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A brick. That was the thing the guy had patched onto. The brick?

“Fair.” He chimed in, stuffing hands into his pockets. A moment later, he realized he might have been mimicking the other Elliot’s movements.

He went whole hog and mimicked Elliott’s body posture and mannerisms, too. Elliott yawned. Wasn’t there something someone had said, about people tending towards trusting people more if they mimicked posture? Yeah. Probably a load of horse manure.

He hadn’t actually planned to brick his brain. Too easy to go too far. The comic book character could recover. He had special abilities that helped with that. Elliotts particular grade of nonsense did not aid in injury recovery. It only made him jump good.

Apparently Elliot had looked into things, but gotten nowhere. He should try sleeping, Elliott thought. Maybe then he wouldn’t yawn so much.

Elliott yawned. The Nyquil. Maybe it was starting to work? He’d specifically taken the drowsymaking kind.

Elliot did not think it was a person. But Elliott thought it was.

He slouched some more.

“Eh. Thank you. none taken. So. You think it’s a God? Who knows... maybe! Or maybe it’s just some sort of magic cult thing... Hah! No way that would ever happen.”

He was so funny making jokes for himself.

“Thank you for the suggestions, Elliot. I think I got this. Have a nice day.”

That said, he turned and walked away. Towards the stairs.

Elliott went about 2 flights up, turned, and sat down in the stairwell. Then he closed his eyes and slumped down.

He’d probably wave at anyone who went back upstairs. But for the moment, he focused on doing a quick awkward stair well power nap.

The blonde introduced herself, and Elliott was childishly amused. Butts, huh? Nice.

She said something to one of the honeymooners.

Bella looked at the butts girl and smiled. “Actually. I had it legally changed. My old first name was Elenor. Which is so incredibly archaic, can you imagine? It’s like, wasn’t that one of the presidents wives?” She laughed. It was a strident laugh.

Was she serious? Elliott wondered. Or else just effing with them all. The possibility was unlikely but he liked it. Two newlyweds whose entire game was to mess with people by portraying themselves as dense like pound cake, when really they were nuttier than a fruitcake and laughing to themselves.

The woman laughed some more and told Juniper she didn’t know what the smut book she was talking about was, but it sounded WONDERFUL and could she remember the name to recommend? Her husband looked in with rapt amazement.

Or maybe they’re just idiots, Elliott decided.

>>
“So, you’re the honeymooning Eds. I.D.K. what you called yourself, Scarfy. Elliot the yoga dude. Junie. I guess I’ll go next, Smithy.”

Romeo stepped forward. Seemed he had a nickname for all of them. Well... his could be Romeo.

Smithers didn’t seemed to mind the alias. Sometimes rich people get touchy about their storied last names being disrespected. Something about family lines going back for generations. But he just smiled indulgently. And beckoned , ‘pray continue.’

Romeo was also part president and all telephone line fixer. “Neat,” Elliott chimed in. Mildly impressed. Seemed they both both Daredevils of sorts.

He joked about matching colors and that indulgent smile on Smithers grew a shade less indulgent. But he did not stop smiling. It was more what was behind the eyes that changed. Like a gps, recalculating. That was what the minor change in composure felt like to Elliott. Mechanical.

Then he put the ball in redcoats court.

“The British are coming,” Elliott murmured glibly.

It was then that he noticed the unicorn floaty had vanished. Strange. He wondered what had become of it. Maybe it had gotten left behind but he’d been fairly certain it had made it off the bus... he’d seen the blonde, juniper, pass it off.

Eh. His memory could have just been flawed.

The guy... didn’t immediately speak. No he was in his own little dimension.

Elliott had no idea what names bring taken meant, but he said he was montezuma. Or Tez. And he had candy.

“Okay Zuma. Thanks.” Elliott smiled, showing off a zipper like set of pearly whites.

Why had he been reminded of a show he’d once seen with a psychic detective who took things seriously very rarely? One who played the fool in order to psych people out? His girlfriend had liked it. He’d liked it too. So, he reserved judgement about this person. Because of a tv show he liked. He felt foolish doing it the whole time!

“Alright,” Smithers said, nodding. “Now that we’ve handled that, we can get on to our business. Please, come inside my home so that we can discuss the waiver, and get everyone set up best we can. I see some are already prepared. I like your initiative. Others, we can see about gearing up...”

He eyed Juniper and the other less dressed individuals. Then, grinned a wide grin.

“The hunt isn’t very entertaining if some are ill prepared. And I wish this to be great sport! Who says I’m not fair?”

“Sure,” Elliott said slowly. “Sounds fine...” In the cold, his breath puffed visibly in front of his face.

Turning, Smithers lead them inside.

The mansion was not as magnificent as they would have thought from first glance. The entry hall was modest. No huge room with marbled floors and sweeping staircases. A diamond chandelier hung above them as they stepped into the main entry hall, but that was probably the most gaudy part of it. Mostly, it was tasteful dark wood floors and wall paneling, with creme colored wallpaper.

The large picture windows on either side of the front door let in muted winter light. There was an umbrella stand by the entrance hall, but no coat rack. Coat closet, yes. A big one. Open, visible, full of more hunting jackets and fine coats than one man could possibly need, in a variety of colors and sizes and styles that went back years.

The servants who greeted them did not offer to take their coats. They did offer warm beverages from their beverage trays, though. The servants were pale-skinned, but had kind faces and real smiles that made their eyes shine. They looked slightly tired, but perhaps they merely worked hard and lived to serve. Elliott took a mug of something steaming, and warmed his hands on it. A glance inside revealed—

“Chocolate.” Elliott said. He side-eyed their resident chocolate fiend, Montezuma. “Hot.”

The main butler, a tall British gentleman with a sallow face and a nasally cadence to his voice said “But of course, sir. Though, tea or coffee are available, if you should prefer?”

Elliott sipped at his cocoa, in response.

They were lead down a side hall, and another, past several closed doors. It was straightforward, hardly confusing. It would not be too difficult to get back to the entryway when the time came. But still, he was glad for a guide. With all the closed doors and the few turns they took, he felt he might have still managed to get lost. Finally, they reached a large study.

It had bookcases on the walls, several large tables, chairs set out for them, and one big mahomes by desk with a lamp. And those little balls you send clock clacking against the selves when you’re bored. Brass ones.

“Thank you, Renfield.” Smithers said. “Please get us the papers.”

“Yes, sir.” The butler returned a minute later with several stapled sheets of paper for them to sign and read. Preferably in that order, of course. If read at all. The butler said as much, then smiled wryly at his little joke.

“Thank you, Renfield. That is all.”

The butler left. Smithers turned to address them with a welcoming smile. “Please, sir and read then sign.”

Elliott sat in one of the numerous chairs arranged in front of one of the tables. Set down his cocoa then picked up the papers. He took one look at the long contract, read the first sentence and got lost in legalese. Then, he decided he knew enough about the whole situation to just sign without reading the, what, seven pages? Small script. Full of to whom it concerns and the signer of this contract and the Hereto aforementioned... Ain’t nobody got time for that.

He signed it, with a flair!

Years ago, Elliott had picked a fight with the Triad. Or maybe it had been the Yakuza? He had tried to blow up their headquarters. Well. The place they met. Look. It might have been their headquarters. He had been young and stupid. Part of an evil organization he wished he could just sweep under the carpet and forget.

He had ultimately tried to organize chaos. Tried to leash the unleashable, in order to focus them on doing good. Because what is more chaotic than a group of bad guys taking out bad guys and helping out the little guy? Well. He had unleashed them alright. All over a warehouse floor. It had been messy. And had nothing to do with this situation other than the fact he had thought of it when he’d heard something about the triad while investigating some recent crimes in the area. Bit of an embarrassing background. To remind people he wasn’t always a really cool guy. And didn’t always succeed when he tried to be helpful.

He’d never really had anything happen due to the Triad situation. Other than fighting a bunch of ninja with a guy who could walk on ceilings, back before he had been capable of walking on ceilings. If only Max could have seen him now. Striding down the side of a building to investigate something funky.

He hadn’t really gotten most of the crumbs others may have followed to lead him to the triad. He’d heard tell of some group calling themselves a triad something. He’d noted maybe some people trying to consolidate something. Power. The crimes he’d been following at the time may or may not have been connected. Look. We already established Elliott was not the best at the things he attempted to do most of the time. He tried o hard! But he was not a detective. So how had he tracked people down to a big meet up event? Good. Question.

Elliott had. Followed. People. Who had followed the breadcrumbs. And mostly he’d gotten some dumb luck.

Someone had centuries of hunting someone under their belt. But they apparently did not have centuries of blending in.

Red armor. Very obvious. Very gripping. Demonic face mask. Very scary. Very intimidating. And a katana. A freaking samurai sword. Very... intimate? Elliott didn’t know. All he knew was that he’d caught sight her someone in red armor with a demonic face plate heading cautiously in the direction of the docks. The direction one of the few crumbs he’d actually found had pointed him to. And she. Looked. AWESOME! Also shifty, scary, intimidating, and suspicious as F. He had followed HER.

Clearly, a scary samurai swords person would know where the big booty B*%*%es be at, to use a phrase that nobody uses anymore. Don’t judge, please. He was a little put off by the sheer terror of stalking someone in a mask.

For comparison, his costume had no sword or mask. He wore blue jeans, and an intricate set of armored shin guards that covered parts of his feet to maintain warmth, while exposing other parts to allow him to grip the walls. One could see green skin under the Kevlar plating and black, if they looked hard. Ultimately, it looked like really crappy geta with soccer grade shin guards. Geta missing the soles. He wore a black shirt and a black leather jacket and black fingerless gloves, that left the fingertips of his green three-fingered hands exposed. And he wore a black helmet with a sneering alien mouth with a jagged toothsome smile and a dangling long tongue painted on it. Dark-tinted visor, painted like white alien eyes. Slits for nose. Something terrifying, this way, come. He had not worn this helmet for a while. Usually, he wore a green alien face helmet with a macabre smile. But it was mainly black and he wore black and he wanted to blend in. So. So there.

He followed the red armored woman, hoping to see something of note. He did.

She drew a blade on a little girl dressed in a mobster outfit. Yeah. She was scary. The red woman. Not the young woman. He watched the whole scene from his perch about thirty feet above them, crouching on the alley wall. So he was in a good location to see the young woman draw her weapons.

Guns. The young woman had guns. Elliott reevaluated. Maybe the young woman was actually just a very short person. A little person, if he were being politically correct. Right? The alley was kind of dark, so... she could have been anywhere from a little person to a very short person. He reserved judgement until he knew more. Though he did arch a hairless eyebrow beneath the helmet.

There was also another person next to the young woman. In a hoodie and sweats? Huh? Man this alley was beginning to grow crowded.

He watched the hoodie woman drag the monster kinder with the blonde hair up, bodily. And tilted his head. Which, crouched at the angle he was at, stationed on the wall he was on, put his head at a normal angle parallel to the ground.

This looked to be getting sticky. Well. Best he could do to break up a nasty situation was paint a target on himself to draw attention away from the two haphazardly dressed people, onto himself, an even more haphazardly dressed vigilante. And draw the attention of the potentially murderous red armored person. Wow. Those were some long drawn out sentences.

He decided to make the mental narrative easy from here on out.

Elliott, AKA, Cheshire, started walking down the wall. He walked completely upright, body straight and parallel to the ground. It took some core strength, but he had trained for just such an occasion! As he walked, Elliott spoke amiably. Casually. Using his careless tone to oversell his charm and courage. His charm and courage, which had retreated somewhere up inside his navel at some point during the little altercation downstairs.

“Heyyyy Red. Easy there. Easy.” Elliott said, strolling down the wall. “Take it easy. No need to hurt them. What’s with the drama anyways? Been following you for, what, twenty minutes? Half an hour? You seem on... edge.”

He landed on the floor of the alley, about 10-15 feet behind her on the word ‘edge.’ And purposefully did not stare nervously at the finely honed killing weapon in her hands.

“Where’s the fire?” He added. “To get you this jumpy. Almost as if you were worried you were being followed. Gee I hope you’re one of the nice vigilantes or this whole bit of banter I’ve got going on will go down like the Hindenburg and boy won’t my big dumb smile make me look stupid?”

He prepared himself to jump away if she so much as moved funny. Jump away, and back onto the wall.

(Open to up to 3!)

The flyer had been for a pool party. In December. Which was odd. But get this, the person hosting it had a heated pool. And sauna. And hot tubs. Kind of neat. They must’ve been rich. Like super rich. Location was an estate in upstate New York. A real compound. The only requirement was that partygoers had to contractually agree to go hunting with the owner first. Sign a waiver. That sort of thing. Elliott supposed the person was just lonely or something. Had all the money in the world, but no friends to spend it on. So he bought friends.

Weird. But okay.

Elliott tried to get his girlfriend to go with him, but she was busy. And she felt like he probably should have been busy too, but he told her the art wasn’t flowing and he was bored. And this might just be interesting And unique enough to get those creative juices flowing. Did he know how to hunt? No! But how hard was it to fake being terrible? Kenzi seemed skeptical but whatever.

—

He arrived at the gates of the compound on time. Mainly because they’d offered a shuttle. Which might have been a bad sign. Some universal foreshadowing that maybe, just maybe, this has been a bad idea. What with the multiple people on the bus and the fact they brought them all on property in one big buzzed in group. But then hey, maybe it had been to cut down on the lost folks or the party crushers or the buzz killers who would partake then leave early.

He’d dressed warm, with a swim bag on his back compete with towels and suit. Fleece jacket, ear flap hat, lotta flannel. Jeans and shoes with wool socks.

The compound was heavily forested. No other compounds nearby: and the woods would eat party sounds. Give them loads of privacy. Compound itself was a massive forested area surrounded by fence. Everything was covered in snow. The drive to the main building took fifteen to twenty minutes from the metal gates. On the way, Elliott saw a few outside buildings. Little hunting shacks where people could go and get stuff. Like food or ammo? He didn’t pay too much attention to everything on his way in. Just people watched.

Lot of people. Beyond himself, there were probably six other people on the bus. Plus the driver. There was a married couple. Someone wearing a lot of leather. And others... he tried talking to some of them.

“So. This seems fun.” He said. “Anyone else getting sudden Stephen King vibes?”

~Several Days Ago~

“I’m serious, Elliott. It’s haunted. Been on Afterlife: AMHP and everything! Something is going on. You should look into it!”

The green man stared at his red headed girlfriend, unsure what to do. He was at a loss.

“Kenzi, that’s not really... what I do. I handle muggers and stuff? Patrol work. Friendly neighborhood stuff, right?” Elliott said.

“Hmph,” Kenzi crossed her arms.

The conversation seemingly ended.

~Two days ago...~

“It’s getting worse, Ell.” Kenzi said. From out of nowhere. Continuing a days-old conversation, even.

Elliott blinked at her. “What is?” He said carefully.

“I read a blog.”

“Yeah?” Where was this going...?

“People living in the building are having vivid dreams or horrid nightmares. Many are afraid to sleep.” She said adamantly. “There’s this story about a little boy. Billie Porter.”

“Billie Porter.” Elliott repeated.

Kenzi told him.

Elliott halted full stop.

~And now-

Sick. He felt sick. The blogs all reported about the hero worship thing, the good dreams kids got. The artist who devoted an entire collection to the Daydream. The purple man. Whatever. But only one blog had talked about the kid who went off the deep end because the waking world was inferior to his dream life. Elliott didn’t even want to detail all the crap that went wrong. Whoever this thing was, whatever this thing was, it was some sort of monster.

Maybe it had wanted the kids to have happy dreams, to make up for the twisted crap it gave the general populace. But it had gone too far. The boy was in an asylum now and Elliott hadn’t even realized those things still existed!!

Kid had sent an open message, a truly demented thing, promising $1 to the person who could bring him the Purple man. So he could thank the horror. And beg it to take him back. Into his dreams.

Elliott didn’t want that $1. But he did want to talk to the purple man. He didn’t want to thank him. He wanted to kick his ass.

The kid slept most of the day. Listless. The rest of the time, he spent drawing pictures of the things he’d dreamed. Jagged lines, dark motion. Bright colors. Twisted. The kind of abstract expressionism that spoke to you. The kind only children could create.

Elliott was not sure if he could fix him. It was probably a one in a million case about the kid. Because yeah, sure, he had read about dozens of cases. Dozens. That seemed positive! At least, for the kiddos. Adults got it worse. But they were better equipped to differentiate. To tell the living world from the dream. They had a barrier. Tools. This guy had played with fire, manipulating people. Messing with them. Messing with kids. Elliott was no saint. He had done things he regretted. But one thing he had vowed, since after he’d turned over his new leaf, was this: you don’t mess with kids. And yes, that was about as cliche as cliche could get. Maybe he just needed justification to investigate this. Because it was out of his comfort zone. And he’d had to deal with something messed up the last time he’d gone outside his wheelhouse.

He found himself humming Santa Claus is coming to town, and he shuddered. Then, he strolled into the building.

He was dressed in steel-toed boots that felt uncomfortable for his two-toed feet, black three-fingered biker gloves, blue jeans and a black leather jacket with Kevlar inserts. Oh, and his green motorcycle helmet with the wide Cheshire grin and the jagged teeth. The one he had painted himself. With the lolling tongue and the tinted visor to obscure his features. Shoes and gloves were an oddity for him, but hey. He wasn’t planning to climb any walls here.

A bell dinged. The door swung back shut.

A fairly normal apartment building lobby. He’d been in enough to know the basic layout. What was not usual was the little bulletin board full of fan art. He didn’t immediately pay attention to the person near the board. Just felt his feet get drawn toward it, out of what could have been morbid curiosity.

Would the board have it? And what was his plan here to confront the nightmare?

Cheshire scanned the board.

“There.” He placed a finger about an inch away from touching the page. A psychedelic scribble, with a yellow and pastel pink swirl that reminded him of a fingerprint. In its center, harsh dark lines. Darkest purple. A silhouette. A man. Above the swirl, a blood orange sun so harshly scrawled onto the page in crayon it almost tore the paper. In the bottom right hand corner, a name. “Billie Porter.”

He felt sick. Had felt sick. But oh, it came back all over again.

“Can you believe this guy...” He muttered, not really paying attention to who he was talking to, If anyone. Mainly, he was just being disgusted, and talking to himself. “All the worship... but this kid is in the mental Health hospital because his real life was dim in comparison to the dream... spends all his time sleeping. Hoping for good dreams.”

All he had to go on, all Cheshire had to go on, was the evidence he could see when he landed. His very special costume bathroom time had cost him the precious moments after the hit, when things like the attacker fleeing may have been visible. What he had was a scared kid, and anything amateur detective skills could handle.

Usually, he left detecting to the detectives. Police hate a vigilante. They hate them even more when they directly interfere in matters related to an investigation. Pocketing shell casings, or rummaging Santa for loot tended to make their brows crinkle and their heartburn flare.

Elliott eyed the kid from behind a tinted helmet visor. His eyes, in fact, his entire face, was hidden. The mask just made him seem a smiling fool. He still wore shoes, too. Steel toed boots. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be called upon to climb on any walls. Such was the price of anonymity in a mall and changing on short notice.

Was the kid scared? Scarred? Did he know what had happened? Santa was looking pretty rough.

The crowd moved around him, shifting, but Cheshire just stood a moment. Watching. From a distance of about 15-20 feet. Then, he stepped forward. Approached. And, the kid started to wail. He flopped,

Aaaaand Santa. Plopped.

Oy vey. Elliott paled the forehead of his helmet, and let the hand sliiide down the glass of the visor. This day, it was just going to be a disgusting pain wasn’t it? What? What else did 2020 have to offer, if not this? He was not sure what he had expected.

Here was hoping Kenzi got her niece out and off the scene. Because this, this had so not been what she had signed on for when she had agreed to show her sisters daughter Santa.

Here. A dead Santa. “And where is Tim Allen when you need him...” Cheshire grumbled. Louder, he shouted “Security!” Some elves cautiously, carefully, stepped forward. To— “Help with Santa. And call someone?”

To the kid, Cheshire said “I am so out of my depths here. If only you were a mugger, or an ax murderer. Look kid. Where are your parents?” Hopefully he hadn’t wet himself out of fear.

And how had Santa bit the bullet any way? He was no firearms expert but if it had been long range, the sound would have been... louder, would it not? He was just spitballing but it seemed to him a wound like that would likely have been a close range small caliber or— whatever. But— eh.

It just had not sunk in yet. For the moment, he focused on the kid while security elves did their work.

>>"Miss! Hey yoohoo! Can we try to sit down like reasonable semi-adults and talk this through? I realise your upset. I would be too, but this is not helping the situation and will only land you and not the derving party in jail."

Ooh boy. The guy. He was trying... sensible talk. Diplomacy. The language of adults. Just how exactly would this thing go, Elliott wondered. The jaded part of him, the Cheshire part, the part that was always smiling... it thought it would go over like the Hindenberg. Badly. But hell, he had five minutes. If they could break up the action to give the local constabulary time to arrive, it would be worth the wasted effort.

"Yeah," he chimed in. Lamely.

Just as he had thought, the attempt failed. She was undeterred from violence and destruction. Joy.

The guy tried to get his attention. Calling him Motorhead, of all things. He'd have to clue him in, he was Cheshire. Vigilante. This was sort of his area. Doing stupid, dangerous things he wasn't equipped for, or paid to do. To help people. Because he had a responsibility. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Yeah. He still thought it was hilarious that he actually thought the age old refrain about responibility and power meant a damned thing. Heroism doesn't make one a better person. it just helps one sleep at nights, knowing they've done something to prevent someone else from getting off worse than the vigilante, themself. Case and point, the guy got attacked. For trying to speak sense.

Boom, into the table. With a solid knock to the noggin. Looked nasty. Until the guy stood back up. Like a boss. And did something weird, with popping.

Cheshire said "Ew."

The guy said please don't do that again, and the girl just sort of... well. The fight went out of her.

"But they... bad people. They took my pet. And... I hit you SO HARD. How did you even just--"

"Heeeeey. Yeah. So anyways." Elliott picked up a chair. The same chair the guy had been sitting in a moment before. He stole it. He sat down in it. "Let's try this again. Before someone kills someone. Can't undo that. Can't we all just talk this out?"

"I should hit you. You're standing up for-"

"Heck no." Elliott cut in. He glanced back at the weird popping guy. "I think it's safe to assume we're both too stupid to be working for this restaurant as bouncers. We just sort of wandered in and wanted to be heroic, yeah? So, owners. SIT DOWN PLEASE." There was darkness in his voice. Elliott was not a squeaky clean, sweet vigilante boy child. He'd dealt with some stuff. And this was the sort of situation that could get really stuffy, really fast. If they could talk this girl down from throwing her life away in the American Justice system, and cleaning up her act... well. He honestly sometimes wished he'd been given a good little pep talk to get out of crime before he'd even started. Would have changed a lot of things.

The restaurant owners... the one who was still conscious, at least, sat down. Backwards. In a chair they had pulled up.

"Okay." The girl said. Then, she looked at Erik. "I'm sorry I hit you... I just... my cat..."

"Mrow."

A gray cat hopped up onto one of the few undisturbed tables in the restaurant. The girl's eyes lit up. "Snowball! But I thought-- with all the animals who vanished lately... and this place. Smelled like you, all the way up here. For my senses. And--"

"My wife... mutant." The restaurant owner said, blandly. "Animals come. She feeds them. They do not like to go. Some stay. Does not mean we serve them. Not THAT WAY, least."

Elliott slapped the front of his helmet, hard.