oh no, not me, i never lost control -- you're face to face with the man who sold the world
There are times in everyone's life in which it seems as though the universe or some force operating within its bounds must, indeed, be stacked against one. There seems almost an intentionality in it, some faint echo of fate, will divine or infernal -- or something, somewhere, royally pissed off for reasons beyond immediate comprehension. Of course that's usually the perspective of someone who lacks the unique and utterly nihilistic perspective of a god.
Loki knows better. Loki knows that most of the time, most deities really can't be arsed about anything other than the bottom of a drinking horn or their next fuck on the furs, and the rest are shoved too far up their own backsides to be any more inclined to pay attention to the goings-on of mortals. Himself Loki places in the second category, that designation decided in an unusually intense fit of lucidity and self-awareness. Not, of course, that he finds that designation particularly problematic. It's certainly better than being in the former category, given the sorts of gods who tend to occupy it.
The point is, he knows that current circumstances are merely the result of utterly shitty luck.
Which he supposes would be the conclusion of any rational being in this situation. Divine intervention doesn't appear to be forthcoming, and therefore, logically, accounting for all of the variables, Loki just has the distinct misfortune of finding himself in entirely the wrong place at entirely the wrong time.
For this he has nobody but himself to blame, as it was his decision to take up residence in this city, after all. A decision based upon a string of other decisions, most of them also bad, which have lead to him staring, unimpressed, down the barrel of a gun and wondering if it wouldn't be quicker to simply shove the thing in his mouth and press down on the gunman's trigger finger. Just to see what happens.
Just to see what a split second tastes like, before oblivion.
Instead he sighs, looking up at the brute holding the weapon and running his fingertips over scarred lips. Well, at least the shadow of Stark Tower is keeping the sun from his eyes. That's why he chose to dwell so near to it, after all. So, incidentally, is this, but he'd meant to be watching the exploits of the latest set of overly optimistic supervillains and criminals of the pettier class from the relative safety of his own apartment, not from the table of a cafe with a gun trained on him.
"So," he starts, conversationally, since the other fellow doesn't seem inclined, "what is it this time, then? Vengeance, attention -- chaos for its own sake? No, goons with guns, that's money, isn't it? Then again you're not shooting anyone, not even me, and frankly I've been saying quite enough now that I'd have shot me, if I were you."
The fellow doesn't even look like he's going to, which is interesting, most people want to shoot Loki, which means there's something up here which isn't immediately obvious. That's as far as he gets, of course, before what tends to happen when Loki speaks does, indeed, happen.
All hell breaks loose.