usavatar | I WAS MADE TO HIT IN AMERICAAAA

I WAS MADE TO HIT IN AMERICAAAA

He should know not to go out at night by himself. Not because he's in any danger - Captain America in New York City on a less-than-average day doesn't have much to worry about. But because, almost without exception, he gets lost. Steve tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and squints up at the buildings around him, ignoring the college student who staggers by, stops to stare at him, and bursts out laughing before moving on.

He's used to that, too, by now. Apparently dressing conservatively these days isn't a reflection of care for the resources of the country, or a side-effect of living life as a soldier for two years - it's just "dorky." At least he doesn't feel like someone's taped a sign to his back, not since he asked Darcy - Agent Lewis - why he kept getting that reaction.

Of course the fact that she had to explain what 'Because you're a dork' meant didn't really help his... street cred. He chuckles to himself, only a little ironic, at managing to use both terms in one train of thought.

A few streets later he's getting very confused. Usually he's able to find at least one familiar street or landmark to point him in the general right direction, at least until he finds a cab to get him the rest of the way back to the mansion. He's done this enough in the months he's been here that his assigned SHIELD shadows don't pop a vein unless he's not back by morning - in this case, though, that's probably working against him.

Finally Steve sighs and digs into his pocket to pull out his cellular phone. He looks at it for a moment, smiling to himself and wondering what Howard would make of all this. Tiny phones with tinier batteries and communicators and jets that don't need runways to take off.

Well, for all Steve knows, Howard invented most of it. He still hasn't been able to bring himself to look at history texts to see how his friends lived out their lives. There's something too much like admitting he's never going to see them again in doing that.

He flips the phone open gingerly, poking the tiny buttons with his pinky because he's not sure how else to manage the thing, and dials in what he's fairly sure is Darcy's number. Agent Lewis's number. He could try calling someone else, but she's friendly, in her own way. She doesn't treat him like a loaded gun waiting to be pointed at the next Big Bad Guy.

Steve lifts the phone to his ear with a frown. "Uh. Hello?"

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Darcy stares at her phone, mouth half open to finish "What, why?" before a sort of panic kicks in. Cap never hangs up her, and she doubts he's actually hung up on anyone in his entire life. It's just something that Steve Rogers seems utterly incapable of doing, at least not without a 'goodbye'.

"Shit."

Standing up so fast the desk chair clatters to the ground, she makes two steps forward - nearly tripping over the said chair, and presses another number in her speed-dial. Darcy was never quite sure when, exactly, Loki got himself a phone but. It came in handy on occasion.

"Pick up, pick up, pick up," she mutters, pacing back and forth. There's a chance that he actually will, and then she can just call Fury in a somewhat panic mode, as opposed to not in which case... well she doesn't want to think about that.

Steve closes his phone very carefully - he's already broken two of the things - and pockets it, nodding to Loki like they just happened to meet in a dark street alone in the middle of the night, what a coincidence and how are you this evening?

"I guess it's too much to hope that you're the reason I keep getting lost." He's squared and ready for a fight, even though he knows with Loki it won't be that simple. It never is. He doesn't move any closer. Even odds as to whether or not this Loki is even real.

Steve really doesn't like fighting this guy sometimes.

Loki can feel the silent vibration of the cellular even when it's squirreled away into a handy pocket dimension - his armor hardly has an appropriate pocket for this sort of thing - and dismisses it. Given whom the captain was conversing with, he can guess the caller. Family. What can one do?

Levering himself out of the seat, he cants his head and tuts. "Must you even ask?" It's said with the air of someone who knows he's speaking to someone who obviously knows better. His staff materializes from another pocket dimension and he grips the cool metal with his hand, standing with one hip jutting out and a lazy confidence on his face. "One would assume that by now, at the very least, you lot would have learned not to wander out alone. It almost becomes too easy like this."

Not that he's complaining, mind.

"I like having a little private time outside the mansion." He shrugs, clasping his hands behind him in parade rest rather than fisting them where Loki can see. "And carrying the shield around at night gets kind of awkward."

Steve still doesn't move. He's never going to get used to Loki making things appear out of thin air like that- it's kind of neat, objectively speaking, and when the things appearing aren't giant weapons that could impale him. "Wouldn't have a spare, would you?"

Not that anything could replace his shield, but still. Doesn't hurt to ask.

He purses his lips in thought, giving mock import to the request. "I might at that, but somehow I doubt you'd be able to handle something like this. It takes a seasoned hand to implement it properly - like so."

And in the blink of an eye, he's behind the blond as the illusion keeps smirking in front of the cafe, the staff a blur as he brings it down across Steve's back.

"But I'm more than willing to give you some first-hand experience."

It hurts. Not like getting hit with debris or taking bullets on kevlar, but the kind of pain he associates with real danger, the sort that he'd be clearing the streets and calling for backup to deal with.

Except he's not so much calling for backup as catching himself so he doesn't slam face-first into concrete. Numbness spreads from the strike and cold air on his back - meaning either his spine is broken or Loki ripped straight through his shirt, and Steve is going to assume the latter until he's proved wrong. He rolls away from the staff-wielding maybe-real Loki and tries to get his feet under him, tracking the new one and the first one out of the corners of his eyes.

He's probably in trouble.

Steve thumbs a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth, wraps one hand around a parking meter and rips it from the sidewalk. He hefts it like a bat and swings hard at the head of the one that attacked him, addressing the other. "Why me? I would've thought you'd go after Dr. Banner or Thor."

"Why not?" is the stereo reply from both Lokis, illusion and reality alike grinning razor sharp in the orange-tinted darkness. The glowing light from the head of his staff casts him in shades of blue, the illusion beginning to pace around the Captain, forcing him to choose one or the other to focus on.

"A strike at any of you is just as well as a direct attack on my beloved brother," the first says, pouring acid onto the word. The second shrugs idly, "While the green giant is so very well cocooned in his cave." In tandem, the two bring up their staffs in the guard position and continue.

"And besides, where's the fun of it all if I should become predictable?"

Then with only the slightest shifting of weight to give them away, both rush the Captain from their opposite directions.

He keeps turning, trying to keep them on either side and at least peripherally in sight. When they attack, he dives forward into a roll and then up, facing them both and bringing his parking meter up in an imitation of Loki's guard.

The sentence You don't have to do this is about one word deep when a third Loki drives his spearhaft into the side of Steve's knees and he goes down like the Valkyrie. It takes a second for his vision to clear, even though he manages to shield his head with one arm. It's a second too long, and he knows it.

Commendable reflexes for a mortal, Loki will grant the captain that distinction at least, but he is still just a mortal. Following through on the blow, Loki spins gracefully and has the spearpoint resting at the hollow of Rogers' throat. The two shadow-clones disperse in clouds of dark moths that fade into the dark before the Asgardian's cloak settles in a soft rustle of cloth. Orange lamplight glints off the gilded horns as he contemplates the man laying prone before him.

"It's nothing new," he says conversationally. "Thor has always been one to involve other hapless souls in his affairs and they, not he, have been the ones to pay the price for his company. I would have hoped at some point he would have learned better, but - and I'm sure you've noticed by now, associating with him as you do - he is rather thick when it comes to these things." Exhaling slowly, he applies the barest bit of pressure. The edge is fine enough that even such gentle force nicks the skin. "It's a sad state of affairs and none more so than in your case, Captain America."

Steve's expression goes closed as the tip of the blade nicks its way into his throat. Automatically, his name, rank and serial number start playing in his head like a vinyl, a quiet soundtrack to Loki's speech.

"He cares about us, and Ear- Midgard. Having him around has saved us before." He hesitates, the tip of the spear opening little nicks on his throat whenever he speaks. "He cares about you. He misses you."

A cold smirk curls at his lips, and his grip on the haft tightens imperceptibly. Oh, yes, Thor cares ever so deeply now, so quick and eager to lend a helping hand. Never mind for a millennium one had but to blink and the heir to Asgard would rush forward in a rabid dash for destruction in glory's name with no care as to consequence.

"Perhaps now he shows a tender side, but never believe that you truly know him. He may appear soft now, but beneath he remains as he ever was - arrogant and eager to strike at any in his path. That is Thor at his very core, and eventually it will come reveal itself when he tires of this realm, as he tires of all pastimes in the end. You are as mayflies, here and gone again as the barest ripples on a pond."

The smirk warms slightly and sympathy shades his voice. "But I hardly need explain the fickle nature of time to you, do I." Ages of practice tell him just how much pity to allow into his gaze, tutting sadly at the captain's unique plight.

Steve's eyes widen, just a little. It hurts- it always hurts. But it's not Loki pointing out what everyone does that gets to him. It's the way the Asgardian says it.

Thor cares about Loki. Whatever Loki might say about his brother, Thor cares, and he has to care for a reason.

Trickster, remember, Steve, another part of him says. It's kind of his bag.

But Thor loves Loki.

"Not really," Steve finally says. He swallows, and the blade ticks at his throat. "Are you going to kill me now, or did you have something else planned?"

"If I wanted to kill you, captain, you never would have known I was here," and the calm, nearly bored way Loki says as much is better affidavit than anything else. "No, captain, I do so dislike unnecessary bloodshed. It makes things much more complicated than it needs to be. Collateral damage and calculated losses are another thing entirely, of course, but that's neither here nor there."

A careless shrug dismisses that particular thought before he focuses his eyes on Steve's. "What is here, however, is you, though by all rights, you shouldn't. Those other fools that Thor has gathered to him have no place in our game, but doubly so when applied to you. Thrust beyond all ken into a wholly new arena with wholly new rules and simply expected to play your part as just another cog in their machine." Loki knows the feeling all too well, though he'll never say as much. But there's sincerity in his gaze, embers of a much more bitter fire as he leans down slightly - not enough to be taken advantage of, but enough. "Such a shame your allies lack the resources to amend your situation, isn't it."

He can't help but notice the way Loki stays out of reach. The Asgardian has his guard up still, Steve thinks. He needs to keep his own up as well. He also isn't quite sure he understands what Loki is saying - he gets the basics, but Loki has the kind of eloquence that Steve has always found a little difficult to follow.

"I do my part because I want to," he says. "Because I'm needed."

Being needed is what's kept him on his feet these last few months. It's what's kept him anchored in a world where he feels as alien as Thor. He has purpose. It's not much, but it's something.

"Of course you want to. After all, what else is there to do?"

Double-edged, and Loki knows it, uses his words like his knives - well-aimed and at just the right opportunity.

The words shred straight through everything Steve is thinking and leave him feeling like the blade of Loki's spearhead is stuck three inches deep in his lungs. He tries a protest and it dies half-way up his throat, and instead he just looks at Loki, feeling more helpless even than the spear at his throat would imply.

"That's. That isn't what I meant."

"Isn't it?" he asks quietly, conspiratorially. As if Steve can tell him honestly and he'll never tell. Arching an eyebrow, he twists the spear in place idly, careful to draw back the tiniest bit so it doesn't gouge - but the blade almost-scraping over skin promises that indeed it can should he change his mind.

"What if I were to say that there was another option, captain?"

Keep it simple, Steve. The part of himself that always sounds a little bit like Bucky right now sounds impatient and a little exasperated. He's got a big pointy weapon against your throat. He's the bad guy in this situation. So get up and punch him already.

He waits a breath after the another option before he throws himself into a sideways roll, trying to gain his feet before Loki can bring the spear around to impale him.

Privately he decides he's not going to leave the mansion again without at least wearing a kevlar vest.

The Kevlar vest would indeed be a good option - especially as when Loki thrusts, he aims for the meaty part of the right shoulder. It's a clean jab and, hardly fatal and not all the way through, but more than enough to keep Steve in place while they have their chat.

"Ah, ah, ah... Now was that polite? I asked you a question, captain." He crouches, cloak pooling around him as his knee jabs in between Steve's shoulder blades. "And it's the sort of question that demands an answer." Since Steve can't see, his smirk warps into something feral; but his voice remains civil and commiserating. "What if I were to tell you that with a word I could wind back the clock for you? That I could return you to the world as it was, with all the familiar faces I'm sure you find yourself searching for in the crowd. Hm? Thoughts?"

He jars the point of the spear, using the pain to emphasize the other point he hopes to impress upon the spangled one. "I'm really quite magnanimous when you get to know me."

Edited 2011-09-13 15:40 (UTC)

Steve doesn't scream - not loudly, not more than a strangled noise that he swallows as much as he can. It doesn't matter how tough you are. Getting stabbed through the shoulder hurts.

He gives a little wheeze as Loki kneels on his back. The man is heavier than he looks by far. He knows Loki is talking again, but Steve's mind is still fogged with the numb agony from his shoulder and the flash of calculations that he's always been good at - what his options are in the here and now, what chance he stands dependent on his immediate actions and Loki's response.

You're the skinny kid on the playground again, Cap, he thinks.

"I could return you to the world as it was," Loki says, and Steve goes very still, something knotting in the hollow of his throat.

"With all the familiar faces I'm sure you find yourself searching for in the crowd."

Silence. Steve curls both hands into fists. When Loki wriggles the spear, Steve forces himself to relax, the movement just what he needs to get his hands under him. He lets the groan of pain out, gives Loki that much, and then grits out, "Liar."

He throws all his weight and anger into shoving up from the ground as fast as he can, yelling as the spear digs the rest of the way through his shoulder. He's going to lose that arm in a minute, at least lose the use of it for the purposes of this fight, but if he can overbalance the man on his back he might still stand a chance.

Grip instinctively tightening on the haft, Loki quickly rises to his feet as Steve makes his move and the spear goes with him, the blade of it ripping out the way it came. He dances a few paces backward, razor-sharp grin glinting in the dark. He brings the point back up as it drips blood, ready again for whatever the captain may think of next.

"True, I've been known to stretch the truth a time or two," he says with a half-shrug, knowing full well how very much of an understatement it is. "But you've seen what I'm capable of, the power I can command. Temporal sorcery is a much more sophisticated art than most others, but it's hardly an impossibility."

He pauses, cocking his head in feigned curiosity. "But to dismiss such an offer out of hand, without even considering it at all... One would think that there is absolutely nothing that you find yourself missing. No one."

Steve presses his hand against the wound until he can feel his pulse pumping against his palm. He's bleeding. A lot. Enough for it to ink his shirt maroon around the injury and start oozing blood between his fingers.

His earlier sympathy is gone.

"You're lying." He says it in the exact same tone, flat and nearly emotionless. For him, it's tantamount to screaming. He remembers being this ready and willing to kill. After he lost Bucky, before the final assault on Schmidt's stronghold - before he had the comfort of knowing that one way or another, things with Hydra were about to end. Before he lost everyone. And the irony of it, the miserable irony of it, is knowing he didn't lose anyone. That they lived, they died, that he can look back at the records and see how their lives played out if he wants to.

That's not how life is supposed to work.

He hefts the parking meter again, one-handed, and it slips slightly in a palm smeared with blood. He can't cover the distance between them before Loki pops himself into a different location. But he can hurl the meter at the Asgardian's head in a blur of gunmetal gray.

Loki spins the staff, smacking the projectile aside with a sonorous clang that echoes itself when it hits the asphalt and bounces to a stop. Then he spreads his arms wide and half-bows, eyes piercing under the brow of his helm. It's all mocking, almost daring the man to rush and tackle him in his current condition.

"If that's what you wish to believe," he replies innocently, his mouth still bared in that going-for-your-throat grin. "If you're honestly contented with your lot at and in this present, then please, pay me no mind."

Straightening himself, he returns the staff to the ready position and continues, dripping gentility and manners. "Of course, if you aren't of a mood to do business, I suppose you won't begrudge me ending this. I am terribly busy of late." And with that, he lunges forward.

In the time between Loki not answering his phone and, well, now, Darcy was operating on a mix between guilt, panic, anger, and fear. Guilt because she's not calling in S.H.I.E.L.D., not calling in the Avengers who have practice with this kind of thing to save her own skin. Panic because she knows her father and knows that nothing good can come of whatever he's doing and she's only got a small window of time. Anger - how dare he attack her friends when she knows about it and yet of course he would, he's a supervillain, it's what they do. Fear... fear that she won't get there in time.

Not that Steve actually told her where she'd be, but she takes to the streets all the same, calling a number it tells her is unavailable. Shit. Shit. And oh, she said that last one out loud. Fine, she can do this. Hacking a Stark phone while jogging through New York City? Yeah, she's got this.

Five minutes later and the last known location of Captain America is shown on GPS and Darcy fistpumps, screw the crowd. She's good. Except that good means she'd actually be there instead of three blocks down and two over. No time like the present, so she kicks her jogging into gear fuck yeah agent training in running.

Just in time too, and her eyes widen as Loki lunges forward - fuck, fuck, fuck - and Darcy throws herself towards Steve, hoping to at least have enough momentum to get him out of the line of fire.

Thank all the gods above and below that Loki's in control of himself enough that he's able to stop in time. As things stand, the spearpoint is barely a hair from having pierced her throat. The crazed glint in his eyes has dimmed down to a dully shocked stare at what might have happened.

He gathers himself quickly enough, shuttering the concern behind a tired, put-upon annoyance. Pulling back the spear and resting the butt on the asphalt, he pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales sharply. "I don't believe I have to note your exceedingly bad timing, do I," he says, voice dry as the New Mexico desert.

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