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Elliott humored him with a smile and a laugh. Being able to joke was one of the best coping mechanisms when dealing with big changes like becoming a mutant. He couldn't really speak from experience on the being a mutant side of things, but he had dealt with big changes. New York was still pretty new, for instance. And there were a lot of things he still didn't understand.

"Follow me, then." He smiled.

The coffee place wasn't more than four blocks away. They were short blocks, too. The building it had a store front on the first floor of was old brick in traditional New York style. The place was called 'Lou's'. The glass window had a white design on it that looked like a cup of coffee on a saucer set in front of what looked like a crescent moon. Except there were two eyes floating above the smile and behind the coffee, Cheshire cat style. Inside, there were thirteen tables and a bar motif, with stools set in any old place, rather than set distances apart. It was done in a lot of wood with carvings, and had a homey feel. Scattered around the shop were some obvious mutants, some not-so-obvious, and some that looked like they might not have had a home to go back to. They drank coffee, just like everyone else. The place had a system where you could toss money in the jar that went towards helping homeless people get a cup of coffee and a bite to eat. He liked the system. At one point, Elliott might have had to make use of it. The whole place was easy going. Behind the counter, there was a pretty girl with a cat tattoo that almost seemed to move. It was poised in a grooming position.

A big man was working in the back. You could see him through the diner style kitchen window. He was entirely purple, with darker purple stripes.

"Hey Lou," Elliott waved. The purple man nodded, friendly smile on his face, then dropped his attention back to what he was cooking. "This place is a little gem. They serve more than coffee, too. Practically everything. Go ahead. Ask Cherise if they can make it. Try and stump her." Elliott nodded to the tattoo girl. The cat tattoo had moved on from grooming to batting a ball of yarn across her arm. It bounced back when it hit her wrist every time.

Attacked before. Ended badly. Sometimes dangerous. "I understand," Elliott replied mildly. He was processing that bit of information, and dropped into silence for a moment.

"Humans can be dangerous, too." He added thoughtfully. Paused. Continued. "I guess everyone can. It's really about how we react." And then he let that deep comment sink in.

The dog-man shifted back into a small animal, for the sake of easy-carrying. The Metabot carried him off to jail / the pound / where ever it was he was going peacefully, now that his cover had been blown. Elliott really wasn't sure. The dog man hadn't gotten violent. He'd simply ran when he saw the robot, and then calmed down. People can sometimes just be weird. The lady had returned to the crowd, now that she had lost the family pet. She seemed sad, distant, and upset. Also cute, but one doesn't focus on that when you know for a fact a girl is crazy. A girl is crazy when she adopts a grown man who pretends to be Toto from the Wizard of Oz for fun.

The concert was nearly wrapped up. The band announced their final song of the day, The Stars. The red mustache guy, the silver-skinned robot man, and the lady character with the purple-red hair all sang together for this one. It was one of their newer songs.

Elliott's plan to do nothing when the robot and the dog mutant ran past him was a roaring success. He simply stood there, and let them pass. The only side effect of the whole endeavor was that his strong silent friend got bowled over. The hood came away, and revealed wolfish features. Elliott didn't pause for a second. He simply stepped forward, bent over, and offered the wolfman his hand.

Now, generally speaking, one doesn't trade grips with a mutant until one knows where they stand on certain issues. Like murdering you when your guard is dropped, or ripping off arms... but in this case, Elliott made the exception. The wolfman had been quiet, but he had been good. Or at least, barring 'good', he hadn't been bad. All he'd done to throw a bit of distrust his way was snarling at the little dog. The little dog had turned out to be a mutant shapeshifting criminal, so really. Snarling at a criminal isn't really 'bad' at all. Maybe wolfman had subconsciously sensed little dog was up to no good? Or maybe he simply hadn't liked being bitten. What was the saying? Once bitten, twice shy? Regardless, he had done nothing to earn Elliott's scorn.

"Need a hand?" Elliott asked. And he waited, hand outstretched. He'd let the wolfman make his own choices about how things were going to go down.

The barking drew his attention. A little yip yip dog. A pocket dog. He glanced that way, then back to the concert. Then back at the dog. Noisy little mutt. It seemed to be bothering his antisocial friend. The woman apologized, and he swept his focus back to the concert. Dogs would be dogs. Except this one just would not quit. Again, he looked the dog's way.

His shy friend was tense. He was getting a bit of something from body language. Annoyance? Anger? Fear? Well, maybe he was just annoyed by the punt sized pain... er, pint-sized. It was growling. Snapping. Guy was wearing some sort of furry slippers. Were those a new type of crocs? They weren't fashionable, and that was why he wondered. The guy, however fashionable, was doing pretty good of not kicking the little doggy. Up until he reached his breaking point, that was. A snarl escaped the man's mouth.

Elliott arched an eyebrow. That was odd. Even with the music as loud as it was, he could hear that. Who snarled at little dogs? Well, Elliott. That's a very good question. Other dogs sometimes snarl at other dogs. And monster mutants. And feral beasts.

The lady packed up her pooch and plodded off.

Elliott shrugged. Maybe he was just a grumpy growling guy. Sometimes, people snarled too. Maybe he was nuts. Insane hobos, people. New York is chock full of them.

Mr. Quiet Riot practiced breathing exercises. Elliott let him. If the guy was a crazy hobo, he didn't need to poke the bear. Or mix metaphors.

About 100 feet away, a Metabot peacekeeper prowled, watching the crowd. He was gunmetal blue with matte black plating on his arms, legs, and chest.

>>"The badge number of the officer i took it from is etched on the side, so you may not want to keep that, I have other unmarked ones if you prefer." Aura said.

He glanced at her and nodded once. "Good to know." That gun was going so far in the trash once he was near a trash can. He would only pause to wipe it clean. Or maybe he could sell it to some idiot who didn't think about those sorts of things. He was just glad the old lady hadn't been killed by it.

A skunk and a bear fight. He made a note to ask about that some time later. It sounded like one hell of a party.

RE: Coffee. Girl said 'Yes'. Keeping death count down to zero, also yes. "Yeah, I'd rather not have to deal with big police toys." He agreed wryly. "I just got these pants the other day, and blood stains are a pain to get out of clothes." When playing with people who kill for fun (or profit!), it's best not to show weakness. Or that they've got you flatfooted. "I know a great place we can go."

Getting off the streets was good. Getting coffee was better. He suddenly felt like he could use a cup. Or a stiff drink. He had to hold off on acting on that thought for a moment, though, because Aura, bless her old-lady-shooting heart, found a new friend.

Elliott stood on guard. MRC was a New York police thing, an anti-mutant task force slash mutant task force full of hypocrites at odds with themselves. She had almost growled about the MRC. He really did growl. "Joy. Hell of a party."

He had a gun in each hand. Aura's 9mm, and unconscious guy's gun, too. He didn't have much practice using guns. He was more a hand-to-hand kind of fella. But there's a first time for everything. For the moment, he kept himself sharp. He didn't lower his guard. He could lift the guns and fire at any second. But for the moment, they were lowered, and safely at his sides.

Red-skinned guy walked towards them, hands in his pockets. Yep, he was still on-guard. Hands in pockets meant nothing. He let the guy talk with Aura. Maybe he'd hang himself, say something that instantly caused Aura to gut him, and they'd avoid a fight. And then the guy had the nerve to call him a freaking frog man. That made him pause and reevaluate. He tilted his head at the 'little frog man' comment, and the charades act. The guy was playing at a game. At first brush, he'd thought he was simply approaching peaceably, maybe trying to get close so he could defuse the situation. Being careful. Making small talk. Nothing worthwhile. Empty words. A little praise. An accidental insult wrapped in mocking compliments. But now his body language and actions gave Elliott another feeling. Elliott had dealt with criminals before.

You see, it's simple. It's all about first impressions. This red man was making them uncertain. His hands in the pockets said harmless. Or maybe an attempt to make them careless? The mocking praise said nothing, really. They were just words. How they responded to them told red man something. Words cost little, and could reveal a great deal. Having dealt with people who play such games, Elliott saw it quite easily. The only question he had was why. The mocking praise could make them hostile, but it could also make them say too much. Was he trying to feel out how they reacted to things? Or simply an idiot. At the end of the day, the only thing he was sure of in his quick bout of paranoia was this: In the immortal words of Admiral Ackbar, "It's a trap."

When dealing with unfamiliar mutants, the last thing one wants to do is drop one's guard. A hand shake was something Elliott had no interest in. He put his head back on the right angle, and really looked at the guy. "Hi. Please excuse me if I don't offer you my hand. I've kind of got my hands full right this second." A gun in each hand does that. "I don't mean to be rude." But I enjoy it. "Aura and I were just leaving." Fleeing. "Central Park is just too nice. It's giving me a migraine. And when aliens who look nothing like frog men get migraines, it ain't pretty." Subtle hint: You wouldn't like me when I have a migraine. Back off.

Steeeeeeeeampunk. A new very popular genre. A type of clothing style. A type of story. Maybe even a type of music. Today, there was a band playing on a street corner. They were dressed in Steampunk style. There were plenty of gears and top hats and Victorian-style suits and ties. Lots of goggles with metal bits and cranks. And, they wore silver face paint to make themselves look like robots. A remote-controlled drone flew above, recording the performance.

Elliott was in the audience. He wasn't on a job. He was dressed in a black button up duster type jacket with tails that hung to around knee level, navy blue slacks, a white silk shirt and steam punk styled goggles that perched on his forehead. And he was green. It was a look that attracted attention, but when surrounded by others in various shades of body paint, dressed similarly, it didn't attract as much attention as usual.

The performance had sort of been impromptu. They had posted on their twitter and their website about it. Filming for a new music video. They even had a animatronic giraffe head dancing on stage with them. The music was good. It was sort of swingy, with great vocals and a classic feel. Not robotic or synth, but the way that some members were dancing gave a solid metal feel. They were one of his favorite bands, right up there with the costumed super hero ska rock band, the Aquabats.

He stood and watched, quite enjoying himself. Nearby, other musicians stood waiting. They'd been tipped by the band to sit and watch while they recorded. It was a lunch break for the other street musicians. They were blowing off steam.