L's hands flew reflexively to protect his ears when the harpy shrieked, and he weighed his chances.
If he played dead, they were low. If he ran, they were slim to none. If he fought... well...
He wondered if being torn limb-from-limb would be more painful than a heart attack. The fact that he found himself paralyzed reaffirmed his suspicion that there were no heroes among the living, but he hoped he was wrong. Shaking, he reached for his journal, pressing the button he'd come to rely on to make entries. He uttered a string of words, hoping that someone in Asgard would hear and do something.
Then, Frank was there.
Perhaps there were heroes among the living, after all. L watched as Mitch... er, Frank... tore off Mitch's shirt just before, to his eyes, it spontaneously caught fire. "Frank..." he said quietly, a mixture of gratitude and guilt coloring his words and expression. He busied himself with attempting to move out of harm's way, and scanned the halls with his eyes for anyone else.
If Frank couldn't fight fire with fire... their only chance might be to run, or else... or else...
L's thoughts strayed to the blinding strobe lights in their room, just a few feet away. And involving himself as a temporary bit of live bait. And Frank's apparent ability to use fire...
He inched towards the door of the room he shared with Frank, Fox, Rosa, and Frank's caterpillar.