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Meeting New Heroes, or Secret Identities are for Chumps
Rplog-icon Who: Angela Hawkins III, Iron Lad, Miguel O'Hara, Wiccan
Where: New York City - Manhattan - Midtown
When: Mid-afternoon
Tone: Social, Gritty
What: Miguel and Angela are rudely interrupted by punks, Wiccan and Iron Lad step in to help--and go for a treat from Orange Julius.



At the suggestion of a pet, and some meandering conversation about it, Angela finally agrees to go with Miguel to a pet shop to check out animals and see if she really is allergic. (She's not, but sheltered British nobility tend to do that to one another.) Angela walks down the street, tiny purse on her shoulder, looking about at any empty alley they come across, pausing before stepping to put Miguel between her and the alley, and continuing on.

With his hands in his pockets, Miguel walks beside and a half-step behind her. He's in something of a "the world needs to die" mood, but then again, that's not something he's exactly unfamiliar with, and it's not like he's really gotten a good night's sleep in forever. At least, he's sure, it's not being taken out on anyone else. "I'm glad you agreed to do this," he says, glancing down the alley as they pass it. "I still think it might help, and even if it doesn't, you're taking a step in the right direction. You're taking the /step/ to try and get this--sorted out." He can indeed be supportive and even nice--kind of--sometimes, so it's not like /all/ he knows is how to be mean.

Angela doesn't feed every night. In fact, some nights, just having him in the same room is enough o let the lack of nightmares carry her off to sleep. She seems wholly unaware of his lack of restful sleep as she hides behind him from the scary empty alley.
"Well, you said I should try, right? So, I'm trying." Even she doesn't sound convinced.

"Yes, you are, and that's a good thing," says Miguel with a nod, forcing a small smile. "No one said it would ever be easy, but that first step is the worst. You're doing that, and so you can use that to--build momentum, as it were." At least that's what seems to work for some people. That's kind of how it worked for him, though it was as much plain stupidity and blind luck as anything else. Sometimes, being too stupid to stay down can seem like heroism. He rubs his face, arching a brow over the sunglasses, casting a glance to Angela, saying, "I'm not going to lie and say it ever gets /easy/, but it can get /easier/, if the difference makes sense."

"Not in the slightest," Angelica retorts, eyes casting across the street at the OTHER empty alleyway. Her hands are on her purse, gripping it tightly.
Six blocks remain until the pet shop is at hand. Fate would not allow the odd couple to reach their destination without a surprise, however.
It's down the next alley, soft scuffs and the bang of a trash can falling to its side, along with that sickening ooof of air being knocked out of someone's lungs.
Angela has, of course, hidden herself from the alley by stepping to Miguel's far side just as the two near the alley entrance.

"Well, it's like this--" says Miguel, then he stops himself when the sounds of fighting come to his attention. Fighting in alleys can't lead to anything good. On the other hand, people who go around in brightly-colored pajamas tend to not hang out in alleys, so he doesn't think he needs to find somewhere to get out of his street clothes. "Just--stay out here, where there are plenty of people," he tells her, then starts heading toward the mouth of the alley, peering into its depths.

Stay.. here? But... Angela looks about, pulse quickening almost the instant Miguel steps from her side. The people around her just step past her, leaving her alone. Swallowing nervously, Angela steps up to Miguel's side, shaking her head. "No, I'm going with you," she says firmly, because that's what she wants to do and princesses always get what they want. So there.
The alley is one of those maze-like constructs, with a double back and a choke point, and an intersection, and a blind turn. It's a small neighborhood unto itself, all tucked away from the prying eyes of the street not a hundred feet away.
At the corner of the blind turn, a group of four young men are standing over another, seeming to be kicking at whomever is on the ground.

"You know, there are more people out on the sidewalk than back here," Miguel notes quietly with a vaguely unamused tone, glancing back at Angela. "And they aren't likely to take a dim view of your presence, like people who are doing things they shouldn't in alleys..."
And they get to the corner, so Miguel shuts up as he looks around it. Uh-huh. Arching a brow again, he looks around. Well, he may as well go with the straightforward approach. "At least stay /here/," he tells Angela, motioning to the side of the corner where she won't be seen. Then he steps out and takes a couple of steps forward. "This a private party, or can anyone else join?" Old line--positively ancient, really--but it works. Or, at least, it should.

<<Wiccan joins in>>

In a maze-like alley, Miguel and Angela have come to a stop just before a blind turn. Miguel bids Angela stay put, not wanting the wall flower of a British noble to get hurt, before he himself steps up to what must be a hazing ceremony. A half dozen boys seem to be beating on a figure, curled into a ball on the street at their feet.
"This a private party, or can anyone else join," quips the street-clothed hero that is Miguel, causing all six boys, and the now more visible ten others who were sitting on the various steps, sills, and fire escapes in the little turn around dead end, to turn and look at him.
"You best be mindin' yer own bizniz," says one on the second floor fire escape, an old toothpick in his mouth.
Angela peeks around the corner, and her appearance elicits a whoop from another who's jumping from the window sill. "Ain't no deal, Big G. He brought hisself a honey for us to play with."
On the ground, the younger boy, curled up in the fetal position, arms covering his head looks up at Miguel with a faint groan.

"...yeah-huh," mutters Miguel, nearly monotone and arching one eyebrow in something of a derisive expression. "I'm really scared. This is my scared face." Naturally, he adopts about as placid an expression as he can. "Aren't there better things young kids should be doing? Like--I don't know, reading bed-time stories to their teddy bears or something?" That's right, focus on him. He /was/ going to try and find out just what the situation was--the one on the ground may have stolen something, for all he knows--but now he's just ready to plant some faces into walls.

A crack of thunder rolls through the alley despite the fact that it is clear day with no sign of rain. There are three things that the newly minted teen super hero Wiccan does not like: Nazis (Neo, Normal, or Grammar), impossible to see low hanging clothes lines, and Bullies. It does not matter what the kid may or may not have done, one kid getting beaten by six others is just something that is likely to set him off. Thankful that he was flying nearby in time to see Miguel and the girl show up in time to stop the beating he decides now is the time to make his first official appearance. Thunder cracks a second time as he moves so that he is directly over the alley, fully visible to the assembled crowd. Of course, now that he is here and acting, his mind goes completely blank when it comes to what to say.

Angela's eyes fall to the boy on the ground, a cold frown on her face. "Can I freak out now," she asks of Miguel, voice eerily calm given the current state of affairs. Her hands fall from the purse on her shoulder, which she had been clutching like a security blanket just moments ago. And yet, even as she asks, her eyes take on a slight ichor-green glow.
The gangers all get to their feet, fear and mutant hate growing as Wiccan appears in the area. "Damn muties! Get 'em!"

Well, hopefully the new arrival isn't on the side of the punks, Miguel thinks as he looks up to the newly-arrived Wiccan. The punks don't seem to think so, so that's a good thing--hopefully. As the punks start to move, so does Miguel. He charges to the nearest one, to take him down in a tackle and give him a "love tap" upside his head. Maybe he should have taken the time to change into the costume after all; trying to do this without it is going to take more planning and effort than he'd really like to devote to small-time idiots like these.

Wiccan sighs and calls out, "Really? Muties? With Gods, Aliens, and Iron Man fling around this city you have to assume I am a mutant?" Of course he is, but the instant assumption still annoys him. As the punks start to move Wiccan chants to himself as he drops out of the air down to street level, "Protectthekid,Protectthekid,Protectthekid." As he gets to the ground his 'spell' goes off putting up a barrier around the kid that was taking the beating. Now all he has to do is fight off a full gang and hope that the other guy in the fight knows what he is doing.

Love tapped ganger staggers and drops to the ground with a groan of pain. The others in the back of the dead end alley pull guns. The five left standing by Miguel and Wiccan draw butterfly knives and switch blades.
Behind the two heroes, Angela gasps at the sight of the guns. A quick glance about, and her eyes close. Her form is covered by an eerie green near mist, a thing from every child's nightmare. Slitted green glowing eyes open, and a jagged tear of a mouth calls out in a thin, grating whisper, ~Stop.~ Her mind lances out toward the ones with the guns, and three of the other six scream in panic and fire blindly down the alley.
Alright, so Phobia's not the hero type.

Guns. Great. At least Miguel's wearing the costume underneath his clothes--though if they go for a head shot, he's screwed. Just great. He rolls off of the downed punk and ends in a crouch. He's just about to launch himself at the next nearest--when Angela does her "thing". "Shit," he mutters under his breath.
He looks back to Angela, then back to the punks. Between her and Wiccan, they're going to be well taken care of. At least, he assumes so since he saw the flying guy wrap that bubble-thingy around the injured kid. Getting to his feet, he goes to race back to Angela to get her out of the line of fire. And maybe he can keep her from flipping the hell out completely--though even he is impressed she hasn't already.

Wiccan does not look back when he hears something yell ~Stop~ and should probably be glad his attention is currently riveted on the guns. "Noguns,noguns,noguns!" He very quickly starts chanting. Sure he could pull up a bullet proof force field, but what's to stop a ricochet from smashing through a window and hurting someone? He is trying to make the guns vanish, or get pulled out of hands, or just not be guns but since he is not exactly focusing on any specific event its anyone's guess just how his powers will disarm the gun wielding people. Once he gets his 'spell' off he quickly points at the nearest of the guys with knives and lets loose a bolt of electricity that is about as powerful as a police issue stun gun.

Phobia drops as Miguel tackles her, her eyes flaring angrily. Here she was, trying to help out and he tackles her! Hmph! She drops with him and coils up her feet to plant in his hips to kick-flip him off her so she can roll up to her stomach and continue her unique brand of crowd control.... and feeding, but that's a different story. She seeks to rake her mental claws against one of the last gun-men, his firearm moving to track Miguel.
~Mice? How interesting,~ comes the hissing sort of dark whisper from Phobia, while her inhuman looking tongue slides over the jagged tear that is her lips. The man suddenly looks over at one of his friends, another of the gun men who'se leveling his firearm at Wiccan, and when a scream he opens fire. The second gunmen, seeing his friend turn on him, yelps and dives for cover.
Meanwhile... One gun goes poof, and is gone. Another gun is fired and a long stream of cold tap water streams out of the now hot pink water gun. The last gun flings itself straight up into the sky.
Wiccan's taser catches the ganger he attacks by surprise and the poor teen does down in convulsions.
The other meleers, of which four remain, close the distance and all swipe or stab at Wiccan.

With a grunt, Miguel goes flying back, to land on the ground in a classic three-point-pose, skidding to a stop. He's about to charge right back at Phobia like the idiot he knows he is, but then he notices the other gunmen. Nothing's going to go easy today, he can see that already. He's about to dive behind some trash cans--when he realizes that their guns have become--other things. He looks up to Wiccan, saying, "You're handy." He really doesn't care if he's heard or not, though it /is/ meant as a compliment even if it doesn't sound like it.
With little else to lose, he takes a chance and runs back toward Phobia. "This is it!" he calls to her. "This is your choice, right here! Let them go, /now/, and prove you really do want a better life than this, or..." Hopefully he doesn't have to spell out what the other choice will be. She might remember enough to know that, right now, the other choice would mean being on the wrong side of Miguel.

Wiccan would like to say that he stayed stoic and impressive, or at least suitably sarcastic in his first fight as a hero. He would like too, but will not be able to without lying. As several people rush him with knives he does what any normal geek in his place would do, he squeaks. Its not even a very manly squeak, but its what he can get out as he backs up a fast as his legs will take him. One of the knives manages to slice across his right arm just below the shoulder and another cuts through his red cape just barely missing hitting flesh. Thanks to the fear, pain, and only having the slightest control over his electric powers at the best of times Wiccan ends up crackling with electricity and sending out bolts in all directions. Thankfully, like real lightning, the bolts tend to be drawn to metal like the fire escapes, trash cans, and butterfly knives.

~Should I take you instead?~ hisses the nightmare that is Phobia, mind pulling the last bit of fear from her victim until he tumbles to the ground, unconscious. The others that had felt her fears have turned to run, freaked out not only by their deepest nightmares, but by the electrical ball of geekiness over there, whose lightning flickers in all directions, tazing another two of the gangers, exploding a trash can, and causing a fire escape to glow red hot in a 4 inch section.
Sliding her her feet, Phobia faces off against Miguel, the ragged edge of her terror-cloak undulating like snakes about her ankles. She backs away from Miguel, not yet attacking his mind, though she did threaten. It puts her back to one of Wiccan's attackers, who is at this point just slashing at anything near.

A soft sigh, and Miguel realizes just how right Tamir really was. Angela can't stop herself. It's not her fault, really--but that doesn't mean she gets a free pass. Nothing can ever give someone a free pass to go unchecked. He looks around--and sees an overflowing Dumpster against a wall. That'll do. A leap to carry him over to it, and he squeezes behind it, planting one foot against it--then gives it a solid shove, to send it rolling at the last two punks to make them scatter--or to give them a faceful of Dumpster. Whichever. He's not picky. That's as much of a distraction as anything else--so he can fire two splorches of webbing at Phobia--one to the face, one to the feet.

Wiccan manages to take a deep breath through the front of his teeth while holding his arm where he is slashed. He puts his whole concentration towards stopping the electricity coming off him for a second still backing away from his attackers and holding his arm where he got cut. Eyes flashing with bluish white electricity he prepares to lash out with quick bolts when someone decides to shove a dumpster at them. "Ok, that works." He says a little surprised before turning to actually look at Phobia for the first time and gulping. "Eep." Wiccan does not squeak this time, he just says the word flatly with no real inflection. "Bad guys taken care of, you can stand down now please?"

She's seen this before! The webbing flying at her, Phobia falls back, bringing a hand up to try to protect her face. She succeeds only in having her arm stuck to her face, and one foot to the ground instead of both. With barely controlled panic, Phobia reaches up with her other hand to try to get the webbing off, only for /that/ hand to stick. She struggles, shaking side to side as she drops to a knee. ~You ungrateful cur,~ she curses at Miguel. The gangers are defeated.

"Yeah," Miggy mutters under his breath as he calmly walks back to Phobia, "I'm a real asshole for wanting you to not hurt people. That's me, alright." She shouldn't be able to get the webbing off any time soon, though it's not like the stuff is invincible or anything. On the other hand, he doubts she's packing a knife to cut the webbing with. Looking up to Wiccan, he says, "Thanks for the help. Don't know what we would have done without you." Which is true, as far as it goes. Miggy rarely really has a /plan/, as such. "I don't suppose you know something about binding unwanted personality traits, eh?" That's said with no real hope of it actually being true. It would just be too easy.

Wiccan blinks and has no idea what he stepped into between Phobia and Miguel, and is now feeling glad he helped save the thugs. "Only what I have read in self help books. I could give you the name of a couple of good psychiatrists." He offers the last thinking of a few names his mother has mentioned in passing, and after looking at Phobia again adding the names of a few she has called names he wouldn't dare repeat. Wiccan takes a second to look back at the kid that had been taking a beating at the start of this fight and waves his hand in the direction making the force field he threw around him fade. "We should probably go, even in this neighborhood someone has called the cops by now and as much as I like them, don't want to still be here when they show up."

The kid nods and stagger-runs away.
Meanwhile, with no minds to bury herself in and no illusions to create the horrifying inhuman appearance covering Angela's form slides away like so much sludge. "I don't need a doctor," states the girl in a very posh British accent, voice a sweet, if somewhat bitter toned, alto. She has nothing to cut the webbing with, and so just struggles in trying to get the sticky strands off her. With a grump, she sort of turns toward Miguel. "Get this stuff off me."

At least she's not reaching out and warping their minds. So there's that. Miguel huffs a breath and crouches next to Angela, to start ripping the strands of the webbing apart on her face. They'l have to fall off on their own, unless she wants him to just rip them off her face. Again. Somehow, he doubts that. "At least you took a step in the right direction," he comments idly. "We'll--have to work on it. Maybe those doctors that that guy mentioned would help." He jerks his head toward Wiccan, though he knows she probably won't go for it. He's actually proud of her, if he isn't easily showing it. Hopefully it comes through anyway.

<<Iron Lad enters>>

Just inside an alley, near a blind turn, stand Wiccan, Miguel, and Angela. Angela has spider-like sticky webbing on her face and one ankle, which is anchoring her to the ground. This webbing, Miguel is ripping open. Angela's down on one knee, struggling as she tries to help Miguel free her. Near by Wiccan stands and has just finished listing of psychiatrists.

Wiccan holds up his hands defensively , and points at Miguel as if to say it was him that thought she needed psychiatric help. Moving his hands of course reminds him of the pain in his arm, which he ends up clutching again as it starts to bleed even more than it had been. "If I get tetanus from this Mom is gonna kill me." He mutters to himself before sighing and looking around for a place he can sit. Wiccan watches the other two for a moment before closing his eyes and chanting, "Iwanttobehealed,iwanttobehealed,Iwanttobeheald." By the third refrain there is a glow from under his palm and his eyes while his powers take hold.

From up above comes the sound of hissing energy against the wind. A shining red and silver figure, like a bullet, speeds above the rooftops, As if searching for something, he's flying with his belly to the ground and his head swaying side to side. When he spies something suspicious happening in the alleyway, he slows and lowers himself to hover about thirty feet above the entrance. For the moment, he watches.

Sputtering, Angela finally manages to yank her left hand away from her face, freeing one eye. "WE'll have to work on it," she quotes darkly, grateful that her right arm protected her mouth from the white goo. "You get to use your hate when you do random heroics. Why can't I have the same luxury," she asks hotly, upset.

"We'll--talk about that /later/," Miguel says, stressing the last word with a slight tilt forward of his head. It occurs to him that he didn't really have the chance to go into rule number one about this kind of crap--keeping stuff to yourself. "Right now, just--I'm proud of you. You held yourself back--kind of. Still, a step in the right direction. Now let's deal with--everything else." And that's when he turns to look at Wiccan. "From here it doesn't seem too bad, though you might want to go to a clinic or something. I'm sure they have some that--won't ask questions." Like questions about identities, on top of questions for medical insurance.

Wiccan sighs as he heals and checks out the cuts in his costume from the morons with knives. "Maybe I should look into armor." He mutters to himself only half paying attention to the brewing domestic disturbance between Angela and Miguel. "No need at least, glad that actually worked." The sudden appearance of an armored figure makes him gulp, and squeak again for the second time today. "Iron man"

Wiccan is //close// at least, because the young man in the silver and crimson armor seems to be rocking the same mojo, only the mask bears an expressive face that Iron Man's armor has never seen. Two golden eyes stare down at the three as the suit of armor lowers itself to the street level, hovering now only a mere few feet over the ground.
"What's going on here?" He asks, raising one of his eyebrow ridges, checking the three of them over for cuts and bruises. "You'll have to excuse me but it's not every day you come across something like this. Why is she webbed up?" He asks, his voice youthful, entitled, and confident.

Iron Lad's sweep reveals that all the gangers are fine. Unconscious, but fine. No deaths here.

...so this is Iron Man. Huh. Miguel had always pictured him--yellower. Well, it's not like he ever really studied the Heroic Age archives /that/ closely, or anything. And he realizes he needs to come up with a good lie. Thankfully, lying to friends and family for years has given him a bit of skill, there. "You wouldn't believe the kind of day we've had," he says to the silver-armored one. "These guys pulled all sorts of weird-ass weapons. One was a webbing-gun--uh--thing. I don't know. Anyway, if it weren't for this guy here--" he nods toward Wiccan, "--magic-ing the guns into other things, I don't know /what/ would have happened. He should definitely get looked at, though, so he doesn't get an infection for helping us." He even offers a sincere-looking smile, complete with a little bit of what should seem to be residual fright after narrowly missing being accosted or assaulted by thugs.

Wiccan blinks, and then blinks again. "Or not Iron Man. Um, saw a kid being beaten by six others while about a dozen more people looked on and intervened." Wiccan stands up and just because part of him does not like looking up at people that could stand on the ground like everyone else he float a few feet off the ground so he is eye level with Iron Lad. He does look at the few guys still laid out on the ground from getting electric shocks or being fed on by Angela. "I /really/ hate bullies." He offers by way of explanation.

Angela, the raven haired girl in a green summer dress and black ballet flats, currently struggling to get webbing off her face. "Webbing gun? What are you talking about? Yo-"

Miguel suddenly grabs Angela and holds her against him protectively, giving her a Please Hush Now look. "She's in shock, Iron Man," he says.

"Me too, actually, had a run in with a few a long time ago. They had sharp knives." Iron Lad replies, casing one more concerned look to the woman wrapped up in the webs. With everyone in the alley a complete stranger to him, he can't hide that he's trying to read the situation and mistake Angela for a damsel in distress. He looks back to Wiccan, finding that he is no longer injured. "Fascinating." He simply utters, his voice a strange blend of synth-tones that mask whatever his normal voice is. "Magic, is it?"
"Call me Iron Lad." He continues, cracking a small, almost arrogant grin. "You might remember me from the Stark Expo? You were webbing everything while I was bringing down one of those green, tentacly monsters that broke up the costume contest." Whatever guard Iron Lad was holding against the three seems to dissipate. "Shock? Well, don't jostle her around then, get her to sit against the wall. Does anyone have some water for her to sip?"

"Yes, she /should/ sit down," says Miguel, going to steer Angela to an upturned milk crate. "Yes, please, sit down and rest. You've handled it pretty well, but there's no need to over-tax yourself." Hopefully the unsaid message, the one about being quiet about secret identities, gets through, too. At least, he tries to project that through a somewhat stern yet pleading facial expression.
He'll go to crouch next to her, looking up at Iron Lad. "Right, umm, sorry about the name-thing. And I was /at/ the expo, but I don't think you're actually remembering me. I think I saw you--there was a red-furred--uh--guy--there too, wasn't there? I have to admit, I wasn't thinking about the details that much. Trying to get out of the way of falling rubble, from whatever those metal monsters were."

Angela glares at Miguel, but falls silent. The pout is obvious: Miggy is acting WEIRD. She sits where directed, before she looks at it and starts to stand again. "Ew!"

Wiccan grins at Iron Lad and shrugs. With a firm nod of the head he replies to the question of his powers with a definite, "Maybe. Stuff I want to happen happens, sort of, sometimes. I am Wiccan, and I missed the whole Stark Expo thing entirely. All I know about it is that there were riots and stuff starting off more mutant hating feelings all over, oh and that they revived Captain America." There is an unabashed excitement in Wiccans voice as he mentions Cap. Wiccan closes his eyes and chants, "Iwantwater,Iwantwater,Iwantwater!" till a bottle of ice cold water appears in his hands that he quickly tosses to Miguel, "Here!"

Iron Lad watches Wiccan immaculately create a bottle of water, and can hardly keep himself from chuckling. "That //is// an interesting trick. Maybe someday I'll be able to convince you to want a suitcase full of cash, right?" He floats closer into the alley, flying over the knife-men. His golden eyes scan each and every one of them, trying to determine whether they are alive or dead. His shoulder to them, he simply talks to the three while he goes about his work. "I heard about Captain America, which is definitely exciting news. Perhaps next time we'll have him at the Stark Expo. The real shame is that Iron Man himself wasn't there to repel the attack, though I hear he's got a very busy schedule." He pauses. "So we have Wiccan, what about the other two? What are your names?"

"Hey, now," says Miguel, trying to get Angela to sit back down. "It's not so bad. We can--wash your clothes, if you really want, later." He turns at the shout by Wiccan--just in time to get a bottle of water to the face. "Shit!" he says, sunglasses dropping to the ground. And like an idiot, he opens his eyes--in full sunlight. "Shit-fuck!" Covering his eyes with his left hand, he gropes around on the ground with his right, finding the bottle of water first. This day is just getting better and better, he thinks to himself as he thrusts the bottle in Angela's direction with a muttered, "Here. Have some water." At least he didn't infuse that with profanity, so there's that. And he'll answer Iron Lad after he finds his stupid sunglasses, which he goes back to hunting for.

Angela blinks as Miguel fumbles the water bottle catch. Her petite hands move. One collects the water bottle, the other reaches down for the dropped sunglasses as she sits down. The glasses are handed over by placing them into Miguel's searching fingers. If he could see, how shocked would he be by the look of something like actual consider on her face. You know, for someone in shock she seems very coherent.

Wiccan says a silent prayer to the heavens for the will to keep studiously ignoring things he knows he should ignore to be polite. He also works not to roll his eyes because he and Miguel are the only ones that take secret IDs seriously, and Miguel is being really bad at keeping his secret. Wiccan winces and closes his eyes tight as Miguel completely misses catching the bottle. Ok, so either the fabled Spider Sense is a myth, Miguel is not Spider-Man, or he is over selling his attempt to put people off the track of finding out who he is.

"Alright, then." Iron Lad replies, turning to face the three of them as he's checked the last of the thugs. Folding his arms across his armored chest that has a golden circle of light in the center, just like Iron Man's, he scans their faces and gets comfortable. "Well it looks like I arrived here at the very end of things, so there really isn't any help I can offer, unless the lady there wishes a ride to the Hospital?" He starts to move towards the end of the alleyway, looking up to the sky as if preparing to take off. Choosing his path, he looks back to them. "Or...do you want help with cleanup?"

Oh, hey, sunglasses. Miguel slips them on and blinks a few times, brows arching as he widens his eyes. He's going to see a lot of spots for a long time. Just freaking figures. "Thanks," he says to Angela, reaching out to pat her shoulder lightly. Looking back to Iron Lad--or, really, more in his /direction/--he says, "And umm, I think we've got it covered, actually. Hey--" here he turns to Wiccan, "--didn't you say something about having called the police or something? Oh, and thanks for the water." He means that, even if it hit him in the /face/. And he seems to recall something about the police, but he was trying to deal with Angela--who he /has/ noted is much calmer now. He's not sure why, but he finds that unsettling.

Wiccan really hopes that his luck stays true and whatever it is about his powers that tends to have odd effects makes his face blurred in any recordings Iron Lad might be making as every single attempt he has made to take his own picture in costume. At the mention of clean um Wiccan stops, looks at the thugs that are out cold, and holds up his hands in what he hopes is a suitably mystic posture that does not make him look like a total dweeb. "tieduppunkstieduppunk,tieduppunks!" With a flash of light ropes come out of nowhere to tie up the still unconscious gang-bangers. There we go. Actually, I said someone has probably called the cops by now and I did not want to be here when they showed up. Good Samaritan laws or not, I don't want to risk it too much.

Angela reaches up to tuck a lock of black hair behind an ear, before she turns her green eyes on Iron Lad, then Wiccan. Yes, the Brit is taking things entirely too well given how quickly she's prone to freaking the hell out!

Iron Lad stops, turning back to them as he effectively cancels his call to flight. The flash of light comes and goes, forcing another smile to crack at the edge of his metallic lips. "Yeah, you're right, it definitely looks like you've got everything covered. If you want, I can fly off and give the cops something to pay attention to while the rest of you get away. It's really no big deal, the most of them think I'm Iron Man anyway." With that, he lifts a few feet, easily pulled into the air as the golden energy that dots his frame glows just a little bit lighter. "But come to think of it, I don't know too many supers in town. Is there a place you guys would like to meet up sometime? Some random 7-11 rooftop?"

Staying crouched by Angela, Miguel blinks a few more times, then looks between Wiccan and Iron Lad. "I, uh--I think right now I've got enough on my hands. It's--been a long day." Angela being actually calm and freaking-out-less is definitely cause for concern, though it /might/ be a good sign. Maybe it means she's getting a handle on--things. He should be so lucky. "Anyway, umm, I'm not really one for random rooftops--but I'll definitely remember to get your name straight. Iron Lad, right?" He offers another small smile; just a random pedestrian trying to be respectful, yep. John Q. Public, that's all.

Wiccan blinks and grins at Iron Lad completely assuming his question was meant for hi since Miguel, whose name has not been given out still, is trying so hard to keep a secret ID. "That would be cool." Yes very cool, not awesome to the point that Wiccan could explode in fan boyish glee. "I know a good spot" He names off an Orange Julius not too far away that happens to be a favorite place for him since it's near both his home and the biggest comic store in the area.

Angela takes a sighing sort of breath, like boredom, and then opens the water bottle for a drink. She looks around again, peering down at the unconscious gang members for a moment before finally looking over at Miguel. "Weren't we going to get a puppy?"

"Orange Julius?" Iron Lad looks to the sky once more, considering it. "I'll have to track the place down, unless you have a way for me to follow you, Wiccan." Turning his palm over, a globe of light emits a golden map of the area, which he turns to Wiccan to allow him to point the way. While he lets Wiccan observe, he looks back to Miguel and Angela. In an almost alien way, he tilts his head and smirks. "Cute. A puppy? Well, the way is clear enough, you two, why don't you run to where it's safe while we plan this impromptu costumed Orange Julius party? Unless, of course, the two of you -really- like oranges."

Angela Hawkins III says, "I like oranges."

"Right, puppy, yes." Miguel says and gives a single nod, then gets to his feet as he adjusts his glasses. Stupid face still hurts. At Iron Lad's comment, he forces a chuckle, and says, "Actually, I think--" And Angela cuts in. No. Just--no. He's had enough "adventure" for one day. "Actually, we're going to take your advice and try to continue on our way. I--I /really/ think rest is in order, after we see about the pet shop." It suddenly occurs to him that he hadn't actually answered Iron Lad's earlier question. Well, crap. "Oh, also--can't imagine it would come up, but--name's Miguel." And there's that friendly, if forced, smile again.

Wiccan gives the address, yes he has it memorized no he won't explain why. He does point out the location when Iron Lad opens up a glowing holo-map of the city. "Dude, that thing is cool. Can you tap into the CCTV circuits and make it show people and traffic? No, wait, never mind that. Illegal hacking is illegal."

Oh! We're standing now. Angela rises to her feet smoothly when Miguel does, water bottle still in her hand. She glances once at the ganger she knocked out from the sheer terror she forced upon him. There's a flicker of a smirk, before with a slow blink she smiles at Miguel pleasantly and holds out her arm for him to escort her the rest of the way to the pet shop.

"It's not hacking if they're not familiar with the method of communication. That's called snooping." Iron Lad replies to Wiccan, once again putting on that arrogant smirk as he starts to float upwards. He looks down to Miguel. "Fair enough, Miguel, go take care of her, she looks like she's still maybe in a little bit of shock. Might want to get her some decaf along with the puppy, if you know what I mean. Decaf and some soothing music, that's what I understand does the trick here. I'm...glad I was ineffective help." He scoffs, looking to his map. "Alright Wiccan, let's do this." With that...he rockets into the sky, off towards the roof of the Orange Julius.

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