[Choking out a little sob at Clint's first assessment, Loki avoids eye-contact. He can still remember the alternate he'd loved asking why he'd cared for the Midgardians or the Jotun. He can remember the other him who mentioned Ragnarok but not... not dead Avengers? He remembers that last conversation with his alternate as they'd broken up, both pressed against the cold, metal door that separated them.]

[It would have been so easy to have just taken it a slight step further from a fear of sentiment and connection... into total callousness. But somehow there was something different between himself and most of his alternates. It felt weird to him too, in an awful and jarring way, because so many versions of him were just horrifying. Apparently his odds weren't good. It felt somehow like getting insulted by fate itself.] Other mes are a lot for me to take in, I can assure you.

[Pinching the bridge of his nose a bit, Loki continues,] Evidently there is a very high percentage chance versions of me become destroyers of worlds, and also annihilate large portions of several without a care.

I've made mistakes. I've hurt a lot of people. Both in those mistakes and when worse was threatened. But I'm not like them. I don't know what makes us different. I can't say I don't care about them. Or that they're not like me. But I'll fight them if I have to. Frequently I've had to.