Well, that had not gone exactly as planned.
The slender, dark haired man turned and slid into the crowd fleeing from the parkway; travelling with the panicked mortals, letting the herd move him along with them. He kept a tight grip on the string bag clutched in one hand as he was buffeted by waves of flesh, perfume, and sound. A slight eddy in the crowd alerted him to an obstruction ahead: the police had fashioned a cordon and were filtering the fleeing masses down the avenue, towards the open area of the park where they could be corralled, calmed, and sent upon their way.
New York was getting good at this.
Off in the distance he spied a blinking golden gleam. Lovely, his former brother: Overseeing the crowd in the park, no doubt. It had been a long, hot, frustrating morning and there was nothing he wanted less than dealing with that sentimental fool of an Asgardian. Oh the weeping, and the moaning, and the gnashing of teeth… Oh, Loki, my Loki… it was like Whitman gone horribly wrong.
Another whorl in the crowd and Loki found himself pushed off to the edges, sidling along a glass fronted building. A smart grey suit caught his eye in the window of the upscale clothing store he was sheltering against and he took the opportunity, granted by the confusion of the crowd and the awning over his head, to expend a brief burst of magic, warping the structure of reality around him so that he and his burdens could pass harmlessly through the glass.
The darkened shop was quiet; the window displays and racks of fine clothing muffling the sounds of the panicked crowd on the other side of the glass. A sonic boom rumbled overhead, and he ducked his head and peered through the glass; he could just see the trail of expended fuel from Iron Man's rockets. So, he had been spotted then. Stark's magic sensors were getting better all the time. He should probably do something about that. Outside, the crowd took the sight as another incentive to panic and Loki sneered as he turned away from the teeming mass, picking his way through the fine woolens. His hands moved with a will of their own, long fingers reaching out to touch, stroking this sleeve, fingering that collar; an unconscious extension of his ever busy mind.
Another small expenditure of magic and the sleek black business suit he usually sported when passing for a Midgardian morphed into a fine pair of black cotton jeans paired with a rust colored linen shirt and an unstructured gold and burgundy jacket; a combination that had caught his eye on one of the mannequins. Passing a mirror he paused to take in the effect; the vaguely retro style of the jacket lent him an air of foppishness that was at odds with his usual attire. With a quick movement of his hands he loosened his shoulder length locks from the tight queue he habitually wore; long fingers dragging through the heavy mass, tousling it into a stylish mess that partially obscured his face. A pair of aviator glasses, snagged from a nearby display, completed his disguise. Simple: but considering who he was trying to evade…enough.
He located the door to the shop's storeroom and slipped into the stuffy space, which was currently lit only by emergency lights. It was full of beheaded mannequins, haphazard heaps of boxes, and an odd assortment of furnishings tucked into a corner; a misplaced living room in the midst of a jumble sale. He chuckled as a dim red glow he had been looking for caught his eye: mortals and their obsession with signage, it was truly one of their most endearing habits. He followed the light it to an exit that spilled into a deserted alleyway.
He sauntered along the empty tarmac, towards the street beyond, passing by metal fire doors, rancid dumpsters, and the occasional parked service vehicle. The sounds of the panicked crowds were muffled here and Loki felt himself unconsciously relaxing. The usual city noises took precedence: the occasional blare of horns, snatches of conversation, and wisps of music from radios turned far too loud. In the distance a megaphone blurted, blaring instructions and military codes, overriding the normal city sounds as he passed a narrow gap in the buildings.
The deep thrum of blades alerted him and he ducked back into the shadow of a loading bay; the cool containers in his bag knocking hollowly against each other. He was thankful that he had taken up the shop girl's suggestion of some cold packs; his purchases would otherwise be ruined at this point. Once the helicopter had passed overhead he moved to the outlet of the alleyway, keeping in the morning shadows as he observed the street beyond. This one was much quieter, the panicked crowds from the next block over being successfully channeled in one direction, preventing the chaos from spreading. Several businesses were already reopening and pedestrians were slowly returning to the streets. Loki smiled and prepared to step out; this was only a few blocks from his destination, and walking the remaining distance would do him no harm, when he caught a glimpse of grey uniforms from the corner of his eye. Ducking back into the shadows he looked closer: yes, there, at the end of the street; soldiers.
With a disgruntled noise he sank back against the wall. This was far too close for comfort for the Avengers to have tracked his magical signature. One or two isolated pings on the magic sensors they had scattered around Manhattan would not raise any suspicion; after all, they were quite aware that he spent a not inconsiderable time in the city. But several, all centered on the same area? Stark's magic sensors abruptly moved higher on his to do list. Less than two blocks from home and he was trapped. Well, maybe not trapped; but certainly inconvenienced.
If it was a cooler day he might not even had minded; but during one of the hottest summer on record…at this point even the brick wall he rested against was hot. There was not even a Starbucks in sight to shelter in while he waited for the situation to calm.
He needed another solution.
He needed new minions. Hydra had far too many unthinking extremists for him to rely on their troops. Witness this morning: he left Schimdt and his cronies for little more than eight hours and they were already destroying months of work. Worse, they had chosen his day off, and had interrupting his weekday shopping and casual food cart grazing. It was really quite annoying. The idiots had probably even managed to destroy the theater he had planned to visit this evening…
Scanning the area around himself, his eyes came to rest on a brightly colored truck that was parked under an awning on the other side of the alley. It looked vaguely familiar… Oh, yes: One of the ice cream trucks that could frequently be spotted traveling the neighborhoods; selling overpriced, frozen confections to chubby children on the street. As a matter of fact, if he was not mistaken, it was the very one that haunted the blocks around his brownstone. He grimaced, expecting the monstrosity to begin blaring the hideously repetitive music that it used to lure small mortal children into its clutches. Not that the children on his street seemed to have much occasion to frequent them, but the annoying vehicle traversed it nonetheless. At some level it seemed cruel: to parade something that a child wanted so badly past them on a routine basis, all the while knowing they could never hope to attain it.
Loki knew how that felt.
It was, however, suspiciously silent. Abandoned perhaps, in the attack, or simply out of commission? His eyes scanned the alley idly, tapping his lips gently as he thought. The awning across the way was emblazoned with the image of a cartoon character and the words Dancing Dog Novelties. The repeat of the character on the body of the truck led him to assume that this building was the refueling station for the beast, and that it was not abandoned, but simply preparing for the day. And, now that he recalled it, novelties was a Midgardian word for small treats. Loki smiled; and for him, it was a very…nice…smile.
An hour later Loki had nearly reached the area that he currently called home; traffic had still been fouled from the attack earlier in the morning, and it was only the judicious application of frozen sweets from the back of the ice cream truck that had kept him from annihilating Manhattan. A litter of discarded wrappers surrounded the Norse god as he nibbled on his latest selection, a particularly amusing concoction made in the shape of Iron Man's head, and he snickered as he finished eating the cranium. His borrowed garb was dusted with nonpareils and sprinkles, and the propeller of the beanie he had found resting on the dashboard of the van spun idly in the gale pouring out of the vents. The perpetual motion machine he had built from popsicle sticks was clicking away madly on top of the dashboard in a strange counterpoint his tapping fingers as he drummed along with the chorus of "Hail, Mighty Warriors Who Die Today."
As he prepared to make his final turn a sleek red sports car shot around him from the left, the driver shooting him the bird as he screamed by. Loki slammed on the brakes, seething: Road rage, that classic Midgardian affliction, descended upon the Norse god, bursting his sugar and fat fueled bubble. With a terse gesture, he summoned his scepter and cast a complex set of spells at the receding vehicle.
With an otherworldly green shimmer the car's outline fluctuated, seeming to bubble and twist; until, with one last nauseating wrench the car suddenly began to dissolve, from the fenders backwards, into small floating blobs. The matter of the vehicle, released from the bound of physics, time, and reality began streaming upwards into the summer sky and hovered in the air, twisting idly as if unsure where to go. As the car dissolved around him, the panicked driver, suddenly lacking the support and protection of his vehicle, slammed into the pavement, tumbling madly, limbs flailing, until he skidded to a bloody stop.
With a sickening, meaty pop the blobs suddenly expanded, each one of them growing wings and tails, feather and beaks. Within moments the entire vehicle had transmuted from glass, steel, and rubber into a maddened flock of cardinals. The birds wheeled in confusion for an agonizing heartbeat before descending upon the unfortunate driver. A few moments later there was nothing left but a few errant feathers, a smear of blood on the pavement, and stunned and screaming pedestrians. Loki, pleased with his work, calmly made his turn, leaving the chaos behind.
As he popped the last bite of Iron Man into his mouth he considered the day: for all that it had started out poorly, it had turned into a wonderful time. After all, the only way to make a bad day better was by making someone else's even worse, especially if it is funny at the same time. While turning that wretched mortal's car into birds was amusing, he felt he had an even better idea, upon consideration. Even so, he just knew he was going to was going to regret this; someone, somewhere was going to consider this…altruistic. No matter, really, it was time to get to work. He could invade New York another time.
He stopped the truck and leaned out the window of the vehicle, crooking one long finger at the oldest boy in the crowd of children who were idling at the curb. After a brief moment the youngster sidled over to the truck, a truculent look on his sharp featured face. A brief flicker of magic and Loki leaned out and handed him two boxes of plastic spoons. The child looked at him, confusion plain on his face. Loki held his finger up to his lips and let his glamour drop for just an instant. The boy stepped backwards, brown eyes widening as he realized who was driving the truck
"Two blocks over" Loki whispered pointing back towards the business district "all the ice cream everyone can eat…tell your friends."
The boy looked at him, shocked and suspicious. Loki just grinned in response, "I am the Norse God of Mischief, child. The spoons will keep coming from the boxes as long as you need them. Enjoy!" and with that he shut the window, slid back into the driver's seat, and pulled away from the stunned child, Asgardian battle songs wailing from the truck's speakers as he pulled away.
Loki turned the corner, and with a smug smile and a wave of his scepter, turned all the cars parked in New York's famed business district into ice cream sculptures. He was careful to center it on the Avenger's tower, and the annoying Tin Man's collection of sports cars; turning them into the most ridiculous flavors he had yet encountered in Midgard. What exactly would the flippant inventor do with the tons of Sweet Corn and Chili Ice Cream melting in his garage?
He considered making a quick stop by the Avenger's tower to watch the drama, but decided against it. He had a lot to do before this evening's show, and was now dreadfully behind. If he wanted to stop by a few more parks to pass out spoons he would have to move quickly. Approaching the next park he decided to drop his glamour. It would all go much faster if the children knew who he was first rather than having to do a big reveal. The little green and orange beanie, though… that was his. A brief spark of magic set the propeller on the top spinning: it never stopped.