I'm sorry for those hoping for more new chapters. I'm not planning on going much further through the plot until I get everything thoroughly cleaned up. See, I don't usually write rough-drafts. All those new chapters are my attempts at refining, something I never bothered with before. I don't proof-read, I don't redo if I think its a bit weak, I only press backspace if there is a writing error, and for very little else. I'm honestly surprised how much better (In my mind) the story is after a good beating to rid the dust. I have a bad habit of writing myself into dead ends or pointless bits or sentences I meant to be a sub-plot, but forgot about. What can I say, I'm human. Not only am I human, I'm also a kid. For me, focus is as high up as piloting a fighter jet; I'm likely to crash on occasion.

So, all that said, this is the last new chapter until I've finished rewriting. I'm honestly sorry, for those hoping for more progress. All I can say is I'll get to it eventually. Keep an eye out, Internets, I'll start posting new chapters later, honest.

Thanks All, and Peace Off!

Coyote clinked down the stairs, his black claws tapping against the wooden descent with every light step. Cone-shaped furry ears swiveled through the darkness, listening for the others lost in the dark.

Reaching the end of the stairs, the pagan felt his paw brush against something unnatural. Coyote ran his sensitive snout along it's length, snorting at the smell of sweat, oil and beer. The older Winchester, Dean, had held the plastic device, and recently. He picked up the pace, depending on his nose, but the sand doesn't hold scent for long, and he was soon hopelessly lost.

The fun along his thin body started to rise slowly, everything about this place made Coyote pause and whine. The smell of slowly rotting flesh, things dead and gone, it clung to his pelt like spoiled water. He wished suddenly that the Chieftain, the Trickster, had come with him. The only reason he wouldn't was because he couldn't, but that did nothing to quell the pagan's unease.

The sudden smell of alcohol hit his feral nose like a hammer, shocking him back into the dark. His paw nudged against a glass bottle, sending it clinking against stone as it rolled down the decline. There was another smell, of grass and mice and scales; the Snake of Eden. The stench of one of Trickster's humans clung to the empty bottle like a phantom hand, but the Snake overpowered it. Coyote pawed at his nose in an attempt at the human expression 'facepalm'. If the Snake got one of the humans, the Trickster would be... not unhappy, but disappointed, yes, most definitely disappointed. And a disappointed Trickster is one that no longer entrusts you with favors or missions. Despite his Chieftain's obscured past and general dislike of torturing or eating humans outside of the 'just-deserts' job, Coyote very much liked being one of his most trusted tricksters.

Tail raised, fur stiff and teeth bared, Coyote slunk down the Snake's path.

Sam Winchester liked to believe he still had a firm grip on reality. With all the things he fought, he couldn't afford to hallucinate even more enemies. So when he saw an animated skeleton lurching towards him, he did as hunters do.

He shot it.

"OH MY." The skeleton patted it's biking jacket. There was a little hole ripped through the fabric. The burning blue eyes turned to Sam. "YOU SHOT ME."

The next bullet, Sam aimed at it's head. The silver bullet crashed through the pale grinning skull, leaving spider-web fractions over it's right eye. Someone cried out behind him.

"Sam, stop!" Steve yelped, rubbing his arm. The bullet had scratched a thin red line across his elbow. "You just shot Death, twice!"

"D-Death?" Sam echoed, lowering his gun. Dean didn't.

"Yeah, and that means we should stop shooting?" He spat, glaring at Death.

"WELL, YES." The skeleton-shaped being mused. "YOU ARE WASTING BULLETS."

"Where are the others?" Steve asked, before Dean could 'waste' anymore bullets.

"Don't know, we were separated, remember?" Dean snapped. He was in a bad mood. They were somewhere underneath an archangel-turned-trickster's house, in the dark, lost, with some scaly beast crawling around them.

"THE DRUNK ONE IS SAFE WITH CROWLEY." Death put in.

"Tony?" The brothers guessed. Steve nodded.

"So, Stark is back in the mansion?" Captain America asked.

"NO, HE IS WITH CROWLEY." Death repeated, feeling odd. He wasn't used to repeating himself. "THE SNAKE OF EDEN, CRAWLY."

"Okay, so a different Crowley." Sam huffed. "Whoa, wait, snake of Eden? The dragon?"

"HE HAS NEVER BEEN A DRAGON." Death said firmly. "HE HAS EVER BEEN A SNAKE, AS GOD CREATED HIM." He raised one skeletal hand, pointing down into the twisting corridors. A little blue light blinked into existence. "FOLLOW THE LIGHT, IT WILL LEAD YOU TO THE TRUTH." Death vanished with the familiar sound of fluttering wings.

"That was... dramatic." Sam commented. Who knew Death was so into flash? He turned back to the light. "Should we go?"

"What choice do we have?" Steve sighed heavily. "Besides, why would someone that looks like a skeleton, can vanish into darkness, create lights on will and survive direct head-shots bother with leading us into a trap? It's not very tactical."

"Talking about tactics when faced with a magical talking skeleton that flies away on gossamer wings? You could be a hunter." Dean laughed, clapping Steve's uninjured shoulder. The super-soldier blushed in the dark.

"Thanks, but I'm fine as Captain America."

It's times like this when Banner wonders what, exactly, the hundreds of other heroes were off doing. Here they were, faced with the Apocalypse, the devil himself burning down entire cities, and where are the others? What about the world at large? So far, he'd heard theories on God being angry, causing the destruction, on another alien invasion, just more subtle and more destructive, and, the most common one, that Loki had escaped and started taking revenge out in large chunks. But no-one did anything about it. They all seemed to think it was up to the Avengers. Fantastic Four? Not even a peep. The X-Men? Gone into hiding, since the mutants were blamed first off. Loners like Spider-man and DareDevil rarely left their own area, so he didn't expect much on that front anyway, but all of the un-enlisted just felt like standing off to the side for this one?

Hell, Bruce found a message from Deadpool on his phone (No clue how the immortal got it), but not one sign that any of the other heroes were interested in stepping in.

No, all that there was at the moment was the Avengers, Loki, 'Hunters', a demon and an angel.

Banner rubbed his face, giving Loki a quick check-up. The three supernaturals had done little more then mutter, snore or, in a disturbing case of distress, whimpered. At first, he had thought it was Thor, since the thunder god had a turn-coat brother that insisted on stabbing him every few minutes, but when he approached the couches, Loki made a keening noise and flipped onto his side, arms curled around his stomach. Bruce was suddenly struck by the need to know his story. He was over a thousand years old, the scientist in him lept up and begged for the chance to learn more about his background, his adventures, what had brought him to this point. He had never wondered before, why Loki had snapped. Thor had told them a vague story about finding out he was adopted, but unless the trickster god was incredibly unstable to begin with, that couldn't be the breaking point. So what was it? Why was he whining like that, like someone was jabbing a red-hot metal rod into his chest?

And if even half of the old legends were true, Loki's madness would make sense. All of Loki's mythical children were either bound, imprisoned or cast out. What about Thor's kids, if he had any? Bruce kind of doubted Thor's father would treat him like that, but truthfully, he knew most of the Avengers considered Thor a person, and Loki a villain. How much would it hurt if Odin, Loki's adopted father, felt the same way that the Avengers did?

Bruce placed a gentle hand on Loki's trembling shoulder. Through his deep sleep, the god flinched away, lips drawn back to reveal sharp teeth like he was a kicked dog. Wolf, Banner corrected with a start. Loki was the father of wolves. He didn't remove his hand and, slowly, Loki's tremors stilled.

He sat back down, keeping an unhappy eye on his 'patients'. A demon and two gods. Two years ago, he'd never have believed it. His eyes drifted back to Loki.

Why had Gabriel rescued him? They never got a straight answer from him, too distracted by the existence of Angels and Demons in general. From what he'd seen between Thor and Castiel though, it didn't seem like the pagans and the angels overly liked each-other. Thor was usually kind and friendly until weapons were raised, but every-time those two got too close, they'd repel like magnets. Then again, Gabriel seemed much more human then Castiel. Probably comes from spending hundreds of years among humans. But why Loki? Was he somehow special to the war? If so, what side was Gabriel truly on? A wild card, maybe? But Loki didn't seem nearly as unhinged as he was before. Bruce could see the insanity brewing under his blue eyes when the trickster god tried taking over, but now, his forest green eyes seemed tired, drawn.

Green...

Bruce lifted Loki's eyelid with his thumb just to be sure. An eye as green as a pine tree stared out unseeingly.

"But they were blue," The doctor murmured aloud. He let the lid drop over the accusing eye.

Clint's eyes were blue.

"But now they're green."

The mind control stick.

"Oh, god."

Yes, this is all, no, begging won't make it any faster. I always appreciate reviews, even when they say nothing but a somewhat rude 'MOAW NOA!', but this go round, simply asking won't budge me. So fellow authors, sit down at your computers, start typing away on how you think it'll go. Take my ideas and run with them. Publish it if you want, just make what you will. I'll update eventually, until then, use this as a canvas.

Thanks all, and as always, Peace Off, Internets.