He had looked and licked. Thor had even rubbed blisters onto his tongue, yet he still had not found the real hammer.
Coulson had originally intended to let Thor move around freely for a while longer before sending him to an asylum. However, Thor began showing signs of dementia again. Starting at noon, he sat at the end of the sorting line, licking the hammers one by one.
Whenever the agents delivered a crate, he licked through the entire crate, continuing until after ten at night.
Watching this scene, Melinda grew concerned and went to ask Coulson if this was really all right.
But the balding agent merely smiled faintly and answered in the world-weary tone of a middle-aged man, "Let him enjoy licking them today. He probably will not get another chance once he is inside."
Thor was exhausted. At last, he returned that night to the "bedroom" Coulson had arranged for him, put on a pair of distinctive "silver bracelets," and lay quietly on the bed.
But he could not sleep. He stared at the ceiling in the darkness, and only the flickering lights beyond the bars and the occasional passing patrol guard briefly brought him back to reality.
"What exactly is Father's purpose? With so many Mjolnirs, which one is real? And without Mjolnir, how am I supposed to regain my divine power?"
He muttered softly, tucking his hands, linked together by the bracelets, beneath his head. Of course, he knew this was really a cell, but there was not even a ventilation window leading outside. It was truly stifling.
"Perhaps he simply does not want you focusing on the hammer, my foolish brother."
A teasing voice suddenly rang through the cell. A lean man appeared, dressed in a black-and-green robe, his black hair hanging to his