Sakaar - Underground Detention Complex, Plumber Headquarters
The subterranean levels beneath the massive Plumber orbital station bore little resemblance to their original incarnation as gladiatorial holding pens. Where once crude stone cells had housed desperate fighters awaiting their turn in the arena, now gleamed a facility that met Ben Parker's exacting standards for both security and basic human dignity.
Steve Rogers and Peter Parker walked side by side through corridors lined with energy barriers and advanced monitoring systems, their footsteps echoing off polished metal floors that reflected the soft blue glow of containment fields.
"Long time no see, Mr. Stark," Peter called out with genuine enthusiasm as they approached the familiar figure hunched over a makeshift workbench.
Both heroes had insisted on checking Tony's condition before returning to Earth—Steve out of loyalty to a fellow Avenger, Peter out of the hero-worship that had never quite faded despite everything that had happened.
Steve's enhanced vision immediately cataloged the mechanical prosthetic that had replaced Tony's severed left arm, the crude but functional replacement serving as a stark reminder of the price of hubris. The sight triggered uncomfortable parallels to Bucky Barnes and made Steve wonder if losing limbs was somehow an occupational hazard for brilliant, troubled men who threw themselves into impossible situations.
When Tony noticed their approach, his entire demeanor shifted from focused concentration to barely contained excitement. Since the Ultron crisis had reached its catastrophic conclusion, he'd seen no one from Earth except Ben Parker during their brutal "training session" in the arena.
The isolation had been eating at him more than he cared to admit. Guilt over Ultron's actions, worry about the collateral damage his creation had caused, fear that his mistakes had cost innocent lives—all of it had been festering without any way to seek reassurance or make amends.
"Long time no see indeed," Tony replied, his voice carrying notes of relief that he couldn't quite suppress. His hands fumbled with the metal components he'd been working on, suddenly unsure where to place them or how to appear naturally occupied.
Finally, he set his tools aside and wiped his hands on a cloth, though the gesture was purely psychological—his mechanical arm couldn't actually perspire.
"I'm incredibly relieved to see you both looking healthy," he continued, words tumbling out with uncharacteristic vulnerability. "How are the others? Rhodes, Pepper, Natasha... please tell me Ultron didn't hurt anyone because of my—"
"They're all fine, Mr. Stark," Peter interrupted gently, recognizing the spiral of self-blame that was building in Tony's voice. "Everyone made it through okay. The only casualty was Venom abandoning me, but that wasn't your fault."
Tony's shoulders sagged with visible relief as the weight of imagined casualties lifted from his conscience. "That's... that's good to hear. And those kids—Wanda and Pietro? Are they safe?"
He was still operating under the assumption that the Maximoff twins had genuinely betrayed the Plumbers organization, making their welfare his responsibility in his mind.
"They just lost their way temporarily," Steve assured him with the diplomatic tone of someone who understood the full complexity of the situation. "They're fine now, Tony. Everyone's accounted for."
The energy barrier between them hummed with contained power, allowing conversation while maintaining absolute security. Tony could see his visitors clearly, but the reminder of his imprisonment was impossible to ignore.
"How are you holding up in here?" Steve asked with genuine concern, studying Tony's living conditions with a soldier's eye for detail.
"Me? Oh, fantastic!" Tony replied with forced brightness, his natural tendency toward bravado reasserting itself. "You know me—I've survived terrorist caves and alien invasions. This place is practically a vacation resort by comparison."
His smile was almost convincing, but neither visitor was fooled by the performance.
"They've got me competing in their gladiatorial games," Tony continued with manufactured enthusiasm. "Honestly, it's almost too easy. I've been upgrading my armor, perfecting new systems... if their so-called 'champion queen' wasn't away on some space business trip, I'd have won the Championship Challenge by now and earned my freedom."
Even at his lowest point, Tony Stark refused to let others see him as defeated or diminished. Pride was often his greatest weakness, but it was also the armor that protected his sanity during the darkest moments.
What he didn't realize was that his experiences on Sakaar had been broadcast to Earth as part of Ben's psychological manipulation campaign. His struggles, his defeats, his gradual adjustment to captivity—all of it had been public knowledge for weeks.
Neither Steve nor Peter had the heart to shatter that illusion.
"The only frustrating thing is they shut down the arena recently," Tony admitted, and this complaint was entirely genuine. "I've been making real progress on some new designs, but now I'm stuck with nothing but theory and no practical application."
After his humiliating defeat at Ben's hands, Tony had thrown himself into technological innovation with renewed desperation. The Plumber facilities didn't restrict his research activities—as long as his experiments didn't trigger safety protocols monitored by Azmuth's artificial intelligence, he could work freely.
The problem was that perfecting new armor and enhancing the Extremis virus integration required combat testing, and the arena's closure had eliminated his only outlet for practical application.
"The arena's been shut down because of a space-level crisis," Peter explained with the serious tone of someone who'd witnessed universe-threatening events firsthand. "Compared to what we're dealing with now, the Ultron situation was barely a regional problem."
"What kind of crisis?" Tony asked, his engineering mind immediately shifting into analytical mode despite his circumstances.
Over the next hour, Steve and Peter provided a comprehensive briefing on the Dark Elf resurgence, the Nine Realms war, Hela's conquest of Asgard, and the broader space instability that was threatening reality itself.
"Earth is still secure," Peter assured him. "Mr. Osborn has the whole planet on high alert, and the Plumbers have contingency plans in place. But the scale of what's happening out here..."
Tony wiped his face with his remaining organic hand, struggling to process the magnitude of events that had unfolded during his imprisonment. "The universe changes fast when you're not paying attention."
"Tell me about it," Steve agreed with the weary tone of someone who'd lived through too many impossible situations.
They continued talking for another hour, catching up on personal details and sharing updates about mutual friends and colleagues. The conversation was pleasant but limited—Steve wasn't naturally talkative, Tony was too emotionally raw to maintain his usual verbal wit, and the energy barrier served as a constant reminder of the distance between them.
When they finally prepared to leave, Tony's expression carried more peace than either visitor had expected to see.
"Take care of yourselves out there," he said quietly. "And... thank you for coming. I didn't realize how much I needed to see friendly faces."
Sakaar Orbital Platform - Departure Bay
Peter and Steve made their way to the departure terminals where their transport waited, its sleek hull gleaming under the artificial lighting of the massive hangar bay. Pietro Maximoff lounged against a support strut nearby, his enhanced reflexes allowing him to fidget at superhuman speeds while appearing perfectly still to normal observation.
"Ready to head home?" Pietro asked as they approached, though his tone suggested he envied their destination.
"Earth feels like the only stable place left in the universe," Steve admitted. "At least there, the problems are human-scale."
Pietro nodded with understanding, then turned to Peter with a competitive gleam in his silver eyes. "When you see Harry, tell him I won't lose our next race. I've been training."
The friendly rivalry between Pietro and Harry Osborn had developed during their time together on various Plumber missions, with Harry's Green Goblin technology providing enough speed enhancement to make their contests genuinely competitive.
Peter and Steve boarded their transport and began the departure sequence, the ship's engines humming with increasing intensity as they prepared for the jump to Earth's solar system.
Pietro watched them leave with mixed emotions, his superhuman perception tracking their vessel until it disappeared into the space void. Life at Plumber headquarters had given him purpose and family, but moments like this reminded him how few connections he maintained with his original home.
"Wonder how Thor's doing with that rescue mission," he mused aloud. "Maybe I should have volunteered to go along."
Heaven Dimension - Angelic Prison Complex
Thor's consciousness drifted through layers of confused awareness like a swimmer struggling toward the surface of a dark lake. Reality felt distant and fragmented, his memories scattered like puzzle pieces that wouldn't quite fit together properly.
"Thor... Thor... Thor..." The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, calling his name with desperate urgency.
'Who's trying to reach me?' he wondered through the haze of disorientation, the voice familiar yet impossibly distant.
"Thor, it's me—I'm your sister, Angela," the speaker continued, her words carrying centuries of loneliness and hope.
Recognition struck like lightning as Thor's eyes snapped open, his body jerking upright from the cold stone floor where he'd been unconscious. The movement sent waves of discomfort through his divine physiology, and he immediately realized two disturbing facts: he was completely naked, and he had no memory of how he'd arrived in this featureless cell.
"You're finally awake, Thor," the voice continued from beyond the wall, closer now and tinged with relief.
Thor pressed his ear against the barrier separating them, his enhanced hearing picking up the subtle sounds of movement from the adjacent chamber.
"Do you remember what happened?" Angela asked, her concern evident even through the thick stone.
"I remember..." Thor struggled to piece together the fragments of recent events. "Fandral and I took a Plumber transport to Heaven, following the route Loki provided... wait, where are Fandral and the others?!"
Panic flared as he realized his friends had vanished completely, leaving him alone and vulnerable in enemy territory.
"You've been deceived, brother," Angela's voice carried the weight of terrible understanding. "This was all an elaborate trap."
"Impossible!" Thor shook his head vehemently, his loyalty to Loki overriding logical analysis. "Loki would never lie to me—not about something this important!"
"But the person you trusted may not have been Loki at all," Angela replied with the gentle patience of someone delivering devastating news to a loved one.
"Not Loki?" The implications crashed through Thor's consciousness like falling stars. "Oh no... I have to contact Plumber headquarters immediately!"
He frantically searched his body for his communication badge, his emergency beacon, any piece of technology that might allow him to warn his allies about the infiltration. But of course, his captors had been thorough—he possessed nothing but his own divine heritage.
"I've failed again!" Thor collapsed in despair, the full magnitude of his mistake becoming clear. "A fake Loki has infiltrated the Plumbers, and it's all my responsibility!"
Self-recrimination poured out like poison as he berated himself for the oversight. "Sixteen hundred years I've known him! But I couldn't recognize an imposter just because I hadn't seen him for a few months! I'm as useless as a blind man!"
The potential consequences of his failure were staggering. If the fake Loki gained access to classified information, weapon systems, or strategic plans, the damage could be irreversible. And what had happened to the real Loki? Had Malekith discovered his spy and...
Thor shook his head desperately, refusing to complete that line of thinking. Loki was too clever, too skilled in illusion and misdirection to be easily captured or killed. He had to still be alive somewhere, waiting for rescue or working on his own escape plan.
On the other side of the wall, Angela curled into a defensive position, her naked form trembling with emotions she'd suppressed for centuries of imprisonment. She'd given up hope of freedom long ago, accepting her fate as the price for being born into Odin's bloodline at the wrong time and place.
But now her brother had become a fellow prisoner, which suggested that the Nine Realms were experiencing catastrophic upheaval. How bad had things become if even Thor—mighty, heroic, beloved Thor—could be captured and stripped of his power?
"Thor, you have to escape," she whispered with desperate intensity. "You have to warn them."
Sakaar Orbital Platform - Top Security Level
Several levels above the detention complex, Malekith moved through the Plumber headquarters with supernatural stealth, his illusion magic concealing his presence from both technological sensors and enhanced organic perception.
The disguised Dark Elf had spent hours searching the facility's mid-level storage areas and administrative sections without finding any trace of the Aether particles or the Infinity Stones he knew were hidden somewhere within this massive structure.
Even Gamora—the green-skinned woman Ben Parker had captured during their final confrontation with Thanos—was being held in some location beyond his ability to detect.
"Perhaps they're stored in a pocket dimension," Malekith mused as he considered the tactical possibilities.
Dimensional storage would make perfect sense for artifacts of such space significance, but it also created complications for any theft attempt. Accessing extra-dimensional vaults required either specific authorization or overwhelming force applied at precisely the right dimensional coordinates.
"Of course, the gems and the prisoner wouldn't be kept in the same location," he realized with growing certainty. "Security protocols would demand separation of high-value assets."
His gaze turned upward toward the orbital station's highest levels, where the executive command center occupied the most heavily defended section of the entire facility.
The apex of the totem-shaped structure housed Ben Parker's personal offices, strategic planning facilities, and most importantly, the maximum security vaults where space artifacts would logically be stored.
Unfortunately, that area remained beyond even his considerable infiltration abilities. The security systems there incorporated both advanced technology and mystical wards that would challenge even a master of curse magic.
Approaching those defenses while maintaining his Loki disguise would be virtually impossible without triggering alerts that would compromise the entire operation.
"I should have brought Cursed Warriors with me," Malekith admitted with tactical regret.
He'd chosen to infiltrate alone to avoid detection—using the Rainbow Bridge for transport would have created energy signatures that the Plumbers would immediately recognize as hostile, while bringing a full assault force would have prompted them to strengthen their defenses around any stored artifacts.
But a single Cursed Warrior could have provided the distraction necessary to bypass the facility's security while he accessed the restricted areas.
As he contemplated his limited options, a cruel smile spread across Malekith's features. He'd just remembered another asset available to him, one that could create exactly the chaos he needed.
Niflheim - The Dishonored Battleground
The realm of the dishonored dead had become a three-way battlefield where ancient grudges and space ambitions collided with explosive force. Ben and Wanda observed the carnage from a strategic distance, using the elevated terrain of a blackened hillside to analyze the tactical situation.
Before them, the ruins of what had once been a great necropolis stretched across a valley floor scarred by divine combat. Hodr's assembled forces—a mixture of dishonored spirits under his command and Dark Elf reinforcements provided by Malekith—faced off against Hela's more traditional but overwhelmingly powerful undead legions.
The Goddess of Death rode atop Fenrir, the monstrous wolf whose mountain-sized form dwarfed even the largest siege engines. Her crown blazed with necromantic power while death-spears materialized and launched themselves at her enemies with the force of falling meteors.
Hodr himself cut an imposing figure despite his blindness, the fragment of Niflheim's Crown of Death upon his head radiating authority over the dishonored spirits who had flocked to his banner. The war-axe in his hands dripped with energies that could sever souls from bodies, making even glancing blows potentially fatal.
"Kneel and acknowledge your rightful king, Hela!" Hodr's voice boomed across the battlefield as he pressed his assault, each swing of his weapon carving through her defensive formations.
The God of Darkness fought with the desperate fury of someone who had nothing left to lose—his execution by Odin, his millennia of imprisonment, his alliance with Malekith—all of it had led to this moment where he could finally claim the power to reshape Asgard according to his vision.
But Hela responded to his demands with contemptuous laughter, her death-spears deflecting his attacks while Fenrir's massive jaws snapped at the armies surrounding them.
"Submit to you?" she sneered, her voice carrying the authority of someone who had never known defeat. "That's the most amusing delusion I've heard in centuries!"
Her contempt was absolute and undisguised. "You're nothing but a pathetic coward who abandoned every principle Asgard ever stood for, a worthless lapdog serving that two-faced Dark Elf pretender!"
Fenrir growled in agreement, the sound carrying clear implications about Hodr's status relative to loyal wolves.
"You know nothing!" Hodr's voice cracked with rage at the accusation, his blind eyes blazing with divine fury. "I'm using Malekith's resources to achieve my revenge—nothing more!"
But Hela dismissed his justifications without consideration. Whether he called it revenge, justice, or destiny, his motivations were irrelevant to her singular purpose.
The Goddess of Death recognized only two acceptable responses from other beings: immediate surrender, or surrender after death. Everything else was merely delay.
She hurled her death-spear with enough force to split mountains, the weapon carrying all of her accumulated necromantic authority as it streaked toward Hodr's position.
The impact sent shock waves across the battlefield as divine powers collided in ways that reality was never meant to endure.
"They're fighting each other," Wanda observed with tactical satisfaction. "What's our move?"
"Isn't this perfect?" Ben's voice carried the hollow resonance of his Ghostfreak transformation, his ethereal form allowing him to observe the battle from multiple dimensional angles simultaneously. "Hela and Hodr both want the Crown of Death fragments we're here to claim. While they're destroying each other, we can focus on the real objective."
His strategy was ruthlessly pragmatic—let the siblings exhaust themselves in fraternal warfare while he secured the artifacts that would enhance his space capabilities.
"Don't worry about their family drama," he continued while beginning to phase through the hillside itself. "We go straight for the Lords of the Underworld."
Ghostfreak's intangible nature allowed him to move through solid matter as easily as air, making conventional defenses irrelevant to his approach. If he was going to claim the Crown of Death's power for this transformation, adapting to Niflheim's supernatural environment in advance could only help.
Deep Niflheim - Council of the Damned
In the deepest chambers of Niflheim's necropolis, where the very air was thick with the accumulated despair of millions of dishonored souls, the four surviving Lords of the Underworld had gathered for what might be their final council.
Each commanded vast territories within the realm of the dishonored dead, their combined authority representing two-thirds of the Crown of Death's fragmented power. But the recent deaths of two of their number had shattered any illusions about their individual strength.
"Damn Odin and his psychotic offspring!" the Black Bone Monarch snarled, his skeletal form wreathed in shadows that moved with independent malevolence. "They've turned our realm into their personal battlefield!"
His rage was entirely justified—Niflheim had maintained a careful balance for millennia, the dishonored dead finding their own form of peace in exile from more pleasant afterlives. Now that equilibrium was being destroyed by Asgardian family conflicts and Dark Elf ambitions.
"Perhaps we should seriously consider surrendering the Crown fragments," Lady Omor whispered, her voice carrying the exhaustion of someone who'd fought too many losing battles.
Neither Malekith's forces nor Hela's necromantic armies represented opponents they could realistically defeat. Two of the six Lords had already fallen, and the survivors were rapidly running out of strategic options.
"The question is, which side receives our submission?" rumbled the Underworld Dragon, his massive form coiled around the chamber's central column like a living sculpture of defeat.
The choice carried implications that would echo through eternity. On one side stood Hela—legitimate heir to Asgard's throne, veteran of countless space wars, wielder of the complete Crown of Death from Helheim's domain. Her claim to rulership was legally and militarily unassailable.
On the other side waited Hodr—another of Odin's sons, but one who had been executed for fratricide and now served as Malekith's puppet in exchange for military support.
"I heard Malekith has already destroyed both Asgard and Nidavellir," Killer King Cato observed with grim pragmatism. "His track record suggests backing his chosen representative might be... wise."
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