Thor's brow furrowed.
Tony pushed himself off the sidewall, walked to the center of the forward cabin, and tipped his chin toward the tactical display.
The screen was replaying the footage from earlier. Hela stood on the steps of the Golden Palace, her dark green eyes fixed on the camera as the Sword of Death swirled beside her.
"Doesn't that bastard Yongye usually love watching us make fools of ourselves? We're out front fighting for our lives while he's in the back living it up, using his position to get into one woman's pants after another, even Natasha..."
He paused, glanced toward the rear cabin, and swallowed the rest of his words.
"Now it's his turn."
He pressed the edge of the tactical display, switching the video to an audio waveform. Hela's line, "That trash who relies on his armor isn't even fit to carry my shoes," was isolated, enlarged, and annotated, every syllable clearly distinguishable on the waveform.
"This footage, along with what Hela said, should be enough to make that bastard restless."
Steve lightly tapped his shield-holding hand against his knee twice, his brow knitting into a deep knot.
"You're using him."
"Of course I'm using him." Tony turned to face Steve's conflicted expression, the calculating smile on his lips becoming one of undisguised candor.
"He's a bastard, but he's powerful. We can't handle Hela, so we'll let someone who can handle her do it. Does it matter how we get him to do it?"
Steve fell silent for two seconds. His gaze shifted from Tony's face to the footage looping on the tactical display, and at last, the faintest smile curved his lips.
"No."
Thor stood beside the cockpit, watching the footage on the tactical display, intensely complicated emotions churning in his golden eyes.
He remembered the