle of this deserted, anonymous world, there's a piece of wreckage labeled with the Avengers symbol.

Crouching, I pick up the piece of metal, turning it over in my hand. I have no idea where it's from; maybe from the ruins of a ship. As I glance up, I summon a dagger, my fingers tightening around the elaborate hilt. I see nothing, nothing but grey, dead dust, covering the valley and coating the hills, rising in the distance. Nothing but dust and wreckage.

"The hope of millions died here."

The clipped, accented voice comes from behind me with no warning and I spin, calling another dagger to my off hand. A girl stands behind me, dressed in a padded white bodysuit with a dull green, many-pocketed vest over it, her blonde hair pulled back into a messy, high ponytail. Her gaze is hard, cool. In her hands is a rifle, casually pointing at me. Behind her is a man, with dark skin and a light beard scrubbing across his cheeks, watching me warily, his hands empty.

"What is this place?" I inquire, tensing in preparation for a fight. Better to keep them talking, off guard.

"Svartalfheim," the girl tells me. "District 13. The Dark World. Where Thanos won the second time."

Well, that explains the Avengers symbol, at least. But I thought Thanos had snapped Svartalfheim out of existence? That's what the history says, anyway. And yet, here it is, still standing.

Odd.

"Who are you?" I ask, my eyes drifting over the rifle's dark glisten.

The girl's eyes don't change. "You don't need to know that yet."

"Can't we speak as civilized folk?" I inquire, cocking my eyebrow at her rifle. "After all, we are adults."

"Is that what we are?" she shoots back. "I know who you are. You are Loki Odinson, champion of the thirty-sixth Contest of Champions. You killed my sister."

"You'll have to be a bit more specific," I tell her. "I've killed quite a lot of people." Meanwhile, my eyes are studying her features, searching for a resemblance to one of the contenders I killed back in the arena. Sister, she said – Helen Cho? Natasha Romanoff? She's certainly not Sif's sister, as she didn't have one. And Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, had no family standing for her in HYDRA's district when Veers and I visited. There had been no one to stand for her memory, no one to care.

But this girl doesn't look like Helen Cho, either.

You and Thor don't look alike, my mind whispers, almost tauntingly. She could be the sister of any of those women you killed, the way Thor calls you his brother. It means nothing, in the end.

Does anything, mean anything anymore? Is there anything even left to matter?

I mentally shake the thoughts out of my head, refocusing on the blonde girl. Golden earrings glint dimly from her ears, but they don't make me doubt her prowess as a warrior. I've been around Sif, Gamora, Nebula, and now Veers long enough to tell how a warrior woman holds herself – easily, confidently, because she knows she can tackle you without any warning and succeed. This girl fits the bill.