Disclaimer: Nothing from this Marvelous universe is mine.
Summary: Three months after Operation Avengers all is well. Or is it? When Steve and Tony hack into SHIELD to find missing weapons shipments they find more than they bargained for in the form of a prisoner who should, by rights, have been sent to Asgard long ago.
Warnings: Moderately graphic torture, hints of non-con.
Loki doesn't scream as his back collides with the wall, jarring his bruised side and sending a jolt of agony from his chest to his toes. He is aware, distantly, that his last rib has just cracked. It presses inwards, sharp and tearing and he doesn't care. Does not care.
Part of him even hopes it will pierce something. Be an end. The rest of him knows he's not that lucky.
He laughs. It is the wrong move, but there are no right moves in this hole he's been thrown into.
Just the cold glass mirrors which show him himself every single way he looks. Mirrors which reflect bright lights and blood straight into his eyes and which he is certain are two way devices, easily seen through from the other side. He wonders if the puny mortals are laughing at him. He knows the norns are.
A booted foot, steel-capped and strong, slams into his side, forcing his breath out in a soundless gasp. Blood dribbles down the side of his face and he doesn't know whether it comes from inside or out anymore. His face is a broken mask of red and purple and he stinks of copper and vomit and the sharp disinfectant they clean him with once a week if they remember.
He remembers once, just once, screaming for Thor. But that had been Before. He is a monster. He deserves this, he knows. But some small, crushed part of him, the part which still knows how to scream when they come at night and the lights dim and there is only coldness and grunting and pain, the part that wants to know what he needs to do to stop this, doesn't want Thor to see him like he is now. Wants his hated not-brother to remember him as more than a worthless heap of nothing.
Rough hands drag him up by the collar around his neck. Words form, the wind of them rushing against his face. They sting, burning and burning until he tries to claw at the hands to just make them stop. He can't breathe. Can't breathe. The blackness is closing in and he needs to fight it because he isn't helpless and he hates being helpless on the damp, cold metal of his cell floor.
And then there is the bruising pain as he is pushed to the ground. One hand is splayed to block his fall and there is a sharp snap as something gives way. Another wave of pain rattles up his arm. It's hilarious really, that the mortals think this will break him.
He lets out another wheeze of a laugh.
The door clangs once, and heavy boots thud off into the distance, sated for now, but his skin prickles like a million eyes are watching him. Or maybe that is just Heimdall, now he lacks the magic to shield himself from the watcher's gaze. It is strange, he thinks, that with all his magic bound he still isn't blue. It is there though. Lurking beneath the skin; waiting for him under the red.
He needs to move. It is too open here, in the middle of the room with air on all sides. He needs to shift, to drag himself away to a corner even though he knows it won't help. He's moved less than a meter when he is hit by the swirling blackness. And then there is nothing but frost and snow and burning ice.