(A Loki Drabble)
"Even I don't know what it does. Should we find out?" A Midgardian. Average height and weight. Caucasian. Straight mouse-brown hair. Balding. Sharp but otherwise unremarkable eyes. A weathered sadness in them, but only noticeable if one squinted. A large nose. A plain charcoal gray suit and a plain black tie, tailored acceptably, but nothing stunning. Tidy and normal and the picture of "sufficient." Holding a large bazooka that Loki could recognize, from ten feet away, was built from Destroyer technology.
From his own grave miscalculation, in New Mexico, so many months ago--or was it years? Loki had lost track of time while swallowed by a wormhole in space and made a personal plaything by Thanos and the Chitauri. This impudent human about whom nothing, nothing, was memorable, was waving a piece of Loki's biggest tactical error in his face, like a gods-damned bugle heralding his flaws.
His hands raised off the hovering holo-console on which rested the