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ROUND THIRTEEN WILL OPEN ON SUNDAY THE 30TH.
ROUND TWELVE
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“She is Amora,” says Thor to Steve as they're sheltering behind a rock from the ravening horde of shadow creatures that have just appeared out of nowhere.
“She seems pretty mad at you,” Steve notes, and Thor grimaces.
“Our history is long and storied,” he says, which Steve supposes is his way of saying it's complicated. Apparently Asgard has a never-ending supply of slightly insane sorcerors who have a complicated relationship with their crown prince.
“Guys,” says Clint over the comm. “Shadow thingies look like they're an illusion. Just shot one and the arrow went straight through.”
Steve raises his eyebrows at Thor, and the two of them charge, only to be hit by something orange and foul-smelling coming out of Amora's staff. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees Thor going down like a ton of bricks, but he can't help him, because he feels like someone's hit his chest with a sledgehammer. He drops to his knees, vision fading in and out, and for a second he thinks he actually has some kind of projectile lodged in his chest, but then he realises the pain he's feeling is coming from his heart. It's wrenching, like someone's reaching in there and squeezing, and he wonders if maybe that's what she's doing, if she reaching in there somehow and crushing his heart. The world's going black at the edges, and he clutches his chest with one hand, scrabbling at the dirt with the other, trying to find something, anything to cling on to.
“Steve?” says a voice somewhere outside his head. It's muffled, and he doesn't recognise whose it is, can't even tell if it's a man or a woman, like he's hearing it through heavy static. His name again, and then something louder, distorted, words that Steve can't make out. Everything's going quiet, like he's sinking into deep water, and there's nothing any more except the feeling of his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest.
And then there's a jolt of pain, different this time, like something burning and snapping across his skin, and Steve gasps in a breath and hears a deep roaring noise and someone saying “--and to that I say, fuck you, Rogers.”
He opens his eyes and sees Stark's blurry face in front of him. Blinking, Steve sucks in another breath and tries to get up, but Stark's metal-clad hand lands in the middle of his chest, and Steve bites back a groan. It hurts like something's broken every one of his ribs. The roaring's still going, although Steve's not convinced it's not inside his head rather than outside.
“Oh no you don't, sunshine,” Stark says. “No-one gets to have a heart attack right in front of me and then just shrug it off. That's my party piece, and trademark infringement is definitely not your colour.”
“He all right?” Clint's voice says from somewhere to Steve's left, and Steve realises they're on the rooftop, high above the fight with Amora.
“He's not dead, thanks to the magic of electricity,” says Stark. “See, Cap, I told you the twenty-first century was an age of wonders.”
“We had electricity in the forties,” Steve says, his voice coming out more gravelly than he would like. “Doesn't Thor need our help?”
“I think practically kicking it right in front of Thor was more motivating to him than any amount of shield-flinging,” says Stark. “Maybe you should pull that trick on every mission. None of us would ever have to lift a finger again.”
Steve shakes his head, and realises that the roaring's definitely coming from somewhere else. Down below, in fact. And it sounds a whole lot like Thor.
Stark leans over the parapet, and then looks back at Steve and grins.
“He likes you,” he says. “He really likes you.”
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