Disclaimer: "That was just a bit of fun, really." –Loki, Thor
A/N: This chapter became unexpectedly long. This is a good thing. I think.
Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and to the guest reviewer who asked where Darcy is… voila!
Chapter 3: Du må være norsk
Alternatively titled: In which Loki encounters "normal people."
The next morning, my physics professor, Dr. Eric Selvig, stared down at me from his perch atop his lectern.
"So, Mr. d'Asgard," he rumbled, "you've decided to grace us with your presence."
Let me tell you something. When I was in high school, I heard all these glory stories from graduates and almost-graduates who said that no college professor would even care if you show up to class, as long as you got the work turned in. This is a lie. They care. Particularly if you show up late.
Not, that is, that I was the only straggler. I was far from the last to "grace the class with my presence," but Professor Selvig and I have been… at odds ever since. Well. Ever since we met, really. He just doesn't like me. I wonder why.
"Apologies, Professor. I'd forgotten that nothing is more important on Tuesday morning than your gracious assent to impart to us your ineffable wisdom."
Oh yeah. That's why.
"Loki," Professor Selvig said, rubbing his temples, "it is too flipping early for this. Sit down, let me get back to my lecture, and please, try to keep your opinions to yourself, just this once?"
Snapping off a sarcastic salute, I said, "I'll do my best, sir."
He rolled his eyes as I hurried to my seat. Clint Barton, Selvig's TA, was giving me a dirty look. I huffed in exasperation. Selvig was a shifty-eyed, hard-nosed, stubborn jawbreaker of a man. He didn't need Mr. Grumpy Pants to save him from my scorn.
It wasn't like he didn't have enough of his own.
Escaping from Selvig's class with a mountain of physics homework and an unpleasant sneer from Barton, I stumbled my way to the astro-physics lab. Since I'm not actually in astro-physics, I shouldn't have been allowed in there, but I think the astros felt sorry for me, a fellow geek with no home base of my own. There isn't exactly a pyrotechnics lab at Roger's, so I sneaked my stuff into the astro lab and tried not to make anything explode without warning.
(Yeah, Tony, I like to blow things up. I'm a physics/chemistry major, that's what we do.Let's talk about that at our next session, why don't we.)
I say "fellow geek" but I'm really not sure I even count in this case. I mean, there are geeks, and then there are astro-geeks. When they talk, people's heads spin. Mine doesn't, but that's only by the miracle of chance and the fact that three days after setting up shop in their lab, I Googled a ton of stuff about astro-physics in the hope of being able to carry on a conversation without giving myself a headache. I remembered all of it too, which is why I now know a lot of useless information about things like Einstein-Rosen bridges.
At least they don't speak Klingon. I don't think I could handle that.
I gave the astros a sort of vague half-smile-and-wave thing before retreating to my corner of the lab, hoping that none of them would talk to me. I had about reached my limit for personal interaction for the day.
I was setting up my current project when I felt eyes on me and looked up to find Darcy Lewis staring at me. I then took a moment to be a total hypocrite and wonder what the heck she was even doing in the astro-physics lab.
Now, for your sake, Tony, it's probably best that I explain a bit about this staring, wild-haired creature who keeps popping up in this narrative.
Darcy Lewis was a short, crazy-eyed bundle of attitude, endowed like a Valkyrie, with a mouth like a sailor. She could talk the ears off an elephant. Probably without even noticing she'd done it. She's the one person I know who might be more spastic than I am. She's a political science major, but you wouldn't know it to look or speak to her. I'm not even sure she actually knows what political science is. I've sure as snapdragons never seen her do any work that might be considered political (or science, for that matter). She spends a lot more of her time in the astro-physics department, where her best friend, Jane Foster works. (Or lives, rather, because I've never seen Jane Foster outside of her lab.) Darcy hangs around, running errands, getting coffee, and looking confused.
Everyone loves her, which was annoying for me personally, because I didn't. She was creepy. I mean, what was with the staring? Did she have nothing better to do than watch me move chemicals around? And when we were in class, I swear she was looking at me more than she was at the professor.
I couldn't figure out if she did it because she had some sort of weirdo crush on me, or because she thought I was weird. For a while I entertained the idea that she had some kind of mental illness for which strange fixations were part of the symptoms, but a quick background check (conducted by snooping through hacked office files) revealed that this was inaccurate. Darcy Lewis was in disgustingly excellent mental health. In fact, said her file, she was sharp as a tack.
(For the record, I resent that statement. Having mental issues does not exclude you from the ranks of the edged push-pins. I mean, look at me.)
Anyway, after an initial period of two weeks during which I waited for Miss Lewis to a) confess her undying love for me, or b) try to kill me with her mind, I decided upon a course of action that was perfectly satisfactory for myself, but was probably unaccountably frustrating for her. (In other words, my modus operandi.) Put simply, when Darcy came wandering in my direction, I turned and walked the other way.
(Put more complicatedly, it involved a whole lot of hiding in broom closets and dodging around corners. I think the campus janitor thinks I have some sort of disturbing fascination with cleaning supplies. I tend to avoid him too these days, if I can.)
I sneaked a glance in Darcy's direction under my arm. To my complete lack of surprise, she was staring at me again. I was really starting to wonder about this now. Wasn't she here to see Jane Foster?
"Um, do you need something?" I asked finally.
She blinked. "What? Oh, no, I'm fine." She looked down. I nodded slowly and went back to my experiment.
Twenty minutes later, I gathered my things, shut down my Bunsen burner, and stowed my blowtorch. I caught a glimpse of Darcy behind me in a reflective bit of glass as I left the lab.
She didn't see me seeing, but she was staring again.
000
"Loki!"
"Oh, Norns," I muttered, turning around reluctantly.
Phil Coulson beamed at me, his hands full of pamphlets. "Hey, Loki! Have you given any thought to what we were talking about?"
I tried not to grimace. Coulson had been trying to get me to join this weird campus organization since we'd met, several months ago. S.H.I.E.L.D. (Students Helping to Integrate Everyone into Life and Destiny) was supposed to be a very fulfilling choice of extracurricular. At least that's what it said on the thirty or so pamphlets Coulson had given me over the course of our acquaintance. Personally, I thought it sounded sort of like a cult. They were probably brainwashing people or training them as special agents and super-soldiers. Bioengineering them maybe. Whatever. Coulson was weird.
(Stop making that face, Tony. I know I have an overactive imagination. Don't even act like that surprises you.)
Coulson dropped into the seat across from mine in the cafeteria. I glared pointedly, hoping he'd take the hint. He didn't.
"Loki," he said earnestly, and God help him if he said my name like that one more time. "SHIELD could really use some good PR. We need you."
I stared at him. Was it possible that he was unaware of my general state of black sheep-ness around campus? "Phil," I said back, pointing my fork at him. "If good PR is what you want, you should really try someone else." I had enough issues of my own without SHIELD butting in to help me "manage my destiny" or whatever.
"But Loki," he tried, and I was seriously this close to stabbing him with my fork right then, "you're so smart, and you have this, this… light about you. I'm sure that you'd be a perfect fit for SHIELD."
I must have looked really unimpressed, because he blushed and squirmed a little. "Sorry," he said nervously. "Too much?"
"Yeah," I told him, "just a little." He looked sheepish and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
"Sorry," he said again. "I can get carried away sometimes." He looked hopeful. "If I tone it down some, will you consider coming to one of our meetings?"
I sighed the ever-weary sigh of every self-inflicted loner forced by circumstance to participate in group activities. "If I say yes, will you stop bugging me about it?" I said.
Phil's entire face lit up. "Yes! Yes, yes, yes, thanks, Loki, you won't regret this, I swear!"
"I'm already regretting it," I muttered. "I haven't promised to come, Phil," I tried to curb the enthusiasm. "Just that I'd consider it."
I doubt he even heard me. He was on cloud nine, gathering pamphlets and scrambling to his feet. "We meet on Wednesday nights," he said, giving me an outrageously sunny smile. "Seven o'clock, but you can be a little early if you want. Or a little late," he added. Ah. So he was not unaware of my less-than-stellar time-management skills. He obviously just didn't care.
S.H.I.E.L.D. must've been really hard-up for new members this semester.
000
As I made my way through the rest of my classes, I couldn't help glancing over my shoulder nervously. I was fairly certain I wasn't being followed by anyone in the Family, for two reasons. One, I would've seen them by now. Whatever was following me was totally invisible. Two, Canada. I could and would still carry out that threat, and my family knew it. Since I was sure that the stalker was not a familiar one, I took evasive measures. When you've spent most of your life being tailed, in one way or another, there are a few things you pick up. I'm sure a satellite map of my journey across campus to the bus stop resembled the path of an ant with ADHD on crack, but if it kept me safe, I didn't even care that I passed by the same canoodling couple (seated on a bench outside the library) three times.
Much.
Really. Not much.
Okay, so I did care, a little. They were seriously getting intense, though. I mean, that was some major league canoodling going on there. The first time I passed by, I honestly thought he was trying to eat her neck.
(No, Tony, I don't think vampires are real.
Anymore.)
Today's experience with public transportation was no more pleasant that yesterday's had been, with the added awfulness of knowing that any second, I could be jumped, kidnapped, or gutted by an unseen person, for unknown reasons.
I hate buses. I think I've mentioned that before, but I really, really hate them. They make me crazy. And no, that is not a euphemism, a metaphor, or an exaggeration. Buses exacerbate my symptoms. Don't believe me? I can prove it.
For example: someone bumped into me while getting off at his stop, and I nearly stuck a knife in his kidney. I have it on good authority (i.e. my father) that this is something called Disproportionate Retribution, and is not A Good Thing.
My father, though generally endeavoring to be patient with me and my various tendencies toward the psychotic, occasionally has expressed his frustration with my inability to just… settle down and be normal.
I want to make something clear here which I'm sure you, Tony, already know, but I feel should be stated anyway. I am not mentally ill, by clinical standards. The official diagnosis was a cocktail of hyperactivity and hypersensitivity. In other words, said the children's mental health specialist my parents took me to, I'm super smart, super sensitive about it, and super obnoxious as a result of that sensitivity. The smartness is self-explanatory, the sensitivity lead to things like obsessive cleaning and my intense dislike of being stared at, as well as my general moodiness.
I personally think the obnoxiousness has nothing to do with my medical diagnosis and everything to do with the influences I grew up with.
Anyway, my father and I haven't always seen eye to eye, and after I decided to go against everything I was raised as, to leave the Family, it seems I can't ever make him happy. This includes my choice of profession. He doesn't think it's a valid occupation.
"Loki," he told me, "performing 'magic acts' is not a valid occupation."
"Dad," I said back, "what exactly do you consider 'valid'?"
"Can we please focus here?" he said, and that was that. We agreed to disagree on the subject of my employment.
Well, actually, he argued and cajoled and ordered, and then eventually caved when I threatened Canada again, but saying that we agreed to disagree sounds better. A bit less like I'm just a bratty kid who throws tantrums when I don't get my way. Even if I do. Sometimes.
I got off the bus on the stop before mine. If my stalker was on the bus with me, I didn't want to lead them straight to my work. That would be bad. Astronomically bad. I mean, there are kids there.
Walking the few blocks left to the play center, I began preparing myself mentally for the afternoon. I had one performance at the play center, and then I'd probably get roped into playing with some of the kids by way of them being adorable and me being a sucker for anything with eyes big enough to make me feel guilty.
(This is how Thor always gets his way, I am sure of it.)
"Hi, Loki!"
I pulled out a smile as I stepped through the door my employer was holding open. "Hello, Ms. Munro," I said quietly. "Full house today?"
She beamed at me. "Naturally. They knew you were coming today."
I shook my head as I slipped by her to get to the little room I used as a dressing room. "I really think you might be exaggerating my ability to command the attention and excitement of a roomful of children, Ms. Munro."
She tilted her head, leaning in the doorway of my room. "Oh, I don't think so. And please, Loki, we've been over this. Call me Ororo."
I grinned and nodded, just like I always did. And then, also as I always did, I said, "Whatever you say, Ms. Munro," and then quickly closed the door.
"Brat," she called through the wood. I could hear the smile in her voice. Relaxing against the wall for a minute, I allowed myself a brief moment of content. All was as it should be.
I straightened. Alright then. Show time.
000
The crowd was my usual one, with a few new faces that had probably moved into the neighborhood recently. Ms. Munro paid me to come in once a week and entertain the children. Where she got the money, I have no idea. The whole program was funded by an outside benefactor or something. Ororo Munro's play center was a cross between a daycare and a playground. Age ten and up could come and go as they pleased. Any younger than that and Ms. Munro insisted that someone come to pick the kid up. There were few rules, most of them being the sort that would keep everyone from killing each other. With almost no structure, no organized activity, and at least ten children running around at any given time, it was about three steps away from total chaos. It was everything I loathed at Yggdrasil, everything that had ever bothered me about school or clubs or social activities.
I loved it.
"Loki!" squealed one of the kids when she saw me step out on the makeshift stage. "He's here, guys!" she yelled hysterically. "Loki's here!"
Instantly, there was a small stampede of little feet, hurrying to get the best seats, on the floor, right in front of the stage. I'll admit, it was sort of gratifying. These were the kids that never sat still for anything if they didn't have to. Even when eating their snacks, they would get up and walk around, or spin in circles. Or sit under the table and rock back and forth.
The Center has a few kids that remind me of myself sometimes.
I looked over my audience, noting regulars and spotting one or two I hadn't seen before. There was little Scott, shyly holding hands with a little redhead named Jean, and next to them were the twins, Pietro and Wanda, who were fighting, as usual. A little boy wrapped in a big coat sat a little ways away from them. As he turned to look at me, the light caught his eyes in an odd way, making them appear almost red. I blinked and the color was back to normal, a deep reddish-brown. He turned and whispered to another new face, a little girl with a big streak of white in her otherwise auburn hair. She glared at him, but then laughed and punched him gently. Another little red head (what was up with this group, today?) inched closer to the stage and I smiled when I recognized Natasha. I spotted Leah, and then Susan and Johnny edged in and sat down and the group was complete.
Conjuring up a smile, I threw my hands wide.
"Are you ready!?"
As always, that first exclamation both startled and got their attention, and I had a rapt audience.
I started simply, pulling coins out of the air and spinning a deck of cards through the air, flipping them from hand to hand and creating bridges without a table. After the appropriate oohs and ahhs, I moved on to the new stuff I had been working on for them.
I turned a plastic cup into a plate with a little sleight of hand, and then asked for a volunteer. Handing Natasha a plastic spoon, I told her not to be afraid, and then asked her to chop my hand off with it. Giving me a skeptical glance (the girl lived in a pretty rough neighborhood: she knew exactly what would cut someone, and a spoon wasn't it) but complying, she gasped sharply when my hand disappeared as she sawed at my wrist with the spoon. Dropping the utensil, she backed away with a whimper, big eyes filling with tears. Quickly, I let out a theatrical groan and feigned strain as I shoved my hand out of my fake sleeve and waved it at her cheerily.
After letting her examine the hand carefully and see for herself that she hadn't hurt me, I sent her back to her seat with a silver dollar for helping me and continued the act.
My final act was one I needed Ororo's permission for. She had this silly little hang up on me using pyrotechnics. I assured her time and time again that it was perfectly safe for the children, and that I would personally be engineering everything. For some reason, this didn't reassure her all that much. This particular trick, however, was an easy one, and wouldn't be dangerous at all, so she reluctantly agreed to let me try it out.
"And now," I announced, "for my final act, I will need you all to be very calm. Understand?"
Everyone nodded eagerly and I smirked, flourishing my hands dramatically. I usually wear a cape for these sorts of things, but I had rushed out of the apartment to get to Selvig's class on time today, and had forgotten it. I took a vindictive moment to blame Selvig for the fact that my performance wasn't as dramatic as it usually was, then focused.
Taking a deep breath, I flung both of my arms up, letting the sleeve of my shirt slide down slightly to barely expose the trigger I had in my palm. The kids couldn't see it –too short– but Ororo could, which was sort of the point. I didn't need to uncover the trigger, I just did it so she could see what I was doing. (I never tell people that old line, "Nothing in my hands, nothing up my sleeves," because it would be a blatant lie. There's always something in my hands or up my sleeves, just like any good magician.)
As I brought my arms down, hard and fast, I snapped my fingers and pressed the trigger. Immediately, a flash went off with a bang and I stepped backwards, offstage and behind the curtain, leaving behind a column of smoke. Ignoring the cries of alarm-tinged delight, I reached into a box and pulled out a squirming bundle of black fur. Dropping it on the stage, I withdrew even further, out of sight.
When the smoke cleared away, a minute later, all that was left on the stage was a black-furred kitten with huge green eyes and a disdainful expression on its face. Squeals erupted from the ecstatic children and Ororo had to quickly shush them in order to avoid spooking the cat. She needn't have worried. This cat was perfectly used to chaos and excitement. I'd picked her up from the animal shelter a week ago, intending to make a present of her to the Center. I'd left food and medical information in Ororo's office, knowing that she'd understand what they were for when she saw them.
"But where's Loki?" I heard Leah ask above the exhilaration of the kitten's appearance. Instantly, attention shifted slightly –everyone else was wondering the same thing, even if not as acutely, considering there was a kitten…
"I think this is Loki!" came Natasha's startled shriek. One by one, they all turned to stare at the kitten again, seated comfortably in Ororo's lap and… licking itself. Nice. Ceasing its ablutions when it sensed eyes upon it, the darn thing just stared back at the kids nonchalantly, yawning delicately and tilting its head: doing nothing, I might add, to take away from their theory that the cat was me.
This was the point, of course, so I let it continue for a few more minutes before Leah said reluctantly, "But he can't stay like this, can he?"
That was my cue, and I stepped forward, snapping my fingers once more and setting off more smoke. When it cleared, I spread my hands and said, "Well, what do you think of my friend, here?"
"Loki!" they cried, rushing forward. "You're not a kitten!"
I smirked. "I should hope not. I simply had to go away for a minute to let you get used to the little guy. Well? Do you like him?"
"We love him!" they all screamed at once. Even as I winced at the shrillness, I grinned at the sudden look of exasperation Ororo was sending me. She'd just gotten it.
"Would you like to keep him?" I pressed on, smiling sweetly at Ms. Munro, who glared at me ineffectually.
"Oh, can we, Oro?" Scott begged, turning to the lady. He'd never been able to say her name properly.
She looked torn. "Well, Scott… I mean… it's a big responsibility…"
"We'll help take care of him!" Natasha cried, eagerly dashing forward to stroke the kitten's ear with one gentle finger. "Promise!"
Ororo wavered. "Well…"
A tug on her sleeve stopped her briefly and she looked down to see Johnny staring at the kitten with a look of awestruck adoration on his little face, clinging to his sister's hand as if afraid to touch the animal.
Even Ororo "No Nonsense" Munro isn't immune to that look in Johnny Storm's innocent little eyes. She caved.
"Alright."
"Yes!" Leah cheered, lunging forward to fling her arms around me. "Thank you, thank you!" she squealed. "We'll take such good care of him, we promise!"
I hugged her back, then patted her shoulder and said, "I know you will." Looking around at all of them, I asked, "What are you going to call him?"
They all looked at each other in consternation. Clearly, they hadn't even thought of that, yet. And then a small snort came from the back of the crowd.
"What else?" said the little girl with the white-striped hair, huddled close to the boy in the coat. "He'll have to be called 'Loki.'"
I blinked. Ororo smirked.
"But there's already a Loki!" Natasha cried indignantly. "We can't just give away his name!"
The little girl shrugged. "Can you seriously picture calling that cat anything else?" she asked sensibly. I could see all of their little minds starting to work, turning the idea over, weighing the options and realizing, inevitably…
"Of course," said Leah, slowly. "Of course his name is Loki. Is that alright?" she asked me anxiously.
Giving Ororo an answering grin that was more me baring my teeth at her, I said, "Of course."
Before I left, Leah came and gave me another hug. Tugging me down to her level, she whispered in my ear, "Thanks for giving us Loki, Loki." Giggling at her own cleverness, she scampered away, leaving me smiling fondly after her, with what was undoubtedly an extremely sappy look on my face. Shaking it off, I waved to Ororo and stepped out into the night.
000
"Home sweet home," I muttered to myself as I climbed the stairs to my apartment. (The elevator was broken. Again.)
Shifting my bag over one shoulder, I fished my keys out of my pocket and reached for the doorknob…
I stopped. Something wasn't right.
Slowly, I reached into my bag and pulled out my knife. I'd left the Glock at home today, not wanting to take it with me to the Center. Carefully, I reached out again and touched the door. I pushed gently at it, but it stayed shut. Locked then. Letting out a slow breath, I put the key in the lock and turned it.
I'm a locksmith, of sorts. A connoisseur of locks, if you will. I know the sound of a lock turning over properly, the little click it makes when the tumblers fall into place. I personally installed the lock on my apartment door. I know exactly what it should sound like.
Something was off. The click was just a little too slow, the tumblers just a teensy bit out of sync.
I sighed.
My apartment had been broken into again. But, since the intruders had taken care to lock it up again, it was probably safe to go in. Unless whoever had broken in knew I'd think that way and planned accordingly. But that was ridiculous, considering that I rarely even used the door of my apartment. Usually, I came up the fire escape. But what if that was booby-trapped too? Forget this, I'd come in through the ceiling…
I stopped myself there and forced my thoughts to make sense. Cool it, Loki. Think. Who is always breaking into your apartment? Who is constantly watching the place? Who was just here two days ago? Who do you know would never hurt you?
Thor. Breathing a sigh of relief, I opened the door.
(Tony, it's gotta say something screwy about my life when my brother breaking into my apartment is a source of relief.)
Shuffling in through the door and kicking it shut behind me, I lifted my bag off my shoulder and over my head. I dropped it on the couch and toed my shoes off, relishing the feeling of sinking my toes into soft carpet. Reaching for the switch on the wall, I flipped it up and light flooded the living room.
"Hi, Loki!"
Considering the fact that the door had been re-locked and I had expected the intruders to have come and gone, I think I can be forgiven for my reaction.
Overreaction. Whatever.
A/N: I feel a bit like first person POV is difficult for many people (myself included, at times) because we don't write the way we speak. No one really thinks to themselves in words like "endeavor," "disproportionate retribution," or "ineffable." Except I think I can get away with it, because this is Loki, and he totally does think like that (and speak like it, too). So. That's my insight for the day.
Additional, No-Longer-A-Spoiler Disclaimer: Marvel owns everybody. And if you don't know who they are, I am very sorry.
Also, I'm sorry that these opening chapters aren't much for plot, and are mostly exposition and stuff. Hopefully it'll pick up really soon.
Next Chapter: So much for normal.
