He circles his cell, each footfall belying a feral grace that even in this hour he refuses to surrender. His face, wax-white beneath a veil of raven tangles, still bears that sickening smirk that any agent would happily wipe away. That infuriating grin coupled with the unmistakable mischief in his eyes is more than enough to keep his observers on edge. He continues his pacing, only looking up from time to time to spare a moment's eye contact with one of the agents. Without ever saying a word, he can fray their resolve like cheap string. It's a game to him and only he knows the rules.
As tensions mount, the guards rotate and Loki just keeps roaming the confines of his cage like a cat.
"He's a prisoner," mutters one of the faceless agents around him, "and he looks like he owns the damn place."
They wait for the inevitable. Any moment, he's going to pull something. They can hardly bring themselves to blink as he continues his weary game. For hours, he has been on his feet, as have they. Hours more pass and at long last, he makes a move that not one of them expected.
"He's asleep," reports Agent Lane.
"With his eyes open?" The voice over the comm asks.
"Fucking snoring," interjects Agent Dawes.
Lane buries her head in her hand and as the night progresses and the prisoner is still fast asleep. Dawes, a man in his mid-thirties with multiple degrees, struggles to make an origami ballon with a lunch receipt. Sixteen more guards stand throughout the room, none of whom does Lane know personally nor does she care to know.
"Another hard day at the office?" Chuckles one of the unfamiliar coworkers. Lane shoots a cold stare at him that might have given Loki frostbite. The remaining hours of the watch are interminable and when they finally do get to rotate, the clanging of metal jarringly relieves their fatigue.