<div class="floatleft">(http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mcs3w6RBZl1rk6on4o1_500.jpg)</div><hr/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: arial;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;"><strong>Name: </strong> Loki<br/>  <strong>Title: </strong>God of Mischief<br/>  <strong>Affiliation: </strong>Resistance?<br/>  <strong>Location: </strong>Cairo, Giza Plateau<br/>  <strong>Tags: </strong>Apocalypse, Selene, Blink, Open<br/></span></span><hr/><br/><br/>Well. There was another fond hope dashed to pieces. Stark was alive. And if Stark was alive, of course he was talking. And if was talking, of course he was broadcasting it around the world, because he did so love being the center of global attention.<br/><br/>Loka could not restrain herself from a petulant rolling of the eyes. She was, she had to admit, just the tiniest bit glad to hear Stark's supremely annoying voice once more. It meant there was enough technology left in the hands of the resistance for communication and organization. That was good to know. It was also good to know the name of Midgard's assailant: Apocalypse. Whoever or whatever it was, it was certainly living up to its name.<br/><br/>The transmission had an immediate effect on  her new acquaintance, who was up and away without answering her question. A pity, that, but Loka didn't have the energy to protest or to follow him. While Kurt certainly resembled bore a familial resemblance to Mephisto he didn't have the same empty aura as the denizens of Hades. Closer study of his natural talents would have to wait for another day, if indeed they had another day coming.<br/><br/>When the blue creature's departure was confirmed Loki resumed his natural form to conserve energy.  Transformation was difficult to maintain in the absence of magic. Still possible, but very draining. He spent the better part of the day crouched in the ruined cafe, eating everything in sight, drinking every drop of water, and regarding his bitter fate. The Norns were cruel mistresses indeed to bring him to his knees in a Midgardian hell hole, scuttling about and subsisting on scraps like a beast. It stung his pride.<br/><br/>Stung. Stinging. Lashing. Biting. Burning.<br/><br/>The sensation crept into his conscience. Loki put a hand to the packed dirt floor and felt the rushing heat sear his flesh. Only it didn't. He pulled back and studied his dusty fingers. There was magic here. Vast quantities of it. The ley lines were swollen with power drawn from every corner of the globe, pulled to this city. Pulled towards the mountains of cut stone.<br/><br/>Loki's opinion of Apocalypse spiked sharply. This was no mere warlord come to ruin and rule. This was someone with vision and deep knowledge of Midgardian magic; someone worthy of investigation. Let the heroes play with his toys - Loki would get to the heart of the matter.<br/><br/>Energized, he leaped to the broken window and took flight as an eagle once more. He made a wide turn over the city, noting a significant increase in the number of organized soldiers sweeping every street and alleyway. Apocalypse's ranks continued to swell with... citizens? So many were dressed like the people he'd seen in Cairo before the cataclysm, it couldn't be coincidence. They were changed - some wore scales instead of skin, or had horns, or extra limbs, or had grown to the size of Volstagg - but they had been human, here, not even a week ago. How had Apocalypse changed them? Magic? Alchemy?<br/><br/>More importantly - could this "transformation" restore his own powers?<br/><br/>The eagle's eyes flashed as it rode a high thermal towards the plateau and the pyramids. There was fevered activity on the ground, with soldiers and servants rushing to prepare transports and weaponry. And in the center, near the mouth of a tunnel, was a figure of some importance: grey, masculine, towering over the others with an unmistakably regal bearing. Before the leader was a prisoner and two women who appeared to be having a disagreement. All of them, even to his animal eyes, were blazing with auras of power.<br/><br/>Dazzled and perhaps too eager to learn more, the eagle dipped below the ever-present cloud of pollution that hung over Cairo. In that instant a bullet punched through its left wing, cracking the thin bone. Shedding copper feathers and blood, the bird spun in an awkward descent, claws extended, to fall in a spray of sand at the crest of a dune just inside the perimeter fence of Apocalypse's compound.<br/>