A sparkling splash of galaxies above and below, glorious Asgard reaching heavenward in the distance. The Bifrost Bridge, a massive glittering highway paved in rainbow. Two figures of legend standing upon the many hues, shoulder to shoulder, speaking quietly...

“She is safe?” Thor asked, both the question and the concern a routine as familiar as breathing.

“Aye,” Heimdall rumbled, staring grimly into the infinite, dark and deadly hands deceptively lax upon the pommel of his planted greatblade. “She has fled, my prince. She hides, protecting our secrets from they who search. What few secrets there are left to protect. She is safe enough. For now.” A small pause. “Yet I cannot speak the same for the others.”

The arctic eyes of the thunder god narrowed. The recent news of Midgard had been troubling to say the least. Mysterious massacres. Upheaval. A powerful government and the blind masses turning upon their protectors. It was irreconcilable madness, and Thor could not shake the notion that, at the root of such madness, some terrible evil lurked, orchestrating events. If Loki had not perished, Thor would wonder…

He shook his blonde head slightly, dismissing the thought.

It was not Asgard’s responsibility to protect Midgard from itself, and, as such, Thor had already chosen to involve none other in his plans. This would be no political foray, no official endorsement from the Asgardians, no choosing of sides. It was not Thor’s place, or even Odin’s, to dictate how another realm should rule its populace. However, Thor could not sit idly by and watch companions he had fought alongside perish for unjust causes. Brave Midgardian heroes had helped Thor defeat his nemesis. A sense of respect, rather than obligation, compelled Thor to return the sentiment. 

“Place me somewhere discreet,” Thor instructed. “Well hidden from their government’s electric eyes.”

“As you wish, my prince.”

Discreet happened to be at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, fifteen miles northwest of Cuba. 

Some small time later, a sudden and isolated squall lashed against the Cuban coastline, spitting lightning and sideways rain, sending vacationers fleeing for cover. Few saw the sodden figure emerge from the warm tumultuous waters or trudge up the sands in the midst of the violent storm. Only a couple of children huddled inside their father’s car witnessed a blonde giant of a man break into a shuttered beachside souvenir shop, stealing board shorts, an XXL t-shirt, a pair of the largest size flip flops, and a souvenir cap. The vandal left unmarked silver coins on the counter.

As abruptly as the deluge came, it went. 

While sunshine pierced through quickly breaking cloud-cover, steaming the surrounding dampness, a towering tourist walked the streets, the bill of his souvenir cap dipped low, the tension in his jaw and flat line of his mouth discouraging interaction. Heimdall had advised Thor where to search for Tony Stark’s supposed meeting, but standing upon Midgardian ground, Thor lacked the advantage of the gatekeeper’s marvelous, pinpoint sight. Furthermore, Thor dare not risk taking to the air to orientate himself, not yet. Stubbornly, he traveled on foot in the general direction he believed the Man of Metal to be, keeping a warrior’s alertness to his senses, navigating the crowded thoroughfares. He reluctantly acknowledged he could hunt all the day and still never find Stark, but fortune had ever favored the Asgardian hero. 

If he could navigate the great forests of Alfheim and the rocky corridors of Nidavellir, surely he could navigate Cuba and locate his quarry. Provided one of the resourceful heroes of Midgard did not find him first.