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“Ah,” Loki said. His voice rasped painfully over his healing throat. “This is new.” Whatever the Chitauri had made him drink still burned in his gut, and he had assumed that was the reason for the reprieve. They did not, after all, wish to push him too far. It was only his will they wanted broken. (It was only his will they could not reach.)
“My father does not put much faith in the Chitauri,” said Thanos’s daughter. Not the cyborg - the other one. Loki was not sure which he found more interesting.
Loki coughed a weak laugh. “Your father. Is this faith or a test?” His stomach gurgled uneasily, and Loki fought to stay still. Her face remained impassive, though Loki thought he could detect a hint of regret at the back of her dark eyes.
“What is your name,” she asked, instead of answering. Loki summoned a smirk, though it felt undeniably strained.
“Does it matter?” She said nothing. The burning sensation deepened, intensified, and Loki clawed for a distraction. “I was called Loki, once. And yours, my lady?”
She cocked her head a fraction to the side, looking down at him with that coolly unreadable expression. “Gamora,” she said after a moment.
Loki coughed, expecting to taste bile or blood. “Is that the name your father gave you?”
Her eyes shuttered closed and Loki thought ah, hit the mark even as a spike of sharp pain stabbed through his innards, hard and sudden enough to make him gasp. Gamora’s eyes narrowed and Loki curled his fingers into fists, keeping his smile even as it turned into a rictus. “And your…sister. What is she called?”
“I do not see that is any of your business,” Gamora said. She took a step closer to him and Loki tensed, though he tried to deepen his breaths, make them less obviously shallow. The attempt was interrupted by another stab of pain, even sharper than before, and a disconcertingly audible gurgle from within. Loki closed his eyes and tried to summon his magic (again) but it was no more than wisps, barely enough to touch. What did they do to me, he wanted to ask, but would not.
When he opened his eyes, Gamora was leaning over him, examining his face, her knife in hand. Loki forced his lips to curve in something like a smile. “Well?” He said. “Are you here to do what your father’s pathetic pawns cannot?”
“I have been instructed to monitor their progress,” she said.
“I thought-” Loki broke off and inhaled sharply. “–thought that was your sister’s duty.”
“Mm.” It was neither agreement nor disagreement. Loki opened his mouth only to cut off as his stomach heaved and he retched, tasting something sour at the back of his throat. He began to feel the flutterings of panic. If it was poison - but they wouldn’t kill him. Still, if he vomited like this, pinioned on his back-
Gamora’s touch was surprisingly light, probing at his throat. Loki tried to hold back a whine as pain spiked like something was clawing at his insides, trying to tear him apart from within. He did twitch, squirm, as though that might ease whatever havoc their poison was wreaking on his body. “You know it would be easier if you gave in,” Gamora said. Her voice was oddly quiet. “Everyone does, eventually. Thanos…my father always gets what he wants.”
Loki gritted his teeth. “Not from - not from me - ah!” His stomach lurched again, and this time when Loki retched it brought up a mouthful of thin bile he could just turn his head enough to spit. It wasn’t just bile, though - threaded with something the color of pus. Loki felt his eyes widen, fear coiling in his chest.
“From you,” Gamora disagreed. Her fingers moved from his throat down to probe his abdomen, finding a spot just above his navel and pressing down. Loki arched with a cry at the feeling like she’d stabbed him and ah, oh Norns, oh Norns-
He felt something inside him tear in an explosion of white pain and screamed, thrashing as much as his bonds would allow, his entire body going rigid. It was like claws ripping through his innards, something shredding him from within. Loki’s cry choked off and he squeezed his eyes closed, panting. “What - what is-” His voice gurgled and he turned his head, spat out thick blood touched with that same greenish yellow something that made him feel sick and dizzy with the wrongness of it.
Gamora was watching him, her expression not quite dispassionate. Almost pitying. “There is no point in fighting,” she said. “Eventually, he’ll take everything anyway.”
Please, Loki wanted to say, but he managed to hold it back. Thor he managed to hold back as well. He did let himself keen. Gamora’s fingers pressed down again, triggering an explosion of agony. Loki’s consciousness flickered and he reached for oblivion, but his too-resilient body snatched him back and this time he felt-
(Oh Norns)
-something pushing back. From inside. A choked sound burst from his throat, not quite a wail. “No,” he moaned. “No,” and then his voice broke as another wave of pain rolled through him as it (it, whatever it was, what had they given him) moved.
He did not have the breath to scream. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into palms, and he could not keep himself from begging: “get it out, please, get it out get it out-”
Gamora leaned forward, her knife poised, hesitating. For a moment Loki thought she would ask him something. Ask him to surrender, perhaps, and wavering, Loki thought he might have. But then her knife flashed, slicing him open quick and neat. Loki tried to keep his eyes open as she thrust her hand into the wound, but when she started to pull (like she would draw his intestines out a little at a time) they slammed shut and he screamed, high and thin and desperate, like anyone would hear, like it might ease the pain searing through every nerve.
He felt it slide slickly out of the incision. He could hear it clicking and let out a whimper, his eyes opening almost unwillingly. Blood-slick, pale white and insectile, it dangled from Gamora’s grip. Perhaps the size of his two fists. Loki squeezed his eyes closed and turned his head to the side so he did not choke on his vomit.
“A native of the Chitauri homeworld,” Gamora said. Her voice was flat, almost toneless. “A parasite. I understand they used it as a method of execution. The victim can live for almost a week while it hollows them from the inside, excreting a chemical that prevents infection.” He heard a crunch and flinched. His ravaged innards throbbed. A week, he thought dizzily, and as though she heard him, Gamora added, “it is possible something like you would last longer, considering your ability to heal.”
Loki could not keep back a whimper. He breathed shallowly, dizzy and sick.
“You should give in,” Gamora said. “For your own sake. Whoever you are defending…it will not matter. You cannot save them.”
“You know that - from experience,” Loki said. It wasn’t quite a question. Gamora said nothing. Loki felt limp, wrung out. If the Chitauri came back now, he thought, and then stopped, because he did not know how what he could do. He coughed weakly and heard the rustle of her moving. “Wait,” he managed to say. “Please. You could - end this. Kill me.”
Silence. Loki heard himself make a sound like a sob, and could not even feel shame for it.
“No,” Gamora said finally, her voice heavy. “I cannot. I will not disobey my father.”
He heard her turn and walk away. Loki closed his eyes and wept, but silently. He imagined he could hear clicking, somewhere. Wondered if there was still something more waiting to hatch.
Whoever you are defending…who was he defending? Asgard? Thor? Who did he think he could save, when he could not even save himself? (Why did he care, when they had abandoned him to this?)
His pride, Loki thought, and wanted to laugh. That was all he had left now.
He closed his eyes and sought the relief of oblivion.