The Man With His Mouth Sewn Shut

Synopsis: Loki finds himself back on Midgard, suffering from various instances of retrograde amnesia. He doesn't know how he got there, where he came from, where he's going... but what he does know is that he hurts. (Probably a series of one-shots. May end up with some Tony/Loki or Loki/OC? We'll see.)

Chapter One (Point Five) - The Streets Burn

Everywhere, there is chaos.

Such beautiful, unparalleled chaos. Shattered remains of glass panes litter the pathways, and the city's inhabitants weave their way through piles of rubble in search of some kind of shelter. The sound of concrete crashing down fills the air, mingling with the screams and shouts of the
innocent
innocuous
(insignificant?)
civilians. He watches from the sky, he watches from the ground - he watches from wherever takes his fancy, through the eyes of his army. Some of their eyes are weaker than others, but his own are the strongest of them all. He is a God, and he is above them. He sees with perfect clarity.

Is this what he wants?
Perhaps.

The ground below him is a fiery blur, as everything falls prey to an uncontrollable flame. Strange, that the God of Fire would be a-

He won't say it, but it's there. Literally, it's there, it's under his skin. And it burns.

Just like the city below him, his body is encompassed in a white-hot heat. He pretends he can't feel it, because acknowledging it would only make it worse. They did this to him, the pain. The constant, merciless torture that he can't even pin down. Every sensation is amplified, and sometimes there are hallucinations. He sees things that aren't there. Visions, he assumes they're caused by his fatigue.

Are they?
Perhaps.

He's pretty sure that this is a hallucination. Sure, the city's ruined, but this couldn't possibly have been the cause. There's too much
damage
destruction
(death?)
and there's too much noise. He imagines the buildings falling in silence. He grins, and it's manic.

Occasionally, a vehicle will try to make its way out of the Chaos Zone. They swerve around their fallen kin, sometimes slowly, and sometimes at breakneck speed. It doesn't matter, though. They all end up flat on their backs in the end.

Like beetles, among ants, in a field of tall grass.
Someone's found a magnifying glass, and he's setting them all alight.

There's a reason for this, somewhere. Amidst the most stunning turmoil he's ever been honoured enough to witness, there is a Purpose, and it is indeed Glorious. A Glorious Purpose, but not necessarily a burden. Chaos is as freeing as it is fleeting. All good things come to an end, and all bad things meet their demise.

Does that make him bad?
Possibly
Perchance
(Perhaps?)

Well, he does not see any demise of his own in the near future, and that is all that matters.

Maybe this is reality - a first-hand memory, or a tale told. Hyperbolic, definitely, but with strings of truth knotting the pictures together. He picks them out, like so:

he is not fighting
but others are, and ruthlessly
there is Good and there is Evil
but he cannot tell which is which
everything hurts
chaos reigns triumphant
this whole world is falling to the ground
the streets are burning
these people are dying
they mean nothing nothing nothing
they are nothing
they are dead

Good and Evil are not quantifiable categories, but if he had to, he would place himself under the heading of Good. He is Good, and they are Evil. They did this to him. They made him into a monster-

...not quite.
But they helped.

Who are they? He doesn't know. But they are to blame for this chaos, not him. Part of him rejects this realization, as chaos is his speciality... but most of his being refuses to be implicated in the demise of an entire world.

Is it too late to stop it?
Most definitely.

Could he try?
Well, perhaps.

He reaches the Tower, the third-tallest in the city. He wanted the Chrysler, but even he accepts that the destruction of such a work of art is a tragedy. The Tower suits his needs, it is tall, and it is a beacon. It stays lit despite the damage it has taken, and it reminds him strangely of himself. Broken, but still breathing. Barely. He'll come right.

There is a man there, waiting for him. A familiar face, but he cannot place it. The conversation starts - he's heard this before. He knows this story. He knows how it ends.

He doesn't want it to end.
It has to end.
The man is Good.
And don't all good things...

Everything is so vivid. Every colour is enhanced. Red and gold and green and black and a fluorescent, dangerous blue. More glass shatters, goes flying; the man goes flying, followed by the metal. He doesn't understand it, entirely, but it happens.

And from there, more pain. But at least he can place it. Fractured ribs, a shattered arm, a damaged mind, a broken soul. People gather around to stare. It's embarrassing, but he can't bring himself to care. The pain has dulled all his other senses.

The people move closer.

He tries to talk to them, but his mouth won't form words. His tongue feels like a slab of lead in his mouth, and it tastes about the same. Metallic, like blood. There is so much blood. He feels it on his skin, running in rivulets over his arm. He doesn't look. He can't move his head.

Fast-forward, and he's moving. Manacles. Wrists. They leave his feet unchained because they know he cannot run. The city is no longer burning, but for all he cares, it might as well be.

The city is no longer burning, but the fire inside his body is eating him alive and-

Some mornings, he wakes with a scream, and he is glad he does not remember his dreams.
He breathes. Deep.
He's been told that it helps.

Like most mornings, he indulges in a brief reality check:
He knows his name is Lucas Lärsson, it says so on his papers.
He lives in an apartment in Manhattan, because that is where he is currently.
There is nobody else living with him in the apartment, he is solitary, and that suits him just fine.
(He also thinks he needs to pay the rent.)

All that means plenty of things, to the people around him. It gives him an identity, and he clings to it. Yet the more he hears that name, the stranger it feels. It feels wrong, but it must be right - it has to be. The world is already broken enough as it is. He shouldn't ask questions. He shouldn't.

He knows his name is Lucas Lärsson. He just wishes he knew who that was.

Author's Notes:
Jesus Christ, it's been a long time! When I said "I can't promise weekly updates", I swear I didn't mean "you guys are gonna have to wait two months for the next chapter"... I know how much that sucks, and I know I suck for doing that to you. Many apologies. It'll probably happen again, because I'm an asshole and I tend to completely lose track of time, but... I will try my hardest to write more often, at least.

1,086 words of Actual Writing. Can't say I'm all that impressed with myself, but... hey. At least I actually updated, I guess. *makes numerous pathetic excuses*

I am working on the actual second chapter, by the way. It's currently about 500 words long (though I may completely change the idea yet, because I'm still not sure how I want it all to play out). Occasionally, I might put one of these 'dream scenes' in... so long as that's okay with you guys. You'll let me know, won't you?

Thanks a million to my beautiful reviewers, and to those of you who added this story to your alert and favourite lists. And even to those of you who are just lurking on the sidelines, reading without saying a word... I love you a lot. All of you.

By the way, I changed my tumblr URL - it's now winter-castiel. To be honest, I'm more likely to reply to you on there, so feel free to leave me an ask in my inbox. (Yes, I do have anon enabled. Don't worry, you're safe.)

(Ninja edit: I finally decided on a 'Midgardian' name for Loki that I didn't entirely hate. More on this in later chapters!)