"Honestly! This action is really a bit crazy!" Tony's voice carried genuine concern as he stared at the Devil's Anus from a safe distance. Even from here—several kilometers away from the massive cosmic anomaly—he could feel the terrible forces at work inside it. His armor's sensors were going haywire, detecting gravitational fluctuations that should be physically impossible, radiation signatures off every chart, spatial distortions that made his physicist brain hurt just contemplating them. "That thing is reading like a collapsing star merged with a dimensional rift! The tidal forces alone should rip any ship to pieces!"
"You can absolutely believe in the sturdiness of the Commodore!" Valkyrie's voice came through the comms, slightly strained. She'd just delivered a devastating punch to a soldier who'd been stationed in the hangar entrance, attempting to block their path. The guard flew backward from the impact, his armor dented, and slammed into a wall before sliding down unconscious. Valkyrie stepped over his body without breaking stride, leading her group of freed gladiators deeper into the tower's hangar levels. "The Grandmaster doesn't skimp on his personal vessels! It's built to last!"
"Get out of the way!" Thor's commanding voice echoed through the corridor ahead of her position. He stood before a massive reinforced security door—the kind designed to seal off critical areas during emergencies or breaches. The door was easily three meters tall, solid metal, with locking mechanisms that could probably withstand a small explosion.
Thor didn't bother with subtlety or attempting to hack the access controls. He simply drew Stormbreaker back and swung the axe forward with devastating force. The blade struck the door dead center with a sound like thunder. The impact sent shockwaves through the surrounding structure. Metal shrieked and tore. The locking mechanisms shattered. The hinges ripped free from their mountings.
The entire heavy metal door—weighing easily several tons—fell forward and crashed to the ground with a tremendous BANG that echoed through multiple levels of the tower. Dust and debris billowed up from the impact. The way was open.
Thor stepped through the gap first, Stormbreaker resting casually on his shoulder, his eyes scanning for threats. Valkyrie followed immediately behind him, her Dragon Tooth Sword ready, moving with the practiced efficiency of a warrior entering potentially hostile territory. Behind them came Korg and the other freed gladiators—a motley crew of various alien species, all armed with stolen weapons, all eager for freedom.
They emerged into a massive hangar space. The area was enormous—multiple stories high, hundreds of meters across. Various spacecraft sat in designated berths, some small personal craft, others larger transport vessels. Maintenance equipment and cargo containers were scattered throughout. But something was wrong.
"Where is the plane?" Thor's voice carried confusion and growing concern as he looked around the vast space. His eyes scanned the berths systematically, searching for the distinctive yellow accents and sleek lines of the Commodore. But the berth where they'd left it was empty. The ship was gone. "We left it right here! Where did it go?"
Korg, who'd been following slightly behind, chose this moment to voice the question he'd had ever since Thor had first arrived to rescue them. His rocky features arranged themselves into something approximating polite confusion. "Why don't we just use your Rainbow Bridge to leave instead of going through all this trouble to find a spaceship?" His tone was genuinely curious rather than challenging. "I mean, you used it to get here, right? Can't you just use it to get back? Seems simpler!"
Thor turned to face Korg, his expression calm and reasonable despite the urgency of their situation. "We can't go back empty-handed, right? We're already here!" His gesture encompassed the hangar, the ships, the opportunity before them. "Why waste the trip? Besides, we need transportation options once we get to Asgard! Can't rely on Heimdall being available every moment!"
"Yeah! I totally agree with that logic!" Rocket's distinctive voice suddenly crackled through the communicator that Thor and several others wore. The raccoon sounded enthusiastic, almost greedy. "I really need that spaceship! After some proper modification—replacing those useless fireworks with high-yield explosives, upgrading the shield generators, adding proper weapons systems—it'll be my new personal vehicle! The Milano is fine, but a little variety never hurt anyone!"
"Okay!" Korg nodded slowly, accepting this explanation without further argument. He was generally an agreeable sort, and the reasoning made sense from a practical standpoint. "Fair enough! Let's find the ship then!"
"Come on! This way! Follow me!" Valkyrie, who knew the tower's layout better than anyone present, took point. She led everyone away from the empty berth, moving quickly through the hangar complex toward where the Commodore was actually located. Her memory of the tower's various hangar bays was precise—years of living here, of navigating these corridors drunk and sober, had imprinted the layout permanently in her mind.
-Broadcast-
[The scene shifted, showing events that were happening simultaneously. Just as Thor and his companions were heading toward the wormhole in their stolen Commodore, Korg and the other gladiators finally arrived at a different hangar—the one where Loki had been left incapacitated, where Thor had dropped the remote control for the obedience disk.]
[The freed prisoners moved through the space with the cautious excitement of people who'd been enslaved and were now tasting freedom for the first time in years. Their voices carried hope mixed with disbelief. They examined the various spacecraft available, discussing which one would be best for their escape.]
["This is it! We're finally leaving this hellhole!" One gladiator's voice was thick with emotion, on the verge of tears. "After all this time! We're actually getting out!"]
[Korg was examining the area when something on the floor caught his eye. A small electronic device, partially hidden under some debris. He bent down and picked it up, turning it over in his rocky hands with curiosity.]
"Hey! What is this?"
[His voice carried innocent interest as he examined the remote control. It looked important, technological, clearly not just random garbage. There was a button that appeared to be in the "on" position, showing an active status indicator.]
[Being the helpful sort he was, Korg assumed the device had been accidentally dropped and left in an active state. He located what appeared to be the power switch and turned it off, deactivating whatever system it controlled. The status light went dark.]
The moment the remote was deactivated, Loki—who had been lying on the ground nearby in a twitching, paralyzed heap, barely visible behind some equipment—suddenly gasped. The electrical paralysis that had been coursing through his body via the obedience disk finally ceased. Feeling and control flooded back into his limbs. His muscles, which had been locked in painful spasms, finally relaxed.
"Thank you!" Loki's voice came out hoarse, grateful, as he pushed himself up from the cold floor. His entire body ached from lying there immobilized for who knew how long. He brushed himself off with as much dignity as he could muster, trying to pretend he hadn't just been completely helpless on the floor like a discarded piece of luggage.
Korg turned toward the voice, noticing Loki for the first time. His rocky features shifted into a friendly expression. "Oh! Hey there, man! Didn't see you over there!" His tone was cheerfully welcoming, as if encountering people lying on hangar floors was perfectly normal. "We're getting on that big spaceship over there—"
[he gestured toward a massive vessel in one of the larger berths]
"—heading out of this place for good! You coming with us?"
[Loki stood to his full height, rolled his shoulders to work out the stiffness, and assessed the situation quickly. His mind, ever calculating, immediately recognized opportunity. These freed prisoners needed leadership, direction, someone with experience navigating the complexities of escape and survival. And he needed transportation away from Sakaar before the Grandmaster's forces found him.]
[His voice took on that characteristic smooth, confident quality—the tone of someone born to lead, someone whose natural charisma could sway crowds.]
"It seems you not only need a spaceship, but you also urgently need a leader!"
[He said it as if he was doing them a favor, as if they should be grateful he was willing to help their disorganized rabble. His expression suggested he found their situation both pitiable and fixable—with his guidance, naturally.]
Korg's face showed appreciation and relief. Having someone who seemed to know what they were doing—someone who spoke with authority and confidence—would certainly help their chances. "Oh! Thank you!" His voice carried genuine gratitude. "Yeah, we could definitely use someone who knows their way around! Most of us were just fighters, not really leaders or anything!"
[The other gladiators murmured their agreement, looking at Loki with varying degrees of hope and trust. They were desperate, and desperate people were willing to follow anyone who projected confidence and competence.]
[The scene returned to the Commodore, now far from Sakaar's surface, approaching the massive wormhole that dominated the planet's sky. Inside the cockpit, Valkyrie sat in the pilot's seat, her hands steady on the controls despite the growing danger. Her expression was focused, intense, all traces of her earlier drunken haze completely gone. This required her full attention, her complete skill, everything she'd learned in millennia of flying.]
[She was maneuvering the ship through the outer edges of the wormhole's influence. The space around the cosmic anomaly was filled with debris—the accumulated wreckage of countless ships that had attempted this passage and failed. Chunks of hull plating drifted past, entire engine sections tumbled slowly in the microgravity, pieces of unidentifiable technology scattered like leaves in a slow-motion storm. This was a graveyard of failed attempts, a warning written in twisted metal.]
"Get ready!" Valkyrie's voice was tight with concentration as the spaceship struggled forward through the wormhole's outer boundary. "Hold on to something! This is going to get rough!" Her hands moved constantly across the controls, making minute adjustments, compensating for gravitational eddies, trying to find the safest path through the impossible maze.
[The Commodore, despite being equipped with cutting-edge technology—the Grandmaster's finest personal vessel—still couldn't completely avoid damage when facing this incredibly dense mass of floating objects. Space was too cluttered, the debris too thick, the gravitational forces too unpredictable. The ship's shields flared repeatedly as impacts struck them—small pieces of wreckage bouncing off the energy barriers with flashes of blue light. But larger objects required active evasion.]
"Shit!" Valkyrie cursed under her breath, her warrior's vocabulary coming out as she jerked the controls hard to the left. A massive piece of hull—possibly from a cargo ship, easily the size of a house—tumbled past where they'd been a moment before. If they'd maintained course, it would have crushed them. She threaded the ship between two other large pieces of debris, the clearance on either side measured in meters rather than the kilometers a cautious pilot would prefer.
[The ship lurched and shuddered with each near-miss, each impact against the shields. Warning indicators began appearing across her displays—shield strength dropping, hull stress increasing, power fluctuations in the engines. The Commodore was tough, but it wasn't invincible.]
[As they penetrated deeper into the wormhole's structure, as they got closer and closer to the singularity at its heart, the effects became more pronounced and more terrible. Everyone aboard the spaceship felt it simultaneously—a sensation like their heads were being crushed in a vice. The pressure was immense, unbearable, increasing with each passing second. It felt like their skulls were being compressed, their brains squeezed, their thoughts fragmenting under the impossible stress.]
[Thor gripped the armrest of his seat, his knuckles white, his jaw clenched. His god-level physiology was the only thing keeping him conscious. Banner, in the co-pilot seat, was making small sounds of pain, his hands pressed against his temples. Valkyrie's vision was beginning to blur at the edges, but she forced herself to maintain focus, to keep flying, because if she lost control now they would all die.]
[The visual effects were intensifying as well. The purple-red light that had surrounded them initially—the color of old blood, of warning, of cosmic violence—grew increasingly intense. It pulsed and throbbed like a living thing, pressing in on them from all sides. Then, gradually, it began shifting. The hue changed, became lighter, moved through the spectrum. Purple-red became crimson, crimson became orange, orange became yellow, yellow became white with hints of blue.]
[The bluish-white light was blinding, searing, like staring directly into the heart of a star. It came from everywhere and nowhere, emanating from the fabric of space itself. The singularity was close now, the point where normal physics broke down completely, where space and time became meaningless concepts, where the universe folded in on itself.]
[As the spaceship passed through the singularity itself—that impossible point of infinite density and zero volume—they were all submerged in pure white light. The illumination was total, absolute, erasing all shadows, all darkness, all distinction. There was nothing but light. And in that light, consciousness failed.]
[Thor's eyes rolled back. Banner slumped forward in his seat. Valkyrie's hands fell from the controls. All three of them simply ceased to be aware, their minds shutting down rather than processing the impossible, their consciousness taking refuge in oblivion rather than trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. The ship continued forward on momentum and whatever mysterious forces governed wormhole transit, carrying its unconscious passengers toward their destination.]
Back in the present, watching this harrowing journey play out on screen, Gamora's brow furrowed with concern. Her green skin had taken on a slightly paler cast as she watched them all lose consciousness. "Whoa! It seems that driving a spacecraft directly through an unstable wormhole is not a good idea!" Her voice carried the authority of someone who'd traveled the galaxy extensively, who'd seen many ways to die in space. "That kind of gravitational stress, the radiation exposure—they're lucky they didn't get torn apart at the molecular level! Do you have a better way to do this?"
"Yeah! Of course!" Tony's voice carried the satisfaction of someone who'd already solved this problem. "Have you forgotten how we got here in the first place?" His tone suggested the answer should have been obvious.
Gamora's eyes widened with realization. "You mean use the Rainbow Bridge to transport such a large spaceship?!!" Her voice rose with incredulity. On the screen, she could see the Commodore flying out of the hangar, its engines bright. And following close behind—much larger, much more massive—was the Statesman, the enormous vessel that Korg and his fellow refugees were now piloting under Loki's guidance. "That's... that's a massive ship! The Statesman must be hundreds of meters long! The energy requirements to transport something that size across interstellar distances—"
"Can you actually do it, Thor?" Banner turned to look at the thunder god, his voice carrying genuine worry mixed with scientific skepticism. "I mean, the Rainbow Bridge is impressive, but transporting that much mass across that distance? The physics alone—"
"Yeah! I can do it!" Thor's voice was confident, certain, brooking no doubt. His words immediately put Banner's mind at ease. If Thor said he could do it, then he could do it. The Bifrost was Asgardian technology, far beyond Earth's current understanding. And as for whether using it to steal the Grandmaster's ships would make the Supreme Lord angry?
Well, he was already furious beyond measure. His carefully controlled domain had erupted into open rebellion. His champion was gone. His enforcer was dead. His tower was under siege. Getting a bit angrier because some spaceships went missing seemed almost redundant at this point. What was he going to do—be more angry? The man was probably already at maximum rage capacity.
Besides, the Grandmaster probably couldn't protect himself right now anyway. A large number of gladiators were causing chaos throughout the Rune Tower, rioting in the streets, destroying property, attacking guards. The rebels that Korg was leading represented only a small fraction of the total uprising. The entire city was in flames—metaphorically and, in some districts, literally.
-Broadcast-
[The scene shifted dramatically, transporting the viewers across space to Asgard. The contrast was stark and immediate. Where Sakaar had been chaotic, colorful, and bizarre, Asgard was dark, oppressive, and filled with an atmosphere of dread. The golden realm had been reduced to shadows.]
[The Bifrost plaza—that circular platform where the Rainbow Bridge terminated, where countless travelers had arrived and departed over millennia—now served as a stage for something far grimmer. Skurge the Executioner stood at the center of the space, positioned where he could be clearly seen by the gathered crowd. His posture was uncomfortable, uncertain, nothing like the confident warrior he'd once aspired to be.]
[Before him, forced to assemble by Hela's undead soldiers, were Asgardian civilians. Hundreds of them—men, women, children, elderly. They stood in tight groups, pressed together by fear and the surrounding soldiers. Their faces showed terror, confusion, desperation. These were not warriors. These were shopkeepers and artists and teachers and farmers. They had no weapons, no training, no way to fight back against the Goddess of Death.]
[Skurge's voice carried across the plaza, trying to project authority he didn't truly feel. His words came out stilted, rehearsed, as if he was reading from a script written by someone else—which, in a sense, he was. Hela's script. The conqueror's demands.]
"People of Asgard!"
[His voice echoed off the surrounding architecture.]
"Some of you have been deceived by criminals and traitors! Someone among you has stolen the Rainbow Sword—Hofund, Heimdall's blade, the key that controls the Bifrost!"
[His expression showed discomfort with every word.]
"Tell me where it is! Tell me where Heimdall is hiding! Do this, and you will be shown mercy! Otherwise..."
[He paused, swallowing hard.]
"Otherwise, I will show no mercy!"
[After delivering this threat, he glanced sideways toward where Hela stood. She was positioned slightly elevated, looking down on the proceedings with the air of a queen observing peasants. Beside her, massive and terrifying, was Fenrir—her mount, the giant wolf from myth and nightmare. The beast's eyes glowed with unnatural green light. Its jaws were large enough to swallow a man whole. Saliva dripped from fangs the length of swords. The wolf's presence alone was enough to inspire terror.]
[Skurge continued, his voice becoming slightly higher, more stressed.]
"The consequences of silence are serious! Very serious! More serious than you can imagine!"
[He waited, the silence stretching. Seconds passed. Five. Ten. Fifteen. The crowd remained frozen, silent. Eyes averted. No one spoke. No one betrayed Heimdall. Despite their fear, despite the threats, despite the monster looming over them, the people of Asgard protected their former gatekeeper. Loyalty ran deep, deeper than fear.]
[After sufficient time had passed to make it clear that no one was volunteering information, Skurge narrowed his eyes. His voice became harder, carrying forced menace.]
"No one? No one wants to speak? No one wants to save themselves?"
[Hela, watching this display with growing impatience and amusement at Skurge's obvious discomfort, decided to move things along. She was done waiting. Fear needed a demonstration, not just words. Slowly, deliberately, she walked forward with fluid grace. Her dark armor seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Her crown of blade-like protrusions gave her an otherworldly, demonic appearance.]
[She scanned the crowd casually, her eyes moving across terrified faces without interest or compassion. Then, almost randomly, she raised one hand and pointed directly at one specific person. Her finger aimed like a weapon at a blonde woman standing near the middle of the gathered civilians.]
"You!"
[The single word was delivered with absolute authority, carrying the weight of a death sentence. Her tone suggested this woman's fate was already sealed, that her selection was final and arbitrary.]
["No! Stop! Please! She doesn't know anything!" Voices from the crowd rose immediately in protest, in defense. But the undead soldiers moved faster than the words. They rushed forward with inhuman speed, their decayed forms still possessing terrible strength. They pushed through the crowd, grasping the selected woman with skeletal hands, dragging her forward despite her attempts to resist and the protests of those around her.]
[The soldiers hauled her toward the front of the assembly and threw her down roughly onto the platform. She hit the ground hard, her hands catching her fall, her blonde hair falling across her face. She pushed herself up slightly, looking around desperately, searching for mercy that wouldn't come, for rescue that didn't exist.]
[Skurge couldn't bear to watch. His face twisted with disgust and self-loathing. He closed his eyes tightly, turning his head away as if by not seeing he could somehow not be complicit in what was about to happen. His jaw was clenched so hard his teeth hurt.]
"Please!"
[Two more undead soldiers approached from behind the woman. They grabbed her arms roughly and forced her forward, bringing her to stand directly in front of where Skurge stood. Then they pushed her down again, forcing her into a kneeling position before the executioner. Her head bowed forward, exposing her neck in the traditional execution posture. She was positioned perfectly for the death blow.]
[Hela watched this preparation with satisfaction. Then her head tilted slightly, and she looked directly at Skurge. She said nothing. She didn't need to. Her expression conveyed everything—expectation, command, threat. The message was clear: do what you were appointed to do, or join her.]
[Skurge, that clever but weak man, naturally understood what Hela meant through that silent exchange. He understood perfectly. He also understood that he had no real choice here. If he refused, if he showed defiance or mercy, his death would follow immediately. Hela tolerated no disobedience, no weakness, no sentimentality. He would die, and she would simply select another executioner, and this woman would die anyway. His refusal would accomplish nothing except adding his own corpse to the count.]
[So slowly, with movements that felt like lifting impossible weight, he turned to face the kneeling woman. His hand found the handle of Des and Troy—the twin M-16 rifles that Hela had given him, artifacts from Midgard transformed into weapons of execution. He raised the gun, positioning it properly, going through motions he'd practiced but never wanted to actually perform.]
[The Asgardian woman lay on the ground in absolute terror. Tears streamed down her face, leaving tracks through the dust on her cheeks. But she did not beg for mercy. She did not plead or cry out. Asgardian pride, even in the face of death, kept her silent. She simply waited, trembling, for death to come. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. Her hands gripped the stone beneath her. She thought of her family, her home, everything she was about to lose.]
[Skurge's internal struggle was visible on every line of his face. His hands shook slightly as he held the weapon. He glanced over at Hela standing on the steps above them, hoping perhaps for some sign of reprieve, some indication this was just a test he'd passed by showing willingness. But Hela's expression was unchanging, cold, expectant. She was waiting. Growing impatient.]
[Her voice cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and dangerous.]
"Well? Executioner?"
[The title was delivered with slight emphasis, slight mockery. It suggested: this is your role now. This is what you chose when you chose power. Prove you deserve it.]
[Under Hela's intense pressure, under the weight of her expectations and threats, Skurge swallowed hard. His throat was dry. His heart pounded. He closed his eyes again—if he couldn't see her face, maybe it would be easier—and raised the weapon to firing position. His finger found the trigger. Every muscle in his body resisted what he was about to do. But fear won over conscience. Survival instinct overcame morality. He prepared to pull the trigger, to end an innocent life to preserve his own.]
"Wait!!! Stop!!!"
[Just as Skurge was on the verge of suppressing his good intentions completely and firing, just as his finger began to apply pressure to the trigger, a man's voice rang out across the plaza. The shout was desperate, urgent, carrying the weight of someone making an impossible choice. "STOP!"]
[Everyone present—Hela, Skurge, the soldiers, the gathered civilians, the kneeling woman—turned to look at the source of the interruption. A man was pushing his way forward through the crowd, emerging from the mass of people. He walked out into the open space, putting himself in Hela's sight, making himself a target. His expression showed fear but also determination.]
[His voice continued, now that he had everyone's attention, now that he'd committed to this path.]
"I know where the sword is!"
[The words came out rushed, desperate, a confession traded for a life. "I can tell you! Just... just let her go! Please!"]
[Hela's eyes narrowed as she looked at this man, assessing him, calculating whether he was telling the truth or simply trying to buy time. Her expression showed cruel amusement mixed with satisfaction. Finally, progress. Finally, someone broke.]
Back in the present, watching this scene unfold, the assembled heroes had various reactions.
"It seems that Skurge is not completely bad after all!" Tony's voice carried a note of reassessment as he observed the former executioner's obvious internal struggle. His eyebrows raised slightly. "He's clearly conflicted. That's more than you can say for most of Hela's followers. There might be some remnant of conscience in there somewhere."
"How could he have the heart to lay his hands on such a beautiful lady?" Star-Lord's voice carried his characteristic appreciation for attractive women. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly, shaking his head. "I mean, look at her! That's just... that's just wrong on multiple levels! A warrior doesn't—"
Gamora's head turned to look at Star-Lord with an expression that could freeze plasma. Her green eyes carried a look that suggested Peter Quill's continued survival was suddenly questionable. The intensity of her silent stare was profound.
Star-Lord felt that look like a physical blow. It was as if a thorn had suddenly embedded itself in his back. His mouth snapped shut mid-sentence. He immediately stopped talking, his eyes going wide, his posture becoming defensive. "I just meant—in a general humanitarian sense—you know—" His words trailed off into uncomfortable silence as Gamora continued staring.
"Hahaha!" Yondu, watching this entire exchange from nearby, couldn't help but burst into laughter at how quickly and completely Star-Lord had been cowed. His distinctive gravelly laugh echoed across their current location. "Boy's whipped! Look at him! One look and he folds like cheap tent!"
At this moment, they had successfully escaped the pursuit of Sakaar's remaining military forces. The survivors of the aerial battle had given up the chase once the Avengers and Guardians had made it clear that pursuing further would mean complete annihilation. Now they were heading to a safe location on Sakaar's surface—somewhere far from the city, away from the Grandmaster's sensors and remaining forces, where they could safely summon the Rainbow Bridge without interference.
Valkyrie personally piloted the Statesman—the massive vessel that Korg and his fellow escapees had liberated from the Grandmaster's fleet. The ship was enormous, unwieldy, designed for hauling cargo and large numbers of passengers rather than combat or fancy flying. But Valkyrie's skill made up for the ship's limitations. Only with her expert control could Korg and his companions be confident they would maintain proper positioning when the Rainbow Bridge arrived, preventing them from deviating from the transport beam's pathway.
Rocket had transferred to the Commodore via his personal jet pack, zipping through space with gleeful enthusiasm. He'd fallen in love with the sleek spacecraft the moment he saw its specifications. The ship was beautiful—fast, maneuverable, equipped with excellent shields and power systems. He'd already decided to claim it as his new personal vessel.
His mind was racing with modification plans. He would replace all those useless fireworks and party systems with proper high-powered bombs and missiles. The passenger space would be converted to weapons storage. The entertainment systems would be ripped out and replaced with advanced targeting computers. Maybe add some additional engine boosters for extra speed. Definitely need to upgrade the weapons to include at least six different types of ordnance.
It was such a criminal waste that someone like The Grandmaster had been using this magnificent spacecraft as a mere sightseeing boat, as a party platform for his decadent celebrations. This ship deserved better! It deserved to shine on the battlefield, to strike fear into enemies, to be a proper combat vessel! Rocket would give it the purpose it was always meant to have.