SUPREMACY / P. MAXIMOFF

friends in different galaxies

Thor's heart raced in his chest, thumping against his ribs in a way all too human for his liking.

"You called, Heimdall?"

"Trouble in the fourth realm, Odinson?"

His heart once again ricocheted off the walls of his chest. Thor scrunched his eyebrows together, eyes wide with confusion. His fists clenched at the thought of anyone he knew on his Earth in any mortal danger. "What is it you speak of? On Midgard? Is Jane alright?"

"Your Jane is alright. It is the fate of the Mind Stone, that fairs unwell."

"Where is it? I shall retrieve it," Thor replied, feeling determined and slightly relieved that none of his humans were in any danger.

"It lies within your dearest Anastazya Dmitriev," Heimdall stated, facial features morphing into something grim. "It is she who is in grave danger."

Thor's heart pounded harder in his chest, he was fearful it would explode. "My Lady Anastazya is in danger? Take me to her now!" Thor demanded, summoning his hammer from across the room and letting it slap into his callused palms. A wicked cocktail filled half with anxiety and half to the brim with adrenaline was injected into his bloodstream, heightening all of his senses.

"While I do have empathy towards the turmoil your friend is experiencing, I care not for her fate. I only care for the wellbeing of the stone, it is essential to the balance of the universe. Only because their two fates are now intertwined, is the reason I will permit you to bring her back to Asgard once you retrieve her. Understand?"

Thor fumed, impatient and immediately wishing to lash out at Heimdall's current lack of compassion.

But then when was he ever compassionate?

"I understand. Now take me to Anastazya."

Anastazya was drenched in convoluted rain drops as she trudged down the sidewalk of an admittedly more sketchy area of the city, an area scattered with hood clad people, looking strikingly similar to her.

Maybe this is where all the outcasts came to hide from themselves.

To dive into anonymity, to forget who they were, only for a few moments. At most a few hours. But if you were skilled (or had access to drugs like many people in this area did), you could numb your identity down to nothingness, until you were oblivious to your own reflection. This was an art Anastazya was dying to perfect.

Maybe if she forgot who she was, Pietro could forget about what she did. Maybe then, he would stop fearing her and start loving her again.

But that wouldn't happen. He could never forget what she did and she could never forget the look in his eyes when she did it.

Her heart felt empty and hollow, her thoughts were shallow and useless. Her body felt numb. The only thing that reminded her that she was in fact living was the blood dripping down her chin from gnawing restlessly on her already busted lip.

Ana stopped walking, her limbs willing themselves to stop as if they had minds and opinions of their own. They were begging her to sit down, to lay and sleep. But she knew that if she did she would not get up, and she would simply die where she laid.

So she kept moving. She didn't know why, every cell in her body was crying out for release. Her thoughts pounded at the walls of her skull to be released. A dry sob crept up her throat, but only came out as a wheezing hack with a tinge of a whine to it. Ana could feel someone's eyes on her. She slowly looked over her shoulder, secretly hoping it was a H.Y.D.R.A. agent. Hoping they would take her away.