At first, he was no more than a pretty decoration, roaming about the endless parties and trying not to join everyone else in their quest to get higher than the tip of Asgard's palace.

And that was fine. It was safe.

Eat, drink. Laugh, joke. Tell stories until your memory bank ran dry and you had to make something up. That was how it went. Party until the Grandmaster grew tired and sent everyone away.

Well, mostly everyone.

Loki never asked to be the Grandmaster's favorite. He never asked to be gifted a large suite that came with more terms and conditions than the average Midgardian peace treaty.

He never asked to land on Sakaar…

His current drink was thick and far too brightly colored to be even remotely safe to consume, but Loki downed the rest of it anyway. It tasted like survival.

And Loki was so tired of surviving.

But Thor was dead. Hela crushed his hammer like it was nothing; surely she had done the same to him.

So, Loki concentrated all his efforts on surviving—because what more was there left to live for?

Sakaar was perhaps the simplest, yet most terrifyingly insane planet Loki had ever been too. The rules were simple: do what the Grandmaster told you and you wouldn't have any reason to hurt. The insane part came when one tried to fulfill said wishes.

And every moment in between.

The man could change his mind and mood at the drop of a hat, so during his first few days, Loki became an expert at treading lightly. By the end of his first week, he grew confident that he could survive—and survive well—on Sakaar. After all, he was Loki, God of Mischief, Master of Magic. He could handle whatever the Grandmaster tossed his way.

This was a bold overstatement, to say the very least.

With Thor dead, Loki's best chance of rescue was himself, which is why he remained on Sakaar. Thanos no doubt still searched for him after his failure to take New York, and now that his guise as Odin had come to an unceremonious end, Loki found himself in need of a new place to hide.

Sakaar provided the perfect cover. Besides, leaving was something he had yet to try, and in all honesty, he wasn't sure it would end very well. For him.

So, Loki continued to make it through each day by reminding himself that this wasn't a life he was living—however scummy it might be. No, he was merely surviving. And one shouldn't have regrets about what they had to do to survive.

Right…?

In truth, Loki didn't know anymore, which is why he avoided thinking about it at all costs…

… And ordered himself another drink. They were free, anyway, thanks to his current standing with the Grandmaster. Perhaps an all-you-can-drink freel-for-all wasn't the safest of options, but who was Loki to stand apart from the crowd? So, he molded himself into the scene like a single stroke on a painting. Barely noticeable, yet still as much a part of the work as the rest.

And that was fine. That was safe.

Loki couldn't remember how he managed to graduate from standing in the background to claiming a front row seat in the Grandmaster's private box. Of course, it was the Grandmaster who'd claimed this seat for him, but who was Loki to complain? Complaining upset the Grandmaster, after all. So no one did it—at least, not within the ancient being's earshot.

While he wasn't normally a fan of the infamous games—the so-called "Contest of Champions"—Loki would pop in for the pre-game fights long enough to satisfy the Grandmaster, then vanish before the real slaughter began.

The was a large beast—the Champion of the Games—that Loki had only heard stories about, and frankly, didn't care to see. Even if the stories were exaggerated, as he suspected they were, he wasn't keen on watching a monster tear prisoners apart limb from limb.

Loki liked to keep his stomach intact, thank you very much.

As he took a sip of his next drink that evening, however, Loki had the sickening feeling that his clever little routine was about to come to an end. Something felt off… wrong, almost.

What doesn't feel wrong about this place, honestly?

But, no… this felt different. The pre-show fight wasn't lasting as long as it usually did. In fact, by the time Loki returned to his seat at the far end of the Grandmaster's long couch, the fight was nearly over.

The relieved part of him whispered that this would be a good time to make his exit for the night. The wise part of him knew he wouldn't be escaping the evening that easily.

Despite these conflicting thoughts, Loki downed the rest of his drink and plastered on the Grandmaster's favorite smile. "A delightful show, as always. If you'll excuse me for a moment, I believe I need another drink."

"You're not staying?" Hidden behind that sickeningly cheery attitude, the Grandmaster's tone made it clear that Loki should choose his next words carefully.

So, he did. As always.

"Oh, I'm just getting another drink. I'll be back in a minute."

Loki had nearly rounded the couch when the Grandmaster's next words stopped him cold.

"Oh, but I know you," he said, wiggling a finger that Loki supposed was meant to beckon him over. As it was, his feet remained firmly planted where they were. "You're going to grab a drink, flit about in the back there for a few moments, then vanish like ashes in the breeze."

An odd, morbid metaphor, to say the least. Loki resisted the urge to wince.

"Didn't think I'd notice." When the Grandmaster smiled again, Loki fought to keep his own intact. "But I did. You know, as, uh, big as my parties get, well…" He paused to chuckle. "There are some who don't think I notice anything. You know, in the chaos and all. But,"—It was the wink that nearly drove Loki over the edge. Nearly. It never went past nearly on Sakaar—"I always notice you."

Forcing a laugh that he was sure didn't sound like him in the least, Loki bowed his head. "Flattering. And while I can't say you're wrong, I can assure you that, this time, I truly will be back in just a moment."

"How about, instead, you sit back down, hmm? I wouldn't want you to miss the next part of the show. I think you'll find it, uh, interesting, or maybe even—what's that word you love again?—ah! Brilliant."

"I'm really quite tired, actually. I'll be sure to stay through the entire show next time."

"Come on!" Honestly, that smile was getting on his last nerves. "Sit back down. Join me for just a little while longer."

"I'm only going to get another drink."

The Grandmaster chuckled, sending shivers up and down Loki's spine. "And I'm not asking."

A familiar coldness settled over Loki as he plastered another fake smile on his face and eased himself back onto the couch.

"Now, that's better." As the Grandmaster's gaze drifted off the prince and onto the arena below, Loki felt the slightest twinges of relief.

Slight relief was the most he could feel these days, but he would take all he could get. Because at least he wasn't the center of attention anymore.

As a giant, heavily pixelated version of the Grandmaster filled the arena, Loki worked on calming his heart rate. The sooner he accepted the fact that he was stuck there for the time being, the sooner he could find another way out.

He just wanted his bed; to be alone; to slip into the blessed word of unconsciousness before his thoughts caught up with him. Before he accidentally started thinking about Asgard and Hela. And Thor.

No, stop it! There wasn't any use in dwelling on what he could never get back. Was this how Thor felt every time Loki faked his death…? But, no! He wouldn't think about that either.

He would simply order another drink from one of the exotic women milling about and hold his tongue as the Grandmaster had his way. Because, honestly, what else could he do?

The giant version of the Grandmaster announced—with no small amount of glee—that a public execution was to precede the main event. Clearly a pre-recorded message, as the ancient being still occupied the opposite end of the couch, it began revving the crowd up for a public execution.

That was a new one.

Well, of course, he'd heard the Grandmaster mention it a few times, or something along those lines, but Loki hadn't ever given the notion a second thought.

He risked a sideways glance at the Grandmaster. The madman sat back, the epitome of relaxation, as if he were enjoying a simple evening at the theater.

Instead of waiting on pins and needles to watch someone die.

Loki sucked in a quiet breath and turned his attention back to the arena.

All right. Fine. He'd seen hundreds of people die. This… This was nothing.

Well, those he'd killed in New York amounted to less than a hundred… And besides that, his actions had been the will of Thanos, not his own idea…

But, Odin had held executions before, hadn't he? Of course, those had been quick, painless acts of justice. And Loki hadn't really attended many of those formalities, opting to remain hidden to the world until the deed was done.

But he was prepared. He would be fine. Once it was over, he could grab another drink and slip out.

It's fine. Because he had seen many people die…

… Just not in such a gruesome fashion.

He was unfortunately familiar with the Melt Stick, having witnessed the Grandmaster using it several times. A repulsive enough death, to say the least.

This, however, was a completely different playing field. What unfolded far below him didn't simply border along the lines of inhumane—it made a big show of crossing it.

For a long moment, Loki didn't trust himself to speak as the torture began. His brain screamed at him to look away, but just couldn't, no matter how hard he tried. And oh, how he tried!

"What, uh,"—A discrete clearing of his throat steadied his voice enough to speak properly again—"What was his crime?"

With a lazy flick of his hand, the Grandmaster glanced Loki's way. "You know? I think this one… Yes, this one stole from me. Naughty thing."

A scream rippled up from the arena and Loki felt his stomach flip. "That's all?"

"What, are you kidding me?" Another scream, this one more bloodcurdling than the last. "That's a very serious offense, especially when I'm the one on the losing end."

Loki could pry his gaze off the scene below, his revulsion for the Grandmaster growing with every snap of the prisoner's bones. You're never the one who has to lose.

For the briefest of moments, he wondered if the lunatic even knew what it felt like to truly lose.

"Very serious," the Grandmaster muttered as he stroked his blue-streaked chin. "Very serious, indeed."

"I just…" Clearing his throat, Loki forced his voice not to waver. Weakness has no place on Sakaar. "If I might be so bold, I'm just not sure the punishment fits the crime. Now, if he'd murdered someone, or—"

All it took was a simple look and the Grandmaster shut Loki down faster than Odin used to.

"If I remember correctly," he began, a sickeningly cordial smile stretching his lips, "it's not your job to orchestrate my entertainment. No, no, your job is to sit there and look nice."

A suddenly self-conscious hand carded through Loki's dark waves as he wet his lips. "Of course, but I think—"

"Ah, yes." A chuckle cut him off again, forcing him to battle the cold shivers that shook his spine. "You know, that's what I love about you. In a festival full of drunken fools, you're the one who's always thinking. For now, though, why don't you just sit back and let me do the thinking for you, like everyone else."

And Loki had this chilling inkling that the Grandmaster wasn't asking.

The ancient being had power—that had become abundantly clear over the last few days. Even with his magic, Loki was no match for the deranged mind of En Dwi Gast. So, with a mute nod, he turned his attention back to the arena.

The prisoner hardly resembled a man now and Loki was certain he was going to be sick. When would the suffering end? Never.

Since arriving on Sakaar, the prince has done what he had to in order to survive, but he'd always kept his head above water, even as the rest of him struggled to swim through the chaos.

Now, a numbness like no other settled over him and he could feel his head begin to sink. On this planet, he had limited to no control—of anything. Not even himself.

If Helplessness was the name of the pool he'd fallen into, Loki knew he was about to drown. Gasping for breath, struggling for a foothold.

Because for the first time in his life, Loki felt truly out of his depth.