My Initial response to Thor: Dark World. I know, it's been a while, but I just finished it, and I wanted y'all to see it. So...here you go! This is what would happen if in an alternate universe Loki were actually a halfway decent good person...
So yeah! Enjoy!
DIsclaimer: Loki, and all characters depicted below...do not belong to me...they are property of Marvel Cinematic Universe, and I like it that way!
Prologue
He wasn't a simpleton. He knew his strengths as well as the weakness that plagued him, and he knew every exact circumstance in his life in which he made the wrong choice; in the past three years, those wrong moves had more than quadrupled in comparison to the other four hundred and thirty years he'd existed. He'd always promised himself that no matter the number of missteps he took, he would never apologize.
He found himself doing just that.
He would not make it common knowledge of course. Nor would he admit his wrongdoing to those who would mock him or hold it against him. Not all of the individuals that he'd wronged deserved an apology; but there were a few: souls who'd been irreparably damaged by what he'd done to them; damage that was seared just as deeply into his own soul, were one to look close enough.
No one ever did.
The anger that rose in him every time he was reminded that there was no one left to care about him faded when he was abruptly reminded that his actions were the very reason there was no one left.
There was also the fact that the only individual left living who would even think of him thought him dead; but when he was in such a mood, that thought conveniently never took hold.
He had done wrong; he must atone for those wrongs. As a king, it was his duty to be a good example to his subjects, even if they would never know the actions he took.
He would know.
So he catalogued, he wrote his list, then he wittled that list down to the four he had most wronged; four changed broken souls, broken because of him. To them he would atone.
And so he went.
The Genius
The first individual with which he aimed to speak with he found writing furiously on a small desk stuffed in a crowded apartment found in the heart of New York. He did not make his presence known immediately, preferring to observe the genius in front of him.
The man, face lined by life, never took his gaze from the notebook in front of him. His eyes darted back and forth across the page, blue eyes intense and focused as he took in everything he'd written before returning the inky black pen in his hand back to the page. His shock of white hair stood on end, as if he'd spent days at the cluttered desk, running his hand through his hair in frustration whenever the words he'd written confused him. The sweater he wore was wrinkled, and food stains littered the collar, showing the absentminded way in which the genius had eaten, as if he hadn't really cared much whether the food made it into his mouth or not.
The man was different than he'd been before. He could not be surprised by that, and he wasn't. Everything he'd been through and the poor genius had been bound to go through some changes. But before; the genius had been everything that was neat and pristine, his pale colored button up always tucked in, his dark slacks neatly pressed and hair properly groomed. Before the genius had demanded a pristine workplace; the messy apartment was nothing of the sort. Before the genius had boasted nearly impeccable posture, something that was very important to him. Posture was everything. Now, the genius slouched as if he carried impossible weight on his shoulders. The thing most different about the genius, he mused was the look in his eyes. Even when his mind had been controlled, and his eye color changed, there had been a calmness, a sense of confidence in self. Now, the eyes were frazzled, constantly moving, as if physically unable to keep still. His eyes spoke of frantic puzzlement, as if he'd lost who he was, and could do nothing to find himself again. Those very eyes he was shocked to notice, were trained right on him, and the genius had frozen in shock, mouth forming the word you, though unable to voice it at all. He took a step forward, ready to confront the genius, when the man jerked to a stand, and He realized something he'd only wondered about before.
The genius wore no pants.
He was startled by this realization, and came to only when the genius began to speak.
"I thought you were dead." The voice spoke accusingly, and was high pitched and fast paced, and the genius continued without waiting for a reply.
"Thor told me you were dead. He said he saw you die. You were dead. He told me so. But you're not dead. You're alive. Does Thor know you're alive? Why are you alive? Have you been alive long? What are you doing here if you're alive? What do you want? What do you want with me? I'll tell Thor. Thor will come, you'll be in trouble. Why are you here?"
As the genius rambled on He rolled his eyes. He waited patiently for the rambling to come to a conclusion, but began to fidget the longer the genius spoke. He may have come to apologize, but being uncomfortable to the point of fidgeting was not a part of the bargain! A king should never have to fidget!
He brought his hand up quickly, holding it shoulder height for a moment, fingers spread, with palm facing the genius. the quick gesture caused the genius to flinch but silenced him in the same moment.
"Obviously I am not dead. Thor did indeed see me perish. You may indeed inform Thor of my sudden appearance, but after witnessing your proclivities firsthand, I do not believe he would put much stock in the words of a crazy man."
The genius flushed, but he did not deny the truth in the words. "If I'm crazy, it's your fault!"
He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging his role in the genius' crazy.
His lack of argument flustered the genius. "You, you won't deny it?"
"Why would i?" He scoffed. "You speak truth. The regression of your mind is a consequence of my actions. I am at fault."
The genius seemed at a loss for words, his mouth open slightly in shock. He rolled his eyes slightly. All he did was speak truth. It couldn't be that surprising.
"Why are you here, liesmith?"
Ah yes. That particular nickname. One he'd certainly earned. That was why the genius did not believe him. Because he lied.
But he would not lie about this.
"I am here for one purpose and one purpose only. That purpose is not to harm you."
The genius scoffed. "As if I would believe that. The last time you popped in for a visit you borrowed my mind without asking and returned it in less than stellar condition."
He winced slightly. "Yes. I did, didn't I? It is a painful process, isn't it? Pain like that isn't so easy to forget." He'd come here to apologize. He'd come here to be honest. For the sake of his people, he would do so, even at the risk of his pride.
The genius paused, head cocked slightly as he thought. "You speak as if you know from experience."
He shrugged lightly in response to such a statement. He came to be honest, but in that…he would be silent.
"What you did to me…it broke me."
He had to look away. He'd known, of course. The path he'd chosen, the path he'd had thrust down his throat, he'd known that there would be casualties. But the pain this genius, this scientist, had gone through; he'd been through the same pain. It was a pain he'd rather have died than endured, and then he'd forced it on others, simply by his inability to be strong. This was why he'd chosen to apologize to the individuals that he did.
"I know. I'm sorry."
That stunned the genius into silence.
"I cannot fix your mind. It has gone through damage you should not have survived from. I deeply regret that I cannot make you whole again. But if there is ever anything I can do…anything you have need of, I will do it."
There was silence as the oath he had just promised was fully processed. The genius grinned.
"You're apologizing to me."
He winced. He would not demean himself to apologize, he was a king after all.
"Atonement." He argued smoothly.
"I can't accept it. Too much has happened."
"I understand." He drew a piece of blank parchment out of his pocket, and flicked it from his hand. The parchment flew softly to land on top of the genius' notebook. "If you do ever have need of me, sign your name to this parchment, then fold it up and throw it in the air. I will assist you if I am able."
He could stay no longer. He had three more individuals to visit, and he wanted this ghastly trek done with, so he turned to go.
But the genius had one more thing to say.
"Your brother, I assume you don't want him to know you were here?"
He paused at the words. "If you tell him, he will not believe you. Not because your words don't have merit," he assured, "But he witnessed my death. He will not easily believe in my survival. Even were my oaf of a brother to believe, by the time he was informed, I would be long gone, and he would be unable to find me. The choice is up to you.
And before the genius could say anything else, he was gone.
He'd done what he'd needed to do for Erik Selvig. He'd left the two necessary ingredients that the scientist would need to move forward. Now, it was up to Selvig. He had others to speak to; less forgiving souls, at that.
The Fighter
He could not sneak up on the fighter. The moment he'd arrived, he'd been spotted, and attacked. He knew this fight would be physical, just as he knew he could not fight back. The anger he found in the fighter was not surprising, but that did not make the attack any easier. He blocked and parried, but threw no punches, let loose no weapons, and kept himself firmly on the defensive. The Genius needed honesty, the fighter? He needed the fight.
The fighter attacked relentlessly, rushing at him nonstop, making a massacre of the training room, he'd surprised the fighter in. a treadmill was overturned, free weights thrown maliciously at his head, punching bags ripped from the ceiling to be kicked frantically in his direction. He knew what the fighter wanted; the fighter wanted blood. The fighter would get what he wanted; that was why he'd shown up in the first place, but the fighter wanted his blood a specific way; and he would make sure the fighter got what he needed.
The fighter, faced flushed and eyes crazy, threw and kicked and punched and snarled, but both individuals engaged in battle understood that neither party was getting what they wanted. Not, at least, until the fighter's hands closed over a bow. On instinct the fighter brought bow and arrow into position, and merely seconds after his hands had closed over the precious wood, he let the arrow fly.
The arrow flew right to target, hitting him squarely where the fighter had been itching for since his mind had been returned to him; the fighter hit his right eye, and he let it happen.
He could've healed it on the spot. He could've laughed mockingly, pulled the arrow out, and winked at the fighter from his perfectly unblemished eye. But he didn't. He couldn't. THIS was the blood that the fighter had craved. And so he fought not to heal himself, and let the pain take hold. The arrow protruding from his eye left the fighter prone; frozen, but prone.
The pain was intense. His right eye scorched, heat blazing his face as copious amounts of blood leaked from the injury. Allowing himself to show weakness, he let himself fall to the floor, not even attempting to staunch the blood flow; instead allowing his gaze to center on the fighter who watched.
Who knows how long they stayed there, the fighter watching crouched from his raised position on a turned over exercise bike, curiously eyeing him, propped up against the wall, breathing heavily and staring unblinkingly at the man who had shot him in the eye with an arrow. The fighter moved first, tossing over a pristine white towel that he caught, clutching it to the still bleeding eye.
When the fighter spoke, it was not words of hatred or condemnation, as He'd expected, but instead words of confusion.
"You let me hit you."
He nodded, wincing harshly when the movement bothered his eye. "I did so."
"You let me shoot you in the eye with an arrow, after all of my failed attempts at getting to you. You didn't stop it, let it bleed, and haven't healed it yet."
"You're observation skills astound me." He snapped, though he regretted it afterwards. The fighter took no offense, continuing to speak anyway.
"You let me hurt you. Why?"
"Let you?" he snapped in an attempt to save face. "I would allow no one the opportunity to cause me pain,"
"But you did." The fighter interrupted. "I wouldn't have gotten close if you hadn't allowed it."
He winced. "Would you believe I was distracted?" He asked blithely.
The fighter snorted. "Try again."
"I stole your mind."
The fighter froze at the candid words.
"I would gift you mine if that would make amends, but my own mind is in a much sorrier state than yours. I would fix your mind if I had the ability, but even as gifted as I am I could not."
"But I got your eye." The fighter nodded once, understanding immediately. "Is this some kind of sick apology?"
He winced. That word again. A king did not apologize.
"Atonement," he argued.
The fighter shrugged. "Fancy word, same meaning." The fighter stood slowly from his crouched position, still staring assessingly at the bleeding figure.
"I don't accept. You can't just waltz in and pity fight me and expect your conscious to suddenly become guilt free."
"I expect nothing of the sort." He scoffed. "I have wronged you, and you are due reparations. Unfortunately my time is a rare commodity, and one that I refuse to waste following you around,"
"What, too busy trying to take over other planets?" The fighter snarked.
He rolled his eyes. "Of course not. That would be a waste of time and precious resources, and the first attempt should never have happened at all; a repeat is certainly never going to occur."
The fighter took in his words; then nodded, as if something in his words had proved something for him. "So you agree trying to take over Earth was a punk move?"
"I am in one hundred percent agreement." He spoke promptly. "Midgard is not prepared for the introduction of higher beings, and any sane person, after having witnessed the carnage you call your society would not have desired to rule such a people, let alone attempted a takeover."
"You're calling yourself crazy?" The fighter snarked.
He made eye contact with the fighter, for once letting himself show emotion. This man, after what he'd been through, deserved at least that. "Completely out of my mind." He agreed.
The fighter turned away abruptly. "So what?" He changed the subject roughly. "You're here to leave some type of Alien IOU?"
He tilted his head as he considered the phrase. "Of a sort." He pulled the parchment out of his pocket and placed it on the ground. With a snap of his fingers the paper slid on the floor before stopping just under the fighters black sneakers. "You require action; a physical, visual promise that I mean no more harm. I can grant you that. When an opportunity arises that I may properly demonstrate my deepest regrets, use that parchment to reach me. Simply write your name on it, throw it up the air, and it will find its way to me."
The fighter thought for a moment. "You're really here to apologize?" He asked skeptically.
He just shrugged. When the fighter said no more, He turned to leave, arrow still embedded, eye socket still bleeding, but towel held tightly to the wounded area.
"Can you make the nightmares go away?" The words were forced, almost like he hadn't wanted to say anything at all, but his voice was desperate. He turned to face the fighter.
"I am sorry. I cannot."
The fighter shrugged, as if it hadn't really mattered anyway, but his shoulders sagged lightly in disappointment.
"It's just; they're a nuisance, is all."
"And the worst part is that the overwhelming fear doesn't stem from a flesh and blood monster, though I'm sure yours at times resembled me. No, the worst part about such nightmares are that the fear is created simply by a color; blue." He sympathized.
The fighter nodded in agreement, then stopped. "You," he tried to speak. "How did you know?"
He turned to go without answering, his part done; the fighter's incredulous last words reaching his ears seconds before he disappeared.
"And since when have your eyes been green?"
The Hero
The hero was nearly nude when Loki appeared, sitting nonchalantly at his kitchen table, wearing a bathrobe and nothing else, a recently filled coffee mug resting on a coaster in front of him, newspaper in hand. The hero did not flinch at the Loki's appearance in his apartment. He simply snapped his newspaper and chuckled lowly.
"Come to try and finish the job then, have you?"
Loki was surprised at the question, but shook his head fiercely in response. "No, of course not! I should not even have hurt you in the first place!" He retorted hotly.
The hero put down his newspaper, an interested look on his face. "So this is an atonement mission, instead of a take out, then."
"You could call it that." Loki hedged. "I am simply attempting to display my change in character by offering actions that would make amends for my previous behavior."
"So….you're saying sorry and asking if there's anything you can do to make it up to your victims?"
Loki rolled his eyes, and the hero amended his statement with a grin.
"And I of course mean that in the most kingly way ever."
Loki grimaced, and gave up. "That is what I'm attempting, yes."
"That's a lot of victims." The hero spoke slowly.
Loki shrugged. "I have a list of those most affected."
"You're not hitting up everyone, then?"
Loki hesitated. "No."
The hero thought about that. "So, those you blue-brained, I get that. But why me?"
Here Loki paused to gather his thoughts.
"The genius, he was most negatively affected, but in the end he was strong enough to fight back. The archer, because he was forced to hurt those he cared about. You? You are the hero."
The hero rolled his eyes. "I'm no hero. I was just doing my job."
Loki cocked his head. "Your actions that day were not those of a loyal employee, as much as you may have convinced yourself that you were just "doing your job." Your actions were those of a noble and fierce warrior, of a man who was simply doing what they could, and taking advantage of the opportunities handed to you. Because of your sacrifice, stupid and selfless as it was, you gave the Avengers the momentum to become not just individuals, but a team. For that, and all you have done, you are a hero."
The hero could say little in response to that, so surprised was he by the vehemence in which Loki had spoken, so Loki simply placed the now familiar parchment onto the hero's table. "You have need of me? Write it down here, then throw it in the air. I will do all in my power to aid you." Loki nodded once, and then was gone.
He still had one more stop to make.
The Unnamed Agent
He could not find him. He could find anyone; as a master of magic, he could do most anything. And yet; he was nowhere to be found. It did not help that he had no name to search; during the attack, he had no bothered to find it out, and no one else seemed to know. He was just another nameless, faceless agent within SHIELD. So he was forced to ask for help from Heimdall…Heimdall whom saw beyond his disguise, who made no attempt to hide his dislike of him when it was just the two of them… Heimdall who smirked and gave him a location, eyes glinting mischievously in a way that he recognized but did not like to see on anyone but himself. But he had to complete his task; so he appeared at the destination Heimdall had given him, to find a girl.
Definitely not the agent with the broken mind, but it was almost as if she'd been waiting for him. She sat on the couch of a sparsely decorated apartment building, hands folded tightly in her lap. Instead of panicking when he appeared from thin air, she simply stood calmly and addressed him.
"You are the one responsible for the attack on earth three years ago?" She asked.
Surprised by the turn of events, he only nodded.
"You're here to see Agent McDougal?" She continued.
He winced when he realized that he couldn't be certain, but he nodded all the same.
The girl strode to the door, pulling a jacket from a hook to the right of the door and putting it on.
When it was fully buttoned, she looked to where he still stood, confused. "You want to speak to him, yes?"
He nodded.
"I'll take you to him. Come on."
She opened the door, and with nothing else to do; he HAD to complete this mission, he followed.
The taxi ride was impossible. The walk when they reached their destination, even more so. The rain drizzled on, and the taxi that had dropped them off sped away the second they had stepped out of the cab. His heart sank as he surveyed the area they had arrived at.
It was a cemetery.
The girl walked up the hill, head bowed, every so often touch a tombstone here or there. He followed, trying not to take in anything, the rows and rows of tombstones etching themselves in his mind nonetheless.
She finally stopped, in the center of the cemetery, eyeing a tall memorial. Loki stopped beside her to read what it said.
"To all those who lost their lives on this day. May 5th, 2012."
He let the meaning of the words wash over him, and the girl stood next to him, silent.
"All of these stones," He spoke haltingly.
"Your fault."
The girl turned to walk away, and he followed as she began to speak again. "Mothers. Fathers. Sisters. Brothers. Children. Unnamed Agents, all with lives and people who cared about them. All gone because of you."
He frowned. "This was never my intention."
"What? You mean the death of innocents? I'm sure it wasn't, but of course in all your planning and scheming for world domination you planned for some type of casualty. You weren't expecting innocents to be caught in the crossfire? Tell yourself that if it helps you sleep at night."
"I don't sleep. I never sleep." It was an admission he hadn't wanted to say; but it had revealed itself before he could control it.
The girl stopped in front of a tombstone. "And then there's this guy. A cemetery full of deaths cause by you; and you apologize only to him."
He read the inscription on the stone, laying one hand gently on the name."
"He was a great man. His name was Jack Kirby, and he died at 28 years old. He left behind no family except for his sister, who now has no one. Two days before he took his life, he asked for this inscription to be put on his tombstone. You came here to grant him a favor; in the name of atonement. Fine. But he's not here. So I'll demand reparations in his stead." The girl turned to look directly at him, and he met the tear-filled eyes with barely concealed anxiety.
"Do this." She pointed to the tombstone. "Do it for him, and everyone else. Do it for your brother, your mom, but mostly, do it for you."
She turned to walk away and He faced the stone again, knees falling to the ground so he could reverently trace the last two words on this man's grave.
Be Better.
Mission Accomplished
He had done what he'd aimed to do. To be completely honest though, he didn't feel as good as he thought he would. He thought all of the guilt that had burdened him would disappear. It hadn't. It had eased, somewhat, but not nearly as much as he'd hoped. Perhaps when he could put more than just parchment behind his words, it would be different. But now, all he could do was return to his realm…and wait. Those two words still reverberated in his head, such simple words, but they were now ingrained in his memory and he could not get rid of them. Then a thought struck him. Maybe he didn't have to wait till he received parchment. Maybe, with those two simple words, he could start right away.
Whoa. That was a ride from start to finish. Hope you liked it! Maybe another oneshot of Loki actually repaying the favors? I dunno yet... but here's this!
Review/Follow/Favorite if you liked it! As a writer, I thrive on encouragement!
~CLC~