"[b]9:34 AM, reports of self-labelled 'Rocket-Man' has stolen cash and on his way through or around Pearl Road. We have lost contact. I repeat, we have lost contact.[/b]"

At first, he had planned on heading to the mall, mainly to take care of this 'Uprising' criminal that had found the need to take everyone in the mall hostage...but once a quick glance into the mall's camera systems revealed multiple heroes taking care of it, the young man decided not to intervene, as it would only create chaos and allow the villain to escape. A similar thing was going on at the zoo, and so he allowed the other heroes to take care of it. His time would come in the approaching dusk. He sat in a deep leather chair, underneath the temporary Knight Mansion, sharpening his trench-knives, all in anticipation of the nightly extermination. Most people assumed that Crisis enjoyed a sick pleasure out of the death of corrupt criminals...and in some ways, they'd be right. While it wasn't a pleasure, it was, in fact, a grim satisfaction that yet another criminal was off of the streets. As the small steel dagger slid across the trench-knife's razor-sharp edge, the sound of a woman's panting voice over-took the police scanners, describing some sort of 'rocket-man'. That would work. 

He smoothly stood, his body automatically moving towards the sealed, metallic case that held his prized Crisis suit. "Knight Enterprises." He breathed into the speaker, and as one clasp unlocked, Victor pressed his palm and finger-tips against the scanner, all the while allowing the retina scanner to survey his irises. With a hiss of steam, the case opened, revealing the suit in all of it's dark, intimidating glory. Now was not the time to observe it's appearance, however. Victor swiftly equipped the armored suit, and with a few sturdy locks and clasps, tightened the armored fabric across his body. The last article of crime-fighting was his helmet, and as he dropped it on his head, it automatically clasped to the rest of the suit, the visor lighting up with a blue glow, whilst the frequency on the inside of the helmet automatically began searching for police scanners and radio dialogue.

"Pearl Road, hm?" He muttered, walking towards his equipment table, whilst his right hand automatically began typing coordinates on his left wrist device. He quickly began unsheathing throwing blades, and holstering them along both sides of his torso. His utility belt followed, being magnetized and clasped to both sides of his waists. On his upper thighs, dark black holsters were strapped and magnetized to the titanium underlay, where his prized trench knives were smoothly holstered. Finished, Crisis turned around, heading towards a sloping ramp made of a smooth, dark blue metal. A ping sounded on his wrist-honer, and the Vigilante allowed a small quirk of his lips to go unnoticed, even as a loud revving began to get closer, and closer, and closer. He abruptly twisted on his feet, pivoting and leaping into the air, just as a sleek, dark motorcycle blasted in his previous position. His leap landed him, mid-air, on the revving vehicle, and he pressed the gas all the way down, the bullet-proof tires blazing a trail of sparks on the metal, as it blasted up the ramp. He leaned forward against wind-resistance, and as he began to get closer to the deep black spikes that acted as the base's ceiling, Crisis pressed a button on his left wrist, once more.

A spike disappeared from the ceiling, exposing an opening. Crisis blasted through that opening, the pure speed from his revving motorcycle leaving him to be a blur of motion. Behind him, the spike reappeared, closing off the entrance.

______________

Crisis ignored the yelling civilians as he blazed a path of Hell down Martin Street, body lowered against the dark leather seat of his motorcycle. He smoothly hit the breaks, while revving the gas even harder, performing an expert drift around a sharp corner, before letting go of the breaks and leaning backwards. The motorcycle leaned backwards in a dangerous-looking wheelie, as Crisis caught a fleeting figure of a rocket-covered humanoid blasting down the street. Well...more like skidding. Did he seriously have to come out as Crisis...to chase such a raggedy-equipped villain? No...not a villain. Most-likely a two-bit thief. Regardless, underestimating an opponent was fool-hardy, no matter how much his mind tried to make him do the underestimating. His motorcycle fell back onto two wheels, and Crisis increased the speed, deciding not to initiate nitrous, since the rocket-propelling man wasn't moving at a speed that required the use of turbo.

Within seconds, he had caught up to the rocket-propelling man, pulling up right beside him. His glowing-blue visor staired emptily at the man, even as Crisis instinctively jerked the motorcycle left and right to avoid any civilians riding in cars, or simply walking down the sidewalks and road. After a second of surveying, Crisis narrowed his eyes and suddenly whipped forward on the cycle. His left arm gripped the motorcycle's handlebars harder, as the vigilante's right arm began to blur, two dark black, gleaming throwing knives, blasting forward, towards the hip thrusters, while an explosion pellet was suddenly flicked forward, blurring towards the rocket man's back turbine. Stop the mobility, and exterminate the criminal.