"Pheeeeew~weeeee! Haha! Put them piles-o-green right ther' inna my bag right here see? Now git! Haven't got all day fer one-o-thems he-rows done show up." A voice most irritatingly wrapped in a thick drawl spouted out with the utmost nonchalance. Its progenitor? None other than;

Spinning a shiny, gleaming revolver-pistol of only the finest make, that perhaps the more observant could pick out several etchings like tallies upon the barrel, this beige clad purloiner janked about, all side-to-side with that canvas sack of his. Shooting a half-hearted grimace here and there to the pinstriped banker man behind those iron bars, the bank surely ain't his life so following them orders is right by him.

"Jus' like I done said. . ." He begins, stepping away from the counter for just a moment to take in his fine, fine work. Dusting off the frightened glares from the usual rabble of suited men and women just trying to make their Batag withdrawals by waving his piece at them, Ole Billy plots out his next moves in the head of course, no self-respecting criminal blurts out their ideas in the middle of witnesses after all.

'Heh, this was easy-peasy, swear I could peel roadkill off the hood-o-my trunk under the sun right tougher then this job. Whoo-wee, all's I gotta do is gather up here sack and walk right on out those doors like nobody's business.' But that's of course, when the guy's wild pupils rolled about to set their greedy gaze upon, it. He nearly dropped his slacks at that, a solid door of steel, like a block of metal straight from the heroes above. Adorned in its might combination wheel.

Bill done stared at that smokin' hot image for far too long, until eventually he snapped outta that stupor with the most enthused expression plastered across those strong features-o-his. He slunk audibly back to the counter, and his sack filling further still. Much to the surprise of all those present, the swamp-man's outstretched arm flung the canvas away, spilling its green contents all about the place. "Teeeeell meeee, banker. . ."

With one quick shove, the sheened metal barrel of his dear sweet revolver sat right between the mustachioed teller's errant eyeballs, ". . . What's that ther' combination? If you ain't gonna share with Billy, maybe you'll share with Marissa right here?" He cooed out all sly like, edging on an expedient response.

"Now, n-now good sir. Let's not be too h-hast-" The aged teller let out a pained groan as his words were cut off by a sharp jab to the neck. "I'm gentle folk I tell you mister banker, but Marissa? Well somedays she gets downright ornery, an' I think you might just make her blow if the next words outta yer mouth ain't some consecutive numbers."

"I-I'm sorry sir, I don't kno-"

~~BANG~~

"I swear, none of you city slickers ever listen to a god-dang word I say." Billy cooed, whilst blowing off the thin smoke drifting from the end of his partner in crime. "Heh, shoot, looks like I'll have to blow it." He casually adds, sauntering on over to the great safe, despite the sudden eruption of panic prevailing on the floor.

Bodies rush where they can, trampling over the still-warm cadaver, its fingers feebly in three prongs of a simple black rotary phone, marked 'H.A.' a final testament.

~~RING~~ ~~RING~~ ~~RING~~

The almost irritating sounds, perhaps if those who's ears it graced weren't anticipating it, flooded the shuttered, office-like environment. A small black contraption of a device, essentially a phone in appearance, yet with a white tab that seemed to pop out of a slot, read, 'ROBBERY -- FIRST CIVIC BANK OF CITY-U'.

"That-a-looks like our cue, Mister Huff." Words wrapped in a thick accent sprung up, just as well did the sizable man who spoke them, nigh immediately donning various garbs, twinging crimson suspenders, adjusting a lengthy trenchcoat of deep beige, pulling a luminant mask of green over his large skull, ending off to allow a glorious mustache to flow outward, and finally topping himself off by a bowler hat of dark color, he spoke once more, with passion, "I hadn't expected a call so very soon, but let's-a make this SHOWTIME!"

The world is a hazy mess of sound and panic, something is happening and to Arduous that is never a good thing.

He mindlessly blinks as the screeching seeps in, furrowing it's way into his freshly awoken mind. “Show time? No, no, nap time.” he says before he can even start thinking, the fog of sleep still shrouding his mind. He sits motionless for a second. “Yes, yes ok. I'm awake.” he sneers, snatching the thin printed tape from his muscular companion. “A robbery?….THAT BASTARD. Who the hell does he think he is waking me up like this” Arduous grumbles clasping the all too sharp edges of his office chair, his forearms pressing into the chair, elbows splayed in the air above due to the chairs semi-circular shape.

Arduous exhales a quick “Hmph” as his eyes burn with the promise of vengeance. He slams his palms into the hapless chair vaulting into the air, forcing the chair to retreat. He suddenly straightens in the air landing like a practised gymnast in the very spot the chair has once just been. He glares at the black phone machine, “Right, we're off” the words escaping his mouth in a spit of patronising tones. With new found energy Arduous marches towards the door, eyes set forward, radiating more drive and determination with each step. “Ah….I forgot” he mutters under his breath before, like hitting an invisible wall he stops dead. His head drops forward, shoulder slouched, the gusto and determination leaving him like air leaving a balloon. He spins, his eye's a glaze. Memories of the last week, the letters, the notices fill his head. All unheeded. All ignored. With the weight of memory pressing down on him Arduous trudges back to his desk pulling his seat by it's semi-circular cushion behind him.

He slops one elbow onto his square mahogany desk, his hand cupping his now dropping forehead. His other hand cranes around and grasps the knob of the top draw, with an effortless flick of the wrist the draw flings open, exposing a mess of trinkets and oddities. laying atop the pile is a dusty, fraying pamphlet, detailing trams times in and around City U. Arduous takes a second to read and absorb the schedule, he listlessly hoists the chair onto it's back legs, rocking softly in rhythm with the mid-day breeze.

!!SLAM!!

His chair careens backwards causing the suddenly alarmed man to yelp in surprise. He blinks the blur of impact wearing off quickly, and feels a rush of emotion and energy
His mind races “bank robbery, awake, car, Angelo, robbery, car, now?…” He swivels with a start, springing up into a standing position. “Right, I said we're off” he huffs strutting down the corridor Tram pamphlet gripped tightly in hand.



Arduous yawns as he stares blankly at the morning news, “Mysterious activity on the rise in Deuxieme Quadrant” the article title reads, he turns looking at the gargantuan man, now wearing a luchador mask, posing in the reflection of a dime gum ball machine. “Are these things ever on time” ...

The mustachioed man of momentous might simply brought a thick arm down in their bleak, rented office. The branch-like limb made a slight whizz as it sped to a tremendous halt, it's meaty hand adorned by a similarly mighty, thumbs-up. "That is 'de spirit Mister Huff!" He joined the gesture along with his enthusiastic booming, directed of course at his incredibly odd acquaintance and partner.

A more serious tone enveloped the pair's face as they burst out of their cramped office, sprinting to their very first sanctioned hero-ing!

-------------------------------------------------





Panning up to the two weirdos in their fanciful get-ups, a giant of an Italian lucha, flexing to strain the garments he'd been clad in, and his partner at arms, a thick-set man wearing his absurdly angular face, topped off by that. . . Interesting, higgledy-piggledy strawberry blond tufts of hair. Needless to say, the elderly woman astride the awful-green bench of the tram shelter shifted away quite readily.

Finishing up his session of prideful masculinity, the massive man turned about on the heel of his boot 'neath the slanted roof of their little station, to face the otherwise desolate street. Tapping his foot and humming a tune, 'Angelo gazed casually toward the other man at his words, responding in something of a rhetorical tone, "'De association has been doing its good work for all of fifty years now, yet there seems-a-to be no stemming 'de tide."

With a tremendous sigh, 'Angelo rummages deep into a pocket, twirling out a brass watch connected by chain. Clicking open in mid-air as if the mustachioed man had perfected this maneuver already, he glanced at its ticking hands and rightly stuffed it back in the recesses of his coat. And right on the cue of the hour, the great encroaching sound of a ramshackle old rattle-trap, janking down the line.

A flash of that very same foresty-green sputtered to a noisy halt, exactly across from the bitty shelter. From which that ancient grocery-carrying woman skittered right on off into its pneumatic doors. The serious expression then returned to the lucha's masked countenance, "Shall we be heroes then, mister Huff?"

-------------------------------------------------

They valiantly strode with purpose, dignity, and fervor across the cemented grounds to their destination. Ascending into screaming metal machine, their souls assaulted by a feeling most ominous, blasting forth from a disgruntled creature, hobbled in their jury-rigged leather. Its ragged visage shrouded in wild locks of stark white melding into a great beard.

"What are you two looking at?" The grizzled elder's neck creaked as his foreign and flat toned voice washed over the pair in a wave of force, who remained stunned for a moment. "Chop chop, get on tram, we have strict schedule."

The would-be-heroes of course complied, after gathering their wills once more stepped into the thin metal-sheathed car. "Two Cúpon." He stated quite bluntly, rhythmically tapping the fare-basin whilst simultaneous glaring at his guests and shifting levers and switches all the while. And without a word, in their enthralled state, the pair deposited their bits of change and realized something dire. . .

That woman, she took the last open seat! Michelangelo and Arduous would have to stand!

You always heard it first, the tram. The screeching of metal brakes smouldering against aged track. Like the scream of a berserker flying into battle.

The all too familiar noise pierced the air, the noise causing what little hair Arduous did have to bristle and stand on end. He blinked dully, still lifeless since the mornings excitement. He stands and starts to limber up, preparing for the tram ride ahead. He glances down at his partners pocket watch, “only ten minutes late, that's not too bad from around here actually.”

The banshees call from the tram becomes ever louder, its forest green body, pocked with flecks of rust and debris, creating the look of some great gangrenous mass.

A whoosh of air precedes the arrival of the green beast, which follows and instantly stops perfectly within the raised platforms as if it had suddenly buckled and died.

A great hiss erupts from the beasts maw, it's doors swinging mechanically outwards, awaiting prey.
Arduous looks up from his paper at the monstrosity before him, and with a sigh heaves himself up onto his feet, 'oh what fun' he thinks missing his car more with each passing second. A crackly speaker squeaks into existence and plays a pre-recorded “Please Mind The Gap.” He approaches the hissing doors, bracing himself to see the inside of this thing.

Ignoring the inane chattering of the accented and unkempt man driving. His eyes found themselves looking upon the interior of he tram, 'what the-' his eyes widening in shock. 'How does it look this...this….GOOD!' Contrary to its aged and rusty exterior, the carriage's insides are furnished like a first class antique train. polished wooden panelling adorns the walls, plush red velvet seating, tufted with small buttons, embowered on which is the cities emblem. The three petalled fleur-de-lis. The waist high tables are accented with bronze and copper curves, and the windows are hazed as to ensure both light and privacy.

Leaving 'Angelo to pay the driver Arduous quickly set about looking for a seat, but much to his chagrin it seems that, as always in the overcrowded outer regions of City U, there is barely space to stand.

Shuffling over to a standing spot, Arduous finds a bronze pole gleaming in burnt umber. That seemed to have been installed after the major design work as the holes for the pole each side are a stark plastic contrast to the other metal and wood furnishings, he did note however that this tram too had the standard chrome metal flooring, with it's hash work of metal divots.

As soon as he touches the smooth metal bar, the flat yet oddly intimidating voice of the driver calls out “You will be careful with Vanessa, or no ride again.”. Arduous pondered who this 'Vanessa' was, he didn't know anyone named Vanessa, and even if he did, why would he want to know someone who knows that old coot. Putting it into the back of his mind he grabs a hold of the smooth umber bar, a slight yet familiar shock running down his arm and into his legs, 'ah so this is a normal tram after all' he thinks anxiously feeling his feet sticking magnetically in place.

The doors gives another louder hiss as they shake to a close, sealing with a small

# click #

The engines roared into life, the parking brake barely holding, “Number 177: Septieme Quadrant, Bloque 48 To Premier Quadrant, Mercier Gardens.” grumbled the driver, hands a flurry of action.

~ WHOOSH ~

The jolt of action was still a shock even after all these years. Even though it has been five years since Arduous was forced to be on tram, and as his shoulder burned from the sudden tug of acceleration he remembered why. “You never really get used to that” he says bluntly to his shocked, but also thrilled, looking companion.

Arduous looked around at the bustling tram, he caught a glimpse of a neighbouring block fliting by he window, at this speed it is hard to make out much of anything, and the hazed windows didn’t help. He found that he is drawn to a broad shouldered gentleman, sleeping back on the panelled walls. Legs outstretched, taking up at least two extra seats. His small bowler hat tipped forward obscuring his eyes but not covering the mishmash that was the man's lips, like fresh cut meat tied in twine, they criss-cross with scars, a newer still red scar protruded from the corner of his mouth, as if his cheek has been split from his mouth inward and somehow glued shut.

A childish grin erupts on Arduous's face, seeing his handiwork out in the open like this is a rare treat. “oh, look isn't that one of those lads we bopped on entrance day?” he says, words dripping with fond memories...

It was raining when he arrived, the mob of hopeful wannabe hero's still standing outside the dark gunmetal grey building that was the hero association HQ, 'oh why did I ever sign up for this, much less bother to show up, this can't go well' Arduous thought to himself, he looked around wondering at what the crowd were all looking at, and why they hadn't gone inside yet…

-------------------------------------------------

-------------------------------------------------

After the satisfying tone of coinage clattering against metal rung soundly in the chewed-up ear belonging to a crusty man at the helm, the tram had already bolted off. Erupting into a cacophony of screeching, creaking, clunking, clanging, clinking, clanking, and of course, rattling as it flew expediently across the rails.

This, of course, sent even the mightiest and unsuspecting, (Michelangelo), barreling toward the back of the car. Maneuvering past completely stationary commuters. Heralded by a flurry of apologies as he stumbled backward, his tumbling pace picking up at every failed footfall, the man eventually managed to turn about just in time for his dull brown irises to pick up his similarly unsuspecting companion.

"Mister Huuuuff!" He bellowed reflexively, though this didn't seem to register on the misshapen man's mind much more than a, 'Huh?' as 'Angelo slammed into the other with great force. Entirely unbudging aside from a bit of a wince, stood Arduous, whilst the large lucha-masked-man slid dejectedly to the chrome.

Muffled by the floor from which he spoke, "I am glad you were there to stop me Miser Huff, I might have gone right through the back of the tram! Hahaha!" The C-Class hero couldn't help but erupt into a bit of laughter as he solidly rose to his boots. Placing a heavy hand upon his partner's shoulder to steady himself as he did.

Brushing the dust from his fine coat, the heavily muscled man simply followed along his partner's gaze, bringing him to the resting figure, taking note of the embroidered clover pattern upon his garb. Causing a smile to pick up in the between the mask's prongs, "Oho! So it is, so it is." He called, patting Arduous on the back all the while, "But ehh, let's-a-not try making too much trouble, we're all comrades now you know? Besides, if you recall he and his brother make quite the team."

"Come to think it, that's-a-where you and I first met, no. . .?"

-------------------------------------------------

-------------------------------------------------

Despite the rain, the crowds, and the impatience, everybody seems to be having a good time, like a festival.

------

Taking stride across each well-ordered stone brick inlaid on the streets, a well-sized foreign man scratches his groomed crop of hair. Peering at a map, held in the wrong orientation of course, as it became sodden in the downpour. "And here I just quit my job, I can't-a-be late!" He speaks to no one in particular as he continues to move.

------

A gathering unlike any other, hordes of men, women, children, even the feeble. Every last person with some form of vendetta, or sense of justice, or perhaps even a whim, and all of them were here for one purpose. To breeze through the exams and be known to the world as HEROES!

Of course, this is easier said than done. Especially to the grand procession that hardly take the task at hand seriously enough. Taking advantage of the modulating crowds, vendors here and there set up shop, pilfering all sorts of 'good eats' to the populace. Perhaps even forgetting their reasons to have arrived in the first place.

------

"T-This is unprecedented! The turn-out is-is DOUBLE last year's. Lord Holy Tsar, what do you make of this?!" A disordered voice feebly drew out from shadows, reaching a built and suited man who sat, shrouded hands folded about each other at the mouth. Two eyes solemnly glared back at the disturbance through two crossed eye-patches.

"What do I make of this?" He begins, a tone that demands ears, "What do I make of this you ask? Simple, that the world is waking up to increasing threats, that all the grand people of our humble nations are taking up the mantle of JUSTICE! Every last one shall seek to strike down evil where it dare stands before our shining cities. And in our name we shall be glorious gods to the citizens!"

------

"Told ya already lad, ya can't gettin' lest ya pass us! Int' that right Conall?" A scraggly orange mutton-chopped man stood all confident like, hands dwelling deep inside grey pocketed pants. Elbowing a much broader man, similarly dressed, up to the bowler hat, scars peeking out of what flesh lay exposed. "Aye." he said bluntly in response, crossing both mighty arms as a child scurried away.

Either stood at the gates of the association building, a great double door, from where the crowds gave them ample room under the glassy-grey sky. No one seeming to act, as piles of groaning would-be-applicants lie splayed out. A large man of dark skin, clad in red watched carefully from the edge of the crowd, nearly taking a step forward, before another stumbled into the fray. . .

' Oh no, im going to be late!' thinks Arduous, evening rain streaming down his now red blotchy face.

Arduous huffs at the sight before his bagged down-turned eyes. The crowd looms. Reminding him of a school of piranhas, he sees it hungrily devouring unsuspecting salary men and passers by into its ranks.

“Looks like the place” he says aloud gazing up at the huge “HERO ASSOCIATION” sign bolted to the front wall of the skyscraper. 'Must be a new one, too tall to be that old.' he ponders to himself, scratching at the cloud of hair that floats atop his head. He plunges head first into the crowd. An elbow. A fist. The cry of a small child. The sensations barrage him as he pushes his way deeper and deeper, “What are these people even gawking at?” he exclaims, hands paddling through the sea of people. Deeper and deeper he wades, then finally. 'An opening!' Arduous peers forward catching a glimpse of action.



“Well, we're waiting, come on then! Buncha heroes you are, ya lilly-livers!” shouts a squat man, wild red hair stuffed violently under a solid black bowler. His teeth yellowed and sharpened to fine points. His eyes are a brilliant, almost glowing blue his face is similarly coloured in a mess of knot work tattoos.

He points toward the crowd, rolled up sleeves displaying thick ape like arms.

“WE AINT MOVIN' 'TILL ONE O' YOUS FIGHTS US!”



Arduous feels a wave of excitement and fear run though the crowd. The crowds shuffling quickens, and Arduous is pushed closer to the front, the dense collection of suited salary men starts to give way to a second group. “Is the circus in town?” Arduous thinks to himself looking around at the oddly dressed men and women. He rushes forward, eager to see more of the oddly accented men that seem to be guarding the buildings entrance. “Oh no” he stutters, a moment of clarity seizing his mind. “Bugger off. No. They can't be the try-outs” his suspicions becoming more and more cemented. The number of oddly dressed crowd members grows, and Arduous starts to regret ever coming here in the first place. 'But…but they look so STUPID!' he thinks absently not realising that he is now ensnared to the will of the crowd, its tide back and forth dragging him here and there.



A challenger steps forward!

Frizzy hair pushed back by an oversized cowboy hat “I the great, Record Breaking Ranger, will defeat yo' tirade of villainy!” he spits at the stalwart guards, chest puffed outwards defiantly.

With a deft twist of his wrist his poncho flicks to one side, revealing a gleaming chrome arm, that disjointedly meshes into his copper coloured skin just above the elbow. He slightly bucks his hips to the left, chrome fingers twitching beside holstered vinyl disks. “You feeling lucky punk?”



The once nervous crowd bursts into cheer, its sound deafens Arduous as he is dragged back into the depths. The fancifully dressed patrons rushing forwards for a front row seat. A scream. A crash. A snap. The crowds noises are disorienting, but after a few minutes Arduous is pushed back to the front, head sandwiched between a burly man in a luchador mask and some sort of fish-person, “What! How did this happen so fast!” he exclaims in terror. The Record Breaking Rangers legs still stand at the point of the shoot out, spurting oil and blood, his top half nonchalantly held by the older, silent brother in a meaty paw. The crowd panics, people pushing and running in all directions, a push from behind sends Arduous forward, bringing the luchador and fish-woman with him. He yelps a sudden “OH NO, WHY!”

The younger now blood soaked brother turns and says with a smirk, “Aaaah, I see's we got ourselves a new buncha eegits!”...

"That'll be three Cupon my good-good sir!" A most disingenuous toned voice called to a well-muscled, and not to mention, soaked customer. There, from underneath a hastily cobbled together, deal hunter of a kiosk, a squat little man testily waited for the money to enter into his grubby grasp.

From which moments afterward, the salesman spun and weaved a nice delicious stick of pastel cotton candy. Happily, the lucha-masked man abruptly turned about, moving from under the awning, subsequently dissolving his snack before he could even have the first bite.

About face again, gazing through two framed eye-holes, deep into the shit-eating grin of the vendor. Whom displayed a hat on the little cart, obfuscated by its umbrella attachment, only five Cupon.



A now water-retardant muscleman maneuvers through the yapping crowds, nibbling on his delightful treat as rain pings off the multicolored umbrella resting above his head, with the vague sensation that he'd been cheated out of his lucre.

Nevertheless, this bulky individual moves onward, with conviction, with determination, with GUSTO! That is, before being compacted in-between hoards of wacky costumed wannabes. Smack dab somewhere around the middle of the undulating congregation, the masked man found himself mushed tight against a stinky sea-woman's rock-hard frame and another interesting, thing, identified by a name-tag as Har Daithi Place.

The half-woman-half-fish creature's head tilted, turning toward the large man now pressed against her. With countenance as if a catfish, she twirled a whisker in curiosity. However, before she could open those thick lips, there was an upheaval in the writhing mob, something must have occurred far in the front as commotion spilled out.

--- Panic! Alarm! Madness! Lunacy! Mass Hysteria! ---

Masked ne'er do well and spandex-suited would-be-heroes pushed past, hurdling over, and smashed up against one another! Brawls broke out all over the gathered crowds, children were left parent-less! A bovine individual mooed in the center of a fountain! Nothing made sense!

In the absurdity of confusion, our dear pair of fish-person and trenched-lucha were flung right on to the head, thrust onto their hands and knees before two ominous men, who in turn stood before the great and slightly more ominous association doors. The luchadore's snack, vanishing painfully into the rain.

“Aaaah, I see's we got ourselves a new buncha eegits. . .!”

The voice rang out from the smaller of the jumper-clad demons. A crack of the knuckles sent a visceral snap through the spines of the two vertebrates, who in a matter of seconds took note of the gi-wearing, headband-bearing, whisker-flaring, catfish-woman whose pose took that of the latest moving-karate-pictures.

She stood, stalwart against the ruffians who in turn also stood stalwart, and she began with a particularly wet voice, without anyone asking mind you.

"I am the one known as La Passionné Poisson, once I was a normal-everyday-girl striving to be the sushi-eating champion of our entire world. Striving so very hard for so very long, I eventually realized that in order to be the best, I would have to BECOME the fish! I changed, morphing into the mighty and majestic woman you see before you! Of course, my trifles in a fish-eating competition were over, for I would be considered a cannibal and. . ."



The heavily-muscled luchadore couldn't help but gaze over to the exceedingly oddly shaped man as he rose from the cemented ground, who in turn also gazed at he. They shared a similar and bond creating stare of. . . Utter confusion. Perhaps also a tinge of embarrassment. And quite honestly, so too had the pair of blazon-haired men who stood all cross-armed.



". . .That is why, I, La Passionné Poisson, stand before you whiper-snappers today. For I shall use this newfound power to become a legendary he--"

Clearly the spiel was droning on for just a fair bit too long, and the younger brother's temper simply wasn't all that great. Besides, could you blame him? He'd probably heard this whole origin story thing at least ten times today, and there were two more waiting in line for a pummeling.

Thusly, the toned leg of the wildly-maned villain drove with instant speed, connecting with full-force straight into the. . . Uh, the jaw of the fish-woman. Knocking the wind outta her gills just as well as sending her flying, smashing through the cotton-candy kiosk. Much to a certain vendor's chagrin.

"Next. . ."

One of the brother's stated plainly, impatience running through their word. As either pair of men stood, facing off. Shadowy veils deepening the most serious expression while the tension tore through the disorder crowds. Sending their rabbling to a halt. All eyes, even teal-shadowed sets were on this confrontation. . .

Arduous tumbled, concrete slamming against his jutting chin. The pain felt like salvation.



Arduous' chin springs up from the impact giving off an audible % BOING % that rockets his head into the air. After some erratic limb flailing he finally stiffens into a feet first pencil dive bracing for impact.

The solid pavement leaves his legs wobbling, but with a great lack of grace he manages to come to a stand. His pointy cheeks swing about, as with a snap of the neck he searches the crowd for his phantom attacker. Realising he would never be able to pick out the anonymous assailant in the sea of people he barks at the whole crowd “OH COME ON, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

He looks back at the imposing figures in front of him, a bead of sweat trailing down his potato like forehead. His bagged eyes affix onto the carnage that has become of the arena. Metal tubes, blood and vinyl records litter the floor around him.

The taller of the men turns slightly. Filling Arduous with a deep dread. The gargantuan man's impossibly black bowler hat casting a pitch shadow across his eyes. With a twist of the neck his eyes catch the light, causing an unnatural red flash to be cast from the abyss of the hats brim. The hulking bowler hatted man suddenly spurts forward. Gushing towards Arduous with all the intensity of a boiling geyser. His thick club hand wraps into a fist and strikes Arduous in the stomach with a damp =THUD=.

Arduous keels from the blow, spittle spraying from his clenched teeth. “Ow, ow ow owowow” he wheezes. He flops onto his knees, lower ribs burning.

Arduous exhales sharply to steady his breath, he is silent for a second. Allowing those around him to hear a slight squishing sound. Dark brown eyes look up at the muscle bound attacker. “That really hurt, thanks.” Arduous says a smile creeping onto his face. Like a praying mantis catching prey Arduous' own fist hurls at the shoulder of the beastly man, quicker than he could possibly react.

The impact area is like a meteor crater the titans left arm and shoulder is blown off, in a mess of purple blood and sand beige skin. As his lower arm drops to the ground it liquefies into a gloop of flesh, and then moving on it's own volition, it begins writhing its way back up and sewing itself back into place, the crater starts knitting itself back together.

La Passionné Poisson screams in horror, “B-b-but how did you know he could regrow limbs?!” she stutters to Arduous.

“Oh, I didn't” Arduous replies nonchalantly.

"Step away from 'de doors, they, are my destination."

A cold, accented tone breaks from beneath a groomed mustache, sodden as darkened clouds swirl overhead. A pronged mask of the mightiest luchas envelopes their wearer's deep eyes in darkness. Every stamp of the boot upon the soused cobbled road closed the distance between he and the bowler-hatted young man, whose lanky arms jangled, buried within the pockets of his slacks.

The shorter of the two men simply stared with an expression devoid of any tremblings, as he chewed audibly upon the long finished stick of a pop. Those blue eyes of his nearly dull to a grey as rain patters forth, a contemplative gesture before they burst once more into their brilliant and shining bravado.

"Ya wannabe heroes're all tha same! Confident eegits, confident in their own eegiocy! Hah. . .!"

He breaks out into laughter, using that irritatingly arrogant tone of voice all the while. Seemingly unfazed after gleaning his own sibling's trunk of an arm being utterly blown off in a single fell strike.

"Just ya try sumthin' bigun, see where it gets ye! Ehehehe."

The jumper-clad man adds in a particular fit of infuriating, suddenly after becoming privy to the massive hand affixed atop his stout bowler. From which he beams a sharp glance upward at the giant of a luchadore, tensity pulsating at the share of eyes paired in anger, and those in a certain somberness.

"Please, I have-a-business within 'de walls, do not wish to ask aga-- W-What. . .?!"

It was in that very moment, in which those somber brown eyes adjusted, swinging around wildly. As Michelangelo found himself, his great hand in possession only of a small and round black hat. Without even a blink, the wearer had vanished. And it was within that very same moment, the well-muscled man had felt a blunt force jamming straight into his spine, forcing a struggled gasp to escape, and forward stagger, to which he swung around in surprise.

Surprise, for the was nothing abaft, where he had turned. And yet, in that sliver of time another grating pain erupted upon the inside of his right knee, shocking him to a stumbled kneel. Again did 'Angelo search for his ghosted opponent, perhaps even errant questioning his own sanity in the very same moment. The only memento to tell of the irate man's previous existence had been the hat loose in his grasp. But that too vanished in the subsequent second.

In the next, flesh connected to more flesh, as a solid impact burst forth from nothingness against the luchadore's thick jaw, spurting crimson from parted lips. Recoiling, 'Angelo attempted to draw himself from wet grounds, only to at last see the man again. Now twirling that bowler hat upon a finger, as his fiery-hair fell loose, soaking in the downpour.

"Ferghus McNail, nonaya gonna be heroes tah-day."

The evening rain brakes, washing the sky in a pink haze. Connell grunts from the blow, eyes set on Arduous, back turned.

Arduous frantically searches the newly formed phalanx of spectators, a cheering blockage between him and escape. "Come on, come on. Just let me in already" He whines. some members of the crowd looks sympathetic and shuffle to the side, but like a well oiled machine their spot is instantly taken by another member of the crowd.

Connell thumps forward with an apish gate, thick legs pumping his body forward, while his burly hands hang limply to his sides. He tenses his arms, and his huge hands start to contract, shrinking into miniature versions of their previous selves. He rushes towards arduous, bringing together his arms at the wrist. Just before bowling Arduous over he stops dead, swinging his arms back, his tiny hands palm up, aiming directly into to the small of Arduous' back. The bowler hatted man gives of a siren screech with a scratchy high pitched voice, "ART OF THE STARCH TECHNIQUE: OPEN PALM MASHER!".

The tiny palms impact Arduous back with a loud CRACK, The angularly faced man's hips are forced forward, but he remains on his feet. he cranes his neck around, eyes full of rancour. Small droplets of blood and spittle spew from Arduous mouth, feeling his back and abdominal muscles buckle, 'Oh, this is bad, ow ow ow' he thinks, attempting to look stoic externally. He swings around to return the kinetic energy but Connell dashes backwards. "You think I'll fall for that twice? but seeing as how you took that attack. I think it's time to get serious".

Connell starts to steam, the smell of starch wafting through the air, his whole body compacts and shrinks. His skin becomes more leathery and liver spotted. His muscles smooth out, his one bulky frame becoming lithe. Ridges form about his body, long triangular indents streaking his face and limbs. "ART OF THE STARCH TECHNIQUE: CHIP BODY!" he smirks, calmly walking towards arduous, "Just try it" he sneers as he comes into range of arduous' attack.

Arduous takes the bait, fists clench he goes in for an all out barrage, he goes to to punch but stops, feeling the overwhelming aura radiating from Connell, "Hi-His defence, it's unassailable, there are zero weak spots. How is this possible?" Arduous whines aloud. visibly sweating. 'I-I I need a plan, ah, oh, god damn it.' Arduous looks around frantically, 'I have to get him to let down his guard, to slip up.'

---------------

Seeing an opportunity La Passionné Poisson , leaps into the fray with a loud "BANZAI", bright red headband trailing behind her she glances at her assailant. Once a hulking giant, Now smaller, lither, but much more powerful.

She straightens, resolution glowing in her eyes. "I’ve never seen a defence technique like that, I'll have to use that technique" she gloats to the crowd. She regulates her breathing, the world around her becoming a void. “I am the whirlpool in the placid lake. The tornado on the sunny day. SUSHI-SENSHI TECHNIQUE: BREATH OF THE VORTEX" her mouth gapes open, stomach inflating and deflating like a blacksmiths bellows. Debris and dust starts to whirl around her open mouth, being slowly sucked inwards, the stomach convulsions increase, the four fighters in the ring are all drawn towards the oral current.

Connell panics, "No, I wont let you eat me I'll use my most dense form, ART OF THE STARCH TECHNIQUE: BAKED BODY!" . His lithe body becomes more and more dumpy, his limbs inflating from seemly source less fat, his abdomen becomes nearly completely spherical.

Now's my chance Arduous thinks, and with a flash grabs a rock as it whizzes by his head, toward La Passionné Poisson. He focus all of his kinetic energy into the throw aiming at dislocating his jaw. with a mighty heave Arduous flings the pebble, like a bullet leaving a gun, as it breaks the sound barrier a stunned Connell turns his head just slightly before. CRUNCH. the pebble embeds itself into his soft mushy flesh with such force that his head is flung back.

The Mcnail Brother is defeated.

A flurry of rapid kicks. Booted-heels dug deep in the rain-sodden flesh of their target, again and again. A salvo perhaps to quick for even the S-Rated hero, Golden Eagle, to perceive. The steaming mind of the masked lucha' nearly stagnated, continuously asking a recurrent question, 'how could one be so fast?'

Of course, not all is as it seems.

Crossing his trunk-like limbs in a frail attempt at guard, 'Angelo readies himself as splashes through the forming puddles underfoot herald the blazing McNail sibling. For but a moment, the block is good, brought up to intercept the charge at the most optimal of angles, and yet without even the blink of an eye, a stinging pain erupts from the giant's left side. Had he not even noticed in but an instant? The wild man vanished and now stood with a grin most shit-eating upon the mustachioed man's flank.


'What on Earth?'

One of many queries Michelangelo held of the situation. As yet more attacks ricochet off his mighty physique

'This-a--man. . . He is-a-fast, very-very fast indeedy. . . No, this is not correct. If it were simply speed then surely I could match it.' The gears within are dusty, they shake the cobwebs away and laboriously turn. 'Aha! Teleportation then! It must be, there is nothing more to do then to lead this-a-man's movements!' And with that, the time-worn eyes of the luchadore gleam with victorious intent.



A horrendous explosion of thunder emerges from the ever darkening skies overhead. Calling for yet more legions of water drops to burst of their clouds, thickening the already thick rain. Alongside, the weather swirls into a light mist, or fog, that encroaches, enveloping all as the steady march of liquid cascades across bricks.

It was in this time that 'Angelo believed to find his mark, gathering might within his right arm, ready to swing clumsily at the exact place in which Ferghus would certainly move to. His pattern was prevalent, a kick to the jaw, a right hook to the abdomen, a round-house to the left illium, and finally heaved boot to the lower spine. It was during the bowler-wearing man's second movement, in which our hero would strike.

And so he did, the piston-like fist swiftly actuating toward that exact spot connecting with nought but the falling rain. Before even registering that his blow was not only perceived but even entirely avoided, a fracturing kick brought all of the spent man's attention again toward his left flank. The pattern only continued. . .

'It is impossible! Surely I was-a-absolutely certain 'de man would appear to swi-'

The thought was cut off by yet another pounding upon the back. Staggering the mighty man forward, yet not to the grounds. Still yet he stood, enduring under every heave and blow from the fire-headed ruffian. With conviction to see it to the end, whatever end. So again, 'Angelo's eyes focused, upon every move, yet not the attack's follow through.

It was perhaps in one of these most arduous moments in which a vague something could be realized. A minor flash of understanding, the only clue. At every analyzed movement, the very same could be witnessed, a man-shaped hole through both fog and rain for but only a second in the instant of Ferghus' apparent vanishment.

Clue enough to try something rash. The blooded and broken luchadore fished deep in a trench of a pocket, producing a flawless white handkerchief, at the moment of jaw being blasted by yet another impermeable kick. With dignity, 'Angelo so stood tall, wiping the crimson gushing from his lips, before haphazardly discarding the large cloth to his left. In the same instant, his powerful right flew in, to the second move of Ferghus' bias. . .



"Don'tcha learn big man, your attacks jus' won't work on me! Eheehehee!"

The elder brother laughed with ever such confidence, as all of his willpower focused on one instance. One single second of the turning clock, Ferghus himself robs the universe of yet another moment, crystallizing that fragment of time in which all things wind to a solitary halt.

Every droplet remained stationary, perceived almost as if a streaking or dash of dull colour, through which Ferghus moved with all haste, swerving around the frozen fist, moving on to his next position of attack. The man readied his right leg, swinging it around toward his target's flank one more time. Picture the shock from which his confidence melted away, as the remaining cannon limb, gently-obfuscated by a stained cloth fluttering by, drew in to his perception, at the instant of the next tick of the clock.



A momentous fist, rocketed into Ferghus' slack-jaw, crumbling his attempt at attack, carrying the man off his own wobbly stance. Following through, cracking bone and cartilage, sending a shockwave through the fog at the impact, temporarily disrupting the local fall of water. Sending a limp body sailing across wet grounds with audible thumps, tailing abaft his own blood.

The McNail Brother is defeated.



In Ferghus' next perceived moment, he was staring down that ox of a man, held tight in a grasp from even which he could not escape. The fire-headed man spat teeth from his bloodied maw.

"Ya gonna end it. . . Or what?"

He enfeebled to say, though his words were callous, without a hint of remorse or regret.

Michelangelo pondered for a moment, but he did not need to, through calm, accented words he responded, "Of course not, it is-a-already over. A prospective hero would never cause harm unwanting."

"HERO?!" Ferghus spat again, this time into the masked face the victor. "Ye say you'd never cause unnecessary harm?! RICH! Where were you high and mighty do'gooder types when one of your ilk were beating the ever-loving piss outta our middle brother!?"

Water rushed down the face of the broken man in 'Angelo's hold, draining away the red with his conviction.

"WHY'S LITTLE IAN DEAD IN A DAMNED DITCH, 'N THE ONE RESPONSIBLE GETTIN' FUCKIN' PRAISE FER IT!" He screamed his heart out, what was left of his energy drained away in those final words, drifting him off from consciousness.

'Angelo was left in the rainfall, as thunderous sounds returned to his perception. solemnly he spoke, "Like wolf in 'de sheep's clothing, there are-a-those who would masquerade as heroes in 'de association, perhaps they are-a-worse still than even 'de villains. . . Accept my most sincerest apology Mister McNail."

With that, the trench-coated luchadore slung the man over a shoulder, and gazed down the way, beckoning that arrow-faced oddball and the merwoman as well, whilst his staggered movements drove toward the great association threshold.

-------------------------------------------------

-------------------------------------------------

Arduous pushes the memory of his hero exam into the back of his mind, today was a new day and today all we wanted to do was go back to sleep.

His arm like a heavy chain swings from where it is magnetically affixed to the railing. "I can't believe they woke me up for this." Arduous complains, eye lids winking one after the other.
He watches as the scenery rockets by the window. Roof tops and concrete, the occasional patch of trees whose leaves had just stared to turn, from summers rich green to autumns deep amber. This truly is the heart of the city.
A line of thick green metal bars slithers into his view the speed causing them to look like floating snakes. To the untrained eye innocent enough, but to a tram going veteran it was a sure sign of a tunnel.
The outside rush of air becomes more audible and then with a plop the tram is plunged into darkness. Dim headlights slowly fade on overhead, barely illuminating the many passengers, some of whom are still clearly shaken by the sudden lighting change.

The brakes screech. Causing the standing passengers to bolt forward, however the seated passengers carry on, unaffected. The trams telecom crackles to life and through it speaks the flat toned driver. "First stop, Troiseme Quardrant. Palmiers Plaza." as the tram parks with a loud hiss.
A cluster of people from the far side of the tram funnel out onto the dimly lit platform the morning sun illuminating from the stairwells to the surface."We should stop here one day, try'n make it big on the slots" Arduous says jabbing his muscular companion with an elbow. A few commuters shamble onto the tram, "You can always tell the lucky ones from the unlucky, It's in the eyes" observes Arduous, gesturing to the passenger paying upfront.
"Nice thick wallet on him, must've had a good night" agrees a conversation in the booth to Arduous' left.

He stands in the dark for a time, the novelty of the tram wears of quickly, “at least they're quic-” His thought is cut off by movement out the window, eyes reflexively scanning around for another sign. He stares intent at the pitch black portal, it's smooth shiny surface reflecting a faded image of the passengers in the tram. 'what was that?' he wonders to himself, eyes straining to make out anything, and then he sees it out of the corner of his eye.

A grey mist licks the window. It starts to swirl, in a mesmerizing complex pattern, the outer reaches of the mist spiral around one another, creating almost a frame for the vortex of mist within. Arduous is hypnotised, stunned at what he is seeing. He hears 'Angelo's voice, but it is distant, obscured. He feels like he's falling, falling into a black void edged with grey.

The mist flickers, giveing way to an image, A blind lion, aged and regal. The Lion struts through it's territory, knowing that wherever he reaches, he is king. Two pockets of mist appear around the lion, One floats towards the shadows and forms into the shape of a ravenous hyena. The other pocket stretches, and twists itself into a great cobra, fangs dripping with malice. The lion, in all it's pride ignores the new creatures,"what are they to the king" it thinks. The creatures circle, encased in shadow, they move closer and closer to the lion, and to each other.The lion lays down, a single moment of weakness. "Now is the time" both new creatures think. In a flash the lion is dead, it lies bleeding as the Hyena and the Snake realise, that the battle for the throne had just begun.

"Final Stop. Premier Quadrant, Mercier Gardens.” Crackled the driver over the trams telecom.
Arduous blinks, realising his companion has been trying to talk to him for some time, "I-uh, I guess we're here then." He says, feeling as if he had just slammed into a wall of lucidity.

It was a wonder, each and every time the beefy 'hero' stood, affixed to the rattletrap among countless other souls experiencing their own lives. Those sunken eyes would gaze out beyond the frosted glass, drinking in brief images of man and make alike before they dissolved into blurs of color and light. A veritable wavelength of City-U's life, one, that to the perspective of Michelangelo, sped unto infinity.

But, he resolved, not this day. "Don't a'speak'a like that Mister Huff. Heroes awake whenever the need arises, no?" Ever wrapped in accent, the muscled man made sure to cut his response straightforward to his. . . Unmotivated companion. And yet still, it was clear to any that their values differed some. Still, Angelo endured the younger man's jeering, responding in kind when his chance came, "Eeeh. . . I am not'a one for 'de games of chance."

A thick hand ambled up to scratch upon his unshaven chin as he continued, scarcely aware of Arduous' eyelids growing heavier by the moment. "Yes. . . I must be sure, make 'de correct decisions in an instant. Always be. . ."

To the arrow-headed man, his massive partner's words slowly trailed off to nothingness. And so they continued as they were, overlapped by the innumerable other one-sided conversations busily chattering away, which were in turn overtaken by 'Vanessa's' sweet song of shearing copper and clattering steel. With the occasional commentary of her disgruntled conductor. Idyllic? Hardly. With beasts, villains, and heroes abound to cause destruction wanting, the people of City-U are strong, unwavering, and far to invested in life to allow the unexpected to thwart them. . .

". . . So you see Mister Huff, that is why-" Vanessa bellows out her final wail for the morning tram-line, each and every passenger within could feel the unfathomable momentum push their breakfasts deep into a pit as they halt. It was their stop.

With a locked gaze and a nod toward one another the two men strode from their metallic transport. The mid-morning sun casting down its rays, shading either hero with intensity not seen before about them. Their eyes scanned about, taking first in the grandiose sight of City-U's central quarter, the cobbled roads clogged thick of bodies moving about their business uninhibited by rows of men, garbed in coats of muted green. All gathered about in briefing, around the mighty granite walls of the first civic bank. Brandishing their arms, the enforcers can only hope the criminal within starves and falters through their siege.

With purpose, with intent, both Arduous Huff and Michelangelo Alduino march in lockstep toward the line, muscles and resolve bulging about their forms.

"Just great. . ." The pair hears, expulsed through a heavy sigh under a breath.

"Hey, hey, no civilians passed this here point!" The gruff voice exclaimed, followed by a meaty finger drawing attention to the rolled on dotted enforcer line upon the cobbles. Neither of the companions could make much of the beer bellied man's expression, his eyes covered by thin-framed shaded glasses, just as well as the wide-brimmed badge hat upon his head.

However the broad and built luchadore nary concedes an inch as his boots bring him forward, "We are no civilians." He states, plain as can be in response, continuing his steady advance to the multi-tiered steps before them.

After a seemingly shocked pause, whether feigned or not, another heavy sigh breaths through, the wide enforces hefts his way to block the pair's advance. "This here's a hostage situation, you damn heroes got that? Ain't so easy ya know?" Face to face with Angelo, the badge denoted captain rubs a finger across his nose, through a thickly bristled mustache, rivaling the wrestler's own. Despite the enforcer's words, the two men share a brief moment of mutual respect and silence. . .

Then the pair of heroes moved onward. . .



Massive masoned doors, the very threshold of their justice, wheeled open. The day's light pouring in at their backs.

"H'what in tarnation?"

Inquires a jaded voice, followed by the harrowing cock of his six chambered shooter.

The sky, as blue as tropical sea water infects Arduous’ eyes with glistening dew. “It’s too fucking bright” the words escape through the groggy haze of half-awakeness. The tram ride was unpleasant, and slower than he’d like; that old driver always took his time. ‘Honestly, only going 200 during morning rush hour, it’s not like any of us have anywhere to go,’ his mind curmudgeons.

The lanky man hands fish inside of his dusty brown paletot overcoat, brushing past a wallet he knows is now empty, filtering out a similarly destitute metal flask, and finally grasping at a black leather bound case. An uncharacteristically quick flash of motion places shaded glasses atop his thin brow as if produced from thin air, the leather case returning to his inner left pocket as if his mind changed.

“Just great. . .” a voice says from a mouth seeming much closer than the sound it produced, Arduous lists slightly away from the noise, an involuntary response recorded through molasses. “Good morning officer...” Arduous manages to slur in return, gazing towards the city bank door. A crowd of similarly dressed men, all seemingly similarly squat and moustached idle around it’s twin carven slabs. One particularly portly officer begins to wrap yellow and black tape across the door before thinking better of it, and meanders his way back to the coffee and donut booth. His legacy reading in white text “CRIME SCENE, DO NOT ENTER”.

The oddly angular man's hands again reach into his coat pocket, searching for his identification card. A moment of familiar dread fills him when he finds his right pocket empty. “We are no civilians.” states his towering companion, brazenly displaying both his own and Arduous’ Hero Association ID. “what he said…” Mutters the slumped figure, each moment of dral conversation taking a physical toll on his body and numbing his sense deprived mind.

Without warning the ground beneath Arduous melts away, the sights around him blurring as he lurches forward. Dazed he shakes his angular head, “Oh… looks like I’ve found the door” he says still back-tracking his mind to the moment before autopilot kicked in.

His athletic college begins jogging in circles beside him, breaking out into a light run and then the speed is duplicated, and duplicated, and duplicated... until the huge man is no more than a mottled stream of bronze, red and white. Like a spinning top on the edge of collapse the muscled man widens his arc, spinning elliptically too and throw, the edge of the crazed dance turns, pointing almost like a double-thick line towards the gargantuan doors. The sound of a whip crack echos about the scene, as the foot of the mustached hero booms against the stone aperture.

Dust spouts from the carven frame, as the great doors begin to slowly turn….



The pair peer into the first city bank, morning light beaming against their backs. Arduous still recalled his first visit all those years ago. He remembered feeling as if their should be some sort of skylight or windows in one side, the gloom of the place permeates his being. ‘this place is a lock box outside and in’ he mumbles to himself.

His eyes adjust quickly to the low light, and are greeted by a the familiar grand charcoal pillars with their limestone ionic capitals, holding aloft the three main trading balconies. The hostages had been gathered in the central queuing area, from what he could see three men, six women, all bound with old rope and gagged with some unknown type of packing tape. The silent victims all wore the navy blue with white pin stripe that denoted them everyday till clerk. In the centre of the living, the body of a black tuxedoed man lays crumpled on the floor, a pool of crimson staining the back of his jacket.

"H'what in tarnation?" Spat a heavy set man, dressed in blue denim overalls, his head quickly snapping towards the hero's under his sun faded straw hat. The cock of his shotgun sounds like music to Arduous’ ears. “Ehem-hem, Sir. Do you mind if we have a look around?” Arduous inquires, placing his thick baton like hands into his deep coat pockets. “Err.. s’of course I mind! Now get or y’all end up just like him” insists the firearm wielding man, a trickle of sweat starting to run off his shrunken forehead and across his grey, bagged eyes. “Ahh..well that’s a shame, because... ah where is it…. Aha!” Ardous retorts while producing a folded up piece of paper. Taking a step forward with every de-fold, the lanky man slowly un-scrunches the thick, cream-white paper, with one eye on his work and the other on the assailant. “...I, Chief Lysander Tillman, give full permission for legal investigation and involvement in crime scene QA20157. (AKA; suspected armed robbery of First City Bank) to any Official “Hero” of the Hero Association. This includes full search warrants of said premises: #1 First City Bank, Premier Quadrant, Mercier Gardens..signed Chief L.Tillman 6/2/3/50.” He reads, a smile widening as he paces slowly closer to the now slightly shaking armed man.

“N-now you hear… I ain’t playin’ Rosy here’ll get you good boy! She’s in the mood for more blood…” The hick threatens, aiming the jagged, sawed off barrel towards Arduous. “Oh, yes and another question I have Mr Bayou….do you mind if i call you Billy? No,no that wasn’t the question. Billy, do you have a license for that firearm?” Arduous cranes his upper half to the side, mimicking as if a curious dog had been caught in some kind of taffy puller.

The shot called out through the cavernous hall, the boom reverberating against ornate marble, and inlaid gold to produce the clatter of cannon fire. To Arduous the impact felt all at once like death and life, like pleasure and pain. The frail human skin that covered his chest was blown apart like wet paper. The buckshot however found a resting place not in sensitive muscle and organs but in blood soaked sponge. “....Oh, that was a bad Idea on your part Mr Bayou.”

Aged eyes scanned the shade choked interior, moving swift picking up their pace and absorbing information at hand. Content to allow his angular partner stall for time and give him an opening, Michelangelo begins making a few mental notes. First his mind is not easily taken off the rigid corpse abaft their quarry, blown apart by the man's weapon; some kind of shotgun with six revolving chambers. . .

'De man himself, even from-a-this distance I can see his terror. Frightened beasts bear their fangs when-a-backed into a corner. . .' The muscled luchadore pondered, quick as he could, watching on as Arduous carelessly waltzed toward the robber. It was then that a brief doubt beset upon him, though heroes, mortal men they were still, so what was the pair's plan for dealing with this foe? With a desire to regroup, Angelo threw out a few accented words, "This man is-a-dangerous, be cautio-"

~~~BLLLAAAAM!~~~

His lungs discarded every last bit of air out the C-class hero's mouth agape. Those, sunken orbs wavering, snapped upon unmoving form of his partner. Already Angelo could see the glistening of the other's life dripping away. . . "MISTER HUFF!" He bellowed, abandoning the belated caution he prescribed with a dashing of bootfalls, his own beige trechcoat fluttering as he moved. Yet once again, the beefy wrestler was stunned in place, this time however, by his companion's words, with almost more voracity than before.

"I see. . ." The mustachioed man sighed, confidence welling back up within. Leaving a brief silence to reign before the mechanical cock of the villain's weapon brought attention back upon himself. "H'what?!" The exclamation came, followed by another flesh-rending blast of the boom stick. Another scattering of lead shot staggering the wispy haired vigilante. Yet, to Billy's ire he stood strong, no, stronger. Either men could see the scowl beamed toward them, and with another cock of the gun the hick spat his frustration along with, "I-If you ain't takin' Rosy's hot lovin' then. . . How 'bout yer friend!?" But Angelo was already moving, his boots carrying him about the queuing area. A mighty hand grasped upon the bowler that sat upon his dome, roaring out, the man whirled his cannon arm, shotputting the hat as he ran, "We are heroes. And so there shall be no-a-hesitation!"

To Bayou Bill, it felt more like a brick than woven fibers, smashing his gut with force whilst an itching finger pulled back upon the trigger, sending a shower of lead crumbling 'midst solid masonry. Easily recovered, the swamp-man retrained his sights on the accelerating luchadore, another pair of consecutive shots, metallic balls spiraling toward their target. None make their mark. . .

For it was within that instant, that Michelangelo hefted up a thick corner table, much like a shield, a scattering of magazines and pamphlets glamorizing the Hero Association flutter into the air, pierced by deadly bullets. In exchange, cascading splinters shredded apart the muscled hero's arms, yet neither he, nor Arduous' pace faltered. At least. . . Not until the heavy-set hillbilly took hold of a young woman's collar, still bound and silenced. The teller's legs flailed, she struggled against the man all until the cold, unfeeling barrel of Rosy pressed against her skull. Once again, there is a silence, a tensity that rests over the three men, shoulder to shoulder the bloodied heroes gaze on, searching for their in. "S'what I done thought! Yall won't do a damn thing now, wont'cha?"

The overall-garbed robber made doubly sure that twitching index finger of his was getting real intimate with Rosy's trigger. With a deep inhale and a spat of his phlegm, Billy began dragging the roped up teller toward a most imposing wall of brass, the vault door. All around them, wires and taped sticks of some volatile home-brewed explosives. Finally, the grey-eyed man swung his glare back and forth between the slowly advancing heroes, shooting a few more words their way, "Don'tcha come any closer! H'yup, I can tell yer both 'fraid of losin' missy here's life, so I'll tell ya what I'll do. . ." The trio shared a few careful steps, Billy backing up ever so slightly, while the others kept in pace. "Yall two lil' yeller-bellies back on up, then yer gonna turn 'round and march out that door, an' finally, keep thems enforcers from innerfering with this here business o' mine."

With a flick of his wrist and a 'go on, get!', Bayou Billy was overcome, his bluff called out. Both Angelo and Arduous continued to advance upon him, a steady, rhythmic pace. "W-What're yall doin'?! I'll blow her head off!" Billy roared back, sweat pouring off his brow. . . "Go on-a-then, do it. If you even can." The luchadore coos in response, the poor woman beginning to tear at the 'heroes' apparent disregard for her life as they continue yet still. Hardly more than an arms length from their quarry, whom with ire burning in his eyes, raises the boomstick straight for Angelo's masked head, an empty click of the trigger, the barrel is crushed, bent out of the way as nonchalantly as the strongman could muster. "Six shots. Call it. . . A gamble."

Two fists, one from either partner, heavy with the weight of their justice connect and smash into the hick's stomach with a tremendous. . .



His limp form slid down the brass vault, slumping against it. Dazed, battered, and defeated, Billy could do little more than stare through the haze up at his soon-to-be-captors. Yet. . . His pocketed hand could feel something, something that called a smirk to his dejected face. "Y-Yall're. . . Yall are comin' w-with me." He wheezes, producing a brick device and immediately crashing his thumb into the receiver. . .

The button depressed with an audible click, activating a flickering red light on the receiver. A lingering moment passes, black box ideally blinking, before a similar small red light in the crumpled farmhands neck begins to pulse. “Ya see, I told you’s that I ain’t messing. They told’s.. - they told’s me that when I'm in a scape jus’ press this here button and It’ll be my ultimate weapon!” screams Billy, face reddening with rage. A few sweat drops begin to form on his squat, square brow. “ ‘s sure getting hot. Must be some sort o’ heat beam…” Steam rises from his slumped body, eyes watering. “Outsmarted ya all see… ain’t goin’a catch me, not Ol’ Bayou Billy.” the word escape the man’s lips like the final dregs of air draining from a tyre. He was right.

--KABOOM--

Scorching ash fills the room. Human shrapnel scatters around the empty hall burning and finally disintegrating where it lays.

For a moment the only thing the hero could do was stand there mouth agape at the events that had just transpired. Arduous had never seen a person explode before, it reminded him of a firework but gone horribly wrong.

Regaining his senses, he turns quickly to face the door. From this side looking out, the forecourt of the bank seems all at once to be twice it’s size, it’s edges spanning a now unconquerable distance. The rush of battle drains from Arduous and like a watched clock he settles into a seemingly slower rhythm. “....Oh yeah, I suppose we should get these people out of here” he yawns, swinging one pendulous arm in the general direction of the bound hostages. The column of light cast by the banks gargantuan doors is obstructed with the frantic rush of porcine officers who scamper towards the duo to investigate the ruckus. The bespeckled officer that stopped their entry is the first to inquire “Er, so...What’s all this then?” his joules dancing a slow waltz with every word. “Nothing to see here, move along.” replies Arduous unable to hold back a slight smirk.

The officer moved to reply and then stopped, mouth falling open. Even through dark tinted shades the location of his gaze was unmistakable. Arduous had reflexively turned his back when he caught sight of it. The shadow. The ashen impression strikes an odd charcoal pattern, contrasting against the vibrant bronze shine of the great bank vault. It’s center mass is a bulbous tumor and slightly higher sits a great void, the site of the bomb. The outer limits twist up and down and out displaying limbs crippled and bent into unnatural angles like an two crushed spiders resting back to back. To look upon felt like looking into a mirror in a dark room. Arduous paints a all too stoic smile upon his face, “Hahaha, how about we get these kids to safety… what do you say officer?” Arduous states in his best ‘hero’ voice. Moving to help the last of the hostages free of their bounds Arduous leans over and whispers in his companion's ear “Have you ever seen something like that before?” he didn’t have to wait for a reply, the sound was akin to water through cold pipes, or the settling of an old house. Arduous reluctantly turns to face the vault and it’s ghastly shadow his spine feeling as if he has just sat on a bed of nails.

--THUMP--

The lawmen begin to bark orders hurrying the last of the hostages out of the banks cavernous hall...

--THUMP--

...some officers try to stand their ground and take aim at the vault. All wavering shortly after, reconsidering and running out into the morning…

--THUMP--

Only two men remain, a bulky mustachioed man looking more gleeful than frightened, and his lanky, boater hat wearing partner who yawns.

The vault door finally gives, falling away like a great coin tossed against the sidewalk…

TO BE CONTINUED...

Dramatic zoom in to the deep brown of Arduous' eyes in contemplation, and then an equally rapid zoom out...,

Arduous Huff the kinetic sponge hero shivers. He looks out at at the bank with a newly focused gaze. It feels as if half a decade passes in the furtive silence between the explosion and the current moment; but Arduous has no time for reminiscence.

An ungodly clank sounds as the thick reinforced door ricochets across the marble room, clearing a full tesudo of law authorities. Arduous gazes half-lidded at the abruptly exploded vault door; The oddly-proportioned man moves with almost an arachnid gate, limbs moving disjoined to his centre of mass. The banks secure atrium now becoming exposed it’s fortune laid bare.

-- shock --

To most eyewitnesses an abhorrent sight penetrates their eyes; but to stoic Arduous Huff the suspiciously empty vault is par for the course. Tendrils of mutant sponge tickling at the nerve ending behind his eyes, Arduous investigates the seeming empty bank vault.

With an immediate understanding that the deed is done, He turns. Puffed triangular cheeks orbiting around his head like fleshy moons. “Angelo, why are we wasting our time on this? It’s not like the Agency will pay us for the trouble, and seemingly our perpetrator has already run away with the money. what’s the point in all this?”

The ineffectual officers tending to the myriad kidnapped victims simply continue their business tending to the affected.

- Ruffle -

Reaching for a city map, the young Arduous Huff offers to his moustached companion, “There are plenty more mysteries to this city, and certainly more that the agency wish us investigate. What do you say to another trip on ol' tram to another adventure?”