"Well... That's no good." From where he stood on the roof of the first international bank, Arthur Greystoke, or as he was more commonly known in this particular outfit "The Watchman" (who the hell comes up with names like that?), could see that several pieces of the city below had gone missing. Not destroyed or vaporized or anything like that, but just gone. There one second, big round hole the next. And right in the center of it all, stood a boy who had to be no older than fifteen. A boy whose outstretched hands seemed to herald the impending nothingnessization of another fifty foot swath of city. Cops and their SWAT teams disappeared by the dozens, and the bullets they shot at the kid did the same by the hundreds. Half the time he wasn't even looking when the bullets disappeared. Which, Arty figured, meant that shooting the kid from up on the roof was out. "Yeah. No good at all."

At least he had his armor. Though it was more of a second skin really. Thanks to the synthetic muscle fibers, it moved flawlessly along with him, contracting and expanding to boost his own natural strength to superhuman levels, and that was what he relied on at the current moment as he leaned forward off the roof. He fell with the grace of an aerialist as his body pivoted on his toes, which barely still touched the corner of the roof. As soon as he hit horizontal, his legs contracted like coiled springs and sprung open an instant later, driving him through the air toward a spot of ground just behind the kid with the nothingness-generating hands. He landed hands first and tucked into a roll, both the armor and his nearly unbreakable bones absorbing the tremendous impact with no harm done as his right hand swept a sword free of its sheath. The blade came up, then down and back as it aimed to bisect the teen from shoulder to hip, but it never got the chance. Apparently, there was some danger sense involved, because the next thing Arty knew, he was being swallowed up by one of those bubbles of nothingness, and the kid hadn't even had the chance to twitch a muscle. 

Three cheers for involuntary defenses.

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Astoundingly enough, becoming nothing actually wasn't as final as it sounds. Instead of waking up to the great beyond or in the middle of a raging inferno or just not at all, Arty found himself skidding to a stop in front of what appeared to be at first glance some kind of wreckage. A second glance as the dust settled revealed no new revelations, and Arty was forced to conclude that it was indeed some kind of wreckage. The question now, was wreckage of what? And why the hell wasn't he dead? And where the hell is he, now that he's not dead? Turning slowly in a circle revealed only a diverse array of flora that he'd never seen before, and quite a lot of wasteland. "Huh..." He slid the sword back into the sheath on his back, and climbed up to a higher vantage point on the wreckage to see if he could see what a sailor would see. He couldn't. No oceans in sight.