Mischief's Debt

(Author's Note: This story came from a dream I had after watching The Avengers. It is first-person, post-Avengers, Loki POV. But aside from the dream, I am also writing based on a theroy I have that Loki may not have been in complete control over his actions during the film, so I apologize if it seems a tad OOC. Please read, review, and enjoy! Feedback welcome, flames not.)

When I first laid eyes on the little wretch, I looked and felt very much like a wretch myself. Like my brother had been years before, I had been stripped of all my power and cast out in reparation for my supposed actions

And this is how I, Loki, once considered a diety; found myself. Cold, ill, powerless, and worst of all, mortal in a freezing, rainy city the humans call Seattle. I don't know how Thor could stand feeling so weak, having always been so proud of the sheer brute force he could produce. Even at my peek I had never been known for my physical prowess, preferring to use my wits. So, naturally, where my brother may have felt uncomfortable, I felt miserable.

I don't remember much after falling into the abyss after my brief time as king of Asgard. Everything comes in flashes, and is blurry to say the least. After an incident in New York where I unleashed an army upon the humans, my brother returned me to our home to stand trial for my so-called crimes. Father did not have the heart to have me executed, so instead he sent me back to Earth to live out the rest of my days as a mere mortal. But not just any mortal. No, that would be far too easy. The most hated and hunted mortal in all the realm.

What did I want Earth for in the first place? That is a question I have been asking myself a lot lately, because in all honesty, I don't remember. I have no interest in it. It's small and weak and its inhabitants are pathetic and stupid. So imagine, if your feeble mortal mind can, the blow delt to my ego when I ended up in the debt of one of them.

It was so cold that night. Cold I could not have even comprehended before being trapped in this mortal shell. Alone in that ally, soaked to the bone from the merciless rain. Preposterous as it may seem, I was afraid I was going to die in that place like some rodent. Nobody cared for me anymore, but even I couldn't blame them.

When I began to accept the ridiculous probability of my death, he appeared. Not my brother, nor anyone from Asgard, but a slip of a human boy, no more than a decade of age or so old with dirty brown hair and strange grey eyes. "Go away." I snapped. The last thing I needed was some Avengers-crazed child to recognize me and report me to the mortal authorities.

"I said go away!" I snapped again, taking an admittedly pathetic swipe at the quiet boy. Still he didn't move. And that look he was giving me... was it pity? How dare he? I am Loki! No human has the right to pity me! "GET!"

This time the boy did move. He ran out of the ally without a word and I let out a sigh. I may not remember what I did on earth, but I remember clearly what I'd done in Asgard. This punishment, as detestable as it was, was fitting. I'd used my own ambition as a crutch, and now that crutch had been ripped away. I was already one of the creatures I hated most. Seemed only fitting to also make me the other.

When I looked up, that stupid boy was back. He was holding some sort of contraption to keep the rain off himself in one hand and a steaming bowl in the other. He crouched down so that the item that I would later learn is called an umbrella shielded me from the icy precipitation.

I stared at him, and he wordlessly pushed the bowl into my hands. It was full of a thin broth and long, thin noodles. I'm forced to admit that the smell of this soup made my stomach growl, and I swallowed it down, paying no mind that the fact that it burned my tongue and throat. This body was so weak, but already this soup (I would later learn is called Ramen Noodles) was already making me feel just slightly warmer and healthier.

Still, that boy stood there without a word until I had finished the soup. At that time he took my wrist in his small hand and pulled. "Come on." He said. I was about to reply with something scathing, for who was this brat to tell me what to do? But the words died in my mouth and to my lingering disgust, I let that boy pull me along.

He took me to an old building that looked like it had been empty for some time. Filthy, nasty place, but it was better than the streets. Still cold, but at least it kept the rain out. The room we were in had a little old bed in the center and the boy walked over and lit what I learned was a kerosene heater that sat nearby. "I come here to get away from my foster parents. But you can use it. It's not much, but it beats freezing to death out there."

I stared at him. Why on Earth would this boy want to help me? My face wasn't exactly unknown, unless the child had no access to news or information. "Do you know who I am?" I ask.

To my surprise, the boy nodded. "Yes."

"Then why help me? Aren't you Earth children supposed to hate me? Aren't you supposed to worship the heroes that defeated me?"

"Becasue you're all alone, and I know how that feels." I stared at him again, but before I could even open my mouth, he spoke again. "You have a bad fever. I could tell just by touching your wrist. So lay down before you fall down."

He knew who I was and what I'd done, but he still had the courage or audacity (likely both) to tell me what to do. "Why should I listen to you?"

The boy shrugged. "Do whatever you want. I'm not dumb enough to try and stop you. But I know that look. I see it every time I look at the other foster kids or in a mirror. One of the older kids called it the face of the unwanted. My own parents didn't want me, but I cant ignore someone else with that look. I don't care about what you did. Nobody should have to be alone."

For the first time in my life, I am rendered speechless. How is it that this puny human child could understand better than anyone this silly emotion that plagues my mind? I find myself sitting on the edge of the bed, still staring. "What is your name, boy?" I ask when at last I find my voice.

"Blake." he replied. "You get warmed up and try to sleep. I'll bring you some more food and some medicine in the morning. Don't worry. I won't tell anybody about you." And just like that, he was gone.

I lay down and cover myself in the blankets and stared at the heater. I shiver and I am forced to admit that if not for Blake, I would likely be dead by morning.

Wonderful. The once mighty God of Mischief was in the debt of a human child. But this child hadn't helped me because he expected some kind of reward, nor out of fear for his life. He helped me because... Because he knows what it's like to feel so alone.

I now understand that the look he gave me was not pity, but empathy. He may be mortal, but he understands. Perhaps there are worse fates than being in his debt.