Her disbelief is etched across her face. She stands poised on the treacherous brink between laughing aloud and screaming at him. Finally, her expression thaws, sharp features softening. She sighs, the tension leaving her body. Weariness crashes over her. She shakes her head. "Valiant Soldier of Fortune, your devotion is truly blind." She accepts the purse.

Rogers looks confused at her peculiar way of thanking him and the bizarre change in her personality, but she can see he does not let it interfere with the mission at hand. His guard is on the rise again. "Why were they after you?"

She shrugs. Wryly, "They really wanted my boots, I suppo-"

Steve seizes her arm. "Why?" he repeats more urgently. She jerks away and folds her arms resentfully, rapping her fingers against her bicep. "Sorry. Look, I can't just leave you until we figure this out. Wouldn't be right. I need to report it right away. May I… um…" He clears his throat and steels his expression. "May I borrow your cell phone?" he asks authoritatively, extending his hand, palm up.

Lola's jaw works behind pursed lips, scrutinizing him. "You do not possess your own?"

He is trying not to look sheepish. "I'm not the greatest with technology."

"I carry no such device," she informs him stridently. When he looks less than convinced, she opens her purse so he can examine the contents for himself. Rogers drops his hand and lets it hang limp at his side. He appears momentarily defeated.

He inclines his chin bravely. "Then I am taking you to someone who will definitely have the means to contact HQ." He situates his shield over his shoulder. "Don't worry. You are now under my protection."

"Oh, the irony," she mumbles. She forces a thankful smile, clasps her hands, and bats her eyes. "My hero. I feel so much better."

Though she expects him to take offense, he raises his hand, completely serious as he replies, "No time for that, ma'am. Your safety is my first priority. We'll get to the bottom of this. Follow me."

With his back turned, she is safely out of his line of vision. Lola sinks into her palm and rubs the pale temples of her skull. Her head aches, but not from the battle. The reality of his rescue is slowly setting in. Rogers is too consumed by duty, too blinded with chivalry to consider the validity of her subtle earlier warnings. She realizes that Steve, like Thor, is a creature of instinct, not intellect… and it is the fact that she is the damsel in distress that so rouses the presiding protector in his soul. He is genuinely righteous, genuinely loyal, and genuinely naïve… much like a well trained family pet. A little conditioning of her own, and she could mold him into something useful indeed.

This also could very well result in her favor. It is what she was after, though it looks considerably different than she originally imagined. This alternative form might prove more useful than she realized. Her cover is about to be tested and tried on a much deeper level. She will need to think on her feet, assuming she can restrain herself from killing Captain America and his romanticized ideals, bloated with gallantry. Above all else, she must keep her real identity under wraps. It would not do to let the Avengers know that Lola Lancaster is really Loki Laufeyson.

They trek back across the construction yard, picking their way through the debris. Lola adamantly refuses to accept his help, meandering along behind him gracefully. They approach the wrought iron gate and suddenly she is reminded of the freezing spell she used. Should he see the aftermath, it could raise suspicion. She hastens to his side and clasps his hand. Her distraction is effective.

"Thank you for rescuing me," she gushes, her eyes darting to the padlock as they pass through the gate. Rogers does not notice. "And for returning my valuables. You were very brave to defend me the way you did." She does not apologize for being short with him, as Lola, rarely as she threatens, makes real apologies even less frequently.

Rogers accepts her gratitude with a dutiful grin. "All in a day's work. We're not out of the woods quite yet though. We're going to have to find a ride. I don't suppose we could take your car?"

Lola scrambles for an excuse. "I took the bus." She smiles and bats her eyes girlishly.

They come to the back lot of the saloon, which is spotted with blast marks and broken glass. One of the hunters lays immobile on the ground, a gash in his head leaking what looks to be black fluid onto the pavement. Lola cringes in revulsion. This is proving to be a messy business.
They enter the bar through the back door and Lola is slightly unsettled when she does not see the limp figure of the third hunter on the floor. She glances around. He is gone.

The owner of the establishment is scratching his head. His hair, white as newfallen snow, is half hidden by a slanted cowboy hat. The salted white and grey of his beard is another testament to his age. He is thin and fragile looking, clad in an old sweat stained button up and trousers with uneven suspenders. His back is slightly bent against a lifetime of hard labor. His confusion is wiped clean from his face when he notices the emblem on Roger's shield. He eyes him intently, with wonder that surpasses Lola's understanding. "Is it really you, Cap?" he asks with the gravel of time in his voice.

Rogers nods. "Affirmative. I apologize for any damage done to your establishment. You have my word, I will more than compensate you for any losses."

"Sonny, any damage you do to this dump is only going to make me famous. Wouldn't dream of changing a thing." He smiles. Lola wishes he hadn't when she notices the state of his sparse yellowing teeth.

Rogers seems undaunted, even happy. She does not understand it. "I appreciate that, sir."

"You two look like you been through Hell." The canyons of his wrinkled brow deepen. He shakes his head. "I knew from the moment them skinheads walked in that they was trouble. Did you get um?"

"Yes sir."

"Good man. Anything else I can do ya for?"

Roger clears his throat. "Well… I need to get this lady to a safehouse." Lola rolls her eyes discreetly and folds her arms. "I was wondering if maybe I could borrow your vehicle."

He rubs his chin. "I reckon I wouldn't be doin' my civic duty to my country if I didn't lend my wheels to the Captain. Thing is, Sonny, I don't have one of them fancy automobiles." He raises a shaky finger. "I got something better!"

The older man leads them around through the parking lot towards a tin building, the roof slightly bowed from the rain and weather. He bends down and tries to pry the sliding door up from the ground. He puts a hand on his back and groans, stepping back with a wry frown. "Would you mind?" he laughs, thumbing towards the garage. Rogers pulls it up and locks it in place with little trouble.

Inside, leaning against a rotting workbench, is an old, faded motorbike that might have been a dark shade of hazel once. Lola gawks at it in disbelief, thinking it looks as streetworthy as it does seaworthy.

"My old man got it for me just after my time in Nam," he explains. "That beauty got me everywhere… Took my late wife and I on our first date. I know she don't look like much now, but she'll get you where you need to go, on my honor." He drops the rusty keys into Rogers' palm. Lola is still staring, unblinking, wondering why anyone in his right mind would so highly acclaim such a piece of scrap.

When the time comes to board the rickety transport, she is more than apprehensive. Rogers sits astride the dusty seat, his broad hands around the wide handlebars. Her clutch is once again tucked into his belt. The look suits him somehow, but then again she attributes that to his ancient appearance. She glances down at her dress and realizes the tight fabric is too constricting to allow her the same flexibility. She unceremoniously fists the fabric stretched over the skin of the side of her thigh, and pulls. The rip creates a slit, which should permit her a wider range of motion. She ignores the old man's slightly shocked expression, his bushy eyebrows ascending halfway up his forehead. She approaches the bike and swings her leg over the side, securing it on the anterior foot pedals. The brief case containing what she assumes to be Rogers' uniform is lashed to the back platform. He had doublebacked to retrieve it from the trunk of his car moments ago.

"Here," Rogers prompts, handing her his shield. "Fit your arm through the sling. It will protect your back." She does as she is told. The disk is surprisingly light for how durable it is. Beneath her, the bike sputters and grumbles drowsily. She adopts a surly expression.

"One more thing," the old man interjects, taking a pistol out from the elastic hem of his trousers. He makes sure it is loaded and hands it to Rogers who tucks it away into his belt.

"Thank you," Rogers says sincerely, a picture of nerve.

The old man flits his hand through the air. "No. Thank you. Never thought I'd have Captain America knocking on my door. It's an honor."

"I'll return your possessions to you as soon as I am able."

"I don't doubt it, Sonny. I don't doubt it for a minute."

"Whom do I ask for when I return?"

"Jack Sullivan. Sully, for short. Good luck to you." He smiles and sends them off with a wave.

"Better hang on ma'am," Rogers warns. Lola pauses momentarily and then links her slender fingers into the loops of his khakis, touching him in the least possible way. She inclines her chin haughtily and watches Rogers shrug. He suddenly floors the gas, sending a spray of dirt out from the back tire. The bike shoots forth and Lola would have gone sliding off the end had she not instantly roped her arms around his midsection. She glowers at him, though he takes no notice, and entertains the idea that he did it purposefully. They cross the parking lot and follow the dirt path to the main road, taking a sharp turn that nearly unseats her again. She squirms up and presses tight to him, ignoring the way this position hikes her skirt higher. She is annoyed, but maintains her composure.

"What is our destination?" she asks over the hum of the engine and the whip of the wind.

"Stark Tower," Rogers replies. While he does not sound angry, he does not sound thrilled about it either. This being New York, Stark is the closest contact in range. His lingering distain for his tenuous companion does not escape her notice. This is getting out of hand, she realizes. Her anxiety spikes. She is able to fool Rogers, but Stark could be a different story. She steels herself and starts preparing for possible questions and plausible answers, rehearsing various scenarios.

In the midst of her mental fugue, she catches a flash of light from the corner of her eye. The towering streetlight they pass explodes in a flurry of fire, the concrete base awash in red flame. Lola wheels around to look over her shoulder.

"We've got company," Rogers announces after a quick glance in the circular mirror that juts up from the handlebars. Behind them, the third skinhead hunter is in hot pursuit. He has his own method of transportation, the futuristic hovercraft making their motorbike seem all the more archaic. The bike shutters unreliably and backfires out of the exhaust pipe. A piece of the dented covering falls off and clatters on the asphalt behind them.

"… I hope that wasn't important," Rogers pipes up.

"Why must you insist on accepting the help of a sentimental old fool? Mass transit is readily available for a reason!" she snaps.

Before Rogers can pose a rebuttal, the hunter fires again. This time, the shot rebounds off the shield and hits a parked car on the side of the road, rocketing it up from the ground. Rogers grits his teeth. With elevated sarcasm, "I hate asking a sophisticated lady like yourself to do this, but-"

Lola reaches around his waist and extracts the small pistol from his belt. She cocks it and shrugs the shield down her arm. "With pleasure." As she twists towards their assailant, the gun begins to change, undergoing a magical upgrade. It expands and elongates, white spidering veins crystallizing along the barrel that is blushing blue. It is an elegant weapon, the original shell at the mercy of her imagination. Its weight far exceeds which normal human hands can bear, let alone suspend from one arm. She pulls the trigger. A blue blast explodes from the barrel, launching at the hunter at an alarming pace. He barely dodges it, the blast sailing leftward and striking a storefront down the street, instantaneously engulfing it in an impenetrable ice shield.

"What was that?" Rogers asks, glancing back slightly. "Did you get him?"

Brackishly, "Keep your eyes on the road. I'll not perish from vehicular negligence."

She feels him tense, the steel muscles in his body coiling against the sting of her tone. She wonders if the handle pegs are bent from the force of his grip. She relents. He speaks firmly, "We need to avoid civilian causalities. I think I opt for your plan after all." With a violent lurch, he turns the bike to the right and coasts down the stairwell into the subway. She tightens her hold around his waist. The jostling descent nearly rattles her teeth from her skull. She suppresses the urge to shoot him next and concentrates on the hunter.

They pass through a scattered, screaming crowd, the underground system not as congested in this part of the city. Rogers vaults over the ledge of the railway, veers left, and races down the tunnel. The firearm has recharged. Evenly spaced lights flash above them, causing a strobe effect that wreaks havoc with Lola's vision, making her doubt her aim. She fires again, barely missing him, slicking the tracks behind them with hazardous glaciers. She hopes at least some humans might expire during her otherwise unproductive evening.

The hunter fires again. Rogers leans right, tilting the bike just enough to dodge the blast, which strikes the wall ahead. A shower of rocks and fire follows. Rogers nearly loses control of the bike, which swerves precariously for a moment before emerging unscathed. Their faces are darkened from the heat of the flare. Fed up, Lola turns, readies the gun a third time, aims, and fires. The shot flies true, striking the Eudorian in the chest. He crashes instants later and his frozen form shatters in a spray of ice shards.

Lola's wish for mortal carnage is dashed when Rogers pulls the emergency alarm on their way out of the subway, shutting the system down with a single red lever. Curse his diligence… Saturated with adrenaline and parched for safety, they enter Manhattan Island and putter along towards Stark Tower.