“Just a lil bit of patience and you get your shit back,” Hoxton says--mostly to himself, mind you. The shotgun in his hands fits him, like it could be a part of the uniform. His grin is wide, widest it’s ever been.
“Y’know, I hope guns exist in your god-realm-shit.” The mask has returned - he doesn’t have to put it on, but he does, and it’s like the first day at the bank all over again. The pink paint is a brighter neon in the haze of red alarms, a wicked smile worse than the one who wears it. The shells are haphazardly in the gym bag under his arm--Hoxton loads twelve in, one by one, eager and quick. “Guess you’ve got magic or somethin’ though, right?”
He lifts his head. The way Loki stares at him could be funny, but it’s not to him. “The fuck you lookin’ at? Just a mask.”
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