September broke him. He found a timeline where Thor was alive—not his Thor, but a Thor who had lost his Loki in 2018. This Thor wept into a beer at a dive bar. Loki sat beside him. He didn’t say, “I’m your brother.” He said, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
2021–2021. Short. Impossible. Perfect.
For the first few months—January to April—he did nothing. He sat in a small apartment in a reality where Asgard had fallen but New York still stood. He drank cheap coffee and stared at the ceiling. The TVA was gone. He Who Remains was dead. The loom of fate was unspooling into infinite, beautiful chaos. And Loki was… tired.
Thor shrugged. “I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen 2021.”
December 31, 2021. Midnight. Loki sat alone on the roof of the apartment building in the dying branch. Fireworks erupted across a dozen timelines at once, visible only to him. He raised a glass of champagne that didn’t exist—a phantom glass, a trick of light.
August was quiet. He read all of Shakespeare’s tragedies in a single night and laughed at them. “You call this suffering?” he muttered. “I invented suffering. In 2021.”
Copyright 2020 – Bruno Tauzin – Tous droits réservés.
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