Beyla - Loki

The Grandmaster's Jewel

The sky ripped open in a burst of sickly green light, and Beyla tumbled through, shrieking as gravity switched directions half a dozen times. She slammed into a pile of trash bags with a groan, blinking up at neon signs flickering overhead. A rainbow-hued planet loomed large in the sky.

She sat up, brushing banana peels out of her hair, when a sharp voice drawled above her.

"Well, that's new."

A woman stood silhouetted against the flashing lights. Short hair. Broad shoulders. Armor scuffed but unmistakably Asgardian in make. A flask dangled lazily from her hand.

Beyla rasped, "Who-"

Before she could finish, the woman hauled her upright with one arm, unimpressed. "Scrapper 142," she said flatly. "You can call me Valkyrie. You just dropped into the biggest dumpster fire in the galaxy. Congratulations."

Beyla blinked. "Sakaar?"

Valkyrie smirked. "Smart girl. You'll live." She gave Beyla a once-over, her smirk deepening. "And with cheekbones like that, you'll do more than live. You'll make me rich."

⸻

By the time Beyla's head stopped spinning, she was being shoved-politely but firmly-through golden double doors. Music thumped. People in glittering costumes lounged on couches shaped like melting sculptures. The smell of alien perfumes made her eyes water.

At the far end of the room, sitting in a throne that looked like it had been stolen from three different civilizations, was... him.

The Grandmaster.

He leaned forward, eyebrows quirking, lips curling into a delighted smile. "Ohhhh. Oh, oh, oh. Who is this vision? Did you bring me a present, Scrapper?"

Valkyrie shrugged, already pocketing her finder's fee. "She fell out of the sky. Thought you'd like her."

The Grandmaster slid off his throne and circled Beyla like an art collector who'd just found a masterpiece at a yard sale. "Look at her! Just look at her. Gorgeous. Symmetrical. Regal. Did you see the hair?"

Beyla straightened her spine, glaring. "I am no one's-"

"Perfect!" The Grandmaster clapped his hands. "I want her at every party. Every important party. Not the riff-raff mixers. Only the VIP ones. She'll float around with the drinks, look devastatingly pretty, everyone will gasp and whisper, 'Who is she?' and I'll say, 'Oh, that's mine.'"

Beyla bristled. "I am not yours."

"Exactly!" The Grandmaster beamed. "That's the beauty of it! You're not mine, but you're with me. Exclusivity. Presentation. Very high-end. Oh, we'll be the talk of the quadrant."

A guard scuttled forward, whispering, "Shall we, uh, outfit her?"

"Yes! Sparkles. Sequins. Maybe feathers? No, too much. Just enough that people choke on their own jealousy."

Beyla crossed her arms, muttering to Valkyrie, "He's insufferable."

Valkyrie sipped from her flask. "You'll get used to it. Or not. Either way, you'll drink for free."

The Grandmaster clapped again, summoning attendants. "Darling, welcome! You're going to love working for me. I pay in exposure, which is priceless, but also in actual money, which is useful."

Beyla groaned.

Valkyrie chuckled. "Told you. Dumpster fire."

⸻

Beyla had been on Sakaar for thirty-one days. She knew because she scratched tally marks into the back of a gaudy golden column in her quarters. (She was fairly certain it was solid plastic, but it pretended very hard to be gold.)

Her daily schedule had fallen into a depressing sort of rhythm: wake up in her ridiculous feathered robe the Grandmaster insisted she wear, roll her eyes at the "party planner" drones that zipped into her room offering glitter makeup, and then decide whether or not to throw the drones out the window.

By nightfall, she was standing at yet another VIP gathering, holding a tray of drinks that smoked, sparkled, or occasionally screamed.

"Smile more, darling," the Grandmaster would coo every time he spotted her. "You're radiance! You're ambiance! You're... mm, centerpiece-y!"

She smiled less just to spite him.

⸻

Week One:
The first week, she tried to escape. Of course she did.

She had made it halfway through the scavenger alleys when a portal spontaneously spat out two giant worm-things directly in her path. One of them tried to eat her sandal. The other sneezed in her face. Valkyrie found her ten minutes later, doubled over, gagging, covered in slime.

"Don't bother," Valkyrie said dryly, hauling her up. "The Grandmaster's got this planet wrapped tighter than a mead barrel. You're not getting out without a ship."

"Then I'll get a ship."

"Mm." Valkyrie sipped her flask. "Good luck. They cost more than your face."

⸻

Week Two:
She adjusted. Sort of.

By week two, she'd learned the Grandmaster was easily distracted. The key was nodding, smiling, and pretending to laugh at his long, meandering stories. Like the one about how he invented foam parties. Or the one about how he probably invented cake.

She also discovered that if she lingered near Valkyrie, she was less likely to be cornered by bored Sakaarans wanting to know her "story."

"I don't have one," Beyla snapped once, after a particularly nosy alien pressed too hard. "I'm here because I fell out of the sky, and I'd very much like to go home, thank you."

"Bold," Valkyrie muttered, smirking. "That'll last until the Grandmaster hears you."

He did. He only grinned and patted her arm. "Oh, everyone wants to go home, sweetling. But look around! We've got color, we've got music, we've got wormholes that puke people like you into our laps! It's destiny!"

She wanted to strangle him.

⸻

Week Three:
Week three was the hardest.

Every time she looked out at the Sakaaran sky-those endless neon swirls and shifting constellations-her chest ached. She thought of Asgard's golden halls. The gardens. The sound of Loki's laughter when he let his guard slip.

She missed him with a rawness that scared her.

At night, when the Grandmaster's parties wound down and she finally slipped away to her quarters, she would press her forehead against the cold glass and whisper his name.

"Loki."

Her reflection stared back, glitter makeup smudged, feathers drooping, tray calluses on her palms. She hated the way this place was changing her-making her ornamental, trivial. She was a goddess, not a prop.

But she held onto the memory of Loki's embrace, his whispered promises. It was the only thing that steadied her when the loneliness grew sharp.

⸻

Week Four:
By the end of the month, she had a reputation: the Grandmaster's "darling jewel."

He paraded her around at every gathering, introducing her like she was a prized wine. "Look at her! Look at her shine! Doesn't she make the drinks taste better? I think she does. She elevates the whole evening."

Meanwhile, Beyla perfected the art of smiling just enough to keep suspicion down while plotting her exit.

Every overheard scrap of gossip about ships, every careless mention of the wormhole routes, she hoarded like treasure.

She was trapped-but she wasn't broken.