[center]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. . .

[I]'De man himself, even from-a-this distance I can see his terror. Frightened beasts bear their fangs when-a-backed into a corner. . .'[/i] 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-" 

[color=a36209]
[h3]~~~BLLLAAAAM!~~~[/h3][/color]

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, [i]stronger[/i]. 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. . . 

[h3][color=8493ca]~~~THUD~~~[/color][/h3]

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. . .

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