Disclaimer: I do not own any Marvel characters. Props go to Stan Lee for being the most awesome old man in existence, and Joss Whedon and Tom Hiddleston for making Loki such an irresistibly awesome character to write about.

Ninja'd

One of the first things Loki did was steal a motorcycle.

With his powers limited as they were in his exile, Loki couldn't expend the energy to teleport everywhere he wanted to go. Alternate transportation was therefore required, and unfortunately a horse, his second favorite mode of transportation, was out of the question. Such a beast in city streets a century prior may have been permissible, but in modern day it would have been conspicuous at best, not to mention the fact that feeding the poor thing anywhere except grassland would be near impossible. With nearly all the interesting sights to see (and SHIELD spies to outwit) in urban areas, Loki had no intention of sticking to grassland. No, he'd have to find some machine for conveyance. Something reasonably inconspicuous and acceptable to both himself and onlookers.

A motorcycle made logical sense, of course. It was the vehicle most analogous to a horse that existed in modern Midgard, and Loki was very familiar with horses (some would say "intimately" familiar, and the shock value of that particular story never failed to make him laugh). They were both self-propelled, reasonably fast, nimble compared to the four-wheeled carriages which were a far more common sight on the streets, and seemed to command loyalty from their riders. In addition, the motorcycle itself had no mind of its own (though he later learned more superstitious riders would argue), and therefore didn't require training in order to carry a passenger as horses did. It also never required rest as long as it had fuel and proper maintenance. All one had to do was learn to ride one.

One of the second things Loki did was learn how to ride a motorcycle. Unfortunately, it was not nearly as simple as riding a horse. In general, the horse could stand unassisted and retained an instinct for self-preservation. Not so with motorcycles. Horses were smart creatures, if not downright intelligent.

Motorcycles were stupid.

But once Loki realized it was much easier to stay upright with forward momentum on your side, his first motorcycle was far easier to ride, if a little worse for the wear.

Unfortunately, they also required a key to begin operation, which made them infinitely harder to steal. Of course, he would later learn that with any electronic ignition, one didn't actually need a key, so long as they knew where and how much electrical impulse to send to start the engine, but for now it was a small detail of Midgardian magic they called "technology" that comprised one of the holes in Tony Stark's briefing. Amazingly, they had covered advanced sciences, communications, some facets of culture, the internet, and the basics of internal combustion among myriads of other information, but not more practical concerns such as how to start a vehicle through . . . illegitimate means.

Admittedly, he could have stolen some of the Midgardians' currency or even defrauded Tony Stark's personal accounts in order to acquire transportation slightly more legally, but that prospect wasn't nearly as satisfying (or fun). Besides, removing such an unnecessary middle-man as currency when acquiring goods from people he didn't respect in the first place seemed slightly less conspicuous and far less complicated.

His first foray into motorcycle theft had been through luck, really. He had still been . . . window shopping in a modestly upscale suburban neighborhood when some drunk teenager had almost sideswiped him on a mostly deserted sidewalk but tumbled off his bike instead, a black metal and plastic device with the word "KAWASAKI" painted across the side in bold letters. Faintly reminiscent of an insect that had its legs pulled off, it almost looked like a toy, which the exiled prince found quite fitting, considering its rider. The child then had the entitled audacity to blame Loki for being in his way and knocking him to the ground in order to steal his motorcycle, which prompted the trickster to do exactly that.

The sheer arrogance and idiotic, baseless blame reminded Loki so much of his brother on a bad day that he said nothing, walked calmly over to the boy's still-rumbling bike, righted it with one hand, and mounted it. It wasn't much like the few motorcycles Stark had in his basement (heirlooms from the man's estranged father, he guessed, since Stark preferred open-topped automobiles for open-air driving), but Loki had the throttle figured out by the time the boy had stumbled to his feet to protest and was on his way.

Later, Loki figured he'd done the boy a favor, deflating some of his unearned arrogance, but at the time, he'd only really thought about restraining himself from stabbing the brat in the eye through his ridiculous helmet. If he'd purposefully set out to steal a motorcycle that night, though, he would certainly have decided on a nicer-looking one.

And then, days later, off a highway in the middle of a desert, he found a much better motorcycle.

It was pleasing to the eye in the dimming late afternoon sunlight, all shiny chrome with a blue tear-shaped fuel tank painted with yellow and red flames, not unlike several custom motorcycles Loki had seen outside similar establishments here and there. Its physical characteristics alone wouldn't have been enough to give him much pause, but the resonance he felt . . .

The motorcycle positively sang with magic.

Loki hadn't seen much evidence of Midgardian magic in anything but machines and electronic devices, and it never quite felt like the ethereal energy he used to manipulate his surroundings with ease. This energy he felt was foreign to the machine, though, as though it had been truly enchanted at one point, but the magic lingered, needing only a little further power to activate and replicate the fading spell. The spell had transformation and fire at its heart, much like Loki himself.

He approached the enchanted machine with caution and a small dose of wonder, looking back to the battered black plaything he'd arrived on before reaching a decision.

He had to have it.

Unfortunately, Loki was disappointed but unsurprised to find that the owner had neglected to conveniently leave his keys in the ignition. He briefly entertained an image of luring a silvery horse with a blue saddle painted with flames away from the parking lot using a tempting apple. Oh, how things were easier with horses.

Fortunately, the magical impression which still permeated the machine had not been done by an experienced sorcerer, speaking to more power than skill. Loki knew from experience that a vaguely skilled student could achieve the same results as a master mage when he could pour magic freely into a spell, but much like trying to hammer in a finishing tack with a two-handed sledge, such a thing tended to leave an impression. The result of such inefficiency was that the spell left traces even when inactive, a unique signature, of sorts, which could tell another sorcerer exactly who cast it. Finding such a person in a dingy little roadside tavern would not be challenging.

It wasn't, but it was slightly harder than he'd assumed. He'd expected the sorcerer's power to burn brightly like a wildfire, but instead it was more like a banked campfire or a reddish-orange gem in a pile of orange cut glass. Loki actually had to concentrate to identify the dark-haired man with a darker expression curled around his beer in a dark corner of the bar for what he was. In fact, the only things not dark and brooding about the man were his complexion and drink. He was sitting far away from the more boisterous section, which made it that much harder to contrive a reason to sneak up and pick his pocket surreptitiously.

Loki's tall, dark entrance and pause at the door did not go unnoticed, however. "Mmh, look what just walked in!" a woman with obviously false blonde hair dressed in surprisingly little leather that couldn't even pass for armor declared loudly to her similarly dressed but blue-haired friend, "Hey, pretty boy! Want to come over and buy us a few drinks?"

Loki inwardly cursed himself for coming into such an establishment without casting some sort of obscuring spell on his person, just enough for his presence to remain inconspicuous. In his excitement to find the owner of the motorcycle, he'd forgotten his innate caution.

At least he didn't look completely out of place. He'd transformed his usual surcoat into a matte black leather longcoat, not unlike what he'd seen Fury wear. The rest of the costume had flowed from there, and his usual talent for social chameleonism had yet to fail him. It was common for him to be eclipsed by his sunny, ever-smiling brother in this sort of cat-calling situation, though, so Loki expertly hid his discomfort and pretended he hadn't heard, making his way casually to the bar proper where he could watch the oblivious owner of the bike through the large mirror.

The drink he ordered (and had no intention of paying for) wasn't as good as what Stark had on hand, but he'd had worse. He tried not to think about exactly when he'd had worse and instead turned his cognitive efforts onto figuring out how to get close to the brooding stranger without drawing attention. A drinking contest would be out of the question. Despite the fact the man had a beer in front of him, it was obviously flat and untouched, as if the man had just ordered something for appearance's sake some time ago. Card games or bets would be equally ineffective, since the man was so obviously antisocial, and Loki didn't want to leave a strong impression on the man before he got what he wanted.

"You deaf or something?" A hulking man verging on middle-age suddenly loomed from behind Loki, blocking his observation of his prey. Despite himself, the trickster twitched and tensed in surprise. "My sister asked you to buy her a drink."

"Apologies," Loki attempted to soothe the situation, but didn't turn to face the miscreant, "I didn't notice."

Diffuse the tension, try to calm him down, and get rid of him, Loki told himself. It shouldn't be that hard.

This was apparently a day for making things harder than they should be. The man suspiciously narrowed his eyes as though Loki had said something wrong. "Say something else."

Loki was faintly confused, "Why? What do you want me to say?"

The man slapped him hard on the back by Midgardian standards, and Loki pretended to be unbalanced by it, letting a swallow of his poor excuse for liquor escape to the thirsty wood of the bar. "That's what I thought! Hey, Sis!" he bellowed, "We've got a limey over here!"

There was drunken cheering from the other end of the room as Loki lifted an eyebrow and tried to puzzle out what a "limey" was. For some reason, he didn't think it had anything to do with the color green.

"So, what's a Brit doing in the middle of the desert?" the man's tone was almost friendly this time, as though learning this one supposed detail about Loki had turned a switch inside him. "Seeing the world on a little road trip?"

"I suppose you could say that," Loki hazarded. He still wasn't quite sure about the situation. Did the man think he was from another country? He supposed that made sense. There was so much variation in the speech patterns of humans, Loki hardly cared what one could tell from them. Even technically different human languages sounded the same to him without proper concentration, but apparently his adaptive All-Tongue sounded like a specific region's dialect to these people, and that region was not here. That could possibly prove to be an interesting detail he could use to his advantage, but one for consideration in the future rather than the present.

"Takes a lot of money for something like that, huh?"

"Yes, it does," Loki conceded, still not looking directly at the man, if you traveled legitimately. He was starting to suspect the intent of the conversation had nothing to do with travel planning and rather everything to do with taking him for every penny he was worth. "Is this conversation going somewhere?"

"You know," the man smirked, taking the stool next to Loki and draping his arm across the trickster's tense shoulders as though they were old friends. The man's unwashed, savage aroma was a physical thing, practically slapping Loki in the face with cheap, mildewed leather marinated in man-sweat, damp smoke, and windblown dirt. In a voice that reeked of alcohol and rotten teeth, he whispered conspiratorially, "my sister and her friend are also part of the world. They love that accent you've got, too. Sounds like a win-win to me, if you get what I'm saying."

Loki made a show of twisting on his barstool and regarding the two women who waved vapidly and made kissy-faces at him. Their bodies weren't picture-perfect, but their apparel and make-up left very little to the imagination apart from what their true complexions were. The blue-haired one even pushed her breasts together and wiggled her upper half in a manner she probably thought enticing. Whether their true goals were as stated or not, this was a practiced sell, not the once-in-a-lifetime deal the brother was trying to promote.

The way Loki saw it, with the two disgusting pigeons cooing behind him being completely out of the question, at this point he really only had two options: 1) make a homoerotic advance on the man next to him instead, with the unlikely possibility he'd do anything if he thought there was money involved and the likelier possibility Loki would be punched in the face repeatedly, or 2) start a bar fight.

Option 2 sounded much more fun at the moment.

"Intriguing as your offer sounds," Loki turned back to the bar and sipped his awful drink nonchalantly, "I think rather too much of the world has already seen your sister and her friend."

A wave of confusion passed over the man's brutish face like a offal-choked river. "Huh?"

"I'm saying your sister has more miles on her than my motorcycle and all the bikes outside combined. I refuse to buy her a drink for fear I'd contract venereal disease just by giving the action serious thought. If you had horses outside, I'd say they had her too, but all she can manage now is blowing on the tailpipes."

The thug and his stench stood abruptly and leaned down into Loki's face menacingly, as if daring him to continue. The five other men with the loud group suddenly went quiet, not missing the big man's cue. "Are you callin' my darling little sister a whore?"

"Are you really surprised at the connection? You were the one just pimping her to me. Tell me, what would have happened if I'd said yes?" The trickster calmly made eye contact with the threatening man. Clearly, the brute had no idea with whom he was dealing. "You would have gotten me drunk with my own money, led me to some shack in the desert, let your sister have her fun with her foreign novelty toy, and then stripped me of all my possessions?" Loki got up from his seat and sneered back in the big man's face, angling himself precisely in relation to the rest of the bar. It turned out that Loki was taller if not actually as broad. "No, I'm calling your sister a fairy tale princess who fucks every miserable beast she can get to bed her," Loki snarled venomously, "Yes, I'm calling her a whore, her friend a whore, and the mother she learned it from."

With a subtle gesture of his hand, Loki magically girded himself for impact.

Johnny Blaze would later say that the moment the skinny British guy landed on his table and rolled into his lap was the moment the night went all to hell.

Johnny wasn't there by coincidence. He'd heard of travelers disappearing on this stretch of highway, and it always seemed that this one biker group in particular was in the area at the time. Bodies were found later by semi-local naturalists and one by Johnny, rotting naked in the sun. Once he'd made the connections, Johnny had found this place, lonely and isolated with fresh paint on the sign, and knew the owner was being paid off.

Their crimes were gruesome, brutal, and damn near impossible to prove. This group gave a bad name to bikers everywhere, and he could feel their victims crying out for justice.

No, not justice. Vengeance.

He'd gotten there early to stake the place out, ordering a beer more out of courtesy than anything else (drinking still gave him nightmares), and waited to see if the guilty would show.

He wasn't disappointed. Judging by the friendly demeanor between the barkeep and the gang, they were regulars on especially good terms. The appearance of the newcomer was unfortunate, but barely noticed. Johnny had come to expect collateral damage of the comparatively undeserving human sort in the past few years, after all. Now he just had to wait until nightfall when the Rider would come out and confirm or deny his findings.

Things didn't go quite according to plan. When the skinny guy seemed to reach the same sort of conclusion Johnny had and protested to being a victim, it was still half an hour till sundown. When he sailed over the table, the position of the sun didn't seem to matter anymore.

In spite of the fall he'd just taken, the Brit proved to be in better shape than Johnny, patting his arm, helping him up from the floor, and seeming far more concerned about Johnny's well-being than the fact they were both covered in stale beer. Johnny barely noticed, though. He was busy trying not to burst into flame as the five remaining bikers joined their burly comrade, cornering the two outsiders.

Then the Brit was no longer there, and Johnny's skull was literally on fire.

He woke the next day in the middle of the desert just after dawn, astride a bike he didn't recognize. Apparently the Rider wasn't nearly as sentimental about the bike he rode as Johnny was, which left the former stunt specialist feeling rather disappointed and faintly betrayed. Fortunately, the trail back to the bar was easy to follow, as not many other vehicles tended to leave scorch marks wherever they went, so Johnny was able to backtrack easily.

The bar was a smoking ruin. Four catatonic people lay where the Rider had dropped them, scattered randomly where they'd tried to run. Three more charred corpses littered the interior, including who he thought were once the burly man and the bartender.

The gang's motorcycles lay scattered in the dust, some near where their riders had fallen and others practically untouched since they'd been parked, but his own bike, Grace, the chopper that had been his dad's pride and joy, was conspicuously absent. Johnny patted his pocket. So were his keys.

Johnny swore profusely in his own idiosyncratic way and started kicking furiously at the charcoal wreckage of the bar until he tired himself out. The British guy and two of the bikers were the only ones unaccounted for in the massacre, and he'd purposefully neglected to remember anyone's faces for fear they'd haunt his nightmares when he did get the chance to sleep. That, added to the fact he was technically a wanted man himself and couldn't report his own bike stolen, Johnny had to resign himself to the fact he'd never see Grace again.

There was nothing to do now but go on. He righted one of the least-battered bikes, searched nearby corpses and catatonic victims for keys, and took off in search of the nearest public phone to tip the police. As he rode, he sorely missed the feel of his own bike under him, rolling over all this open land like his own private racetrack, wondering all the while if he shouldn't just quit this country altogether. He'd be less recognizable somewhere else, and it seemed that foreigners tended to be nicer people than the random undesirables he encountered and dealt with every night . . .

Wasn't Romania nice this time of year, or something?