The cell became my laboratory.
Sounds dramatic, I know. But when you're locked inside a stone box on the asteroid of a mad Titan, you work with what you've got. And what I had was: four walls, a stone slab, a Scepter with an Infinity Stone, and a few stolen scrolls I'd lifted during my "tour" with the Black Order.
Plus — an infinite amount of time.
Or a finite one. I had no idea how long remained before the invasion of Earth. Thanos didn't share schedules with his "allies."
Work with what you have, I reminded myself. And work fast.
First thing — inventory.
I sat on the slab cross-legged and closed my eyes. The Scepter lay across my knees, its blue glow seeping through my eyelids.
Magical reserve, I addressed… myself? The Stone? Loki's body?
The answer came not as words, but as a sensation. Like checking the battery level on a phone. Only instead of percentages — warmth in my chest. Before, there had been cold there. Emptiness. Now…
Thirty percent? Forty?
The Mind Stone functioned like a generator. Slowly, drop by drop, it restored what the Abyss had burned out of my channels. But it wasn't mine. Borrowed energy that could stop at any moment.
I need my own resources, I realized. I need to understand how this system works.
Loki's memory contained the basics. Frigga had taught him from childhood — patiently, lovingly, spending hours with him in Asgard's gardens. There was a lot of theory. Breathing exercises. Visualizations. Formulas that were more like poetry than spells.
But theory was theory. I needed practice.
Seidr.
That was the name of Loki's magic. "Women's magic," as Asgard sneered. The art of illusions, deception, shape-shifting. Warriors like Thor considered it unworthy — real Aesir fought with swords and hammers, not "tricks."
Idiots.
I reached for the body's memory. Deeper than usual — into the place where not events were stored, but skills. Muscle memory. Reflex.
Illusion, I thought. Start simple.
An image formed in my mind: a copy of my hand. Exact, detailed, down to the last crease in the palm. I fed it will — as Frigga had taught, as the body remembered.
A green flare.
A second hand appeared beside the real one. Identical. I flexed my fingers — the copy mirrored the movement with a microscopic delay.
Illusion, the inner voice confirmed. Light. Nothing more.
I extended my real hand and passed it through the copy. My fingers went straight through, meeting no resistance. The hand dissolved into green sparks.
"Useless," I muttered aloud.
No — not entirely useless. For distraction, perfect. But Proxima had cut through my illusions like a knife through butter. Any experienced fighter would do the same.
I needed more.
In the comics, Loki could create solid illusions.
I remembered it vaguely — scraps of information from my old life, flipping scans on some pirate site. His doubles could fight. Could hold weapons. Could kill.
But how?
I closed my eyes again. Reached for memory again.
Not just an image, a thought came. Not mine — Loki's. An echo from the depths of the mind I shared with the original owner. Intention. Purpose. Faith.
Faith?
I was a transmigrator from a world where magic didn't exist. Where physics was absolute. Where every "miracle" had a rational explanation.
And now I was being asked to believe?
Idiot, the inner voice snapped. You already believe. You're here. Magic works. Accept it.
Easy to say.
Second attempt.
I focused on the copy — not merely on appearance, but on essence. What is a hand? Skin, muscle, bone. Weight. Density. Temperature.
I'm not making a picture, I told myself. I'm making a thing. Real. Touchable.
A green flare — brighter than before.
The hand appeared. I stared, holding my breath.
I reached out to touch it.
My finger met… resistance?
Yes. Faint, like wet paper, but real. I pressed harder — and the copy collapsed into sparks.
But it had been there.
"Ha!" I couldn't stop the triumphant bark. "It works!"
Barely, the inner voice cooled me down. This isn't a weapon. It's a trick.
But it was a beginning.
The next hours turned into a marathon.
A copy of a hand. A copy of a dagger. A copy of an entire body.
Each time — a little denser. A little longer. A little more real.
I experimented with approaches. Visualization didn't work on its own — you had to feel. Not think, "This is solid matter." Feel the weight, the texture, the temperature.
Asgardian magic wasn't science. It was art. Subjective, intuitive, built on emotions and intention, not formulas.
For my analytical mind, it was torture.
For Loki's body, it was second nature.
Trust the body, I finally realized. The mind is for strategy. The body is for execution.
By the end of the session (three hours? four?) I could create a copy of myself that lasted thirty seconds.
It stood in front of me — a perfect double. The same facial features, the same black clothing, the same arrogant curve of the lips. I ordered it to raise a hand — it raised one. I ordered it to step — it stepped.
And then I did what I'd been afraid to do.
I punched it.
My fist slammed into the copy's cheekbone. Pain shot through my knuckles — faint, but real. The double's head snapped aside.
And then it punched back.
I didn't block in time. The copy's fist hit my jaw and I flew backward, my spine slamming into the wall.
Holy hell.
The copy dissolved — its thirty seconds were up. But I sat on the floor rubbing my jaw and laughing.
That was a weapon.
Shift of focus — shapeshifting.
Loki was a shifter. He could change form — become anyone, anything. In the films it was a visual effect: a flash of gold and suddenly Odin stood where Loki had been.
In reality, it was more complicated.
I closed my eyes and reached for an image. Not of myself — of someone else. The Other.
Yes, I decided to start with him. Ironic? Maybe. Practical? Absolutely. If I could copy Thanos's chief spy…
The image formed in my mind. The wrinkled face, the empty eyes, the oily voice. Disgust rose in me — physical, deep — and I pushed it down. Emotion interfered with transformation.
Neutrality, the inner voice reminded me. You're not becoming him. You're wearing him like a costume.
I focused.
My body began to change.
It was… strange. Not painful — more disorienting. Like someone molding you out of clay while you were still conscious. Bones shifted. Skin stretched. Height altered.
I opened my eyes and looked at my hands.
Long, knotted fingers. Skin the color of old parchment.
Did it work?
There was no mirror. But the reflection in the Scepter's polished surface showed the Other's face staring back at me.
I shuddered.
And I immediately understood the problem.
The voice.
I opened my mouth and said:
"Test."
Loki's voice. My voice. Not the Other's rasping whisper.
Visual transformation is only half, I realized. Voice, aura, the way you move — that's something else.
I focused again. Remembered how the Other spoke. How he moved. How he tilted his head with that insect-like motion.
"Test," I said again.
Dry leaves over stone.
Better.
The next hour I spent refining the transformation.
The Other. Corvus Glaive. Proxima Midnight. A Chitauri guard.
Each form required not only visual change, but behavioral change. Proxima moved like a predator — smooth, dangerous. Corvus was economical, nearly motionless. Chitauri jerked in short bursts, insect-like.
It wasn't just shapeshifting.
It was acting.
And I, a Moscow sysadmin who'd never performed in so much as a school play, had to become the greatest actor in the universe.
Fine, I soothed myself. Practice makes perfect.
And I'd have a lot of practice.
Break.
Even an Asgardian body demanded rest. My magical reserve sank to twenty percent — training consumed energy faster than the Stone replenished it.
I lay on the slab staring at the ceiling and thought.
Seidr wasn't just magic. It was philosophy.
Women's magic. The magic of the weak. The magic of those who can't win a fair fight.
But who said victory was measured only in battles?
Odin won the war with Jotunheim. Thor defeated monsters. The Warriors Three were famous for their feats.
And Loki? Loki survived. A thousand years — among those stronger, faster, more beloved. He spun intrigues, laid plans, manipulated. And when everything collapsed — he stood up again.
That was his weapon. My weapon.
I picked up that same scroll again.
Thin, unremarkable, tucked between two thick volumes of Thanos's chronicles. On the outside — nothing special. But it was the one that made Ebony Maw lose his vaunted composure for a heartbeat.
I skimmed the lines. I didn't know the language, but the Mind Stone obligingly supplied meaning, transforming alien symbols into understandable concepts.
Necros.
A single mind. A primal darkness that existed before stars.
Knull.
Now I was sure. Maw had confirmed it with his caution, his pause.
In the comics, Knull was a nightmare. Not a philosopher with a fixation like Thanos, and not a death-queen like Hela. He was the Abyss itself. And judging by the chronicles, here he was terrifyingly real.
I let out a dark, humorless chuckle at the black parchment.
Gorr, the God Butcher. In the Marvel films there were still years before his appearance — he was supposed to surface only in the fourth Thor. But here the timeline didn't seem interested in giving me a breather. If Maw knew about the Necromechanisms and feared them, then the threat existed now.
The Necrosword. A weapon forged from living darkness. A blade that could kill a Celestial, a Titan… or an Asgardian prince.
"Another item on the list of things that can kill me," I whispered into the cell's silence.
The list was becoming indecently long. But now it had gained an interesting variable.
I rolled the scroll and hid it back in the stack.
Fear faded, replaced by cold calculation. Information was a weapon. Those things were enemies of everything living. Which meant they were enemies of Thanos too.
Necromechanisms could kill immortals. That was terrifying. But it also meant hope. If the universe held something even the Black Order feared, then one day it might work in my favor.
I closed my eyes, organizing the data.
Knull, symbiotes, Gorr — tomorrow's problems. Global, horrific, but tomorrow's. Today I had Thanos. And now I knew even Titans had fears.
"Useful," I decided. "It will be useful."
Last experiment of the day.
I stood, took the Scepter, and focused.
God of Lies.
Not a title — a function. When I lied, the universe bent. Slightly, barely noticeable — but it bent.
What if I amplified it?
I chose a simple statement. A lie easy to verify.
"There is a window in this room," I said aloud.
Nothing. Walls stayed walls.
I focused harder. Reached for the Stone. For the link between us that strengthened every day.
"There is a window in this room," I repeated.
And I believed it.
Not acted. Not pretended. Believed — with my whole being, with every cell of my body, with every drop of magic.
Reality… shivered.
For a fraction of a second — I saw it. A window in the wall. Light pouring in from outside.
And then — nothing.
I stood in the same cell, with the same stone walls. No window.
But I had seen it.
This works, I realized. A lie, reinforced by faith and magic, can change reality. Not forever. Not completely. But it can.
God of Stories.
In the comics, Loki reached that level. He became a being that rewrote reality with words. That turned lies into truth with the force of narrative.
I was far from that. Infinitely far.
But every path begins with the first step.
I collapsed onto the slab, drained to the limit.
Magical reserve — zero. Body — like a wrung-out rag. Mind — a buzzing hive of thoughts.
But I was smiling.
Progress, I thought as sleep pulled me under. Slow, agonizing — but progress.
Solid illusions. Shapeshifting with voice and mannerisms. The beginnings of… something bigger.
Thanos thought he gave me the Scepter as a leash.
Thanos was wrong.
He gave me a key.
And I was only beginning to open doors.