Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe: Avengers, Thor and Iron Man movies
Title: Beautiful Figments
Rating: Teen and up
Genre/pairings/warnings: Gen, Loki & Tony friendship, angst, whump, canon-typical violence including descriptions of torture and non-consensual drug use
Setting: Post-Thor: The Dark World, post-Avengers: Civil War and pre-Thor: Ragnarok
Summary: Loki's spell to neutralise the Allfather backfires spectacularly. He succeeds only in enchanting himself, and elements of Midgard's underworld are quick to take advantage. Luckily, Tony Is Not Having It, but that doesn't mean all is forgiven. AU from the end of Thor: The Dark World
Notes: I am British, and so is my spelling. I'm afraid you'll have to prise those 'extra u's from my cold, dead fingers. Terribly sorry.
o0o
He cannot clearly remember how he got here. He remembers even less from before.
When his thoughts are allowed to surface and reform, he finds this fact alarming, but the heavy tangle of confusion and lethargy that weighs down his mind for much of his waking existence rarely permits such urgent feelings.
Anger too is dampened. But not fear. This they let him keep, albeit in small enough doses that he can build up no real momentum. It's an ever-present anxiety, one that prevents complete rest and aids his captors' purpose. Whatever that may be. He thinks they mean to keep him pliant, and without the peace needed in which to gather his thoughts he is left defenceless when they come for him.
His only real moments of clarity come in the transition between states. When they come to test him, or interrogate him, or otherwise torment him. He both dreads and anticipates these times in the vague, fuzzy way he can still fear or hope for anything. He experiences precious moments of near lucidity when they do, and the scant opportunity he has to properly think is something he never wastes.
He's not sure why it's so important to do so, but he needs something to hold on to, and although he knows almost nothing about himself or who he was, he is almost unaccountably determined to maintain a sense of self, paltry though it is.
The room they take him to is always the same.
Although he remains uncoordinated and laughably weak, they insist on walking him there shackled and under guard. He's had time enough to wonder (even without any clear sense of how long he's been here) if they are afraid of him. Of what it is exactly they fear. Perhaps if he knew, he could use this knowledge to his advantage. As it is, the speed at which they frog-march him along their empty and characterless corridors is usually enough to exhaust and bewilder him.
He concentrates as much as he can on picking up his clumsy and uncooperative feet, but the vice-like grip on each of his upper arms keeps him upright and moving. His escorts never speak, and anyway he'd find it difficult to respond. It's all he can do sometimes to understand a barked order, let alone command his sluggish thoughts and tongue to protest in a timely manner.
He is deposited into a chair when they reach their destination and strapped in securely, wrists, ankles and neck. He has just enough command of his thoughts to understand that this means another test today. They will need to release him from some of this stupor if they are to deliver it.
He attempts to roll his head to one side and peer through the hair that's fallen across his face. He's been away from the cell they keep him prisoner in for long enough that he can feel some strength returning already, but he knows he won't be left to recover for long.
The man who takes a seat opposite is one he doesn't recognise, but he's not too far gone to acknowledge that his faculties aren't always at their best when he needs them. He's fairly certain he has a number of different tormentors, distinguishable from his other keepers and caretakers by the long white coats they come attired in. There are women sometimes, too, although they're no more disposed towards kindness than their male counterparts.
Today's examiner places a tray on the table between them and snaps on a pair of tightly-fitting gloves. There is no introduction of any kind. No words or acknowledgement at all, in fact. This is normal. This is as expected. He's known nothing else, and he's not sure why there should be a suggestion of any other kind of treatment.
He watches as a needle is lifted from the tray to the light, its cylindrical body tapped with a finger, its contents emptied into the port taped to the back of his left hand. He doesn't have to wait for long. Almost immediately the familiar icy rush shoots along his veins, the ache of it travelling up his arm and into his blood. It's an uncomfortable mix of sensations that he's ill-prepared for every time, a combination of the tingling numbness of inebriation and the hyper-alert apprehension of nausea.
Where before he was blunted and heavy, he begins to regain awareness. The buckles bite into his skin where they are strapped too tightly, the deep tenderness of old bruises reasserting themselves beneath. The room is cold, the thin layer of clothing he has been allowed barely sufficient to muffle the sharp difference in temperature he can now detect. His mouth is dry and foul, his stomach painfully empty.
They never feed or water him, he remembers all at once. He raises his head. Yes, he remembers now. This was his discovery the last time. The tube, the metal hook. The bag of dripping liquid. He'd focused his mind on that single mystery and laid another fear to rest. Some sort of food replacement, he'd deduced. He would not be allowed to starve.
This time he uses his opportunity to puzzle over another nagging enigma. He tests his jaw gingerly, covering the action by working up some moisture with which to speak. (They always expect him to speak. They often demand it.) There is some pain, but nowhere near as much as there was when he was here last.
He has had time to heal. He files that information away, doing his best to commit it to memory in the simplest terms he can. He will need it later, when it gets too much. When he'll need the assurance that whatever they do to him, the damage won't be lasting.
It isn't much, but it's all he has time for. He's grateful for it. Now is the time to start fighting.
He has flushed hot, and already a fine sheen of sweat is coating his face. He blinks rapidly against the stinging in his eyes and tries to control his breathing, already too fast and erratic and almost painful to drag in.
The man across from him is holding fingers to the inside of his wrist, pressing down with some force and consulting a small, ticking device. When the hand is removed, it produces a small but blindingly bright light that's shone directly into each of his eyes in turn. The palm against his forehead and the thumb anchoring his eyelid prevents him from jerking away and he endures it as best he can.
Another white coat is readying his equipment, placing sensors and attaching wires and turning dials. Notes are scribbled on parchment, data tapped into devices, screens and recordings readied.
A hot drop of sweat rolls down from his hairline and patters onto his chest. An itchy, crawling feeling floods over his skin like the march of a thousand skittering insects and he wants to get away. He wants to make it stop. He forces shaky words out between panting breaths.
"Who are you?"
This they never answer. It's a question they've heard (and ignored) many times before. He always means to follow it up with another, with 'what do you want?', but he never seems to quite get that far. Those scant few words have stolen his breath for the time being, and the pain is starting. His knees begin jiggling with nervous energy and he twists as much as he can in his chair. It won't be long now.
The white coats exchange a few words. They are ready to begin. One rolls a large screen a little closer and activates it, returning to his equipment as moving pictures begin to appear.
The footage is grainy and the colours washed out. There is no sound. (His pulse is thunderous in his ears which is sound enough.) The picture jerks and shakes, then settles and focuses. The effect is nauseating, and he screws his eyes shut against it. A hand fists itself painfully in his hair â one of his ever-present handlers, he supposes â and rattles his head until he opens them again.
The picture has levelled out somewhat, and he can make out the figure of a man. He is tall, striding slowly from a grand building. The angle suggests the picture has been captured off to one side, whoever it is recording striving to remain out of sight. The man on the screen is dressed in dark colours and emerges with purpose. With no apparent gesture or mechanism, the man's appearance begins to change as he walks, his formal attire morphing into elaborate armour with a shimmer of greenish gold. The glowing staff he carries elongates and sharpens, and a golden helm of wicked points materialises to crown him.
He is terrifying.
The picture cuts out and begins again from where it started, the figure once again distant and blurry as the camera moves and settles.
The white coats watch him with interest as he squirms in his seat, his breath now coming in snatches. The jittery feeling has hold of him fully now and his body vibrates against his restraints. Every instinct he possesses is urging him to run, to fight, to act. He needs to move with a desperation that tightens his chest. Everything behind his ribcage is being squeezed and the tension in his muscles burns.
Coloured lights are blinking benignly on the equipment he's connected to and he tries to focus on that, tries to slow his breathing to match the steady pace they're setting. He knows what comes next, and he can't bear it.
Change, they command him. The order lances through his head like a dart of purest agony and he bares his teeth at them to contain a sound of pain. Ample time for that later. He must save up what release he can.
After several prolonged seconds the pain recedes and he loosens his clenched fists. This is manageable. For the moment. He knows it won't be for long.
The white coats talk into their machines, cataloguing his reactions. They refer to him as 'subject', but they never address him as such. He understands distantly that this is a label only. He never learns his true name.
The footage is looping again and he wrenches his face away. Change, they demand again, and again he grits his teeth against the pain. This time when he can breathe again he rocks himself forcefully against his bonds and growls out his frustration. This behaviour is met with quiet disapproval and the scratching of pens. A second needle is inserted and plunged, and fresh sweat breaks out over his top lip.
The room begins to expand and contract in sickening waves and his vision blurs with tears. He hangs his head forward and someone yanks it back up. He can't get enough air.
Change, it comes again. A wordless grunt of pain forces itself out and tongues of fire lick their way along his nerves. He can't. He can't. He doesn't understand.
An insect whine starts near his ear and he panics. He fights now with all his strength, throwing himself against his restraints with bruising force.
Change, they command again, and this time it's accompanied by a cold kiss of metal and the snapping, electric bite of lightning. His body arches and he screams, and a feeling like static flickers in his fingers. He sags back against his chair to murmurs of interest from the white coats, and gulps in air as dials are adjusted.
No, his mind screams frantically. No, stop.
Again, the white coat instructs his tormentor, and the current pours all his sound from him. It's too much. It's too much.
I can't I can't I can't I can'tâ
Aftershocks curl through his limbs even as the device is removed, and his muscles jump and dance of their own accord. He gasps a single shuddering breath before even this is taken away from him, a large hand closing round his throat and squeezing until black spots fill his vision.
Change, the white coat orders, and he screws his eyes shut.
Nononononono.
An alarm shrills a warning somewhere in the distance but the grip doesn't lessen. Someone somewhere is protesting weakly, and someone else is arguing back.
He feels his grip on consciousness loosening, a black maw opening up to swallow him. A presence at his ear leans in close, the voice impatient and insistent. Change! it demands as a fist connects with his abdomen, and his mind fractures. The whole world goes white.
There's a split second of vacuum, then a pulse of power that throws his assailants back with incredible force. Screens shatter and alarms blare. Broken pieces of debris clatter around him. The larger furniture is tipped over and shoved against the walls. Sparks jump from a smoking console, and somewhere someone groans.
He starts to return to himself, his eyes wide and frantic. He's shaking with pain and fear and anger. And laughter. Manic, sobbing laughter.
He remembers now. This is how he'd earned his cracked jaw. This is why the white coat is new. He's done this before and he'd laughed and they'd hurt him. They don't like to be bested. They don't like to be mocked. He's suffocating with it but he can't stop. He laughs harder.
And look, here it comes again. His brawny tormentor hauls himself up with murder in his eyes, and when the backhand comes the blackness it brings is bliss.