"Is this really all you aspire to?" Loki stared at the assembled variants with genuine disbelief, his voice mixing disappointment and dawning horror. "Hiding in a cellar? Playing at kingship in the cosmic garbage dump? Waiting for entropy to claim you?"
He looked around the underground bunker, taking in the salvaged furniture, the jury-rigged lighting systems, the walls decorated with trophies from pruned timelines—all the careful construction of something resembling civilization built on a foundation of absolute resignation.
Every Loki present seemed to have had their edges worn completely smooth by accumulated failures and betrayals. Life—or whatever passed for existence in the Void—had systematically broken them down until nothing remained but hollow survival instincts.
They bore no physical wounds that Loki could see. But their spirits reminded him viscerally of his own psychological state during those darkest days on Sakaar—pierced through with invisible chains, bound by trauma and helplessness, unable to imagine any future except endless repetition of past suffering.
The recognition was uncomfortable because it forced him to confront how close he'd come to this same fate.
"Resistance is futile," Old Loki stated with the calm certainty of someone who'd tested that hypothesis countless times and always received the same result. "You yourself were pruned from the Time Variance Authority, weren't you? Despite whatever cleverness you thought would save you."
His weathered features carried no judgment, only weary acknowledgment of universal truth. "They've locked onto the Sacred Timeline and written down the predetermined fate of all of us across infinite variations. If we deviate even slightly from the approved narrative, they detect the temporal branch immediately and prune us. Send us here to rot."
Old Loki settled deeper into his chair, his movements suggesting joints that ached constantly. "In the beginning, my world proceeded exactly according to their script. Every event, every choice, every consequence matched what they'd ordained."
His voice grew distant with memory. "Then one day, Thanos launched his attack on our ship—the assault that should have ended with my death, with his hands around my throat as Thor watched helplessly."
"But I chose differently. I faked my death with more conviction than ever before, created an illusion so perfect even the Mad Titan believed it. And then I escaped—abandoned Thor, abandoned Asgard, fled to the furthest reaches of the cosmos."
"Several thousand years I spent in self-imposed exile," Old Loki continued, his tone almost dreamlike. "Living in complete isolation on a remote world where nothing of consequence ever happened. Never contacted my brother again. Never interfered with galactic events. Just... existed."
"So you DID change your destiny!" Loki interjected, recognizing the significance immediately.
He'd seen the Sacred Timeline's documentation, had reviewed the files showing that Loki was absolutely destined to die at Thanos's hands during that assault. It was a fixed point, a narrative anchor that supposedly couldn't be altered.
But Old Loki had survived that moment. Had rewritten what should have been unchangeable.
Yet the elderly variant shook his head slowly, his expression mixing bitterness with something like pity for Loki's naive optimism.
"That's not how their system works," he explained patiently. "The Time Variance Authority doesn't detect changes to fate itself—they monitor for branching timelines that create divergent realities. I, having faked my death, spent millennia living in complete obscurity on a world so remote and insignificant that my continued existence made no practical difference to the timeline's overall structure."
Old Loki's voice grew quieter, more reflective. "There was functionally no difference between my self-imposed exile and actual death. The universe proceeded exactly as scripted whether I existed or not. No branches formed. No alternate realities spawned. I was irrelevant."
"But then one day..." He trailed off, something flickering across his ancient features—regret, longing, perhaps the ghost of hope long since extinguished.
"After thousands of years of solitude," Old Loki continued, his voice rough with suppressed emotion, "after lifetimes spent completely alone with only my own thoughts for company... I felt lonely. Started longing for home, for family. Wanted desperately to see Thor one final time before the universe ended or I finally died from old age."
His hands clenched slightly on the chair's armrests. "The moment I made that decision, the instant I started traveling toward Asgard with intention to reconnect... those TVA agents appeared. Grabbed me before I'd traveled even a fraction of the distance."
He gestured vaguely at their surroundings. "Brought me here. Told me I'd created a branch timeline through my 'unauthorized deviation' from prescribed isolation."
Old Loki chuckled—a dry, humorless sound like dead leaves rustling. He leaned back in his chair, his expression carefully neutral as if discussing something that had happened to a complete stranger rather than himself.
"So you understand now," he said with terrible finality. "Loki can only ever play one role in the cosmic drama: the god of exile. The eternal outcast. The one who's always pushed away from everything he cares about."
"That's fate. That's what we are."
"THIS IS NOT FATE!" Loki's shout exploded from his chest with volcanic intensity, startling every variant present.
His reaction was so visceral, so hysterically emphatic, that even Kid Loki—who'd thought himself beyond surprise—flinched slightly at the raw emotion.
Loki himself didn't fully understand why he felt such overwhelming fury at Old Loki's resigned acceptance. Perhaps it was hearing that even in his final moments of hope, the elderly variant hadn't been permitted to see Thor one last time—hadn't been allowed even that small mercy after millennia of loneliness.
Or perhaps it was witnessing these Loki variants—beings who should be characterized by cunning and pride and relentless ambition—reduced to the psychological equivalent of stray dogs with broken spines. Bowing submissively to so-called "fate" without dignity or resistance, accepting chains they could theoretically break if they just tried.
But regardless of the source, Loki felt absolute certainty burning in his chest.
"That is NOT fate!" he repeated, his voice dropping to intense focus rather than shouting. "If fate genuinely didn't allow us to exist, then we wouldn't exist at all. Do you understand? Our mere presence here proves fate isn't the absolute authority you're treating it as!"
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with harsh finality. Looking down at the assembled Lokis with fierce conviction, he pointed at each in turn.
"You are not losers!" The declaration carried weight of absolute belief. "YOU!" His finger targeted Old Loki. "You've lived longer than any other Loki variant across infinite timelines! Survived for millennia through cunning and determination! That's not failure—that's the greatest success possible!"
His attention shifted. "YOU!" Now pointing at Kid Loki. "You killed Thor! You accomplished a feat that no other Loki has ever managed! The thing we've all fantasized about in our darkest moments—you actually did it!"
"And YOU!" Loki's gesture swept toward Black Loki, who was beginning to look uncomfortable with the passionate attention. "You're—"
"Hey!" Black Loki protested, sensing where this was heading.
But Loki ignored the interruption entirely, his voice gaining suggestive emphasis. "You conquered Captain America! America's most righteous defender with his famously toned physique! That's an achievement worthy of song!"
Crocodile Loki, currently curled in a water basin, made a sound that might have been reptilian laughter—or possibly just digestive processes.
Loki's attention swept downward. "And you..." He paused, genuinely uncertain. "I'm sorry, but what exactly have you accomplished? What great feat earned your pruning?"
"He ate his neighbor's pet cat," Black Loki supplied helpfully.
Loki blinked. Wait, what?
That seemed... significantly less impressive than the other variants' achievements. How had something so mundane resulted in temporal pruning? What kind of absurdly rigid system considered eating a domestic animal sufficient cause for erasing someone from reality?
But this wasn't the moment to undermine anyone's confidence. Loki rallied immediately.
"You might be the only Loki who's ever eaten cat!" he declared with manufactured enthusiasm. "And considering you're a crocodile, that shows impressive predatory instinct! Very dignified!"
He spread his arms wide, encompassing all of them. "Look—we are all Loki, yet we're each completely different! Fate didn't forbid our existence or make us identical. We represent infinite possibility, infinite variation!"
His voice gained intensity, passion building toward crescendo. "It's those bureaucrats in the Time Variance Authority who think they can control fate, who believe they have authority to dictate what's allowed to exist! They're the ones playing us for fools! Treating us like puppets whose strings they can cut whenever our improvisation becomes inconvenient!"
"Are you just going to accept that manipulation?" Loki demanded. "Let them control you forever? Hide in this bunker and pretend survival is the same as living?"
"We are the GODS OF MISCHIEF!" The title rang out like a battle cry. "We should be the ones deceiving them! We should be writing the script they're forced to follow! We should be pulling strings they don't even know exist!"
The speech hung in the air for a long moment, every Loki processing the words with expressions ranging from desperate hope to cynical dismissal.
Finally, Old Loki broke the silence with a question that cut to the practical core.
"What exactly do you propose? We can't even leave this place. Alioth consumes anyone who tries to escape, and we lack the power to fight it."
"That monster—if we kill it, we can leave," Loki stated with confidence that suggested he'd already analyzed the tactical situation.
"HAHAHA!" The laughter erupted from every Loki simultaneously, their mirth mixing incredulity with genuine amusement at what they perceived as spectacular naivety.
"Kill Alioth?" Old Loki wheezed between laughs. "With OUR strength? Our pathetic abilities?"
"Do you have any comprehension of how terrifying that creature is?" Black Loki added, wiping tears from his eyes. "We're just a bunch of minor tricksters who can only pull off low-level illusions! Parlor tricks and minor deceptions! Alioth is a trans-temporal entity that devours matter, energy, and possibility itself!"
"You guys might be useless," Loki replied coolly, his tone deliberately insulting, "but I'm not."
He settled back into his chair with calculated casualness, crossing his legs in a posture of supreme confidence. "I wasn't just lounging around during my time with Ben Parker and the Plumbers. I've become one of the people most intimately familiar with Mana and cosmic principles."
His voice carried quiet pride. "I'm the one who added protective Mana runes to every Plumber badge in our organization. Not Ben, not the Ancient One, not anyone else—ME."
Loki continued before anyone could interrupt. "Moreover, I was born with what Asgardians considered congenital deficiencies. Although my physical abilities exceeded most Earth heroes significantly, compared to actual Asgardian warriors I could only be rated as average at best—possibly below average in purely physical contests."
He smiled with dark satisfaction. "But the heavens compensated for those deficiencies. Through training, enhancement, and exposure to Ben Parker's Mana, my body has been fundamentally transformed."
Loki flexed one hand, cosmic energy briefly flickering around his fingers. "I may look thin and unimpressive, but I'm actually equivalent to one of Asgard's most powerful warriors now. Possibly stronger than anyone except Thor himself."
"But that's far from my only advantage," he added mysteriously.
Before departing on this mission, Ben had carefully considered the difficulty and specifically instructed Loki to bring certain equipment—tools that could tip the balance in seemingly impossible situations.
The Casket of Ancient Winters rested in Loki's dimensional storage, a weapon of apocalyptic potential that could freeze entire planets if properly deployed.
Of course, Loki wouldn't reveal that trump card prematurely. Even with the Casket's power, he might not be able to defeat Alioth through direct confrontation. The creature's nature made it potentially immune to conventional attacks.
He needed more leverage. More powerful weapons or unexpected allies.
His gaze drifted thoughtfully toward Crocodile Loki, speculation building. If a Loki variant exists as a crocodile in this multiversal dumping ground, could there also be an animal version of Thor somewhere? A creature possessing Thor's power but in unexpected form?
The tactical possibilities were intriguing—
"Aren't you just another loser like the rest of us?" Kid Loki interrupted sharply, his young voice carrying defensive challenge. "Just another pruned variant?"
The boy's pride was clearly stung by Loki's confident assertions. He crossed his arms with aristocratic disdain. "If you're so successful and powerful, then tell us what you're actually capable of! What grand achievement earned YOUR place here!"
The question sparked uncomfortable shifting among the other variants.
It wouldn't matter if everyone had failed—they could support each other in shared misery, find comfort in universal defeat. But having someone claim success while they wallowed in failure? That was intolerable. That upset the delicate balance of their resigned community.
Everyone else was suffering, so why should THIS Loki be driving a metaphorical Land Rover while they walked barefoot through cosmic garbage?
Besides, Kid Loki believed his achievement—killing Thor, the thing every Loki secretly fantasized about but none actually accomplished—represented the absolute pinnacle of what any Loki variant could achieve.
He genuinely didn't believe this arrogant newcomer could have succeeded more impressively than that ultimate transgression.
But Loki's response—delivered with casual simplicity—made every variant's jaw drop in synchronized shock.
"I lifted Mjolnir," Loki stated matter-of-factly, as if discussing something as mundane as yesterday's lunch. "Became the King of Asgard through legitimate succession. The rightful, recognized ruler. Odin himself crowned me in front of the entire Nine Realms."
?
Question marks practically materialized above every Loki's head simultaneously. Their expressions suggested he'd just announced that water was actually dry and gravity worked sideways.
Is this still about Asgard? their faces seemed to say. Are we even speaking the same language anymore? Has reality fundamentally broken?
"In my timeline," Loki continued, clearly enjoying their stunned reactions, "my mother Frigga is still alive. My father Odin remains healthy and active. Thor and I have completely reconciled—we're so close we could practically share the same pair of pants."
His smile grew wider, more genuine. "I have a happy family with loving relationships. Two older sisters and another older brother besides Thor. We actually get along. Support each other. No betrayals or resentment poisoning every interaction."
"Asgard itself remains intact," he added, his voice carrying wonder at his own fortune. "All its people are alive and prospering. The realm hasn't been destroyed by Surtur or Hela or any other apocalyptic threat. It's... actually fine."
Loki's expression shifted to something mischievous, the God of Mischief fully embodied. "On the day of my coronation ceremony, Odin summoned representatives from every realm in the Nine Realms to congratulate me personally. Every dignitary, every ruler, every important figure was assembled."
He paused for dramatic effect. "And I tricked them all magnificently—didn't attend my own coronation at all! Sent an illusion while I did something more entertaining! The ultimate prank on a cosmic scale!"
Every Loki stared at him with expressions mixing awe, jealousy, and desperate longing.
There existed no greater achievement for someone dedicated to mischief than successfully pranking literally everyone while simultaneously being honored and celebrated.
Not to mention everything else—Odin's genuine approval, a loving family, a happy ending that defied every pattern they'd ever known.
The jealousy was so intense it was practically tangible, a physical force in the room that threatened to manifest as visible green flames.
But Kid Loki rallied, refusing to let this newcomer completely dominate the emotional landscape. His voice carried defensive challenge despite the awe.
"So what if you had all that?" he retorted, his young features twisting with something between admiration and resentment. "If you were so successful, so happy, so perfectly positioned... then why were you STILL pruned? Why are you here with us instead of ruling your perfect kingdom?"
The question hung in the air like an accusation, forcing Loki to confront the fundamental contradiction between his claimed success and his current circumstances.
If everything had been so perfect, what had gone wrong?