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Chapter 20: Revival

Loki has a theory Stark cannot disprove. He is a man of science, and she has the data on her side.

She finds it pertinent to distinguish, given that English is her fifth language, the exact meaning of the word. Memory encapsulates her, visions of a long ago night made real.  A dark bedroom smelling sharply of sex, and two friends laying on sheets that should be charcoal grey but are actually sunshine yellow.

Anthony is naked, as he often was during the first two weeks. Of course that means she is too. He’s drawing figure eights on her stomach, or perhaps they’re infinities, or molecules, or motorcycles. These are all things Anthony draws whenever there’s a spare moment.

He's long winded when he's drunk. And very touchy.

"Cause, see, people are just idiots. That's the first thing you gotta know about humans. We're stupid. Unbelievably stupid. You want an example? Okay, here's an example. We have this word, 'theory.’ And a theory, is like...the Oscars of science. A theory is an idea that nobody can disprove. It's supported by facts, it's tested, it's like 99.999% gotta be true. Gravity. Time. Evolution. But people, stupid people, they run around talking like, 'i have a theory that my boyfriend's cheating on me. I can't prove it, but I just know'. Well that's bullshit, right? Bullshit. That's a hypothesis."

The memory fades, and she returns to the yellow room again. There is a chalkboard on the wall, although on Asgard they used enchanted placards. Her theory is written there, in large flowing letters.

Everything is Loki's fault.

She doesn't see why this is so objectionable to the stone. Her data set is comprehensive, well organized, and consistent. Three out of four parents agree that she wasn't worth the trouble, and her many jilted lovers will vouch for her detestable character. She doesn’t see the problem.

"May I die yet?" she asks the room at large.

Stark’s voice emanates from the ceiling. It has grown progressively more annoyed with each iteration.

"Let's try this again."

The room dissolves into darkness, and Loki flops on the floor. Enough, she's had well enough of this nonsense.

Her first memory has no visual component. It is warmth and safety. The sensation of being held by a large body and rocked.

In life she recalled it often, pushing herself to remember more. This memory taunts her because her infant self did not open their eyes. She does not know who made her feel so secure. Are they pale or dark blue, male or female, neither or both? She doesn’t know, and she never will.

Light returns with the flicker of flames in a sitting room. Noble ladies in yellow robes sit around the fire pit gossiping while Loki crawls about the floor. Thor is in mother's lap, and all the women are cooing over his yellow hair. Loki is too young to give a tit, pawing on hands and knees toward Aunt Freya. She wears the most beautiful shoes he has ever seen, and he wants to put his mouth all over them.

Covering her face in her hands, adult Loki groans. The memory pauses, and Stark walks out of the fire. Yellow eyes give her that assessing gaze she both dreads and craves. She wants to shrivel up and die already.

"What's so bad about this?" Stark asks.

"Would it make a difference if I begged? I can be humble, if that is what you want. I can be a great many things."