"Is he still alive?"
Steve's question hung in the desert air, his eyes fixed on the empty sky where the Rainbow Bridge had vanished moments before.
Sif shook her head grimly, her pragmatism warring with genuine regret. "The Rainbow Bridge channels enough energy to destroy planet. Loki might survive within the Destroyer's protection, but anyone else..." She left the sentence unfinished, but her meaning was clear.
Volstagg released a long, sorrowful breath that ruffled his magnificent beard. When he spoke, his usual jovial demeanor had been replaced by the solemnity befitting a funeral oration. "Whatever else may be said, we Asgardians will remember this brave warrior's sacrifice."
The four visitors from Asgard had unconsciously begun treating Ben as a casualty, their expressions carrying the weight of warriors who had seen too many battles claim too many heroes. Even Heimdall, whose all-seeing gaze could penetrate the barriers between realms, detected no trace of Diamondhead who had vanished into rainbow fire.
In the infinite darkness between stars, a streak of prismatic light tore through the void, moving at speeds that mocked the laws of physics. The Rainbow Bridge carried its passengers across distances that would take conventional ships millennia to cross, its mystical energy forming a temporary corridor through the fabric of space-time.
Inside that corridor—where reality bent and compressed—Loki writhed in agony, his godly form assaulted by forces beyond comprehension. The Destroyer's armor, magnificent as it was, had never been meant to endure the full intensity of the Bifrost at point-blank range. Hairline fractures spread across its surface like spiderwebs etched in crystal—centuries of craftsmanship unraveling in seconds.
Yet Loki endured, his Frost Giant heritage providing just enough resilience to survive what would have instantly vaporized lesser beings. His consciousness flickered between awareness and oblivion, godly vitality burning like fuel to maintain his existence within the cosmic maelstrom.
What neither he nor distant observers realized was that he no longer traveled alone.
Ben's transition from Diamondhead to Ghostfreak had occurred in the microseconds before the Rainbow Bridge's arrival, hidden within the chaos of shattering crystal and rainbow fire. His new form possessed capabilities perfectly suited to the current crisis—intangibility that allowed him to exist within spaces that would destroy physical matter, and the ability to possess other beings when circumstances required it.
The Destroyer's magical defenses had initially repelled his attempts at infiltration, its enchantments specifically designed to prevent exactly such intrusions. But the Rainbow Bridge's devastating assault had compromised those protections along with everything else, creating gaps that could be exploited.
Now Ben existed as a shadow within Loki's subconscious, his ectoplasmic essence carefully woven through the God of Mischief's neural pathways. As long as his unwitting host survived the journey, Ben would remain undetected and unharmed. Should Loki perish, Ben could abandon the failing vessel and trust his ghostly nature to carry him safely through the void.
It was an elegant solution to an impossible problem, though not without costs. Watching the Destroyer's systematic destruction as they hurtled through space caused Ben genuine anguish. That armor represented one of the most sophisticated pieces of technology in the known universe, and seeing it reduced to scrap metal felt like watching a priceless work of art being fed into a wood chipper.
"My Destroyer," Ben mourned silently, his incorporeal form flickering with distress. The damage wasn't irreparable—Uru metal could be reforged given sufficient skill and resources—but the time and effort required would be substantial.
Still, temporary setbacks were acceptable prices for strategic victories. Through the mystical chaos surrounding them, Ben could sense their destination growing closer. Sakaar awaited, along with opportunities that would more than compensate for present difficulties.
The planet that emerged from the cosmic storm was a study in contradictions. From orbital distances, Sakaar appeared almost Earth-like—blue oceans dotted with landmasses of red stone and fertile soil. It should have been a garden world, a testament to nature's ability to create beauty in the vastness of space.
Instead, it had become the universe's ultimate junkyard.
Dimensional anomalies surrounding the planet acted like natural wormholes, regularly depositing refugees and debris from across known space. What were once pristine landscapes had become graveyards of alien technology, rusting starships, and the remnants of a thousand civilizations—piled layer upon layer with eerie precision.
Yet from that chaos had emerged a unique culture. Sakaar's inhabitants had learned to thrive on the constant influx of foreign materials, adapting alien technologies to their own purposes and creating a cyberpunk paradise that rivaled anything in the civilized galaxy. Towering cities of salvaged metal and repurposed starships stretched toward blood-red skies, their neon advertisements flickering in languages that spanned dozens of worlds.
As Ben and Loki plummeted toward this wonderland, they were joined by the day's usual collection of cosmic debris. Meteorites and spacecraft fragments traced burning paths through Sakaar's atmosphere, each potential treasure or catastrophe depending on one's perspective and preparation.
The Rainbow Bridge's distinctive radiance made their descent impossible to ignore. Across the planet's surface, scavenger crews that had been monitoring standard traffic suddenly found themselves scrambling to track a prize that promised to dwarf their usual salvage operations.
For most scavenger teams, the brilliant rainbow trail represented an opportunity too valuable to ignore. The more confident crews immediately began converging on the projected impact site, their jury-rigged vehicles loaded with salvage equipment and enough firepower to discourage competitors.
Smaller operations wisely chose discretion over valor, turning their attention to more manageable prizes among the day's standard debris. Survival on Sakaar required knowing one's limitations, and challenging well-equipped rivals for unknown treasures was a reliable path to an unmarked grave.
But for one particular observer, the Rainbow Bridge's appearance carried significance that transcended mere economic opportunity.
The woman who no longer used her birth name sat in a tavern that had been constructed from the hull of a crashed Kree battlecruiser, her fingers wrapped around a bottle of synthetic alcohol that promised oblivion but delivered only temporary numbness. Once, she had been among Asgard's most elite warriors—a Valkyrie whose very name had inspired songs and legends.
Now she was simply another refugee in a planet full of displaced souls, her wings clipped and her purpose lost to the cruel mathematics of war.
The Valkyries had been Asgard's answer to threats that conventional armies couldn't address. Mounted on winged steeds that could traverse dimensional barriers, they had served as Odin's personal strike force for millennia. Their mission: to select the honored dead from battlefields across the Nine Realms, ensuring that the bravest souls found their way to Valhalla's golden halls.
Young Thor had idolized them completely, dreaming of joining their ranks until someone had explained certain biological prerequisites for membership. Even then, his admiration had never dimmed—if anything, learning that courage and skill weren't limited by gender had only increased his respect for the warrior sisterhood.
But admiration meant nothing when facing Hela, Goddess of Death and Odin's firstborn daughter. When she had returned to claim her birthright, the Valkyries had stood against her with every weapon and tactic at their disposal. They had fought valiantly, died heroically, and accomplished absolutely nothing except ensuring that their killer's path to the throne remained unobstructed.
The sole survivor of that massacre had fled Asgard in shame and self-loathing, seeking refuge in the one place where her past couldn't follow. Sakaar welcomed all refugees equally, asking no questions about previous loyalties or abandoned responsibilities. Here, she could drink away the memories of fallen sisters and try to forget that she had once served a realm that no longer wanted her.
But the Rainbow Bridge's distinctive light cut through years of carefully maintained numbness like a blade through silk. That prismatic radiance carried with it the scent of golden halls and the sound of war-horns, memories so vivid they might have happened yesterday rather than centuries ago.
The bottle shattered in her grip, synthetic alcohol mixing with real blood as fragments of recycled glass bit into her palm. Yet she barely noticed the pain, her attention fixed on the fading rainbow trail that marked the passage of something from her former life.
Perhaps it was time to stop running from the past.
With movements that carried echoes of her former grace, the last Valkyrie rose from her seat and stepped into Sakaar's neon-painted night. Whatever had arrived on that rainbow bridge, she would be the first to greet it—for better or worse.