His first reaction isn't panic.

It could have been. If this were happening even a few years earlier, it might have been. He'd gone through one of his brief periods of thinking he was insane, after the invasion of New York. It happens. It happens a little more often to him than to anyone else he's ever met.

Glances around the room with the yellow lines, frozen still. There's no one here. And there are too many options for what could have happened to him. His scattered, acid-flashback memories of what he was Before are a little too piecemeal for him to strongly rule anything out. He's not where he was, anyway. That's clear enough.

He steps up, and speaks. "Door, open." To his mild surprise, it does. From there, he steps tentatively out into the hallway. Realizes what he's doing, and he consciously drops tentative, and steps forth. Not confidently, not a swagger or a stride, but just the easy walking pace of someone who's busy but not too busy, who knows where he's going. None of the few people who pass him give him a second glance.

Eventually, he spots two people come out of a room - tables, chairs, the smell of food and the sound of conversation. Loki lets his feet carry him in, as though that was always where he planned to go. He steps over to the window, and consciously does not gape at the stars. He's in space. That rules out a few of the possibilities he was considering. And, frankly, nothing he can think of fits the evidence.

He slides into a seat by the stars, and leans his chin on his palm, eyes out toward the black, listening carefully to the nearby conversations.