Sixth Iteration

Arrival in the Bunker

It started with the Devil's Anus.

Or did it end with it?

The last thing Thor can remember is the rumbling, shaking, and rocking of the leisure ship the Valkyrie had convinced him to commandeer on their seemingly futile mission to make it back to Asgard before Hela utterly destroyed it all. He remembers the chase towards the Anus (he wishes there was a different name for it, but when on Sakaar ..), and remembers entering it with nothing more than a fool's hope at coming through the other side unscathed, and ..

That's all.

Did he ever come out of the Anus? (Ugh.)

He must've, for when he opens his eyes, he's no longer on the Grand Master's Orgy Leisure Ship but rather .. in water. Water? Has he somehow landed elsewhere amongst Yggdrasil? Alfheim, perhaps? Submerged in one of its lakes or ponds?

It takes some time for his eyes to adjust, but when things slowly come into focus under the harsh, artificial lighting, he realizes he's in no pond or lake, nor is he on either Asgard or Alfheim. Perhaps the Anus has obliterated him and this is all some sort of .. strange posthumous experience, or perhaps it only led to Midgard instead. A sweep of his gaze tells him that the tube in which he finds himself and the odd room in which this tube is being held look more mortal-made than anything else.

Has Stark been experimenting on him? Or worse, Banner? No, surely Banner wouldn't betray him like this, even in the pursuit of knowledge. Would he do this to obtain an eighth .. oh, what were they called? Pee-aytch-dee? Would Stark do this instead? It's not that Thor's upset at the possibility so much as he would have hoped the man would at least have the decency to ask.

Right. Time to make quick work of this strange cylindrical chamber.

He reaches a hand out for Mjolnir only to be metaphorically slapped with the memory of watching Hela crumble it like a cookie. He's still got super strength, though, so this shouldn't be too bad, even without his beloved hammer.

He gathers as much of his strength as he can and uses it all in one go, fists pounding against the glass in front of him. Expecting a glorious explosion, he's thoroughly disappointed when there's no such event, and instead, the tube remains as intact and unaffected as ever. He tries it again, and again, and again .. Until he can barely do much of anything, suspended in liquid.

He's exhausted already? But how? He's no stranger to fatigue, but to be bested by a pathetic tube in so short a time? Pathetic! Embarrassing! And yet, those feelings do nothing to help solve his current conundrum: how to get out of this blasted cell. When all else fails? Shout! Shout as deeply and ferociously as he can while pushing through the aches already formulating in his body.

Surely someone will hear him struggling, won't they?


Around the Village

If one happens to be walking around the South Village towards the end of November, one might see a large, blonde man in bright, yellow scrubs scurrying around, trying to inconspicuously communicate with various woodland creatures upon which he stumbles. If one listen's closely, the name "Loki" and the term "brother" might be called out to these various creatures followed by a series of questions, but what all of those things have to do with squirrels, raccoons, croc-dogs, and the like has yet to be parsed.

One might also see this large man striking various odd poses, like one that looks like a rockstar ending a concert - legs spread apart, head thrown back and looking to the heavens, arm raised as high as it'll go. Reminiscent of Freddie Mercury, only more Scandinavian with less pizzazz and music. Or he might jump in the air and slam back down to the earth into a low crouch, fist making contact with the dirt as though he's cursing the very ground upon which he stands. What's he doing?, one might ask. Why is he doing that?, one might also ask. If curiosity gets the better of the observer, maybe they'll be brave enough to approach and inquire.

If one is fortunate (?) enough to avoid the above scenarios, one's fate might catch up when visiting the Inn. The walking ball of proverbial sunshine will probably be planted near a fireplace, huddled over a large bowl of soup or stew like he's a goblin protecting his hoard of jewels or .. whatever it is that goblins collect. He's learned not to smash the bowl in order to show his appreciation (an improvement!), but it seems that his stomach is bottomless. He might need to be cut off or, at least, be told to slow down so as to save some food for the others.