The four of them walked across the fractured ground in silence, the air still humming faintly with the aftertaste of thunder.
Lily finally broke the quiet, tilting her head toward Luthar. "So… are we just going to teleport to Russia? Or are you hiding another one of those skimmers somewhere?" Her tone was casual — after all, she had already seen him pull out impossible machines.
Natasha gave a faint snort, though her eyes never left the ruined horizon. "Russia," she murmured under her breath. Memories of the Red Room stirred like ghosts — the place she had once buried, the nightmare she thought erased. And yet, here it was, clawing back into her path. A trace of unease flickered across her face before she masked it again.
Luthar didn't answer immediately. His gaze was distant, calculating. "Another skimmer…" he said slowly. "No. I only had one. I never thought I would need a second."
Lily frowned. "Then how?"
He exhaled, almost reluctantly. "There is an aircraft. An old design. Ground-bound. It has been repaired more times than I care to count. Some panels were falling off the last time I checked." His lips curved faintly, not in humour but in challenge. "But it should hold together long enough to take us to Russia. It is still reliable."
Lily's brow creased as she processed his words. "Fixed more times than necessary…" she muttered. Her mind, still sharp from studying Earth's history, immediately conjured images of aircraft tumbling out of the sky — flames, broken wings, screaming engines. She remembered videos she had seen, accidents caused by bad maintenance.
Her stomach twisted. That doesn't sound reliable. That sounds like suicide.
She forced a smile, edging a step back. "Well, if that's the case, I think I should… help Hephaestus instead. You know, polish blades, tend the forge. I think she needs my help more than you do."
Before anyone could answer, her armour shimmered. With a flash of teleportation, she was gone — retreating to the safety of the forge without even a farewell.
Freya, silently observing, let out a soft laugh, her silver hair glinting in the fading light. "She runs fast when she smells danger." Her gaze flicked to Luthar, curious. "So, what exactly are we walking into? Something… worth watching?"
Luthar adjusted the shrunken Destroyer still at his side. His tone was flat, clinical. "A family drama. A handful of miserable girls who must either be saved… or killed. Depending on the situation."
His mind reached into the system-space. After twenty long seconds, an aircraft finally materialised before them. A relic of a machine: blocky, weathered, its hull marked by battle scars and centuries of repair. A faint, tired hum shivered from deep within its frame as circuits strained back to life.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't polished. Just a chunk of machinery with rows of crude switches and a single flickering light that pulsed like a weary heartbeat.
"Old," he said flatly, as if that was explanation enough. "But it works."
Freya's lips quirked in faint amusement. "So do rusted knives."
Natasha tugged at her gloves, her gaze narrowing on the relic. "That thing looks like it belongs in a museum. You expect it to fly? I'd be surprised if it managed to roll a few meters without collapsing."
Luthar's eyes gleamed, a low hum in his voice as if Natasha's doubt had been mistaken for reverence. "A museum?" He shook his head slowly. "No. An aircraft that has endured 800 years does not belong in a museum. It belongs in a sanctum. To rise into the sky after so many years…" His lips curved faintly. "That is no longer a machine — it is a miracle. I had planned to restore it before placing it in a temple. But now… it will serve once more, one last flight before it earns its rest."
Natasha's eyes narrowed. 800 years? She had expected maybe fifty, perhaps a hundred at the absolute extreme. But 800? The number was absurd. And yet, here she was boarding it.
The interior surprised her. The seats, though worn, were better kept than most troop transports she had flown in. The design carried a strange dignity — functional, but heavy with history.
As Luthar pressed a switch, the engines rumbled awake. The hull shivered with vibration, yet held steady. Against her instincts, Natasha felt a flicker of relief: it wasn't falling apart immediately.
Then her operative's mind sharpened. The vibration, the ascent, the direction — Russia. She turned toward Luthar, suspicion flashing in her eyes.
"What about satellites? Military surveillance? Border control?" Her tone was sharp. "You think you can just fly into Russia like this? Even with stealth, you'll cross more than one defence net. So what's the plan?"
Luthar didn't even glance up. From his coat, he produced a palm-sized device, etched with glowing runes and veins of circuitry.
"This craft has no stealth," he admitted. "Nor does it need any." His thumb brushed across the device, and it hummed with a low, resonant thrum. "This will suffice."
Natasha studied it with narrowed eyes. "And what is that supposed to be?"
"A jammer," Luthar replied, casual, matter-of-fact. "Anything that attempts to scan this vessel — satellite, radar, thermal sweep — will see only empty sky."
Her frown deepened. "And civilian aircraft? You jam them too, and this turns into a midair funeral."
Luthar shook his head, guiding the relic steadily upward. "Civilian systems are excluded. To them, we appear as one of their own. It blinds only what must be blinded. Nothing more."
The aircraft soared steadily, carrying them higher through the clouds. For nearly an hour they flew in silence, the steady thrum of the engines the only sound. Then a faint pulse flickered across the console. Luthar pressed a button, and a holo screen bloomed into the air, casting pale light across the cabin. The image was jagged at first, then sharpened into view: spires of gold, floating bridges, endless skies.
Natasha's brows knit together. "What… is this place?" she asked, suspicion tightening her voice. Freya leaned forward, silver hair catching the light, her tone a little suspicious, "Asgard?"
"Yes," Luthar said simply. His gaze never wavered from the image. Natasha's frown deepened. "But how can we see that?"
"Because I prepared," Luthar replied. His voice was calm, almost too calm. "When Thor was returning, I released hidden drones to follow him across the bridge. If we ever plan to go there, we need coordinates and knowledge. After all…" His mouth curved faintly, dry humour beneath the weight of his words. "One cannot steal from a realm if one doesn't even know where it lies."
Freya gave a low chuckle, brushing a strand of silver hair from her face. "Or," she said with disarming ease, "you could simply send me. With my face, they'd probably hand over the entire vault without complaint. No need for drones or theft."
As the atmosphere finally loosened. The conversation drifted to lighter ground — old stories, stray jokes, half-thoughts that carried no real weight. Yet it was enough. Freya kept steering the words wherever she could, trying everything to make sure the three of them stayed at ease. Better they finish the journey with laughter and idle chatter than sit for hours in the silence of old engines and heavier thoughts.
Author's Note : wanted to complaint about the current situation but feel like it's not the right time.
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