Elliott turned the key in the lock, and found that there was no resistance. It was unlocked. If he’d been living alone, that would have triggered alarms. It still triggered alarms, but alarms of a different sort.

If the lock were unlocked, either his new roommate had left the door unlocked, or he was home. Either had the potential to be dangerous. Cautiously, Elliott pressed onwards, into the apartment.

It had been about two weeks since he’d started sharing space with another person. He’d put out feelers at his new job, to learn if anyone knew anyone who was searching for a leech. A personal space invader. A living hanger-on. Some sort of friendly parasite who would share a living area, and chime in with rent and money stuffs, for electricity and the like. Was that a parasitic, or a symbiotic relationship? Who the hell knows! The restaurant folks had found someone. That was the important thing.

The roomie his restaurant coworkers had found was a musician who spent a lot of time at home, working through the internet. He was kind of a recluse... like he didn’t feel as if he belonged in the same zip code as normal people. But he didn’t want to talk about it. And Elliott never asked. The guy liked to paint, and Elliott would constantly come home to projects... such as the canvas spread across a tarp on the floor in a sea of paint cans, which he skirted on the way to his room.

The apartment was nice. Far nicer than anything anyone living off a restaurant salary in New York ought to be able to afford. It was a studio apartment with a loft, and a couple converted bedrooms. There was a makeshift living space, and a big bay window overlooking the city. If the location were near a giant billboard that blazed in through the windows day and night, and the neighborhood wasn’t the friendliest, that wasn’t the end of the world. It only explained why they’d been able to afford it doubled up.

He stalled by the kitchen alcove, and stared. What a mess. A pot was boiling on the range and there was the detritus of a meal planning session scattered around the counters. He could cook, barely, but whoever had cooked had been far, far too ambitious. It also smelled spicier than hell. Thai, if he wasn’t mistaken. Or at least, the attempt at Thai. Elliott held it against the man that he’d attempted to cook at all. These things simply aren’t done in New York. Not by bachelors. The man in question hummed as he worked by the stove.

“Benji. What the hell?”

Benji paused. The humming stopped. “I’m cooking?” He asked.

Elliott glowered at him. “I couldn’t tell. Why don’t we just order things from restaurants like normal people?”

“I’ll clean.” Benji said.

“You’ll clean.”

“And finally not forget.” Benji clarified.

Elliott nodded. “Right.”

“And it’s so much cheaper than ordering out every night. I don’t know how you can afford that, on your salary, but—“ the Korean man frowned. “I can’t.”

It was hard being new in town, just getting established. New from another universe, in point of fact. He hadn’t had anything going on for him on the other side... and his uncle had died. He’d missed the funeral. Family wasn’t an issue. He’d really just packed up and changed realities. It was hard. The last thing he needed was a whiny green man complaining about healthy food. Especially one who stayed out late and rarely came in before he went to work. The mysterious absences and occasional bruises really made him question why the roommate plan was a good idea.

“Fine,” Elliott threw up his hands. “I’m going out. I’m gonna go get real food.”

“See you...” Benji said. As the door slammed closed, he added “Ass.”

He hadn’t meant to be such an ass. Really, he hadn’t. He’d meant to give Benji crap about the mess, then help him clean it up. Most likely, it would have been edible. He’d eaten worse. The probing about his monetary situation, along with the simple button-pushing effect Benji had on him, had... pushed his buttons. And the result had been him becoming a butt. Although honestly, that was less a transformation than a simple unmasking these days.

He had wanted to go home, eat, and sleep. Now he was committed to storming off with his ass butt self and making himself scarce for a few hours while he sought out actual food. Or did something else. Elliott sighed. He was still not used to rooming with other people.

When Elliott had lived on the streets with his gang, they hadn’t really shared a studio apartment. They’d had warehouses and abandoned buildings. There had been plenty of room to be a loner. He’d never had to fight anyone over dirty dishes and careless toilet paper roll replacement scenarios. He’d never even known those could be a thing. How incredibly domestic... and awkward.

Outside the building, Elliott took a left. He went to his hiding place, a secluded area he’d found by the building with an alcove that had loose bricks. Why were they loose? Well, he had kicked them a little and worked at them with a screwdriver until they were free. And he had found them behind a bunch of trash cans he’d had to move aside. All in all, it was hidden enough nobody could find the hiding place for his costume. Big enough to hide his lime green motorcycle helmet with its painted on manic grin, and even large enough for a pair of three-fingered gloves and a wadded up jacket, in a jam. He would have preferred stuffing his stuff in his room, but roommates. What can you do? Thus, hole in wall. This, concrete dust and cobwebs. Ew. Donning his costume in the alley way, Elliott got to work.

The sounds of the city flowed around him as he stood perched above it, on the ledge of a rooftop. His black visor caught the light from below, and reflected it in a small glint. Behind said visor, Elliott’s eyes were closed. He was listening. He didn’t have any heightened senses or anything, so for him it was just the city sounds he was listening to, and nothing else, but sometimes... sometimes one might hear a cry for help.

It was unlikely. Unlikely that a cry for help would carry far enough that one might hear it over the background radiation of sound pollution in a busy city. Unlikely that they would be near enough, and loud enough, as well as have the opportunity to cry for help. So what Elliott was doing, standing high above the city, listening, wasn’t immediately clear. Especially since his eyes were closed, and he was on the edge of a rooftop. One good shove, and splat. His guilty hero career would be over. Still, he listened. There it was. It wasn’t a cry for help Elliott heard. It was the sound of sirens.

Elliott Thomas, AKA Cheshire, sprang from one rooftop to another, following the sound of police sirens. The ground and the rooftops fell away beneath him. In each leap, he ate ten, twenty, thirty feet. If he didn’t have the distance, he cheated. He caught himself, either by prehensile hand tongues, or by his ability to cling to walls. Barefoot, the entire while.

It had been strange at first, forgoing shoes. He’d tried clinging with his feet, with shoes. No dice. He’d had to strip off the shoes. Thankfully, over time and training he’d seemed to grow a tough layer of skin over the soles of his feet. It was sturdy enough to make running across the city not torture... and hard enough his kicks didn’t lose much power (unless he was trying to kick metal and brick). He really needed to find a good substitute for steel toed boots, sans shoes.

—

Dinner had been a bust. He’d tried his best, but there was just something to the recipe he hadn’t mastered. Some trick of seasoning he hadn’t done right. The food hadn’t tasted exactly as he’d wished. Also, he’d made enough for his roommate. Way too much for a single man. Then he’d been thoroughly snubbed for his efforts. That left an even worse lingering bad taste in his mouth. If they’d eaten together, at least they could have shared in its badness. Or, well, it’s average-tasting blandness. In order to get the taste out of his mouth, Benji had decided to go Heroing. Which was a word, dammit.

Benjamin Park, also known as Cheshire, donned his black biker helmet with the manic grin he had painted. He shrugged into the black leather jacket and the gloves and shoes. Not boots. Boots are miserable to run in. Heroes needed sensible running no shoes. Then, he went to the street and found his motorcycle from another world.

The motorcycle was otherworldly. Otherworldly, not because it could fly or was faster than the wind. Otherworldly, because it had come over through the rip in the fabric of space and time. Benji had traveled back, in order to get his things together and tie up loose ends. Without family to speak of, and no girlfriend (or even X-men ties), he hadn’t had much keeping him stationary. The motorcycle had been the last thing. So, he’d smuggled it over past security at the rip.

Getting the motorcycle past security sounds like it would have been an eventful trial, but he had made it as boring as possible. He’d known a guy who could temporarily shrink nonliving objects. His friend Scott had helped him out. He’d simply carried the bike along with him in his pocket. The only worry was that a year in reality might affect the power and make the bike grow to normal size sooner, rather than later. He’d hurried to get it out and in a big enough space after he’d come over. Everything had gone fine. He’d even talked with people at the DMV afterwards, and got the thing licensed legally. Apparently, there were forms for that now!

He mounted his motorcycle and drove into the night. After about ten minutes, he heard the sound of sirens. Those, he followed on the principle that they’d lead him to danger, where he could help most. Eventually, he reached that danger... and got more than he’d bargained for.

~

The man was over 13 feet tall, with skin like granite and jagged spears of rock jutting from his craggy shoulders. Bullets bounced off his body as he stood in the middle of the street, and he laughed. His square jaw shook, and he held his gut with the belly laughter. The police were stationed by their cars, behind the cordoned off area they’d created by this stone behemoth. Some squad cars were in wreckage. Police crouched behind their cars, guns drawn. It was clear from the looks on their faces that they were aware the mutant man had already killed several of their number. Cheshire sat on his motorbike several meters away, staring at the scene. But that wasn’t the thing that caused him the most shock.

A metal trash can lid collided with stone man’s head. It had sailed all the way from across the street. Benji turned, following the can’s flight path with his eyes. They landed on a man in pretty much the same damn costume as himself, but with a green helmet with a weird, almost alien face on it. The man had thrown a trash can lid? Benji almost thought he caught sight of some sort of rope in the mans hand, but it was gone right away. And— his eyes snapped back to the rock man. Nada. It hadn’t taken him down. It had just pissed him off. Benji almost thought he heard the other man in the motorcycle helmet curse... but it could have been the wind.

There was a sound like stones grinding. Oh. He supposed that was big rock man, growling. Benji had to do some sudden mental man, weighing pros and cons of the situation. It was possible the big rock man was out of his league. He seemed strong, and nigh impregnable. The police were present. Eventually, they’d bring in something that could handle him... it just might take time and cost some cops their lives. He’d be risking himself, and he didn’t know quite how he’d handle a big lump of rock. As far as the pros went— well, at least he’d have help.

Benji parked the Cheshire cycle in a spot on the side of the street. With a sigh, he approached the cordoned off area and slipped into enemy lines. It wasn’t like there was police tape. They hadn’t had the scene in hand well enough to set up that.

—

Elliott wheeled out of the way as a boulder sized fist crashed down where he’d been moments before. He hadn’t purposefully chosen to do this to help cops. He’d done it to help people. Why? Good question. Fighting rock man now, he wasn’t sure he knew.

As another strike fell, he leaped onto the rock mans arm and ran up it towards the head. Kicking was out of the question. No shattered toes, please. He had another plan, though. He’d been practicing escrima with a friend. As he reached the top and skidded to a stop in front of the mans eyes, Elliott whipped out two metal sticks. Just a quick jab to the eyes, and— something happened that sent him staggering off course. Da hell?! He glanced down and saw—

Some man in a black helmet with a comical lippy smile, wearing his signature leather jacket... had smashed the SAME metal trash can lid he’d thrown earlier into rock mans flank. He must’ve had super strength or something because it had shook him. Rock man was turning now, to survey the whelp. The man was easily half his size. That didn’t stop him from gesturing with his hand in a “come at me” wave. Ugh, seriously? Beneath the helmets anonymity, Elliott made a face. ‘Queue up one pancake,’ he thought. Surprisingly, though, as he steadied himself on rock mans shoulders, waiting for the squelch, helmet head shot backwards in a bluish blur of light and lines.

Not super strength, Elliott reconsidered. Super speed. Almost like him. Except, well. Not. Faster. And a whole hell of a lot flashier. That’d surely get him killed.

Raising himself out of his crouch, Elliott moved to make another stab at the behemoths eyes. The whole world shifted, and the metal sticks struck just to one side of his target — a target that was suddenly staring intently past its stone nose, past the sticks, straight at him.

“Get off!!” A voice like mountains falling growled.

“Maybe later!” Elliott quipped. “And definitely not with you!”

The rock fist sailed upwards— at him. Good lord, the man was dumber than a brick. Elliott momentarily chided himself. Of course the guy was. He was made of Stone. Elliott hopped ten feet into the air just as the attack was about to connect. It hit the guy square in the side of his face, instead. Elliott landed on the rock man’s wrist.

“Stop hitting yourself,” He jibed. Paused. Added “On second thought, don’t.” As rock man groaned and staggered to the right.

—-

Clang, clang, clang. Benji took advantage of the rock mans stagger to follow up with several smashing blows to the monsters open side.

The other guy hung onto the wrist for dear life. As stone face retreated from the repeated attacks, he held up his arms around his face, as if to shield it. The other helmeted man didn’t fall off, though, nor did he grip the arm like he was hugging it. It was almost as if he were stuck there with glue. Weird, Benji thought to himself. Then, he continued the assault.

He blurred forward to strike like a car crash at 100 miles an hour. Chips of gravel flew off the rock man’s side like rain. They cluttered against the pavement around him. It had been a solid hit.

“Argh!!” Rock man shouted.

Benji glanced up. Rock man was covering his eyes now. Had the other helmeted guy... stabbed the rock in the eyes? Pointy sticks. Really? Eh. He shrugged, then wheeled around to the other side and burst for a second, to rain another series of shield slams on rock man’s other flank. The metal trash can lid was starting to look like bent up scrap metal. It hadn’t been built to break rocks. On that same train of thought rode another one. Those sticks hasn’t been made to break rocks either. They’d been hammering on rock man for a minute or two, and he’d staggered and acted hurt, but— he just kept going. It seemed like their attacks were more an annoyance than anything else.

—

On top of rock man, Elliott was realizing much the same thing. No matter how hard they hit, they couldn’t knock the rock unconscious. They could hurt him, sure. Outpace him, injure his pride. Poke him in the eye. But he wouldn’t give up, and he wasn’t surrendering. Elliott knew. He had tried. He’d told him to give up so many times in the past minute, he’d felt like a broken record. All he’d accomplished was making his throat dry. He could use a drink. Preferably scotch.

He landed on rock mans shoulders again, and crouched. Then, Elliot sprang from the great height down to land next to the man with the lip helmet, just as the dude tossed aside his shield.

“We need a better plan,” he commented. “Nothing we’re doing is having any effect.”

The other guy was silent, almost thoughtful. Elliott didn’t think anything of it. He hadn’t masked his voice, or tried to sound gruff and dangerous at all. He wasn’t wearing shoes or gloves, and his hands and two-toed feet were very green. From a secret identity standpoint, he stood out like a sore thumb.

Finally, lip helmet spoke. He, in comparison to Elliott, sounded suitably gruff and gravelly. “Water main,” he said. “Or grass. Or ice.”

“... you’re just quoting type weaknesses from that kids cartoon. A homeless kid I knew once spent an hour explaining that convoluted Rock Paper Scissors crap to me. Get real, big lips.” Elliott sighed, glancing towards their shared foe.

Behind the smiling helmet, Benji frowned. It was true. He’d been thinking in the most childish of manners. It had been a joke... mainly. People never got that about the Cheshire persona. He could crack jones forever, without cease because the helmet never stopped smiling, even when he’d gone long past frown town into glower city. The persona was supposed to be sassy and lighthearted, even when he wasn’t.

“I’m kidding,” he grumbled. “Way to sap the humor out of a life threatening situation.” The helmet smiled. He didn’t. See? The persona worked. It could quip all day! “Besides,” Benji hedged thoughtfully. “If steel wasn’t super effective, we aren’t dealing with your traditional rock type.” He held his chin. “Rock and steel, maybe? Because all the other types don’t make sense defensively... I don’t see any water or fire or electricity anywhere.”

The guy with the green helmet was silent for a second. His helmet grinned, too. Was he going to crack a joke? No. He just swore sulfurously. “You are speaking another language.” Elliott said. “Please stop.”

Benji held his chin, considering. “Sun Tzu would say that we should evade his strength and work in close coordination. We outnumber him. Harass and confuse.”

“Again. Another language. Who is Sun Tzu?” Elliott sighed.

“Old Chinese guy.” Benji replied. “Wrote a book about warfare.”

“... was this book in fortune cookie form?” Elliott asked.

“...”

“...”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“You’re the one who must be joking.” Elliott replied. “Suggesting we dodge him and tire him out when that’s exactly—“

“Hyaaaargh!!” The rock monster swung a craggy fist down at both of them.

“What we’ve been doing.” Elliott finished, hopping out of way.

“Except with more teamwork—“ Benji blurred backwards, trailing blue lines. The fist smashed into empty pavement.

“Yeah. Okay. I guess!” Elliott was being sarcastic, but he could try it. It might work... a little. Without another word, the two of them fell into a steady rhythm. They dodged attacks, and when one of them flowed backwards, the other one rushed forwards to press the rock giant mutant on its exposed flank. Then, that hero would retreat while the other one did it from another side. It seemed to work, sort of... but even with their team work, they couldn’t shatter the monster.

“Fire hydrant,” Benji growled. Somewhere during the fighting, he’d acquired a shard of broken concrete. He held it above the hydrant’s bolt, poised.

Elliott sprang backwards, and the fist crashed down where he’d been. “Fire!” He drawled. Then, he dove to one side. The piece of pavement clanged into the hydrants bolt in a blue blur. Metal and concrete collided with a huge pop, and a stream of water shot out of the hydrants side, where a hose would normally go. In his dodging and fighting, the man in the green helmet had lined the rock mutant and the hydrant up perfectly. The stream hit the mutant dead in the chest.

The Goliath recoiled, screaming. He put his palms between the stream and his face, staggering backwards. He spat curses. It was time to capitalize on the attack. Elliott ran forward, gaining speed. It might break his leg. It might hurt. But he was going to hit the guy in the leg with one bartering ram of a kick. If they put rock man down, they could rain blows on him until he submitted. It just might work. A split second before he would have hit, and swept the legs out from under him, something big and gold crashed into the side of the rock mutant’s head.

—

Elliott spun, tearing his leg away from the rock monster mid-kick. The sound the Golden thing had made as it connected with Rocky’s head could only have been described as colossal. Maybe titanic. Gigantic? Okay. More than one word would have worked. But what the hell was it?!

He lurched out of the way as the rock mutant tumbled onto his shoulder with another apocalyptic crash. Everything shook. As the dust settled, his eyes fell on a figure in golden armor holding a sword as large as a horse. The sword was black, with red accents and a round end that seemed more for slashing than stabbing. The golden armor was decorated with flowing shoulder guards and a fierce helmet. The helmet... the helmet almost looked like... no, it was, a gold lion, complete with toothy fangs and mane. The armored figure looked like something out of a freaking Japanese cartoon. And to add insult to injury, the guy was actually sitting on a golden armored horse. The horse seemed to glow and sparks in the night. The size of the blade made sense, now. How would one wield a blade large as a horse? Why, by riding one, of course! A horse, of course. Of course, a horse... it couldn’t have been a real horse. But real or not, it rankled him.

Beneath his green smiling helmet, Elliott sneered. “I just got killjacked by a f@cking knight in shining armor on horseback.” His eyes fell to the black X in a red circle that stood out against the golden breastplate of the knight. A wave of bile rose up in his throat. “AND it’s an X-man! I’m out.”

Before the knight could speak, before he could say a single word, Elliott turned and Elliott ran. If his knowledge of flashy idiots in the X-men were even marginally complete, he knew exactly who the idiot in gold was. And he wanted no part of it.

The knight turned to watch him go. His “horse” shifted on its feet, a completely fake and bullshit bit of acting the jerk liked to do just to make his psychic creations seem more realistic. As if people actually would wear shiny golden armor in this day and age. Elliott’s scathing mental rebuke continued on as he leaped over the police line and down the street.

Tetsuya Shinbo, AKA Shard, scratched his head. It didn’t do much good, seeing as it was encased in gold, but that was how much the sudden fleeing of one of the two vigilantes had confused him. Weren’t they all in it together? He looked to the rock man he’d clobbered upside the head. Unconscious. Then he turned towards the one remaining member of the weird-helmet duo. Shin opened his mouth to say something. The other guy bolted, right after his supposed friend. Shin was left with an unconscious rock giant, and a lot of questions he needed to answer.

”Just great...” He muttered. As he turned to trot towards the line of police, a song came to his lips. It was the theme song to the TV show his costume had come from. The theme of GARO escaped him in a low hum.

—

It wasn’t easy chasing the man in the green motorcycle helmet on foot. The solution, of course, was the Cheshire cycle. The little black motorcycle roared along on the road while the mystery man leaped from building to building up above. It wasn’t hard following him. He stood out against the dark night sky. He didn’t realize he was being followed, either. That just added to the ease.

The chase went on for several minutes. Bit by bit, the feeling of unease in Benji’s gut grew. Things were starting to look familiar. They took the odd turn, now and then, but the neighborhood just drew closer and closer to his apartment. He’d had his suspicions, when he’d heard the helmeted man’s voice. The geography was doing little to alter those feelings. Finally, the mystery man put the final nail in the coffin. He stopped in front of their apartment complex.

Benji slid into an open motorcycle space, and turned the bike down as fast as he could. Turning, his mind raced trying to track where the helmeted man had gone. A blur of movement caught his eye on the side of the building across the street. It was slightly shorter than their apartment building, made of old red brick that needed repairs in patches. Atop the building, right at eye level with the window in their apartment, there was a brightly lit neon sign advertising... something. The light cast out by the sign made it hard to sleep at nights. It bathed the area. That worked for him, though, since it provided little shadow for mystery man to utilize as he scaled the building’s side.

Benji rushed towards the side of the building, and shouldered his way into the side door. He found the stairwell up. His footsteps hammered the stairs as he pressed his way forward. Up, up, up. Every few seconds, he punctuated his point by springing into the air in a burst of speed that left blue lines waving in his wake. He made good time, that way, Injecting extra speed into his upward ascent.

The door to the rooftop exploded outwards as Benji shoved it open. Right left, down, up. He quickly glanced around. A slow clap echoed around the rooftop. The man in the smiling green helmet stepped out of the shadows behind the back side of the sign.

“Took you long enough. Guess you can’t fly.” The man said. His tone was wry, but he wasn’t mocking him. It felt more like he was taking perverse amusement from the situation.

“You were watching me that entire time,” Benji’s voice was flat. “Weren’t you.”

“And testing you. Trying to shake you. I’ll admit I was curious about you, Mr. ‘Gravelly voice hiding my real voice’. What’s up with that?”

A dark laugh escaped him. Benji shook his head. “Hiding my secret identity, maybe?” He said, voice rough. He’d never dropped it during their entire conversation.

“Pft,” the green helmet snorted. “You sound like the Cookie Monster. Dare you to say C is for cookie.”

“C is for...?”

“Cookie,” the green helmet smiled. “And that’s good enough for me.”

“Point is,” Benji continued, pointedly ignoring the other guys jibes. “People remember voices, and a smart person can put two and two together if they encounter the similarities enough. I’ve heard your voice before.”

“Ah yeah?” Green helmet said. “Who am I, then?”

Benji didn’t feel like just saying. So, he lunged forward on main speed, grasping for the helmet. “I’ll show you!”

—

The fight was needless and unnecessary. Which was perfect for Elliott, because he’d been curious about what Smiley could do!

The man in the black helmet was fast, like major league base-running fast. He wasn’t exhibiting the blue-lined bursts of whatever Elliott had noticed earlier, during the fight with the rock. He reached for his helmet, and Elliott leaped backwards with a laugh. A laugh that died in his throat as the space behind black helmet lit up with blue lines that reminded Elliott of a drawing on notebook paper. Smiley was the drawing, drawing closer in a blur.

Elliott turned, and as the man in the black helmet darted forward to punch him in the face, Elliott brought his leg up in a snappy kick. The punch connected, but his legs were tough and strong. He caught the blow. With sheer force of will, he pushed the attack away. Elliott took several quick steps back. Speedy boy wasn’t done yet, though. Another blurring, and more blue lines trailed behind the guy.

The man in the black helmet rained blows on Elliott, and Elliott moved his arms to deflect or block every single one. They spun and fought for a second, two, both just as skilled as the other. Almost a mirror matchup of martial arts styles.

Black helmet drew close, and Elliott used it to his advantage, slamming his hands down on that black motorcycle helmet of his. They could fight all night, high speed brawling and martial arts. Elliott had a feeling that ultimately, he’d run dry on energy and Blue Line boy would get in a good shot. He had to fight smarter, not harder... and beating the other guy up had never been the game plan.

The man in the black helmet took a step backwards, then another as Elliott’s grip stayed strong. He had the helmet by both sides, and was holding on. You could almost see the mental gears turning in Black Helmet’s Mind. Loss of helmet, bad. Have to burst out of reach.

Benji needed to take away the gripping power. Free himself. He wanted to take Green Helmets secret identity away from him, not the other way around. He’d picked a fight because he thought he knew who Green Helmet was. But now this...

He blurred backwards in his final burst. After this, he’d need to recharge. But it’d be worth it to shake the guys grasp. Except something was still holding onto him after the burst back. He turned his head quickly to either side, trying to figure out what. Like a roll of measuring tape unwinding, two pink tongues had come with his helmet when he’d retreated. They trailed away on either side of his field of vision, disarmingly.

Tongues. Sticky frog tongues. What the hell was this guy?

If he’d had an extra burst of speed, he could have spun and made the guy tongue tied. But he had been reckless. He was recharging.

“Dammit,” He said. His voice was a deep growl.

He supposed there was only one thing for it. Instead of straining against the tongues, he ran towards his attacker. If he could surprise him and knock the man around enough to make him drop his focus— the effort failed almost as quickly as it had come to him.

The man sprang backwards to land standing on the billboard. On the freaking side of the billboard. Bare feet cling to the sign like it was the ground, and he weren’t standing at odds with a little thing called ‘gravity.’

Green helmet hauled his arms back and played crack the whip with Benji’s head. The helmet soared off to land in green helmets hands. Green helmet glanced at it, then looked down at him. His identity was exposed.

There was a chance,A hopeless chance, that green wouldn’t know who he was.

“Hi, Benji!” The green man said cheerfully.

Well, that dashed the chance.

—

Just as he’d thought. Maybe. If he’d expected that. Or anything, really. He’d just figured the guy would be a tool and that he’d expose him, but probably not know him personally. So he’d been half-right. This put Elliott in an odd situation, though. He knew the guy. It was his roommate. How did one even respond to that?

He stood there on the side of the billboard for about ten seconds. Neither of them said anything, so he crouched there with the helmet still in his hands, and waited for Benji to say some more. The balk was in his court for the delicate secret identity situation and Elliott wanted to be gracious to him. He never expected the response he got.

Benji flew. He just flew, blue lines trailing behind him like motion blur in a cartoon. Flew several feet through the air, crossing the intervening space between them to flip over his head, snatch his helmet up off it, then land smugly on the rooftop again, like a gymnast that had just completed a complex trick.

“Elliott!” He grinned annoyingly. “Just a tip. Standing still, you make a great target. You’re even brightly-colored. Although yellow might have been better than green—“ He trailed off as Elliott landed next to him in a crouch.

Elliott stood, and affected a looming stance... which wasn’t very effective when they were around the same height. Then, he shrugged his shoulders and donned a smile, like “I don’t even care that you blew my secret identity, man. It’s cool!”

“You couldn’t stand your cooking either, huh? Needed to get out for some fresh air.”

Benji stared at him for a second, then tilted his head. “What?”

“I mean, it probably isn’t bad enough to drive one to fighting crime or anything, I suppose.” Elliott continued. He started waking the roof, stretching his arms out behind his head. Brutal fights give muscle cramps. He walked around the black helmet he’d set on the ground, and turned back to his roommate. “Still. I guess I can chalk that up to an origin story for you.”

“That isn’t why I do it...” Benji said.

“No?” Elliott asked. He walked over to the edge of the roof, plopped down, and patted the ledge beside him. “Why then? Do we have time for some story time? You, a vigilante. Me, a vigilante. He, she, we... vigilantes.” He drawled.

“We have time for my foot in your ass.” Benji grumbled.

“No,” Elliott said. “We don’t. I know where that foot has been.” He didn’t, but that was beside the point.

Benji walked over and sat down beside him. He rested Elliott’s helmet behind him on the roof. They were both silent for a second. Benji broke the silence. “We’re doing this, then? First we fought, now we talk?” He sounded incredulous.

“Tonight has been a hell of a night, Roomie.” Elliott told him. “It’s almost like some extra dimensional author were having some fun at our expense.”

“And He has some sort of script he wants us to follow,” Benji continued ominously. “With specific points he wants to address and scenes he wants us to do before it all comes to an end.”

The two of them stared off into the distance. The neon billboard glowed behind them. The city night around them was filled with a background electric buzz.

“I did some stuff.” Elliott broke in on their substantive silence. Their second substantive silence. Seriously. Someone needed to move the plot along. “Stuff I’m not proud of. Stuff I regret.”

“And that’s reason enough to strap a helmet on your head and go crime fighting?” Benji asked warily.

“Karma.” Elliott said. “Always watch out for karma.”

“... that’s a terrible reason to try and help people.”

“And yours is so much better?” Elliott asked.

Benji was silent for a moment, then looked off into the distance sheepishly. “I was bothered by all the crime in the city.” He started. “And then this woman-“

“A woman?”

“This woman,” Benji continued on doggedly. “Got caught by a bunch of criminals while she was out DOING something about the crime. They wanted to kill her, and I just—“

“Was she hot?”

“Couldn’t stand the thought of her getting killed when she was one of the few people trying to help, and—“

“Tell me she was hot.” Elliott smiled.

The corner of Benji’s mouth tilted upwards just a hair. “She was pretty beautiful. Like Felicia Day or something.”

“Fiery redhead?” Elliott asked. Decisively, he added “All male heroes adore a fiery redhead.”

“Shut up.” Benji sighed a disgruntled sigh.

“So anyways,” Elliott continued for him. “Cute redhead. Bad guys. I take it you used your power and tried to help?”

He smirked and nodded to the helmet he’d worn. “Was out on my motorcycle. Kept the helmet on. Helmet had a smile. Fought guys, yadda yadda. Showed off for cute girl.”

“Wore helmet. Helmet had smile.” Elliott blanched. “Tell me your alias isn’t Cheshire.”

Benji’s face was a mask of shame.

“Dude!” Elliott threw up his arms. “My alias is Cheshire.”

“Pretty sure I quoted the damned cat from the book. And then called myself it and it stuck.”

“That’s crazy,” Elliott laughed. “You’re crazy. I just picked it because I remembered the kids movie from the home, and that stupid cat that always left people staring at its smile.”

“Well you definitely have a nice smile,” Benji said thinly.

Elliott showed him his teeth. Zipper-like teeth, bared in a smile.