Author's Note: Hey everyone! I've been perusing tons of Thor/Avengers fanfiction as of late, partly to feed my addiction and partly to occupy myself so I could have an excuse not to actually post this story. I've been thinking hard about it for months now, but there's always that worry that you'll put your heart into something completely and practically no one will read it or care, lol. So here is me taking a leap (luckily NOT into an abyss though; I hope you can all appreciate what I did there).

I originally intended for this to be mainly a Thorki oneshot, then I considered making it a genuine Thorki story, but then as I worked through what I wanted to write about, I realized that this story is first and foremost about LOKI, and I want to try and make it as accurate to his character (particularly as represented in the films) as possible. I haven't completely decided whether or not this will eventually have some Thorki action in it or not; as the story goes on, please feel free to let me know what would feel right and appropriate. If you have initial requests, I'd love to hear those too.

This story takes place before, during, and after "Thor", "The Avengers", and "Thor: The Dark World". There will be a lot of scenes included that involve plot and dialogue straight from the movies, with my own twists thrown in; but there will also be a lot of flashbacks and back story created by me. And once I eventually get beyond the events in TTDW, the rest of the story will be entirely my own creation.

This is going to be a long story, I am warning you now, lol. I'm in this for the long haul. Loki has a story to tell; HIS side during all of this, all of the events that have taken place before, during, and after the events from these three films. It's safe to say that I don't own any of these characters or any recognizable places, events, etc., despite how much I'd otherwise love to, haha.

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HOW TO MAKE A MONSTER – PROLOGUE

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All he wanted more of, was time. Time would grant him the chance to escape, to strategize… to survive. And yet, time had all too quickly become lost to him, the moment he was sucked into the abyss. Sight and sound, touch and taste, any ability to feel and know and remind himself that he was still alive – all of these things disappeared in a single moment. What was the last thing he could remember?

Colours. A magnificent pallet of hues – all the colours of the rainbow – from what remained of the Bifrost bridge, the swirl of garments adorned by Thor and the Allfather, and the constillations and galactic map of all the Realms that hung overhead. For a single moment, he wanted to think that, strangely, it was beautiful; wanted to, but could not. Before the thought could pass in his mind, darkness engulfed him and his world became nothing.

"Kiiiiiill hiiiiiim…"

How long had he floated there, trapped between worlds in a sort of semi-existence? Was he dead? He did not know. Within hours, he no longer had any hold on how much time had passed; he tried to move, to wriggle, to do something, and yet the abyss that made him feel so light was somehow also so very crushing, and it encased all the space around him and pinned him there. Unable to move. But able to breathe.

Therefore, unable to die.

The very idea made him want to let out a bitter laugh, had he been able to. Of course this would be his fate, of course. Heimdall could probably see him, and Odin undoubtedly must've known, and no doubt he would sit there on his precious throne and smirk and say, "Serves him right." He could have saved him if he really had wanted to. But no, instead he clutched onto Thor, as he always had, in every sense of the word. Lose one to save the other, and that would always be a battle that Loki would lose when push came to shove.

"Wait…"

How now had he arrived here? It was as if luck all but laughed at him over the last – however long it had been. Weeks, months (years?) of gravity-crushing stillness; of being in a state of semi-existence, trying to scream, to move, to die… none of it ever came. Eventually, his insides began to fight to survive and what felt like months later, he could feel his stomach begin to eat itself. Headaches were constant and never-ending as his heart pumped viciously to try and send more blood to the brain, to little avail. But he was something greater than mortal; not immortal, but close. And so he knew, as he had floated there in a limbo between worlds, that these ailments would not end him. He was cursed to forever wish for death, and death would never fully release him. This was not Hel. This was worse.

"This one…"

And then, one day (week? Month? Year?) it was like the fabric of time and space had somehow been severed – just a tiny tear, that's all it took – and Loki was falling, falling and spiralling and up became down and there was no ground or sky or light or dark, just spinning and plummeting and hoping that sweet, merciful death would be meeting him on the other side.

He hit the ground with a sickening thud that rumbled and shook throughout all of his bones. The impact was not as painful as it should have been, but having been hoping for his demise, anything less was unexpected and therefore, a shock to the system.

He could remember little of finally getting to his feet. One moment it felt like he was flat on his back, this new universe's gravity holding him to the rocky surface beneath him, and the next, he was shakily standing, eyes wide and unknowing. This world was unlike anything he was familiar with; he mentally checked off all of the Nine Realms and quickly deduced that wherever he was, was not one of them. He could breathe the air, and he could walk with ease one he got control over his legs and attempted a few steps. This realm – whatever it was – contained of nothing but chunks of rock, some large, the size of cities, some small, the size of boulders. They floated, above, below, and all around. It appeared barren; the thought was not all that comforting to the young god.

His first instinct was to shout for Heimdall to send him back. Instantaneously, he realized that if he didn't know that this realm previously existed, then the sentry probably did not either. He faltered. Loki had always felt alone in the world – and now he was, literally, alone in the world. The situation felt amusingly ironic, and yet he did not much feel like laughing.

He stood – for how long? He thought – for how long? He walked – for how long? Eventually, he began to find himself wondering if time was even a thing anymore, for him, for where he was. If he could return home, if it were possible, how much time would have passed? A day? A year? A decade? Or maybe no time at all?

Would he ever get home? Did he even have a home anymore? He refused to think about it. He refused to think about Odin, and Thor, and Frigga; about being a Frost Giant and a monster and a Trickster. He would not remember the desperate plea and the firm rejection; how that had led him here. How this was not his fault, and yet somehow everyone would claim it was. He had previously believed that he had grown accustomed to the fact that the world always blamed him, whether they were justified or not. The world over hated Loki, and sometimes – once in a while, when he knew he was alone – he could not help but wonder why.

But he would not think of that now. He would just move forward, as he always did, taking one step at a time – one step at a time. This mantra became his only working, coherent thought.

"This one…"

They had been watching him for some time now; alone, abandoned, this creature that walked their grounds in search of food, water, and shelter. A strange, lowly thing with skin as pale as winter and eyes that might have once been a deep emerald green but were now sallow and dim; greasy, matted raven's hair that fell just below his jaw line, and robes that appeared to be of a fine quality but hung too loosely over a pathetically thin frame.

Mortal? They had wondered, unsure how such a species could even make their way into their realm, but a voice that hissed from deep within the cave informed them otherwise. For this creature watched and observed and saw – It saw the shimmering green glow that somehow pulsated through this thing's limbs, culminating around the organ It recognized as the heart. It watched and observed and saw for weeks, ordering Its creatures to stay back, to not yet attack this thing - to let him come to them.

Eventually, come he did, and they swarmed. The advance was so sudden and so unexpected that Loki had little time to react; one moment he was alone - this had become the norm to him in this realm - and the next, he was in the center of a circle of beasts. They towered over his lithe frame, their faces rotting, scarred, and grotesque. They reminded him of the foul creatures he sometimes would have night terrors about as a child.

For the second time, Loki's first instinct betrayed him as his lips parted to call out for his brother. There had never been a worse time to be so alone. Knowing this, Loki did the only thing he knew how to do: whatever needed to be done to survive. Taking a deep breath, he straightened himself in an attempt to intimidate, and slowly turned full circle, his eyes landing on each beast. He pressed his lips in a firm line, making sure to keep his green orbs unblinking, firm and unafraid. Sometimes, battles were best won by wits.

A voice, loud and horrid, cascaded over the pack from a deformed body that stood above them on a cliff; the tone was cold and unforgiving, but the language was not of anything Loki had ever heard before. It spoke again, and the young prince could not understand it.

"Kiiiiiiill hiiiiiiim…"

The moment he saw a trigger of movement from one of the beasts encircling him, Loki attempted to halt the onslaught by straightening his neck and, with all of the courage he could muster, pronounced, "I am Loki of Asgard." Inwardly, he flinched. The association to his old home felt like a swift kick to the stomach, and he hated that the words were still programmed into his system. But what title was he to give himself now? Was he Loki of Asgard? Or Loki of Jotunheim? Perhaps he was Loki of Nowhere. Still, his face remained stoic. "I do not present any threat to your people," he continued, he voice firm and unwavering despite his increasing heartbeat.

The creature that towered above them said something else in a guttural voice. The only thing Loki made out was the word "Odinson". To his horror, the word began to echo throughout the circle around him, as if that was the only identifier that made sense. Against his better judgement, his hands clenched. "I am no Odinson," he snapped, still unblinking. The dry air and the dust were now irritating his eyes, and what once was green and clear was slowly becoming bloodshot and twitching. But still, he would not flinch, nor look away.

He was not. He had never been. He had been lied to; made to feel like he belonged when in fact, his "father" had always known he was an outsider. A monster.

'Only one of you can ascend to the throne… but both of you were born to be King.'

The words had never made more sense than when he had discovered his true parentage. What a wicked way to deceive your child; feed him a lie, but because it is wrapped up in a truth, you were never truly being delusory.

'…But both of you were born to be King.'

Oh yes. Merely because his own father was King himself, of Jotunheim. Odin's words were never anything more than throwing in Loki's face what had been snatched away from him at birth. What he was really saying was, "Both of you were born to be King, but that is a technicality. Thor is the only son I have ever – and will ever – see as being worthy of the throne. But I will give you hope, Loki, because it is so much more fun that way."

Loki released a barely audible growl as the memory, the first real memory he'd allowed to flood his mind since falling into the abyss, drove him mad with rage. "I am no Odinson," he spat again, this time louder.

But it was like they did not hear him. Whether they continued to repeat the insult or whether it was merely a product of Loki's mind, that word – that single word – continued to assault him, until his blood was boiling and his teeth were clenched so strongly he felt they'd shatter to a powder. He continued to stare up at the creature looking down at him from above, as silent tears fell from his irritated eyes in an attempt to regain some moisture. Still, still he would not blink.

"I am…" he hissed, in the same second that the beasts suddenly made their first move to attack, "NO ODINSON!"

Through no control of his own, a blinding green light suddenly expelled from his body, flying off of him in all directions and hurling all the creatures around him in opposite directions. None of them moved, lifeless as they littered the rubble around him. Loki had not anticipated the outburst and knew right away that he had exuded far too much magic given his current health. Even a little would have been too risky. His knees felt like they were about to give out from beneath him, and he would've welcomed the sweet unconsciousness he would have surely fallen into, had he hit the ground. But his senses were jarred back to life when he heard a frustrated shriek from the creature that still stood and surveyed from above.

"KIIIILL HIIIIM!"

Loki's eyes widened as a sea of beasts seemed to pool in from over the hills and boulders, still a fair distance away but far too many for him to stand up against alone. Struggling to keep his footing, his hands slid against his hips quickly and returned holding his precious daggers, knuckles gripping the handles so hard they were white. Panting and wobbling, Loki's eyes darted in a panic around the hoard of creatures advancing upon him. Surely he would now meet death… surely. Only now it did not feel so welcomed in the young god's mind.

But something, unseen and unknown to the Trickster, had been watching. In a deep, menacing voice, in the same language that Loki could not understand, It spoke from the shadows above:

"Wait…"

Loki, foreign and unaware of what the voice was saying, felt a small gasp escape his lungs as he desperately panted for air, his heart beating wildly in his chest from fear. His shaking hands continued to hold his daggers in front of him, and he waited for whatever was about to come. He waited for pain, he waited for torture, and he waited for his end.

And in that moment, he wished that he were not alone. All he wanted more of, was time. Time would grant him the chance to escape, to strategize… to survive. Strangely, a part of him now acknowledged that he no longer wished to die. All he needed was more time. And yet, time had all too quickly become lost to him, the moment he was sucked into the abyss. Time was a luxury he had long since been rid of.

From the darkness, It watched the god, who held his daggers up, prepared to fight and prepared – but suddenly unwilling - to die. It saw the magic that surged within him; still alive and there, even if it was significantly weaker in this moment. It saw the black seed within his heart that seemed to blossom at the mention of the word "Odinson", and the way that blackness had momentarily seeped into his veins, poisoning his blood and likewise poisoning the nature of the words that spilled from the god's tongue. One seed was all It needed.

This poison, this being… What It saw was an opportunity.

"There is hate in this one's heart," It rumbled from the shadows, each word coming out slowly. "He… is… The One."

…

Author's Note #2: Any confusions, if there are some, will be cleared up as the story goes along, I promise. Hopefully you can all piece together who "It" is, and what this prologue is the preface to. The first actual chapter skips ahead quite a ways, to set up a bevy of flashbacks. It'll all make sense when you see it, lol. It's late and I'm rambling, and this prologue is not nearly as good as I wanted it to be. I will have to make up for that!

Thanks for reading, all the same!