Jessie cries out in pain as her wrists turns, her arm going with it to prevent the brittle bones from crushing under his grip. She gasps, clawing at the fingers around her throat with her free hand, an oppressive blackness seeping into the edges of her vision. She tries to kick him off of her, but her movements are slow and sluggish with the lack of oxygen.
As she is about to black out, a flash of orange enters her vision. There it is again! Suddenly, her throat is released and she is shoved aside. Her chest heaves as she attempts to catch her breath, as she is sent into a coughing fit. She vaguely hears another person talking, but she has her entire attention focused on regaining her lost, precious oxygen. She hears the whirring of some form of weapon, and instinctively rolls away from where she assumed the man was standing.
A red and gold hand is suddenly in front of her face, and she takes it, shakily standing up. The man in front of her, she had seen him occasionally on the television in the bars. He is the Iron Man, the pet project of some billionaire philanthropist to save the world. She blinks, wondering if she had actually died and this was all a dream, until he hands her a small device. She can feel it, very real, so she knows she is still alive.
When the Iron Man flies away, shaky, bloody fingers open up the small circular device. “H-Hello?” Her voice is raw and scratchy from nearly being choked to death, but she manages to croak out the words. “Uhm … Tony said to tell you that there’s trouble at … 36 degrees … 10’ something north … there’s trouble in Vegas and apparently the man that caused it is named Loki.” She shuts the small device, stowing it in her pocket as she runs through the panicking crowd of people, back towards the bar and her bike. She had to get out of here before she completely lost her mind.
Hoping onto the metal monster, forsaking the helmet in one of her packs, she scrambles in her pockets for the key. Finally finding the damn thing, bloody fingers insert it into the ignition, and start the black cycle. With a few revs, she peels out of the parking lot onto a side road, intent on getting the hell out of dodge, as the phrase would be. She flies down the road, uncaring of the speed limit or her own safety - she just wanted to leave. She makes an insane, reckless, sharp turn, her knee practically scraping the ground as she leans. The rushing wind whips her one lovely locks - now dirtied and bloodied - as she rides, hands gripping the handles as hard as they could.
He watches the scrambling mass gossip in fear to each other, the boy from before helping his brother up as the ice melts around their feet from his absence, and lastly the woman. Bloodied and bruised from their combat she staggers to her Midgardian vehicle, a “motorcycle,” he knows they are called. She struggles to place the key that will turn on the motor, the communication device still in her possession.
“Oh this will be most interesting…” He mutters to himself, analyzing her every move, taking note of her weakest spots and how well she may be able to battle again…if at all. Not so well as last time, that is certain. At last she gets the contraption to start and takes off frantically, eager to escape. With the idiot Avenger on the other side of town, Loki has a perfect opportunity.
“Hey…Hey you! Man in the coat! Aren’t you the guy that just - ”
The man does not finish his sentence and is instead thrown to the ground, unconscious or worse. And quite like a shadow, the ‘god,’ slips away.
Before no one’s eyes but the rats scurrying about in the alleyway, his form starts to change. The dark hair grows longer whilst his shoulder blades begin protruding. He hunches over, welcoming the transformation as hairs turn into feathers, and his nose becomes a beak. When it is complete an almost comical squawk rips from his now small figure as a bird. He takes off, following the exhaust of the woman’s transportation.
The wind ruffles the ordinary black raven feathers and tucked neatly underneath them are pointed, curved claws…the only odd thing is its human-like blue eyes. They pierce whatever they see; taking in every detail they meet. He remembers…what this was like in a different time, to sail on the winds, and feel free…free to do anything. But was he not free now? Free to do anything?
And there she is, he notices her in the distance, taking a hasty sharp turn. At this rate, he would never catch up…but this was no ordinary bird. And obviously no ordinary man. This was the master of tricks and magic…and mischief. The wings beat harder against the current of the strong wind, and the more they flutter the faster he goes before he may as well be soaring as fast as the speed of light.
He catches up, hovering right above her, planning his moves. The moon is his friend tonight, shining almost as if only for him, whilst night shrouds over her. Distraction first, the device shortly after. She has no idea what awaits for her, her mind set entirely on getting to Helheim knows where. He screeches out to her, trying to catch her off guard before swooping down. Claws extend and grip one of the hands holding the handle of the conveyance before harshly pulling away. More blood flows, and another screech follows.
The device. Where is the device?
Abnormal eyes search for the desired object, until at last, catching something that glimmers like metal in the moonlight. He goes for it; talons still outstretched threateningly, just waiting for her to stop the vehicle or crash. It matters not which happens, if she is to die, he shall easily find another hostage. Either way, he shall get what he wants, and achieve revenge against the defiant fool. She would die eventually anyway…
How pretty your head will look on a stake as a warning to others.
The hooks for feet at last grasp the device, and he cries out in victory, attempting to pull it away from the afflicted human. But they are too short and smooth to keep a hold.
This will not do.
Suddenly, to the woman’s surprise (and yet, from her expression, she does not seem entirely so astonished) he changes, turning back into the humanoid form from before, clothes and all. He growls, grabbing the sought after item with one hand and wrapping around her hand over one of the motorcycle’s handles. This presses against the wound, and from her sharp intake he knows it is causing the pain he wishes it. He jumps off, landing perfectly fine on the ground. He smirks, and continues to observe the struggle between machine and woman in the distance as well as inspecting the new strange object in his hand. He looks on with satisfaction, anticipating her doom or her survival.
She was his now.