A streak of silver bursts from the saddlebag of a nearby motorcycle, soars high above the crowd as a duller glint through the haze, and plunges down again to smack into Thor's waiting palm.

His t-shirt and flannel and jeans look abruptly incongruous, like an afterthought of an illusion over something more real.

"X." His voice is deep, urgent, commanding: aimed to cut through noise, and cut through confusion. "If you see this demon, or another foe, point me to him. Otherwise I will help these people."