What kind of joke was this? Whatever it was, it really wasn’t all that funny, at least not to Vi. Or perhaps that in itself was funny? She did always consider herself a bit of a jokester, even in serious times... yet there was no humour in her heart as she held the wooden gloves in her clenched fist; the only thing she could feel at the moment was an overwhelming frustration. Frustration towards her situation, towards everything, but most especially, the fact that they had taken away her one biggest comfort.
Her hands felt too naked without her gauntlets, too bare. Sure, she had taken them off plenty of times before (after all, even she needed a break from punching foes in the face), but knowing that she couldn’t put them back on anymore hit her too hard. It was a feeling she hadn’t felt in many a year, a feeling of powerlessness, of weakness. Vi had trouble admitting it, even to herself, but she knew she was no longer in control.
She was half-tempted to punch a hole in the wall—half? No; she was so tempted, that before she even knew it, her fist had collided with the brick of whatever building in the street had the misfortune of being in her way. Even without her giant metallic gloves, she still had exceptional strength, but it was only enough to leave a slight dent in the wall.
It wasn’t satisfying, not in the slightest. She could keep going for minutes, hours, days, punching her way through with her own brute force, until her knuckles were scraped away of all their skin.