There was a room full of exactly sixteen dead H.A.M.M.E.R. agents, and Loki standing in the midst of them, her chest still heaving and her bare forearms absolutely coated in blood—she'd torn them apart by hand, there had been nowhere else to place what she'd been feeling for the past few days.
Below the blood, her arms are mottled violet, yellow, black. She's managed to at least get them off her face, but the rest of her body, she can't allocate the energy.
No outlet. She can't even talk to Lester about it, she doesn't want to—the look on his face when she'd come to him, she swore he must have been disgusted with her, and Loki had never felt like that before. Hell, she'd rarely even killed without reason before, but here she was, the scent of blood cloying and thick and setting a tremble in her shoulders she wasn't used to.
If asked, she probably wouldn't be able to answer where she was, what she'd been doing beforehand.
Loki thought, vaguely, about the fact that she'd have to either throw her clothes away or have them professionally laundered. They were ruined; it was a fitting look.
