He had to do something.

His people think he's weak. They always have. Thor's always been the strong one; the brave one; the trustful one. Thor's always been the king Asgard wanted.

But Thor is dead.

The Midgardians killed him.

And now, Loki is going to kill them, too.

He's not delusional enough to think that world domination is going to bring his brother back. He's not even delusional enough to think it will make Thor's death hurt any less, though he wishes it would. They already caught – and killed – Hank Pym, the man responsible, and it didn't do a damn thing to make him feel better.

But, though he may pretend otherwise, this isn't about Thor. Not anymore. This is about him and his decision to fight for his people, his honor, his homeland. He wants to prove to Asgard that he is willing to fight for them, and if that means tearing apart this whole miserable realm, then for the good of Asgard, it's a sacrifice Midgard has to make.

Of course, Fury and his people don't like that, but he'd expected that. Fury has that spark in him that says he won't go down without a fight, and Loki is more than happy to give it to him. He'll fight Director Fury. He'll fight Captain America. He'll fight Captain Marvel. He'll fight anyone and everyone he needs to to earn Asgard's respect.

And right now, he has Fury right where he wants him.

The scepter is pressed against his chest, and he's mere seconds from using it. He's going to hear every dirty little secret SHIELD is keeping from him, and he's going to use Fury's expertise and his connections to conquer this world.

And then he feels a boot to his helmet, sending him flying through the air. He finds himself on the ground, body scratching against the rough concrete of the ground. He tries to catch himself with his hand, and pain shoots through his wrist, his forearm, his elbow. That was a mistake. That was a really, really bad mistake. Did he break something? He hopes not.

He tries to lift his hand, but the movement only hurts more, so instead, he uses it to leverage himself up, propping his upper body up on his forearms for a better look at who it was that attacked him.

It's...

The Widow.

She stands over him, his scepter in her hand, and he feels a flicker of fear from within him – unwarranted, he's sure; she's only human, after all. But as she sticks that scepter in his face, its tip hovering only inches above his armor, he feels scared.

"I was told you were dead." It's such a stupid thing to say, and even as he says it, he knows that, but what else is there to say? She's supposed to be dead. How is she not dead?

Natasha just smirks. "Same."

The scepter touches him.

And the whole world goes black.

It only lasts a few moments, just long enough for the fear within him to increase tenfold, but then his surroundings start to fade back into view. They're blurry; nonsensical blobs he can't quite make out. The colors all bleed into each other, swirling around in front of him, and he can't help but feel the world is tinted somewhat blue – though perhaps it's just the sky. Is the sky blue? He can't even tell.

He tries to move, to look around, to make some sense of what's happening, but his body is frozen in place. His limbs feel heavy, as though some force is holding them down. He can't move. He can't think. He can't...

He can't.

There's a voice. A man's voice. A familiar man's voice? It could be Fury. He doesn't know. He doesn't know anything. The world is spinning, and he's just trying to fill in the gaps; to figure out what's happening to him and how to...

How to what?

To make it stop? He should want it to stop. He should want this to stop. He should want to be himself again. He should want everything to be normal again.

But then Natasha's face comes into focus above his, and instead of fear, instead of hatred, all he feels in his chest is... loyalty. He wants to be loyal. He wants to do whatever she tells him to do. She owns him now; she's in charge of his every move, his every thought. He can't do anything without her permission.

And he likes that.

He wants to listen to her. He doesn't know why, but he wants to do whatever she tells him to. He trusts her, more than he's ever trusted anyone before.

Natasha gazes down at him, one hand on her hip and the other holding the scepter. "What do we do with him?"

"Well, first," that same familiar voice says, "we get him to send his people back to Asgard."

"You think he'd do that?" Natasha asks.

"You just gave him the mind-whammy of all mind-whammies," Fury reminds her. "I think he'll do whatever you tell him to. I don't think he has a choice."

Natasha looks down at him thoughtfully. "Hey, Loki. Stand up."

Loki pushes himself up, wincing at the pain that shoots through his arm, and forces himself to stand. It's slow and it's painful and he doesn't want to do it, but he does it anyway. For Natasha Romanoff, for his Master, he does it.

"Hmm," she hums. "I guess he does listen to me."

Fury gives her a weird look. "You know him?"

"We beat him in my world, too," Natasha tells him.

In my world.

Some part of Loki knows that this is something interesting; that he should be paying attention to that. But he can't. He can't focus on her words. If they're not for him, he hardly hears them.

"It wasn't like this, though," she adds with a glance around at the Asgardians that surround them. "Where's Thor?"

Fury's face scrunches in confusion. "Thor?"

Thor.

Oh, what he would do to see Thor one last time...

"Thor," Natasha repeats. "The god? Big, tall, buff guy?" She gestures with her scepter to Loki. "His brother?"

Fury's mouth forms a silent oh. "He's dead."

Loki swallows hard and closes his eyes.

He's dead.

Thor is dead.

He knows that. Of course he does; his brother's death has motivated every thought and every action since it happened. But to hear it said like that, so casually, no remorse... This is why he didn't care what happened to Fury. Why should he, when Fury doesn't care what happened to Thor?

"Oh." There's an air of sorrow in Natasha's voice, too. Whatever world she's from, she must have known Thor, too. They're both upset, then. That's good. If she's upset, then he can be upset, too. He's allowed to grieve. He's supposed to grieve. He's glad; he doesn't know if he'd be able to stop himself even if she ordered him to.

"You knew him, too?" Fury asks, a bit hesitantly.

"I did," she says, and Loki forces his eyes open in time to see her remorseful nod. "He was a good guy; a good friend."

Fury gives her a sad smile.

Natasha takes a deep breath, giving herself a moment to regain her composure, then turns her attention to Loki. "Alright, here's what you're gonna do," she says. "You're gonna call off this..." She gestures vaguely to the mess that surrounds them. "This invasion. You're gonna send your people home. And then..." She trails off, brows furrowing slightly, and glances over her shoulder at Fury. "Do we send him home, too?"

Fury shakes his head. "I don't trust him not to try this again," he says. "He's been nothing but a pain in the ass since he got here. We send him home, and he'll come right back to finish what he started."

Natasha nods slowly. "Then what do we do with him?"

"We take him with us," Fury says. "We'll lock him up. And whatever happens after that..." He gives her a small shrug. "Well, I guess we'll see what happens after that."

Loki swallows hard.

He's not sure he wants to see what happens after that.