Loki slumped back against the wall of his prison, deep beneath the walls of the place he once naïvely labelled home. His wrists cuffed together, he found he could do nothing but think, and whilst in a different time he may have rejoiced for such silence, now it was more a burden than anything. He was trapped, completely and utterly trapped. Though he was sure in himself to think of some way to flee, for now he rested, tried to regroup, and desperately tried to keep his mind from straying to anything which had recently transpired.
“Boot. Ant,” he muttered to himself, and his laugh echoed quietly around his confines. An echo, much like his presence would be upon the earth by the time he was let out. Unbidden, the image of a certain Midgardian conjured in his mind. Strong jaw, determined eyes, rough voice and skin, dark and smooth in appearance, though likely littered with scars. Nick Fury was an enigma, an enigma Loki could do nothing but dream about. He wasn’t sure whether he loathed, envied or remained in some sort of mewling awe of the man. Though Loki knew one thing for certain: his throat parched whenever he saw him.