This is by far the longest chapter yet. Generally I like it, there are some spots I don't love, but whatever... Enjoy! And please drop a review at the end! It's the replacement for the way too much sugar that I no longer put in my tea.

Loki lay bloody on the ground, eyes shut, limbs relaxed, face smiling and blissfully free. He was free. Thor no doubt believed him dead, gone, insane, lost; and all it had taken was some screaming, threatening, a small wound, and an invisibility spell graced with unnecessary flair. He had thrown out an overly dramatic last word, and then cast the spell, and sat back to watch as Thor sobbed and grieved, his mortal comforted him, the rest of his puny band of Midgardian friends hung back, lost without the mighty Thor's guidance.

He had stifled the urge to laugh at the looks of shock, horror, pity, and, in Dr. Selvig's case, fear on their fragile little faces; dragging himself safely out of the way of accidental discovery. He had slumped to the ground, half resting against a mostly-untouched pillar, leaned his head back and closed his eyes, breathing out a steady breath, then frowning when it caught and bloodied halfway out of his mouth. He summoned his waning magic, and began a thorough examination of the damage to his body.

He was still for almost half an hour, his eyes closed, face blank. If not for the shallow rise of his chest, one might mistake him for a corpse. Deep in his trance, he was not awake to laugh at the tiny little humans bundling Thor into their Midgardian medical vehicle, rushing and barking orders. He was not awake to see, while Jane held tight to Darcy on the sideline, trembling, Erik and Ian by their sides. He was not awake to see the ambulance leave, Jane's beat up car following behind as fast as it's tired old engine could. He was not awake to mock them as they left their precious staples-and-duct tape scientific equipment behind, or what was left of it. When he finally slid his eyes open, the green was still and quiet, devoid of all activity, but burned and churned and wrecked, rubble and blood and ash carpeting the dirt, taped off to keep the inquisitive mortals away.

Loki's formerly blank face creased into a frown, and he pushed himself up, wincing and grunting. He held out his hand, pulling at the fabric of space, paused for a moment to calculate, and drew three stones from his inter-dimensional safe-box, then twisted the space-threads back to a whole. He crushed the healing stones over his minor surface wounds, breathing a sigh of pleasure as the skin re-knit itself and his magic purred and replenished.

When the stones were used up, he let his arm drop, closed his eyes for a moment, and revelled in the moment of almost-wellness. He thought he could, perhaps, simply lie there. If he did not move, his insides did not hurt, and it was calm, peaceful, warm. He could sleep for a bit, let his magic take its time and heal him slowly. But the tiny humans would be here to clean up soon, and even invisible he could still be felt. He could not risk his discovery, and so he forced his eyes open, placed his hands on his breast bone, and reached his magic towards his torn lungs.

It took time and energy, but Loki worked methodically, moving from lungs to the deep gash in his thigh, to his multiple fractured and broken bones. He did not stop for rest–for once you stop the work catches up to you, and it is harder to begin again–but pushed past the drain on his magic and the spinning in his head. He healed his body down to the smallest of injuries, and then slumped backwards once more, new-mended lungs heaving in exhaustion. He almost slipped up and fell asleep, but started at the sound of a car door slamming.

He forced himself to his feet, and began stumbling away from the green, and past the tape, pulling together his last vestiges of energy and magic. Once on the streets, he ducked into an alleyway, then dropped his invisibility, cast a simple glamour, and strode back out again a foot shorter, willow thin, with wildly curly red hair, and young, wickedly mischievous face. He tucked his hands into his green hoody, and started down the street, a spring in his step and a grin on his face. And he thought.

He pushed aside all unnecessary thoughts of Thor, Frigga, or Odin; of anything to do with Asgard and his old life. Because he was free, free to do as his pleased, start a new life, make friends who actually cared for him, be appreciated, and grieving could come later. Right now, he had to figure out where to start. He began dredging up all the information Clint Barton had given him on Midgard and it's workings.

First, he decided, he needed a place settle down, at least for one night, so he could rest, recover and plan. He mentally sorted through information, and came up with a hotel, which he understood was a sort of Midgardian inn. He glanced around, caught sight of a kindly looking older man, and walked towards him. He put on a cheerful smile, forced his voice an octave higher, and adopted what his information called an 'American accent.'

"Hello, sir?" The man liked up, slightly startled. Loki widened his smile. "Hi, sorry, ehm... I'm not from around here, I mean, obviously, and truth is I'm a tiny bit lost. Would you be able to direct me to nearest hotel?"

The man smiled back and told him, and Loki inwardly puzzled over how kind mortals could be. All his life he had been treated with a degree of scorn, polite indifference, terrified obedience, occasionally respect, but rarely ever true kindness from a stranger. It was refreshing, and if Loki found himself blinking slightly watery eyes as he thanked the old man, he chose to deny it, heading towards the hotel.

It was strange, how such a little gesture could mean so much. Loki had thought himself above such emotion, but as he walked along he found himself wiping at still wet eyes, and wondering. He had thought himself to hurt and broken and angry to be touched by such a small thing as kindly man, with honest joy in his eyes at helping a stranger. he could block out the sorrow of his own mother's death, but he could not stop the tears of gratitude from a simple gesture of kindness. Some god he was. He angrily dashed the tears from his eyes, and quickened his step.

He checked into the hotel under the name Lucas Friggason, why, he did not know, paying with conjured money. He received his room key with a tired smile, and trudged to the elevator, jabbing the sixth floor button then slumping back against the wall. He was out of the public, he could let his exhaustion show. When the elevator dinged, he once again pulled himself up, walking down the hallway till he came to his room, nodding at a woman he passed on the way. He fumbled out the room key, managed to open the door, and then collapsed onto the bed.

Thoughts of taking off his filthy clothes and armour, cleaning up, or climbing underneath the blankets crossed Loki's mind, but he made not move to do so. He simply lay unmoving, pressed flat against the bed by the invisible weight of bone-deep exhaustion, and let the events of the past day—the past week—wash over him. And the he curled over on his side, and cried himself to sleep.

Loki woke the next morning awake, re-energized, and disgusting. He groaned at the thick fog left behind from sleeping after crying, pulled himself to his feet, and staggered into the bathroom. He threw his grimy, greasy haired reflection a look of disgust, and stripped of his ruined armour, tunic, and pants. He paused, sniffed, brow creasing in perplexed wonder. Even through the synch of grime and sweat, the cloth still held on to the strange scent of Midgardian cleaning products. He did not know who, but one of Thor's merry band of mortals had cleaned his clothing while he was unconscious before, and yet again, he felt a strange surge of gratitude toward whomever had done it. He shook his head, threw the clothing to the floor. First the old man, now one of Thor's friends... he was becoming sentimental, and that wouldn't do. He stepped into the shower.

Loki ran the water as hot as it would go, then magicked it hotter, and let the scalding, steaming water wash off the grime and blood, easing his tense muscled. He stayed that way for a good half hour, then summoned the bottles of hotel shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel. He took a moment to examine the bottles, before pouring a generous amount of shampoo into his hand and massaging it through his hair. He rinsed it, squeaked it, and shampooed it again, then stood and let the water rinse it out again.

He spared the conditioner another glance, then gingerly set it aside. His hair finally felt properly clean, the last thing he needed was some disgusting oily Midgardian concoction making his scalp, neck, and back slimy. He quickly rubbed down with the shower gel, the turned off the water and stepped out, shaking his hair back.

Loki wrapped a towel around his waist, then waved his hands, clearing the steam and drying his body. His hair he left wet, and approached the mirror, contemplating his reflection, now that the battle-filth was gone.

The first step to creating a new life here on Midgard is creating a new appearance. Can't have anyone recognising you.

With another wave of his hands, The bottom six inches of Loki's hair sliced neatly off, and fell away into nothingness. He began twisting his fingers around, smoothing and snipping, a long layers, slightly shorter in the back than the front. A few shades lighter, with red highlights. The appropriate complexion changes. Tweak the eyebrows and eye colour, and minute changes to his other features. Finally, lose two inches in height, step back, admire.

And Loki did, taking in his altered appearance. His hair was now a rich, slightly-reddish brown, neatly cut at his chin, and parted over his left eye. His eyebrows had been tamed, thinned and lengthened, and his eyes were now stormy grey, with flecks of his former green. Paired with his slight loss in height, he looked almost completely different, yet exactly the same. He doubted it would hold up to the avengers, or anyone else who he had met face-to-face, but it was certainly enough to keep the common people from recognising him. He smiled to himself, scooped up his clothes from the floor, and exited the bathroom.

He set the ruined armour on the floor, turning his attention first to his tunic and pants. With a wrench of his hand, the blood and sweat were pulled from the fibres, leaving them clean, bright, and sweet smelling. Closing his eyes, he ran his hands slowly over the tears, weaving the threads back together, tweaking the style here and there, twisting it into a more Midgardian style. Finally, satisfied, he shook the tunic and pants out, then pulled them on, rolling his shoulders and stretching out his long limbs. It felt good to be clean, to wear clean clothes, to be free of tension. the cheer slid from his face. Not free of tension, of grief. It was diminished, cushioned, and what was left locked up, but not gone. It never would be, for can one ever truly forget the death of their family? For the second time that morning, he shook his emotions off.

His good mood ruined, he glared at his dirtied armour, and, in a split-second, angry decision, burnt it in a smokeless, wasteless fire. He stared at the empty spot for a long moment, then spun on his heel and strode out the door, casting the previous day's glamour over himself.

He wasted no time checking out, stepping out onto the street three minutes later, before once again stepping into an alleyway, and back out again in his slightly-altered, glamour-free face. He began wandering the streets again, planning his next action.

Next I need a permanent place to stay. Money's not a problem, I can make as much of it as I want. Finding a decent place, though, is. And I'll need some kind of job, something to keep me occupied. Now the place to start is...

And he walked by a pasty shop across the street, the many sweet and savory scents wafting under his nose, setting his stomach to grumbling. He let out a sigh of defeat, and stepped towards the shop.

...getting a bite to eat.

Two minutes later, Loki was seated at a table in the shop, a 'chicken supreme' pasty and a mug of coffee in front of him. He absently munched on the pasty, taking a minute to appreciate the flavour, before turning his thoughts back to planning.

He decided that where he lived should be determined by the job he found; he could sleep in hotels until then. But what did he want to do? The only job he'd ever had was being a prince, and he doubted he could find that position on Midgard. His training as prince had given him many skills, combat skills, diplomacy, vast stores of knowledge...he did not see how fighting could come in useful, a diplomat was right out– working with high-ranking authorities, when he was no doubt on earth's 'most wanted' list?– but he could perhaps put his vast knowledge and inclination towards learning to some use. Perhaps a librarian, or some sort of professor. I could teach Norse Mythology, he chuckled to himself. Although, it was not actually that bad of an idea. What with his attack on New York last year, there was sure to be a good amount of interest in the subject, and who better to teach it than the god of mischief himself?

Pasty long gone, he pushed the plate away, placing his elbows upon the table and steepling his fingers under his chin. This could actually work...

Twenty minutes later, Loki's mind was made up, and he was back on the street, walking with purpose. His first stop would be library; he needed access to a computer, and it wouldn't hurt to find some books on Norse mythology. He did need to research exactly how badly Midgardians had messed up the Æsir's history. As he walked, he set out a detailed list of all he would need to do. First he needed to figure out where he needed to go, and that meant finding a school with a spot for a Norse mythology professor. Before he could move into anywhere permanently, he needed an identity, a past, so forging the necessary documents was next. Then moving to the area, applying, getting the position (there was no doubt in Loki's mind that he would), and settling in. Too easy, really.

Loki smiled. Things were looking up.