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So the man was a damage sponge that took in punches and spewed them out his face hole. Elliott knew that probably wasn’t how it really worked, but the mental imagery inspired by the phrasing of “soak up attacks and spit them out, harder” had been too good to pass up. And if he was able to soak up those attacks and spit them out like watermelon seeds, then what was a swift kick in the butt between friends?

The man... accepted the offer. Oddly enough, he accepted the offer. “Hit me!” He’d said. Elliott could certainly do that.

“Sure.” He said. “Okay. You stand there and get ready. I’m going to get a running start.”

Elliott matched action to words. He stashed his weapons in their holsters, then ran back several feet. Elliott put everything he had into rushing at the man. Got there, and kicked him. Hard. He put everything he had into the flying kick, because honestly, how often does an X-man freaking ask you to kick them across the map?

Now, a super kick was one of Elliott’s most powerful moves. Given time and space, he could use a running start to launch a kick that would strike as hard as a giant battering ram. Powerful enough to break down doors, push cars, and send people flying. So when he ran at the mutant man with the intention of kicking him hard enough to send him flying across the map, he’d fully meant to do it. He was capable. That kind of kick would hit with bone-breaking force. It’d be up to Mr ‘Make some @#$^ happen’ to soak up the attack, and figure out a way to use it. And if the attack sent the fantastic Mr Sponge flying, like he hoped it would, Elliott was fully ready to follow up the attack by springing after the guy, to launch himself 20 feet into the air for a follow up kick that would help keep Sponge airborne long enough to reach a roof. Or splatter in a flashy impact against the side of the building, if he didn’t put enough English on the kick. Which ever.

Little did Elliott or Sponge-Saph X-Man know, the motorized mutant had pulled a U-turn and was driving back towards their block, at speed. He’d hit a road block, and weaved around the squad cars chasing him. Pesky gnats. As he’d passed them, he’d briefly turned into a giant robot and skated towards them on ankle wheels to lash out at them each in turn with a slashing tire iron mace. They’d spun off the road, into street signs or store fronts. The last of the three cars got the broadside of his passenger door shield as he’d sideswiped it. The police car crashed into a fire hydrant, which exploded in a fountain of water that rained down on NYPD Lieutenant McNasty’s blue hood. But that wasn’t the one explosion in the title of this thread.

The black and chrome robo-mutant sprang into the air as he’d shifted back to car form with a ratcheting machine sound and electronic groans. Tires squealed against the road as it did a burn out. And back towards an unsuspecting pair of vigilantes, it went!

If there were ever a situation where wetting yourself in fear would be justified, being present during an active bank robbery would be it. Luckily for Elliott, he’d already handled that! He’d made a deposit, and went to the restroom afterwards. The bank robbers came into the bank while he was finishing up.

They entered the bank, in black ski masks. There were eight of them. Three had guns. The rest were mutants. Most likely. Maybe. That wasn’t clear yet. Elliott didn’t know about any of it, until they’d sent one of their number to the restrooms to check for lurkers.

Elliott was washing his hands. The man came in, tall and built like a refrigerator, with a military-grade looking rifle pressed into his hands. He was wearing a ski mask. His brown eyed gaze met Elliott’s red. There was a moment of contemplative silence, in which Elliott most decidedly did not wet his pants. Elliott broke the thoughtful moment by lashing out with one arm and launching a red tongue at him from the palm of his right hand. The tongue lanced outwards and wrapped around the man at the wrists. He tore the guy forward with all his might.

The man was caught flat-footed. He’d been surprised. His focus had been on checking the corners and breathing through his mouth, and if he’d been expecting anybody, it certainly wouldn’t have been a 6’2” green man with black antennae and red eyes. Even if he’d been expecting that, there was no possible way he would have been prepared for the follow up. The prehensile hand tongue flying out and grabbing him by the wrists, preventing him from aiming the rifle. The sudden rush of movement as he was pulled forward and staggered along for the ride. The sudden crack as his forehead met the bathroom sink, or the happy little starburst of light and pain. It was all too much for him, too surprising. He couldn’t handle it, and so he lost consciousness.

As Elliott moved the deadly weapon far, far away from the man’s hands, he had to hand it to him. In spite of his horrible reaction times and the lame fight he’d put up, the man’s trigger discipline? That was impressive. No finger on the trigger? Either daddy had taught him right, or the man had a military past. The military-Grade weapon meant nothing. You can get anything on the black market. Elliott got out duct tape.

He wrapped the duct tape around the unconscious bank robber’s arms. He wrapped him, all the way to the wrists. All the while, he frowned and his mind repeated the same four letter word.

How was he going to handle this situation? Should he just man up and hide? They’d come looking for the guy after he didn’t come back. People needed help. Could he help them? Should he help them? Was it worth endangering his life to help? Endangering other peoples’ lives? Didn’t they have bank insurance? If nobody did anything, maybe they’d just leave and no one would eat hurt? His mind ran a mile a minute as he slipped the duct tape back into the pocket of his leather jacket, and dragged the unconscious man into a bathroom stall.

Benji would have helped them, Elliott decided. His old roommate and vigilante partner in crime would have gone out of his way to make life hard for these bank robbers, however many there were. Even if they had guns. Because Benji... was a freaking idiot. But he’d already decided to help, so any second thoughts wouldn’t change his mind. Too late, common sense! You had your chance! He would do the ridiculously heroic thing, because he was an idiot.

Elliott turned off the sink. But how would he protect his secret identity, he wondered. His motorcycle helmet was outside with his motorcycle. What did he even have on him? And on the unconscious guy?

He checked his pockets. A roll of duct tape. Useful! But maybe not for this purpose, unless he wanted to maintain his secret identity by becoming a duct tape mummy. No thanks. And some glow sticks. Because practicality. And maybe him and his girlfriend had gone out clubbing at a rave? He couldn’t recall. Either that made it a really good rave, or a terrible one. Some paper money. Mint. Lint. He ate the mint, discarded the lint, and went to check the robber’s pockets.

No good. Aside from some money on a wallet (which he pocketed, don’t judge), and a freaking ID, Robert the robber had jack squat. Bubblegum and rubber bands weren’t any good to him. He pocketed the rubber bands, because why not? A Swiss Army knife. Yoink! And a black handkerchief... okay.

Elliott glanced at the gun. “Nope.”

The whole search had taken one minute, two minutes. Maybe three. Elliott stripped the ski mask off the man, then slipped it onto his face. It smelled like desperation, beer, and cigarettes. Elliott stared at himself in the rectangular bathroom mirror.

“Of course, this totally makes me look like one of the robbers...” he mused thoughtfully. Red eyes lit up at a thought. “And my brand is sorely underrepresented.”

He turned himself to resolving the issue of brand recognition. A few moments later, he’d finished duct taping a couple of broken glow sticks to the mouth area of his ski mask. They were bent into a crude smile, with strips of duct tape placed at intervals like rows of zipper-like teeth. Underneath them, he’d taped the black hanky in place to cover the open mouth of the ski mask. No reason to leave a patch of green skin uncovered.

“There!” Elliott said, muffled through the hanky!mask. “Cheshire is ready for action!” Brand recognition was important! And the Cheshire smile was his vigilante mark. Even on a ski mask with a black handkerchief duct taped over the mouth. One with a lightly glowing chemical smile.

All of that done, bank robber duct taped to the u bend of the toilet, Elliott stepped out of the Men’s room, dusting his hands.

“One down,” he said to himself.

Maybe she was expecting him to get angry. Get violent? Get revenge? If she had been, his reaction certainly wouldn’t have been one she would have expected. Elliott Thomas laughed. He doubled over laughing. This was too much.

Now that he’d looked at it and put two and two together, he’d realized the wallet looked familiar. Because he’d stolen it not twenty minutes before. She had robbed him? And the other guy? Wow.

“Kid, I like you.” Elliott said, once he’d gotten his laughter under control. “You got fire. If that other wallet is my wallet... I certainly didn’t deserve to keep it, now did I?”

Leaving a wallet sitting there in the backpack, easy access for any old pickpocket. Not paying attention. Clearly, it hadn’t been important to him. And even more clearly, she’d had the skill to take it. He could respect that. He believed in honor among thieves. You steal something from someone better than them, you deserve it. If they steal it back... well, thieves have to protect their credibility.

“Please tell me one of those wallets was mine,” Elliott said easily. “Or else that crazy laughter was just sad.”

Elliott didn’t ogle Toms ID. The fact that she seemed young enough not to have a legitimate one, now that he could see her better standing where she was in the dank, dark alley, aided the decision. Any ID she had would have been fake, or for school. No, he just sighed and rubbed at his neck.

“I’ve been there, Tom.” He said. “Homeless. And I’m crap at speeches, so I’m just gonna flat out say it. Sh*t sucks. People trying to move you or use you. Makes it hard to trust. You don’t have to trust me,” and he sure as hell wasn’t goin to be her big brother and help her get off the streets.

Elliott turned and reached into the back pocket of his leather pack for the wallet he’d grabbed earlier. Maybe there’d be enough there to help her, at least enough for a candy bar. ... except the wallet wasn’t going to be helping anyone. It was gone.

Elliott cursed under his breath. “It must have fallen out...” He said. Well. There was no avoiding it. Without another word, he stalked over to the trash can and hauled the unconscious fox man halfway out of the dumpster. He dug in the dangling man’s pockets, and came up empty.

“Really?!” Elliott exclaimed. “Effing really?!” He let go, and foxy slumped onto the ground by the dumpster with a sloppy squish and a muted thump.

Elliott blinked several times, then calmed himself down. Even if his features weren’t visible behind the visor of the helmet, it didn’t do to be irate. Made one careless. Bad for business. He turned back towards the girl, if... she was even still there.

“I was going to give you some money,” he said sadly. He held out her empty wallet for the girl. “But it seems my wallet and his are gone. Sorry.” The helmet was smiling, but he was not.

Elliott took a step back as the dead man sprang back up to life. Not so dead, after all. Well that was good. Except for the crowbar that had nearly taken off his head.

‘What the truck are you, then,’ the guy had asked. And then glanced off and watched the quickly escaping car fiend go.

“Cheshire, the @#$^ am I,” Elliott growled. The helmet kept smiling, though, because that %^*& was painted on.

The man had chasing cars on his mind, like some sort of spandex dog person. Already dismissing him, the X man stared off into the distance and came to the conclusion that, somehow, he was screwed.

“What’s your power, then?” Elliott asked in a dry, somewhat tired drawl, momentarily dropping the gravel voice. “I take it that it isn’t jumping, or getting hit by cars. Though you did that last one nicely. How’d you get up there in the first place?”

Elliott glanced up towards where he assumed the X-man had been, before he’d fallen from grace. Quietly, he added “If you need me to, I’ll kick you back up there myself.” His eyes fell back on the hero, and Elliott realized maybe he hadn’t been as quiet as he had thought.

Thieves often have a sense for other thieves, but it wasn’t Elliott who noticed his wallet getting pinched. It was the first man. He had a face like a fox, sharp and pointed with green eyes that followed the little thief’s progress as she went on from him to the next guy, some loser in a creepy goth motorcycle helmet. Her form was good. If he hadn’t noted the sudden lack of weight in his back pocket, she’d have gotten away. No such luck for her. He wiggled his wet fox nose.

As the little thief in the ball cap slipped away to assess her findings, the man with the auburn hair and the fox face stalked after her.

The stalking was what got Elliott’s attention. Contrary to popular belief, if you follow after someone like a predator, shoulders hunched and eyes focused forward on your prey, you don’t look discrete. You look like a pervert. The person in the ball cap could of been a child. They could have been a high schooler with a bad fake id getting turned away from the club. Man, woman, child. Boy or girl, it didn’t matter. If a creep was creeping in his part of the city, he wasn’t going to be creeping on anyone for very much longer. Brooklyn was his.

Fox face crept along behind the person, who crept along down the street, and Elliott crept along behind them both, from above. He’d had to scale a fire escape, and for a moment he’d risked losing sight of Foxy. But he’d gotten used to chasing people over rooftops, now. His stalking skills were far superior to Foxy’s. He recovered the trail.

From his height, he didn’t see the girl flip through a wallet while she walked. Fox face did. A surge of animalistic rage went through him. He thought it was his wallet! He was going to take her out and take ALL the wallets! Including his! The wet black fox nose wiggled again. Yes, yes.

The girl slipped off the sidewalk and into an alley. Fox face followed. Elliott sprang across the gap between buildings, and sneaked down a fire escape to watch them from above. He waited to see what fox man would do.

Fox man directly threatened the girl, and loudly. He came up on her from behind in the darkened alley, shouted something, waved a knife long enough to be deemed a knife by some Australian, then told her to give him all of her money.

Elliott sighed. That was pretty much the shortest lived period of opportunity he’d ever given to a shifty subject. He’d given the guy his chance to not be a violent ass. Now, came the pain.

He was about twenty feet up when he jumped off the fire escape. He landed directly behind fox face, got a running start, reached him, hauled back a leg, and kicked him. He kicked him squarely in the ass. He kicked him hard, the man flew far. He landed in an open dumpster with a heavy thud. The thud was followed by a metallic clang, as the dumpster lid smashed down over him, closing the trash container. Elliott didn’t say a single word of banter until after it was all done.

“Ass.” He said. He turned towards the person the man had been threatening. “He was an ass, right? I didn’t just kick a man ten feet into a dumpster because it was fun for me, right? Are you okay?”

He was still wearing the scary helmet with the sharp teeth and the red alien eyes amid the field of ‘too much black.’ The helmet smiled a Cheshire smile. He was not using the scary deep Cheshire voice. His black backpack still dangled from one shoulder.