"How dare you speak to me with such insolence!"
Ben's casual insult struck Loki like a physical blow, igniting a fury that seemed to burn from the very core of his being. The God of Mischief's carefully maintained composure shattered completely, his green eyes blazing with rage as his entire body trembled with barely contained wrath.
The timing couldn't have been worse for such a personal attack. Having recently discovered his true parentage, Loki's sense of identity hung by the thinnest of threads. Every sideways glance felt like suspicion, every casual comment carried potential mockery. But Ben hadn't delivered a casual comment—he'd struck with surgical precision at Loki's deepest insecurity.
The four Asgardian warriors watched their childhood friend breakdown with growing confusion. While calling someone a "bastard of Jotunheim" was certainly insulting, it hardly seemed worthy of such an extreme reaction. They'd heard far worse insults exchanged during tavern brawls without anyone losing their composure so completely.
What they didn't understand was that lies might sting, but truth cut deeper than any blade. When two opponents traded barbs, the one who broke first was invariably the one whose weakness had been exposed.
For his part, Ben felt no particular anger at Loki's threats. Why should he? The God of Mischief was essentially playing delivery service, first providing the Destroyer and now bringing the Casket of Ancient Winters directly to Ben's doorstep. Such considerate behavior deserved appreciation rather than irritation.
"Such a thoughtful person," Ben mused privately, already planning how to acquire the cosmic artifact currently clutched in Loki's trembling hands.
In Ben's assessment, the Casket was practically already his. After all, what kind of host would he be if he refused such a generous gift? The poor prince had clearly gone to enormous trouble arranging this delivery—it would be positively rude to decline.
Captain America, meanwhile, watched the escalating confrontation with bewilderment. He'd been fighting horrors for what felt like hours, and now even more players were joining an already complex situation.
"Excuse me," Steve interjected, his voice carrying the patient tone of someone trying to make sense of rapidly shifting situation. "Could someone explain who exactly you people are?"
He'd noticed the Plumbers symbol on Diamondhead, but the four newcomers were complete unknowns. Their armor and weapons looked like museum pieces, predating even his own era by several centuries.
"Asgardians," Ben replied helpfully, gesturing toward the warrior quartet. "Here to assist their fallen prince. As for me, Four Arms has other assignment, so I'm covering this. You can call me Diamondhead."
Steve was about to offer a more formal introduction when Fandral's hot temper overrode diplomatic protocol.
"Mortal!" the dashing swordsman barked, his weapon half-drawn from its sheath. "Release Thor's hammer immediately! Such a sacred artifact is not meant for your unworthy hands!"
"That's enough!" Loki's voice cut through their exchange like a crack of thunder. "I will not be ignored by lesser beings!"
The God of Mischief had reached his breaking point. Pouring his godly essence into the Casket of Ancient Winters, he unleashed forces that had once threatened to plunge entire star systems into eternal ice age.
The artifact's response was immediate and catastrophic. Frigid winds erupted from the casket, carrying temperatures that made arctic blizzards seem tropical by comparison. In seconds, the desert's oppressive heat became a memory as winter claimed dominion over several square kilometers.
Steve's enhanced physiology provided some protection.
The cold bit through his uniform and into his bones, triggering muscle memory of his decades-long frozen imprisonment.
The Asgardian warriors fared little better. While their constitution allowed them to function in Jotunheim's natural climate, the Casket's output far exceeded anything their realm had ever produced. Frost began forming on their armor and weapons as their breath misted in the suddenly frigid air.
But it was Loki himself who underwent the most dramatic transformation. As the Casket's power flowed through him, his carefully maintained Asgardian appearance began to crack like a failing illusion. Blue tinged his skin, starting at his fingertips and spreading rapidly up his arms as his true heritage asserted itself.
"Loki," Hogun breathed in horror, his warrior's composure shaken by the revelation. "Your skin... you're one of them. A Frost Giant!"
The accusation hung in the air like a physical presence. These warriors had recently battled Frost Giants in Jotunheim itself—they knew that distinctive coloration all too well. But to see it manifesting on someone they'd known since childhood challenged their understanding of reality itself.
Loki offered no explanations or justifications. His feelings toward these particular Asgardians had always been complicated at best. While he might harbor some residual affection for Odin and Thor, these warriors represented the society that had unknowingly raised him as a living trophy of conquest.
"You will all perish here," Loki declared, his voice carrying newfound certainty as his transformation completed itself. "Every last one of you!"
The Casket's power reached critical mass, dropping ambient temperatures to levels that would have instantly killed unprotected humans. Steve felt his blood beginning to sluggishly respond to the cold's assault, his movements becoming increasingly labored despite Mjolnir's godly protection.
"Be frozen for eternity!" Loki screamed, pushing the artifact beyond its power.
A white storm erupted outward from his position, carrying winter's wrath in concentrated form. Sand crystallized into ice, moisture in the air became razor-sharp snow, and the very atmosphere seemed to freeze solid. Within moments, the entire visible landscape had transformed into a arctic wasteland that would have been impressive even by Jotunheim's standards.
Loki's laughter echoed across the frozen battlefield as he imagined Earth itself succumbing to eternal winter. In his mind's eye, he could see Midgard's pathetic civilizations crumbling beneath ice sheets thousands of feet thick, their primitive technology useless against godly forces beyond their understanding.
But his triumphant moment was shattered when an emerald hand simply reached through the supernatural blizzard and grasped the Casket directly.
Ben's eyes met Loki's shocked gaze through the swirling snow, his crystalline features completely unbothered by temperatures that should have flash-frozen any carbon-based life form.
"Sorry," Ben said conversationally, "but extremes temperature doesn't really affect me."
As a silicon-based life form, Diamondhead operated according to fundamentally different physical principles than organic beings. He possessed no blood to freeze, no moisture to crystallize, no carbon-based chemistry to disrupt. The Casket's arctic fury, capable of creating new ice ages, was essentially meaningless against his mineral-based physiology.
More practically, New Mexico's desert environment contained insufficient atmospheric moisture for Loki to create the massive ice formations that might have posed a genuine threat. He'd brought a winter-themed weapon to a fight in one of Earth's driest regions—poor tactical planning that reflected his relative inexperience with planetary conquest.
"Oh Loki," Ben said with mock sympathy, "you really shouldn't have brought gifts. Though I do appreciate the gesture."
Before the God of Mischief could fully process what was happening, Ben's free hand closed around the Casket and simply pulled it away from Loki's frozen grip. The ease was almost insulting—like taking candy from a particularly naive baby.
"Thank you for the donation," Ben continued cheerfully, using his molecular control to create a secure storage compartment within his chest cavity. The Casket disappeared into the improvised safe with a soft click, leaving Loki staring at empty air where his ultimate weapon had been moments before.
Loki's mind struggled to process what had just occurred. He'd traveled across planet, revealed his deepest secrets, and unleashed forces capable of reshaping planet. And in response, some Midgardian had simply... taken his weapon. Not defeated it, not countered it with superior technology—just reached out and confiscated it like a teacher dealing with a disruptive student.
The God of Mischief's psychological defenses, already strained beyond their limits, finally collapsed entirely. His mouth worked soundlessly as he tried to formulate a response to such casual theft, but no words seemed adequate to express his complete bewilderment.
Ben, meanwhile, was already running preliminary diagnostics on his new gift.
"Teamwork makes the dream work," he observed to the still-frozen Loki, whose expression suggested he was having serious difficulty accepting this new reality.
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