Caging of the Snake
Loki took careful, measured steps out the museum door. His ears were filled with the mewling cries of the guests at the gala. As his armour materialized around him, he paused to appreciate the moment. He smiled, thinking to himself that it was ironic that the god most overlooked in Asgard would be the first to walk among mortals, the first to convince them of his power, since they had landed in Norway all those centuries ago. The scepter revealed its true bulk and lethality, the shimmering, gilded blades uncloaking themselves. Golden horns sprung from his heads. Now is the age of my dominion, thought Loki.
At least, that’s what one would believe he was thinking.
The first police car rounded the corner, sirens blaring, silenced in an instant by a blast of energy. He barely even looked at it. Cower for me, he thought. Cower in your steel husks and behind your fabric vests, armed with your primitive slug-throwers. Cower in the rain-blighted streets and wait for the jackboot to kick you where you need to go.
Or, at least, that’s the impression he gave of his thoughts.
He took an elevated position. But he also took a position at each of the exits. There were a lot of Lokis. One was real, but to mortals, they all might as well have been. “Kneel before me,” he said, imposing but more as a suggestion than a demand. Some did. Most stood bewildered, searching for ways out of the square, but all were blocked.
His voice lifted to a roar. “I said kneel!” he shouted, with the frustration and entitlement of a judge calling for order. He spread his arms out wide and smiled in satisfaction, looming over the huddled mass, the dignitaries of Earth, who had thought themselves so regal before the voice of the divine took its place on the list of speakers for the night. “Is this not simpler?” he said, smirking and spitting his words. “Is this not your natural state? It’s the unspoken truth of humanity, that you crave subjugation. The bright lure of freedom diminishes your life’s joy in a mad scramble for power, for identity. You were made to be ruled. In the end, you will always kneel.”
Surprisingly, his words seemed to be ringing true. But one man stood. Loki scowled. He rather enjoyed monologuing to captive audiences. He didn’t particularly want to start the evening off by killing a Midgard man. But there the old man was, standing. No great loss. How much time could he possibly have left, anyhow?
“Not to men like you.” he said, weary of tyrants.
Loki smiled haughtily. He reclined in his glorious past like it was a throne. “There are no men like me.” he said.
“There are always men like you.” the old man said.
Loki twitched. “Look to your elder, people. Let him be an example.” he said venomously, and raised the scepter.
Ten minutes earlier, John Wick walked in the front door of the hotel across the street with a briefcase, mumbled “Hans Kürtzing, Bundespolizei, ich muss das Dachgeschoss untersuchen, danke schoen,” in a thick American accent, flashed a badge, and left the concierge bewildered as he strode confidently to the elevator. She asked something. It sounded like she was offering help, cautiously. “Nein, nein, danke.” Wick said. He pushed the button and rode the elevator to the top floor, trying to tune out the David Hasselhoff single playing inside. Instead, he focused on the shot he was about to take. Wind was low tonight, dart drop would be compensated for by his sights. He had one chance only to hit Loki in the neck with a tranquilizer dart, and if he missed it could potentially mean the end of the world. He’d taken and made harder shots. No reason to get worked up about it.
The hotel was old and the top floor was under renovation. He knew the concierge would call the police eventually, but he had a way out and a cover, however flimsy. He set up by a window in the dining room overlooking the square, with excellent firing angles. There was only one way out of the building Loki was in. With Wick watching the door with a rifle, there was no way out. They’d get him.
He unpacked the briefcase, put the rifle together and loaded it with a clip of three darts. He felt heavy and sluggish with all the equipment he was carrying under his jacket. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to use them. After all, he had the height advantage, element of surprise, technical superiority and, he hoped, much better training than his enemy. Why, he wondered, did his mind wander now when so many times before it had been cold and still until the moment the trigger was pulled? Men he could kill. But could he put a god to sleep?
He opened the window at its bottom and waited.
Loki emerged. He was speaking English. Why was he speaking English? For that matter, was he speaking English? There was an echoing quality to the voice in Wick’s head, audible across the square and far above the street. There was something otherworldly to it. Wick twitched. He aimed. He waited for his moment. The air left his lungs. He fired.
The dart passed through the Loki on the platform, who vanished in a shimmer of golden light. Another Loki, standing guard, aimed and fired. There was a flash of blue and a loud report as Captain America dropped into view, deflecting it with his shield. The energy blast flew back at Loki and knocked him to the ground. Wick adjusted his aim and tried to line up another shot, but a hissing sound asserted itself in the periphery of his hearing. Before the window, about twenty feet out, a hovering suit of grey-black armour lowered itself clumsily into view. It raised its arm, and with a click, a tiny rocket emerged from its wrist.
The two men stared at each other, Wick’s mind racing, a single thought roaring at him: Find cover now. There was one goal behind the War Machine armour’s mask and the brow it guarded. Kill John Wick.
The rocket sailed into the room, past Wick, and struck the back wall. Wick dropped to the ground as a massive fireball engulfed half the room, flying pieces of masonry and carpentry turning the air to shrapnel. He felt impacts on the flak jacket, but was unharmed. He grabbed the shotgun and scrambled behind the thicker wall next to the window as Rhodes unleashed a hail of bullets, shattering the glass and putting dozens of holes in the floor where Wick had been lying. He flew in through the window, and Wick barely had a second to react to the sound of approaching repulsors, ducking into an adjacent window alcove. Rhodes flew into the center of the room, above the table. Wick reached into his jacket. As Rhodes got a bead on the alcove, a tiny disk struck his armour right next to the Arc Reactor.
Wick, pulling his throwing arm back to his gun, watched as the taser grenade worked its magic. Electricity coursed across and through the armour, and as its repulsors shorted out it fell twenty feet through the air, the table and the floor beneath it. There was an almighty crash as it struck the ground in the room below.
Rhodes’s HUD lit up. “System Restart.” 25%. 30%. 32%, and then the first blast of buckshot struck the outside of the armour, doing little more than scratching the paint. Wick pumped the shotgun, took aim from his position above the hole and fired again, this time at the shoulder joint. Nothing. 67%. Wick cursed, pumped the shotgun again and fired at the same joint. There was a shower of sparks. The armour finished rebooting. Wick saw the light return to the visor and dropped a stun grenade into the room below. He covered his ears. The noise was still monstrously loud. He kicked down the door of the adjoining room and got behind the wall as Rhodes ascended from the floor below.
Rhodes’s ears were ringing. He didn’t hear the door being kicked open, but thanks to the optical shielding in the visor he could still see. The damage to the door frame was obvious. He loosed another rocket into the room Wick had fled to.
Wick ducked and covered his face. The rocket flew past the cobwebbed stacks of furniture in the room and detonated. The shockwave shook the walls, shredded the upholstery and splintered the wood. Wick rolled out of the way of a falling rafter. The fire in the other room was spreading. Smoke clouded the air. He looked around, spotted another doorway, and charged through it into the next room, the heavy footsteps of the armour following him. He tossed another stun grenade over his shoulder, hid beside the door and pointed the barrel of the shotgun at head height. Maybe, just maybe, a shot to the neck joint at close range could get through the armour. The grenade went off. His ears rang. Rhodes walked through the door, unfazed. He fired. Sparks. A piece of shot ricocheted and cut his face. The visor flickered but the armour held. Rhodes grabbed the gun and tossed it across the room, then raised his wrist to Wick’s chest, the barrels of his weapon revealing themselves- and was immediately struck by a repulsor beam and thrown against the wall. Drywall and wood came apart like the surface of water and he landed in a heap.
“Rhodes!” a voice shouted, “Snap out of it, buddy.” Rhodes pushed himself up off the ground and rocketed in the direction the blast had come from, through the open door. Wick looked around the corner and saw him collide with another figure in sleeker, newer armour outside the broken window. Iron Man.
They hovered there in midair for a moment, wrestling, as the minigun emerged from Rhodes’s shoulder. Tony grabbed it and directed it away from his head with all his strength. Bullets sprayed across the top floor of the hotel- Wick hit the deck again. They spun, lost altitude, and then Tony flew back into view, ascending, chased by a curtain of blazing lead. He shouted down at Rhodes, whose head tracked him mechanically as the minigun’s fire came closer and closer to his flight path. “Rhodey! What’s going on? Come on, give me something, we can get you out of this. You in there?” There was no reply.
As suddenly as the chase began, it reversed. Rhodes stopped for the briefest moment, changed direction, and rocketed away into the night sky. Tony looked back, halted gracefully, and took flight after him. Wick ran to the window and observed the square below. Loki’s scepter was lying on the ground. Cap was standing, looking tired but unharmed. Matt was holding his hand out in a gripping motion, and Loki was standing completely still.
“Unhand me, fool!” he shouted. “This does not end here! You cannot stop me! A worm like you cannot stand against my might!” It sounded like he meant it. Wick almost felt amused at the impotent, cartoon-villain rage coming from the frozen Asgardian. He looked around for more threats, retrieved his gun, and carefully made his way back to the elevator.
The Quinjet landed at the edge of the plaza. A handcuffed Loki was led into the back by Cap. Tony landed shortly afterwards. “He was shooting everything he had back at me. I couldn’t catch up to him.” he said, frustrated, and strode up to Loki. “Hey. Reindeer Games.” His helmet retracted. “What did you do to my friend?”
Loki stared him in the face and remained silent. Tony threw up his arms. “Can you believe this? We have one fight, and he’s giving me the silent treatment.” he said, turning to the others. Then, back to Loki, “Here’s the deal. You tell me how to fix Rhodey and I’ll install a light bulb in your cell at the Hague.”
Cap touched him on the shoulder. “Mr. Stark... he’s not gonna talk. Let’s go.”
Tony looked at him, then back at Loki again. “Alright, but if he tries to escape I reserve the right to taze him. Repeatedly. Like, with unnecessary… voltage. You get the idea, I’m upset.” he said, resigned.
“Hey, Mr. Stark.” Matt said, waving his hand uncertainly. “Yeah? Oh, hey kid.” Tony said, then took a seat in the Quinjet, staring straight ahead. He took a deep breath and put his head in his hands.
Wick sat near the front of the jet. “Nice shot.” Loki said mockingly as he passed. Wick didn’t acknowledge him. “Hey.” Steve said. “That looked rough up there. Good job holding off Rhodes.”
“Thanks.” Wick said. “Next time, could I have a bigger gun?” he asked Natasha. “Maybe one that doesn’t shoot needles? I almost got killed.” She shrugged. “Complications happen.” she said. “That man had three or four machine guns strapped to his body and walked off a point-blank shotgun blast to the neck.” Wick said. “I’m starting to think I was better off with those assassins.”
“We can still put you back there if you’d like.” Natasha said. Wick frowned, nodded, and strapped himself in.
Matt looked around at the group. No one looked satisfied. He didn’t like the look on Loki’s face. He couldn’t stop looking at the god of mischief. He seemed to be pouting, stewing in anger. It didn’t make sense that a god would pout. Cap’s hand fell on his shoulder. “Hey. Matt.” He looked at the Captain. “Yeah?” he said. “Good job out there. You saved my skin.” Cap said, a reassuring smile on his face. Matt smiled back. “Uh, thanks.” he said, his posture straightening. “I’m glad I could help.”
Loki’s head rested against the seat. He grimaced and scowled and glared at the heroes who had captured him. He tried his best to maintain gravitas despite the crushing defeat. He lashed out with his eyes, haughty and scornful, like a petulant child, refusing to admit loss.
At least, that’s what it looked like.
His deception was maintained until no one was looking. The satisfaction underneath it lasted until thunder’s boom shattered his sense of security. It was going to be a long night.