[ Loki eyes the figure at first, the blood red in his eyes flickering in the light. He tries to picture people, letting his feelings boil over. He throws a knife at it, catching it dead center on its forehead. Loki moves closer, lithe as a panther as he wraps his fingers around the neck —
— But he can't squeeze. He tries and tries and tries, but the anger in him, it's artificial. Fake. It no longer holds water in this new world Loki has built for himself. With a frustrated howl, Loki lets his hands drop. ]
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— But he can't squeeze. He tries and tries and tries, but the anger in him, it's artificial. Fake. It no longer holds water in this new world Loki has built for himself. With a frustrated howl, Loki lets his hands drop. ]
This is pointless. They're all dead.