Loki's Trial
"Get out!" Loki's father—or, at least, his First Spark projection—spat, flinging the Lord of chaos outside the building.
Loki rolled on the soaked earth, hair falling down their face in drenched, silky waves. Behind their father stood their mother, one hand on her mouth.
"Dear," She said in Greek, referring to her husband. "It's enough. We shouldn't—"
"Shut up!" The older man snapped, lifting a hand in a threatening move to hit her. "This is your fault. You let the boy stay around his grandmother for too long. Now look at him."
He pointed at Loki, the latter immediately scrambling to cover their chest with what remained of the outfit the bastard ripped to shreds.
Something dark coiled deep in the SSS-Rank's chest.
'Enough of this.' They grabbed the porcelain white mask which had been stuck to their face for most of the trial. 'I'm no longer that weak, little… boy.'
