Chapter 2
The next morning Loki feels fresh and pure and wonderful, like his whole body is a beautiful snowflake.
He’s furious about it.
Jotnar are fierce warriors. Loki has ferocity in his blood, in his blue marrow and heavy bones. Jotnar certainly do not take bubble baths, and if they do, then they are fierce bubble baths, possibly with bubbles distilled from some kind of acid, taken as reward for defeating some monstrous beast, or on special occasions, like courtships or coming-of-age rituals.
Still, it has already been proven many times over that Loki is rather a poor Jotun, so his only recourse is to claim the power of bubble baths as his own, as he has reclaimed so many other elements of his less-than-desirous personality. Bubble baths are obviously strange and eldritch ceremonies, to have such an amazingly positive effect upon his constitution. Perhaps they are even influenced by magic potions, though Loki very much doubts that the Hulk knows how to brew a decent potion.
In any case, Loki has decided to denude himself of the title of God of Mischief, to be replaced with the title God of Bubble Baths.
He announces this decision at the briefing for their next assignment, and Barton promptly chokes on his own spit and then dissolves into cackles. Loki resolves to ignore this uncouth behaviour, though he will admit to being rather pleased that Barton has retained his cackling skills. (Loki had taken great care to instruct Barton in the fine art of Supervillain Cackling while the agent was under his control. It is heartening to see that his efforts have not been wasted.)
To be honest he’s not entirely certain as to why the Avengers are so perturbed by his decision. It’s only logical, really. Mischief has been less kind to his mental health than bubble baths have, and so the change in priorities is entirely reasonable. To his knowledge nobody else has claimed the title of God of Bubble Baths yet, and so it is his for the taking.
“I don’t think it works like that,” says Rogers diplomatically.
Loki scowls at him. “How would you know? You are not a god.”
Banner keeps darting half-guilty, half-amused looks in his direction. Loki refuses to acknowledge him.
“Loki,” says Thor, looking rather uncertain, “don’t you think it’s a little... absurd?”
Loki widens his eyes and turns to look beatifically at his not-brother. “Why, Thor, I had thought that you would be supportive of this decision! Surely it is better to be the patron of bubble baths than the patron of mischief, and lies, and deceit? Did you not say that I should turn over a new leaf here in Midgard?”
Thor blushes and looks flustered. “I am sorry, brother,” he says, in a very small voice. “I do not mean to stifle your self-actualisation.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” says Loki under his breath, but obviously not quietly enough, because Thor looks absolutely gutted.
“Jesus Christ,” says Fury, eyebrows raised improbably high. “Are we done squabbling now? Not to rush you, or anything, but there are Doombots attacking the Empire State Building.”
“I care little for your petty mortal structures,” sniffs Loki. Honestly, he can’t even remember why he’d agreed to consult for the Avengers in the first place. There had been a lot of Thor-puppy-eyes involved. Frankly he’d much rather be at home curled up with Sleipnir and a good book.
Now that he has his magic back, he might even visit Jörmungand... though he’s not entirely sure if Jörmungand would be happy to see him, which is why he’s been putting it off.
“We don’t need you to care,” says Barton. “We need you to do your glowy thing and neutralise the ‘bots. And then leave. Preferably quickly.”
“Oh, Barton, I feel so appreciated,” coos Loki.
Barton scowls.
Romanova pinches the bridge of her nose, and sighs, long and low.
“My brother’s magic is far mightier than that of the Healer Doom!” announces Thor, apparently recovered from his gloomy moment.
“Goldilocks, he’s not a Healer, he’s called Doctor Doom because he’s got a PhD in horribleness,” says Stark. “How many times do we have to explain this?”
“No, leave him alone,” says Barton. “It’s funnier this way.”
Thor’s brow is furrowed. Loki can practically hear the whistling as his poor, tiny brain overheats trying to cope with this new information. “Is not Doctor your mortal name for Healers?”
“Sometimes it is,” says Rogers, taking pity. “We have a whole lot of names for Healers, actually.”
“Now’s not the time for the culture lesson, Capcake,” says Stark. He presses a button on his wristband, and the suit comes flying in through the open door, wrapping itself around him. The faceplate slams closed, and Stark’s voice is suddenly metallic as he says, “We’ve got some bot-bashing to do.”
“Finally,” says Fury, with a long-suffering look. “You know what, screw the briefing. Just. Go. Get out of my sight.”
“Race you there,” says Loki, and teleports to the site. The air is thick with Doombots, buzzing with that mortal sorcerer’s energy, swarming over the surrounding buildings. Loki can practically taste the magic. He has to admit he is curious; he would quite like to meet this Doctor Doom in person, if only to truly pit their magics against one another.
As it is, the Doombots are remotely controlled, which means that they are pathetically easy to subdue. Doom’s magic is stretched thin across continents, and all Loki has to do is snap his fingers and the Doombots will fall to the ground, insensate.
Loki snaps his fingers.
Nothing happens.
He frowns at his hands, and snaps his fingers again, willing his magic to seek out and destroy the spark that fuels the Doombots, but he can’t seem to latch on to it. Doom has updated his magics.
Loki grits his teeth, and summons a spell of flight, and a spell of invisibility. He floats unseen to where the nearest Doombot is gnawing on the side of a building, and presses his hand against its flank. Touch provides the link that Loki had been missing, and he swiftly quenches the spark of magic within the robot. The Doombot shudders and then goes still.
Unfortunately the death of the Doombot attracts exactly the sort of attention that Loki had been trying to avoid. Every ‘bot in the vicinity immediately converges on his location, and despite the spell of invisibility they seem perfectly capable of finding him. Doom has been very busy.
Loki lets the spell of invisibility melt away, since it is doing nothing but drain his energy. He spares a moment to wish that he was wearing his old Asgardian armour; none of it quite fits in his Jotun form, and besides which the leather and metal are far too stifling in this Midgardian climate. At present he is wearing what passes for Jotun armour, which is barely more than a leather loincloth, and certainly provides no protection against ravenous magical robots.
In favour of invisibility, Loki chooses to be overly visible: he creates a hundred clones to dart about the battle, distracting the Doombots while the real Loki dashes about neutralising them one by one. Unfortunately for Loki, but fortunately for Doom, the robots are clever, and learn from their surroundings, and it doesn’t take them long to realise that out of the hundred-and-one Lokis on the battlefield only one of them is a true threat. Once again they converge on his position, weapons raised, whirring threateningly.
Loki sighs and then they start shooting.
He manages to dodge most of the blasts – the Doombots are certainly formidable, but they are very slow – except for one that grazes his shoulder, and one that pierces straight through the palm of his hand. The ‘bots are clustering around him like locusts, faster than Loki can take them out. He can only touch one of them at a time, and even as he takes out one Doombot, five others take its place. One of them crashes into his already-wounded shoulder with such force that the shoulder dislocates with a small pop. Loki bites his lip and keeps going.
And then there is a great roar, and the Doombots are tossed out of the way with one swing of a might green arm.
“You’re late,” says Loki, smirking through bloody teeth. The rest of the Avengers pile out of the Quinjet and quickly set about to attacking the robots.
“Hulk not late,” protests the Hulk. “Puny god should wait for backup.”
“I have no need of backup,” spits Loki. “I am Loki War-monger, Loki World-breaker. I am invincible.”
Hulk pokes him in his dislocated shoulder.
Loki gasps in pain.
“Don’t look so invincible to me,” rumbles the Hulk. He managed a first person pronoun. Loki is impressed. “Puny god should go to fixing place, Hulk take over here.”
“I will do no such thing,” says Loki, outraged. He’s quite aware that by fixing place the Hulk means the SHIELD medical tent that has now been set up at the perimeter of the danger zone, and he has absolutely no intention of bowing out of the fight for something so petty as medical attention. “I can take them out, but I need to be close enough to touch them.”
The Hulk stares at him for a moment, and then nods. “Hulk help,” he offers. “Then fixing place.”
“All right,” says Loki. He takes a breath. “All right.”
With the Hulk’s assistance the battle becomes laughably easy. The Hulk grabs Doombots out of the air like flies, presenting them to Loki like a housecat offering dead insects. In his grasp the Doombots wriggle and screech to no avail, and Loki lays his hands upon them and kills their sparks.
Soon there is a pile of dead Doombots growing around them, and the other Avengers catch on, wrestling Doombots down to the ground so that Loki can take them out for good. In a short time there are only a handful of Doombots left in the sky, at which point all of the surviving robots turn tail and flee, no doubt to report back to Doctor Doom.
“Nice job, Voldie,” says Stark, alighting beside them. He flips his faceplate up, and for once his expression seems genuine. Well, as genuine as Stark ever can be.
“Thank you,” says Loki hesitantly.
“Loki, go to medical,” says Rogers, popping up beside Stark like a particularly patriotic mushroom. “Iron Man, you too, don’t think I didn’t notice that lagging arm. And Loki – next time, don’t forget your earpiece.”
“Oops,” says Loki insincerely.
“Puny god fixing place,” says the Hulk stubbornly. “Fixing place now, Doombots dead, time for fixing place.”
“Yes, all right,” says Loki, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. The Hulk’s meagre vocabulary seems to suffer whenever Loki is injured, for some reason. “Thanks for your help today, Hulk. You are without doubt the least useless member of the boy band.”
The Hulk stares at him, eyes wide and unguarded, and suddenly Loki feels bashful.
He turns on his heel and strides towards the medical tent, trying not to analyse the odd feelings suddenly swelling up within him.
Maybe Midgard isn’t so bad after all.