Wet branches hang low and heavy, their waterlogged needles weighing them down and obscuring the view only a few steps ahead. They slap against his face and shoulders as he runs, their wet caress overfamiliar and unwanted, and though he raises his arms to push through the worst of it they slow his progress down.

So too does the man at his back. Stark huffs and stumbles in Loki's wake, breathless curses adding to the racket he makes as he follows, the urgency of panic seemingly the only force able to propel him at a speed to match Loki's own.

Were it not for the weapons the man carries on his arms, Loki would have broken from him many minutes back. As it is, the blasts Stark has managed have so far been enough to keep their pursuers at bay.

This is the first thing Loki knows: he is in desperate need of a weapon.

The second is that he has invited this. He has let his guard down. He has trusted. He has hoped. And in payment for that lapse he will be hunted.

He should have tried for escape while he had the chance. He will find a way to end it before they can take him again.

The chill rain continues to sluice down, soaking him to his skin and making every incline treacherous underfoot. Through the pounding in his ears he can hear the distant sounds of pursuit as well as movement up ahead. The lake at their flank is forcing them to head east unless they want to break cover, which does not seem prudent. It is limiting their options and boxing them in. Their pursuers are moving to cut them off.

He will need to force his way through their ranks.

Loki drops to a crouch behind the upended root bole of a windblown tree and scans his immediate surroundings. Stark seems to think this pause is for his benefit, dropping gratefully down beside him in obvious respiratory distress. Loki does not waste time correcting this assumption.

"So," Stark wheezes after a failed attempt to appear recovered. "That was fun."

Loki ignores this, focusing his attention on the surrounding trees. A number of large birds explode from the canopy some distance ahead with a clatter of wings, disturbed by an approaching search party. The snap of branches speak of another group tailing from behind.

"Where's your armour?" Loki asks pointedly.

Stark waves a hand in the air in front of him while he takes three more gulps of air. "Oh, you know," he says with infuriating, if breathless, flippancy. "On the jet. Where it's safe. Where I... didn't think... I'd need it."

The man raises his left hand palm up to display the gauntlet hugging his forearm, then lets it fall tiredly to the floor. "Got these though," he supplies. As though that will help them. As though that is all they need against a small army of well-prepared men intent on gunning them down.

Stark leans to cast an anxious look into the trees at their back and ducks back again. "Stupid," he mutters to himself, pounding a fist into the dirt at his side. He begins to mutter, seemingly admonishing himself for some oversight. Something about incompatibility and unfinished marks. "Shoulda stuck with the tried and tested," he finishes with.

Loki doesn't even attempt to interpret this. It's clear that they must work with what they have, or not at all.

"FRIDAY," Stark calls out, apropos of nothing. "Sit rep."

The disembodied voice Stark converses with back at the compound must be speaking to him by some artifice Loki cannot detect. It is clear from the man's face that whatever she reports is unwelcome, thought that is hardly a surprise.

"They've surrounded the jet," Stark relays after a moment. "FRIDAY's locked them out, but whatever they're doing it's not going to take them long to change that. She doesn't have full control of her systems."

So they are alone. Outmanned, outgunned and without backup. Poor odds indeed.

Stark kicks his heel forcefully into the dirt in front of him and releases a sharp profanity.

"You cannot outrun them," Loki says. The look on Stark's face suggests he doesn't appreciate the blunt delivery of this statement, but Loki sees no reason to shy from the facts. The man's response does however reveal that Stark takes his meaning perfectly.

"And you won't get far on your own. Not with this many of them. Looks like you're stuck with me."

Loki doesn't bother to argue with this ludicrous statement. When it becomes necessary to split up, the decision will be Loki's alone. Stark's confidence in his own abilities is clearly misplaced if he thinks he can prevent Loki from leaving him behind. He has no intention of letting this man slow him down, and he will do what he must. If that means leaving the man to his fate… Well. It is not Stark these soldiers are after, is it?

A line of four armed men emerge from over the rise ahead, their path making directly for the meagre hiding place sheltering Loki and his exhausted companion. They will soon be surrounded, and Loki is loathe to surrender the upper hand.

"You know what would be really handy right about now?" Stark murmurs as he bobs up next to Loki, tracking their pursuers' approach with keen eyes. "Some of that inexplicable, defying-the-laws-of-physics stuff you used to be so keen on."

The men sweep back and forth cautiously as they approach, clearly aware that they are closing in on their quarry's position.

"So how about it?" Stark continues with an elbow to Loki's ribs. "Any fantastical powers rattling around in there?"

Loki clenches his jaw and edges away from Stark's over-familiar proximity. "It may have escaped your notice these past few weeks," he grits out, "but I don't remember how." He is trapped here with an imbecile. An imbecile with a death wish.

"Worth a shot," Stark grumbles with a shrug.

A number of rocks exposed by the ripped up roots of the fallen tree protrude from the ground at Loki's feet. Loki excavates one and hefts its weight, his thumb running over one tapering edge.

This is more than likely a mistake. Their chances would be much improved if they could effect their escape in silence, but the odds of that seem small. And in the end, Loki would rather take his chances than wait to be ambushed; he sees Stark realise this by the fall of his face.

Before Loki can move far, Stark seizes his arm. "What are you doing?" the man demands, and Loki tugs his arm free.

"What does it look like?" They don't have time for this.

"You can't just go barging in there," Stark says. "We need a plan."

"I have a plan," Loki tells him, moving again to rise.

"See, that's just the sort of thing I say when I don't."

Shaking the man off, Loki emerges from the cover of the tree they've taken refuge behind and hears his name hissed after him with an accompanying obscenity. He will not remain cowering as his enemies move to surround him. He will repay their hounding with blood.

A flick of his wrist and the rock takes down the first man. The three remaining turn and instantly raise their weapons. They fire.

It is a simple enough thing to dodge the projectiles that are launched at him. Unlike bullets, these are large and ponderous, clumsy to aim and lacking the streamlining and explosive force of lethal ammunition. He advances on the group with a burst of speed that leaves them little time to reload, and when he reaches the nearest target he rips the man's weapon from his hands. It is weighted enough to serve admirably as a blunt instrument, and he swings it in an upward arc into the jaw of a second target while the first clutches at the hand still wrapped around his throat. The third man is forced to step to one side to bring his weapon to bear, but the body in Loki's grip proves shield enough. He wrenches his captive around and propels him into his comrade, knocking them both flat. The blows he delivers to their heads neutralise them as threats.

The efficiency with which he has dispatched these men seems to have taken Stark by surprise. The man stands gaping for a moment.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Stark says on a single exhale. "Yeah… I guess that'll work."

This small victory will not give them the advantage for long. The disturbance will undoubtedly have been heard, and they need to press on quickly.

"Don't just stand there," Loki hisses. He doesn't check back to see if Stark follows. Either he keeps up, or Loki will leave him behind.

At the crest of the rise Loki keeps low, anxious not to present a silhouette against what little light penetrates the trees at his back. At the bottom of the slope below he can make out a cluster of men and vehicles, a track leading off from the centre of their temporary encampment to hug the lakeside. Stark joins him at his side and releases a low whistle.

"Heavy duty," Stark breathes, presumably as a comment on the equipment in evidence. Loki does not reply, instead moving to skirt the ridge and put the danger to his back.

"So listen, I was thinking- shit." Stark slips on loose soil as he scrambles to follow, sending a flow of dirt cascading down the slope. He cringes, no doubt aware of the risk of discovery his clumsiness could generate, but quickly regains his footing and does not pause for long. "We should probably start to circle back, see if we can regroup. The jet's gonna be our best shot, even if it's crawling with black hats, and I'm kinda thinking the others could use some back up. Probably."

Does this man ever stop talking?

"And what assistance do you suppose we could possibly offer?" Loki says absently, his concentration focused on listening for threats. He does not avert his course or stop to hear Stark's reasoning, determined to press on.

"Hey," Stark challenges. "We're a team. We don't leave people behind."

"A noble sentiment," Loki replies. He still does not stop or turn.

This offhand remark clearly riles his companion. Stark lurches forward to snare his wrist. Loki snatches it away and turns on him to snarl a warning.

"What's your problem?" Stark presses, not backing down. "Don't you care?"

An absurd statement. As if sentiment bears any relation to their current circumstances.

"We are surrounded," Loki explains, keeping his temper at bay by sheer force of will alone. "What exactly would you have us do?"

"I don't know!" Stark responds, heedless of the volume of his voice. "But I'm open to suggestions! Where I come from we don't abandon our friends. We don't just cut and run!"

If Stark thinks it is that simple, he is mistaken. He is mistaken too if he thinks Loki has not considered every angle. The little witch had been kind to him. He is sorry more for the loss of Vision, for the formidable abilities he possesses. Such an ally would be invaluable. But more than this is the pressing need to be gone from this place, to put as much distance between himself and those that would cause him harm. He cannot allow himself to be captured again. He simply cannot.

"If you keep this up you will draw all of them down on us. I guarantee my odds of escape are more favourable than yours."

Stark has the effrontery to look repulsed. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

Whatever that is supposed to mean.

Loki turns on his heel and continues on, Stark's disapproval a loud yet silent presence at his back. It would appear that this is where they will part ways. So be it.

It takes mere seconds for Loki to distance himself from Stark. He skirts the edge of the outcropping they have been inching around, dislodging not a pebble as he goes. Within a few strides he makes it into the dense shelter of a cluster of immature trees, his swift and silent footfalls quickly concealing him among their dark boughs. He absolutely will not slow his pace. It means little to him if Stark does not follow.

He does not get much farther.

A shout of alarm announces they have been spotted, and although Loki initially picks up the pace he soon slows to a halt. A line of men separate themselves from the trees ahead of him, and when he turns his head to check his tracks it's to see his pursuers clearing the rise some distance behind. He is surrounded this time, and there are more of them, but he does not intend to surrender.

It takes him a moment to realise that it is not him they are heading towards.

Stark, realising he is being pursued, is negotiating a dangerous path towards a sheer cliff edge, looking for a way down that doesn't exist. In doing so, he is allowing himself to be herded towards capture. Or a swift fall to his death.

Loki cannot help the sound of frustration that escapes him. He turns away, resolute. This is his opportunity, a chance to make his escape while the soldiers are otherwise occupied. He need only wait for the men ahead to pass him, then dart behind their line. He takes two steps. He stops. A fall of rocks dislodged by Stark's feet clatter with a percussive force that echoes through the trees, drawn out by the sheer distance they have to bounce and fall.

The man is going to get himself killed.

Against his better judgement, Loki reverses his steps. He tells himself he will remain concealed. He is simply going to find a better position from which to assess Stark's route. He will only intervene if absolutely necessary.

He sees Stark pause to look over his shoulder, then aim a clumsy repulsor blast at one of his pursuers that misses by a wide margin. With the time this move has bought him, he scrambles further towards the steep drop behind him, ducking behind what cover he can as he goes. He starts up a stream of inane chatter that Loki cannot quite believe he is hearing.

Almost at once, it becomes painfully apparent what the man is doing. He is leading the soldiers away from Loki's position. The ridiculous fool is even taunting them.

There is not much further Stark can go. They will catch him, and they will hurt him. Before he can allow himself to think any more on it, Loki moves.

He is almost a fraction too late.

He sees the danger in a parody of slow motion, his senses heightened and narrowed at the same time. The enemy's arm raises to fire at Stark's unprotected flank and he acts without thought. It is a split second's action to throw himself forward, tackling Stark's middle and throwing them both over the edge of the drop.

Stark's monologue is interrupted mid-flow when he is barrelled into, the force of the action knocking his breath from him with an abortive 'oof'. The freefall lasts only a moment, but it is almost not enough. It takes all of Loki's strength to wrench them both around as his stomach swoops, his back and shoulder taking the brunt of the impact as they land skidding against the uneven, sloping ground beneath. Jagged rocks tear at his skin as they slide, branches and thorns snatching at his clothing and hair. They hit an outcropping of rock, but rather than slowing their descent it sends them into a chaotic tangle of tumbling rock, blinding dirt and dizzying, painful rolls.

It seems to last an eternity.

He staggers to his feet as soon as they come to a stop, already scanning the ledge above for pursuit. Faces peer down at him, small now with the distance, but it seems the sense Stark lacks prevents them from attempting to follow.

The sound of hacking at his feet draw his attention, and he spares a quick glance to check on his charge.

Stark rolls over and levels an incredulous look at him. It loses some of its heat through the dirt and the cut that's trickling blood over the man's right eye. Stark coughs. "You're crazy, you know that? You are abso-fucking-lutely certifiable." The man rolls to his side to spit a mouthful of grit onto the ground. The groan he makes sounds more for dramatic effect than for genuine injury.

Whether serious or not, they can spare no time for Stark's discomfort. With a firm grip that makes the man complain, Loki hauls Stark to his feet and urges him forward.

But the spectacle they have made of themselves has drawn attention. Of course it has. Shouts and running feet converge on them, a solid wall of rock at their back and scant cover to be had ahead. They now have no choice but to fight in the open, and the odds are not stacked in their favour.

With a ferocious shove Loki propels Stark away from him, and before Stark can voice the objection queuing on his lips Loki snarls a command at him.

"Go!"

Perhaps separated, they have some small chance of narrowing the odds for one another. One of them may yet get out of this alive.

Stark stumbles backwards, reluctant to leave, but when he sees the soldiers approaching he is quick to do as instructed. Loki spares the man no more thought. He has done as much as he can.

It goes poorly from there. He launches himself at the nearest target and brings the man down with the force of his landing. Rolling with it, he brings the body up and over as projectiles thud around him. Hurling the body forward then allows him to rise in a single fluid movement, snatching up a fallen weapon as he does so.

More enemies line up for him, and the feral thrill of it is enough to stretch his mouth into a joyless grin. He will take these men down. If he has to, he will kill them all.

He aims without conscious thought at the jugular of the next target, bringing his arm under in an uppercut that will inflict serious damage.

The strength he puts into his swing is what undoes him.

The bulk he anticipates encountering simply isn't there, his makeshift bludgeon passing straight through the soldier's bulk as though he is a mere wraith. The momentum and lack of resistance throws off his balance, and he has time to stumble forward by two horrifying steps before something cold and sharp slams into his shoulder blade.

The world flashes from existence in a supernova of blinding, white hot agony.

Thor.

Thor. Asgard. Painpainpain.

The thrill of seidr coursing through his veins. Centuries of learning, of childhood taunts, of painful lessons and valued secrets. Centuries of memory. Of belonging. Pain.

His father's smile. His father's frown. His father's lies. Betrayal.

The face of his mother.

PAIN.

He screams.

It is worse than the control of the cuff at his wrist. It is worse even than the tortures of the white room. When it finally, finally, subsides, he is left shaking, panting and weak, his muscles unresponsive and his limbs locked awkwardly against his own body. What only seconds ago held the clarity of purest agony is already lost to him, his thoughts clouded and tangled and hopelessly undone.

He is sprawled on the ground where he has fallen, dirt and debris scattered and gouged where he has struggled. His own forearm seems to flicker and unfocus before his eyes, sometimes clad in what looks to be armour, sometimes swathed in different coloured cloths, at times fading from view entirely. Aftershocks of pain accompany each shift of form and texture and he shudders where he lies.

He can do little to resist them as they move to restrain him, and dazed as he is it takes a long moment for the implications to fully register.

"We have containment," one of them says over him, a finger pressed to an ear.

No. No.

He struggles blindly and far too late, incoherent threats and murderous promises queuing behind the gag they've clamped between his teeth. They move to lift him but fall still at the sound of an electronic whine.

"Hands off," Stark says somewhere behind them, though Loki cannot quite turn to see him.

"Stand down, Stark," the man above Loki says. "This doesn't concern you."

"Yeah, I don't think so. You take my stuff, you make it my business. That and Blair Witching me through the woods." The click of priming weaponry issues from the small crowd of men surrounding them, but no one moves to fire. The man in charge raises a hand to his comrades to forestall action.

"Who are you guys, anyway?" Stark continues. "Don't remember extending an invite."

"An interested party," the leader says with a smile in his voice. The humour is soon dropped, and Loki's testing of his bonds is encouraged to cease with the heel of a boot pressing down on the back of his neck. "We're not here for you. Turn around and we'll leave you in peace."

"Not going to work for me. Sorry."

The pause bodes ill. "Then you make this harder than it needs to be."

"I get that a lot."

The man grinding his boot into Loki's neck gestures to his nearest colleague. "Bring him too."

Weapons raise again and Loki hears Stark take a step back. "Woah. I think you're jumping the gun a little here." A repulsor blast thuds into the ground a few feet away, and men move to encircle the threat. "Back off."

"I have a different proposal for you. Hand over the gauntlets and things don't have to get ugly."

Stark chuffs an incredulous laugh. "You've got to be shitting me."

White hot agony spiders through every nerve and vein Loki possesses, and even without the gag in place the way his lungs seize would prevent any sound.

The clean, pure joy of battle. The scream of horses, the scent of sweat and men, the blood and the mud and glory.

The warm summer's rain of Asgard. The forests. The meadows.

Pain.

Once again he is burned from the inside out, the world around him constricting to the pure focus of pain. Behind it all there's something building in him, some unidentifiable force collecting at his core that threatens to spill over and consume him. He is approaching the edge of that cliff when the pain abruptly stops and he is left limp and heaving for breath.

"You loveless bastard," Stark's voice filters to him from very far away. Spots dance at the edge of his vision and he tastes iron.

They haul him upright and drag him between them, and though he tries to will his feet to obey him he has not the strength to lash out or resist them.

It seems they are bringing Stark too. He has given up his gauntlets.

The vehicle they confine him in is plated with armour and reinforced. They pin him face first against the floor of the rear compartment, and one of them presses him down with a hand to his head and a kneecap ground into the small of his back. Then they wreath him in chains.

Stark too is pressed down beside him. It is not long before they are moving.

The shuddering rumble of the vehicle jerking into movement travels through every limb. Stark grunts, jostled by the lurching of the truck, and rolls onto his side until they're back to back.

Loki feels the man's fingers trace his wrists and come to rest over the band of metal against his skin.

"Do not make me regret this," Stark mutters under his breath. With three firm taps and a swipe of his fingertip, the cuff snaps open.

"You know," Stark says more loudly as he shifts himself upright, the cuff concealed in his hand, "if you're working for who I think you're working for, you probably shoulda left me out of this. Just saying."

The men's leader gestures towards Loki's gagged face. "Do you want one of those too, Stark? Because that can be arranged."

The vehicle takes a corner at some speed, jostling its occupants. The men guarding them hold fast to their handholds to ride out the movement, but Stark makes a show of toppling to one side. He comes to a stop against the legs of the nearest guard, who yanks him upright to push him away.

"Buckle him in," the guard growls to the other.

The man pushes Stark onto the low bench running the length of the van and secures two belts over his shoulders. As the man clips the last restraint in place, Stark twists and does something to the guard's ankle. "Now, FRIDAY," he says as he does.

"What the f-"

The guard drops immediately to the floor with a loud clack of teeth, the weapon in his hands crushed beneath him. His seizing fingers fire three sharp rounds at random as he does. Two of them pierce the bed of the vehicle, causing damage but otherwise harmless to the van's occupants. The third goes wide and hits something vital towards the front of the vehicle, though whether machinery, flesh or both it is impossible to know.

The vehicle swerves violently, throwing the remaining guard off his feet and Loki into the side panel. Screeching rubber fills the air and the van begins to spin. The movement is catastrophically arrested as something large ploughs into the tail end. There's the crumple of metal and the shatter of glass, then the juddering of a forceful sideways skid. Then there is chaos.

Colours blur together as the world tilts and Loki is thrown forward into momentary weightlessness. The reflexive bracing his limbs want to provide is thwarted by the bindings and there is nothing he can do to shield himself from harm. Debris clatters around him and bodies fall against his. As the compartment tumbles he connects sharply with every protrusion and ridge, the walls, floor and roof becoming lost in a whirling confusion of pain and movement.

He collides with the roof of the van as it finally rolls to a stop, the groan of metal and the hiss of steam competing with the ringing in his ears. A horn blares mournfully. Light streams in from the jagged hole that has been wrenched open in the doors at the back. Up front someone moans.

Loki shifts into a sitting position and winces. A catalogue of injuries vie for his attention and he feels the hot slick of blood at the side of his face. His left shoulder is angled awkwardly where the joint has moved out of alignment, but there is now extra give in the bindings around his torso. With some shifting and no small amount of pain, he is able to slip them down his arms.

His hands are bound behind him and his ankles chained together, so it is with difficulty that he staggers to his feet. He leans cautiously against the vehicle's side and takes a deep breath in through his nose. With a calculated motion and just enough force, he crunches his shoulder back into joint against the unyielding metal.

It is more painful than he would like to exert pressure on his bindings from there, and by the time he has weakened the metal at his wrists his face has broken into sweat. Once he has freed his hands it is easier to force apart the bindings at his feet, and the muzzle he tugs away with ease. The device embedded in his shoulder blade he rips loose.

He contemplates crushing the thing, but something stops him. An instinct, perhaps. An aversion turned to curiosity. He pockets it.

Still wobbly on his feet, he forces his way through the debris and twisted bodies to the exit wrenched into being. Stark's arms hang limp from his straps, drops of bright red blood dripping from his fingertips where they swing.

Against his better judgement, Loki pauses. Ripping apart the straps, he lifts Stark's unresponsive form from his inverted seat and drapes his body across his shoulders. Before he has time to regret his decision, he slips silently into the trees.