Warning: very dangerous surgical processes by a non-medical professional. (if this makes you uncomfortable, you won't really miss anything by skipping this chapter)

Loki doesn't sleep well.

He can't move in this cage. He can't make himself comfortable. Even the slight shifts from side to side can't help his aching knees, screaming at him to stretch his legs. His back hurts, his neck hurts, his head hurts, his legs hurt; everything hurts. And there's nothing he can do about it.

It only gets worse when the noises begin.

At first, it's just voices, talking in hushed whispers that he can't make any sense of. They're talking about him, of course. He knows that much. They're talking about what they're going to do with him today, he's sure. But they speak so vaguely that he can't make out what their plans are.

Then it's not just voices. Then it's banging, clanging, scraping. They're making quite the racket out there, and he doesn't know why. He can't tell if that's better or worse than having to watch.

He doesn't know how long it goes on for – hours, it feels like, though that may be his helplessness and his apprehension speaking. But finally, the blanket is pulled off of his cage.

The sudden assault of the lights is blinding, and Loki squeezes his eyes shut. He should have known this was coming, though he doubts the knowledge would have prepared him for it.

"Rise and shine, Loki." It's Pierce's voice that greets him, far too cheerful for the situation.

Loki forces himself to open his eyes just a little bit, just enough to see the feet in front of him as they're walking to the side. The door of the cage clicks and swings open, and he doesn't know whether to be relieved that he can finally stretch his legs or terrified for what's coming next.

He waits until Pierce tells him to before he crawls out of the cage. He sits down on the ground and slowly stretches his legs out in front of him, grimacing as he tries to straighten his joints for the first time in hours. Somehow, everything hurts more now that he's out of the cage than it did while he was in it, and he really hopes he doesn't have to do this every day.

"How'd you sleep?" Pierce asks him cheerfully.

"Awful," Loki deadpans. He's sure that surprises nobody – and likely pleases everyone.

As his eyes begin to adjust to the light, he's able to open them more and more, but it's still too hard to make out his surroundings.

"I see you had your dinner," Pierce remarks. "And you didn't even spill a drop. Well done."

Loki scowls. Yes, he did eat his dinner, and what a wonderfully flavorless, cold porridge it was. He could hardly even reach the bowl with his finger through the cage; he had to use his magic to get it in his mouth, and in the dark, it was much harder than it may sound.

"I guess I should've told you last night," Pierce says, his voice filled with mock sympathy, "you're not supposed to eat for twelve hours before an operation. You mix food and anesthesia and you get..." He sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Well, you get not great things."

Loki can feel the blood drain from his face. "Operation?"

"Mm," Pierce hums. "I guess we're gonna have to skip the anesthesia – but you're a god, as you've reminded everybody multiple times as you tried to take over the world. I'm sure you'll be fine."

Loki swallows hard, and it burns his throat. A part of him wants something to drink. A part of him is afraid he'd puke it back up.

"Alright, up and at 'em." Pierce reaches down and hoists him to his feet, and Loki bites his cheek to keep from crying out. His knees were not ready for this.

Pierce ushers for Loki to follow him, so, rather reluctantly, he does. He still can't see all too well, but he can see enough. He can make out the big metal table in the middle of the room, suspiciously person-sized with four leather straps attached. Worse still, he sees the table beside it, holding holding knives and scalpels and needles and every other instrument of torture he could possibly imagine.

He raises his gaze to the sky, a silent cry for help that he knows will go unanswered. If Heimdall is waiting until the last possible moment to send somebody to rescue him, now would be the time.

"Take off your shirt," Pierce says.

Loki never takes off his shirt in front of people. He'll make the occasional exception if there's water involved, but he likes to stay covered. He's not Thor; he's not made of muscle the way a prince should be, and he's never been one to show off his imperfections. But he doesn't have a choice.

He takes off his armor first, which feels like a rather apt metaphor for the situation, leaving himself defenseless. His shirt comes next, and he leaves it all in a pile on the floor. He hopes this isn't the last he sees of it. His clothes will provide little comfort after whatever horrors Pierce has planned for him, but he'll take any comfort he can get.

Pierce pats the metal table. "Lie down."

Loki grimaces. Every piece of him is screaming not to do it; to run as far as his tired legs will take him and never look back. He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to let Pierce have his way with him. But Natasha told him to listen, and Pierce wants him on the table. So, though it terrifies him more than anything has before, he crawls up on the table and lies down.

"Good boy," Pierce coos. To his people, he says, "He's like a more fun version of Barnes. He listens the same, but he's got a personality; he's really got something to him."

Loki lifts his head to look at him, brows furrowed. Barnes. He's like Barnes. Who is that? Do they have someone else in their grasp the way they do him? Is he here? Can Loki meet him? He'd do anything to share this experience with someone; to have somebody in this miserable life that he doesn't have to fear; somebody who understands.

Something is shoved underneath Loki's head. He can't see what it is; all he knows is that it's rock-solid and not nearly as comfortable as a pillow — though he's sure that was never an option for him. Comfort is so clearly not their priority that it hardly registers to him that it could be possible.

"We're trying to figure out how you work," Pierce explains to him as he begins to fasten the restraints to each of Loki's limbs.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he catches a man in a white lab coat moving and reorganizing the tools on the table. He can feel himself tense at the sight, and he forces himself to tear his gaze away, instead gazing down at himself, where his eyes naturally fall with his head propped up as awkwardly and uncomfortably as it is.

"This is Dr. List," Pierce continues. "He's..." He chuckles awkwardly. "Well, he's not a surgeon, but this isn't a normal surgery, so I'm sure he's fit for the job."

Loki fights to keep himself still, to force himself not to react. He's not giving them that satisfaction. He can't.

"HYDRA's been trying to create our own supersoldier for years," Pierce explains, "all the way back to World War II and Johann Schmidt – Red Skull, you might know him as."

Loki doesn't recognize the name. He suspects that's for the best.

"We've never quite been able to figure it out," Pierce says. "They were able to replicate the serum used on Captain America once, decades ago, but never again. And we think – we hope you might be the key to inventing a new kind of super soldier; a godly super soldier. But to do that, we have to figure out how you work. Does that make sense?"

"Does it matter whether it does or does not?" Loki asks. Is there even a point in humoring him with an answer when it's not going to change the outcome? He could stall for time, maybe, but what good would an extra few minutes of anxiety-driven safety do for him?

"I guess not," Pierce admits. He looks up at Dr. List. "Are you ready?"

"I am," Dr. List replies.

Pierce steps out of the way, and Dr. List takes his place by Loki's side, wheeling the table closer to him and parking it beside Loki's head. He braces himself for the worst, for the onslaught of pain he knows he's about to face.

But all Dr. List does is pull out an alcohol pad. It's cold against Loki's skin, and Dr. List makes sure to cover his whole chest, his whole stomach; every inch of exposed skin is cleansed with alcohol.

He puts the alcohol aside.

And out comes the scalpel.

Loki watches with wide, fearful eyes as Dr. List brings the scalpel down against his skin, letting it tip rest against his chest, just below his sternum. He hardly notices the chill it brings, too preoccupied with the anticipation of the pain he knows is coming.

The scalpel digs into his skin, and though he grimaces, he's able to keep his reaction to a minimum. It's just a light stab. He's been stabbed before. He can handle a stab.

But then the scalpel presses in further, and as Dr. List drags it down his chest, Loki can't help but cry out in agony. The pain shoots through his body like a bolt of lightning, and he squeezes his eyes shut, his every muscle tensing as though he could will the pain away.

"Ah, ah," Pierce tuts. "Open your eyes. I want you to watch. I want you to see what we see."

He doesn't want to do it. He doesn't feel like he can do it. The scalpel still digs into his skin, splitting his flesh in two, and he doesn't feel like he can watch, doesn't feel like he can open his eyes, doesn't feel like he can do anything but scream.

But Natasha told him to listen to them, and Pierce told him to watch. So, though he can hardly think, can hardly hear over the sound of his own screams, he opens his eyes.

Dr. List finally lifts the blade, leaving a long, deep incision from sternum to pelvis. Blood seeps from the wound, and every panted breath sends a new wave of pain through his body, but it's done. At least it's done.

But then Dr. List brings the scalpel back to the top of the incision, and he begins dragging it to the side, opening up the flap of skin.

And he doesn't stop there.

Five incisions: one down the middle, and one branching off left and right from both sides. It's slow, it's painful, it's horrifying to watch. Loki screams and cries and begs for him to stop, begs for Heimdall to send help, begs for Thor to save him, but his pleas fall on deaf ears.

And then, and then, as though it wasn't bad enough already, the doctor opens his body as though it were nothing but a pair of doors. Perhaps it's good that he's hardly eaten, because he can feel himself growing nauseous, and he doesn't want to know what the stomach looks like as it sends its contents through the mouth.

Dr. List just smiles, an evil glint to his eye. "This is where the fun begins."