Banner, who has some experience with losing himself, once tried to commiserate with me. I told him that having Loki in my head was like being trapped, a prisoner in my own body.

But that was a lie. The truth is far more humiliating.

Imagine calmly facing a new enemy, reviewing what you know about him, seeing angles, planning exit strategies. He raises his strange staff, and suddenly, there's a bright light.

And everything changes.

It's like an epiphany or enlightenment — you've been blind, and now you can see.

You look into those calm, calculating green eyes and know — you know— how insignificant your life has been. How worthless, how utterly second-rate are all the things you used to love, compared to this: Loki has come. Loki has come to rule — and the universe suddenly makes sense.

He is majestic and cunning. He is more powerful, more magnificent than anything you've ever imagined. He is your god.

And nothing else matters.

At least I wasn't the one who took out Coulson.

The old man must have gotten the drop on Loki, because if that bastard had planned on killing him, he would have ordered me to do it just to mess with me.

And I would have — gladly, proudly. I would have slit Coulson's throat, would have set the whole damn ship on fire, just because Loki asked me to. Because maybe Loki would give me that quiet "well done" nod.

Like Coulson used to.

That was the sick genius of it, really. In most ways, I was still myself — same skills, same pride, same sense of humor. He didn't take my body, or even my mind. He took my heart. He made me want to kill for him.

And I was as efficient a killer for him as I'd ever been for Fury. More efficient, probably. Because Loki was right about one thing: when you lose your will, life gets simple, peaceful. And sick as it sounds, you really do feel free.

Imagine every complexity suddenly disappearing, every question you ever lost sleep over, every worry, every doubt — blissfully forgotten.

And in their place, imagine knowing that someone better than you'll ever be is pulling the strings of the world. And anything he tells you to do will be the right thing. In fact, it will be the most important, most worthwhile thing you have ever done.

What could be better than that?

I'd like to think that, somewhere in there, part of me was fighting back like Selvig did; part of me still knew the truth. Maybe I didn't hit Natasha as hard as I could have; maybe I chose spots that wouldn't damage her as much. I've seen the footage. It's possible.

Or maybe that was him too. Maybe I was enjoying her pain. Maybe I was prolonging the fight because that's exactly what Loki would have done.

I'm glad I don't remember.

My memory of those two days is patchy, but a few things have stuck with me. Unfortunately.

I remember somewhere cold and dark where Selvig built his machine. I remember riding in a vehicle, giving orders. I remember putting an arrow through the right lung of a man in a SHIELD uniform and not bothering to notice his face.

And I remember the way Loki smiled when I told him everyone's secrets — and the way that made me feel. You know that look a dog gets when he brings back the stick and you say, "Good boy!" Looks like pure bliss, doesn't it? Well, for two days, I was Loki's dog — his damn dog. And I would have done anything to make him happy.

He wanted to know everything about SHIELD and the Avengers, so I wracked my brain for him. I'm pretty sure I told him things about Natasha that she doesn't even know I know.

He also kept trying to find the big levers — asking me for Fury's back up plans, details about the Council — but I couldn't give him much. He considered me dense, I think, little more than a thug with good aim. And I felt sick that I had let him down.

Let him—

Those secrets, they're worse than the killing. I've killed a lot of people on my boss's say-so. But that was the first time I ever sold anybody out — sold them out for a smile, for another stupid, toothy grin on that smug face.

I even worried about him sometimes, the way I worry about Natasha when something's weighing on her. He'd slip into these distracted, brooding moods, and it bothered me because it just felt wrong — he was the King.

I knew that not much could hurt him, but I still watched him like a hawk — watched his back, watched for ways I could help him.

I don't even think he noticed.

It's messed up that this still bothers me, isn't it? All those hours I spent anxious for him, like a stupid dog, like an ant waiting — willingly — to be stomped.

That's what really gets to me. He despised us, but he made us love him. We were just tools to him — completely expendable — but he made us believe that belonging to him was everything.

Imagine making an arrow love you — or giving your boots a sense of "glorious purpose." Imagine making a cow long for the honor of being your dinner. What kind of sick bastard does something like that?

I killed for him. I betrayed my only friend for him. And I loved it.

For two days, for the first time in my miserable life, I—

I've thought a lot about what he said just before he commandeered me: "You have heart." Because I don't get it.

It could have been sarcastic gloating — "You have some goodness; I will enjoy ripping it out of you." Or maybe it was just a pompous way of telling me I was a puny human and easily controlled.

Course, he could have meant it as a compliment: "You're loyal and stubborn and brave, just the kind of man I need."

I find some small satisfaction in that last one — until I realize that I'm doing it again. I'm feeling proud he chose me. And I have to find a mirror and check my eyes.

Then I have to find something to shoot at. Preferably something that explodes.