A few pats of a paper napkin around the lips and Elliot was good to go. [color=8F9779]“Delicious, delicious carbohydrates,”[/color] he declared under his breath as he pushed open the diner door and waltzed out into the city air. Where to now, he wondered? Without bothering to answer the self-administered question he started to walk. Half the fun of large cities, he felt, was wandering around until something caught his eye. After this morning's events he felt rather disinclined to encounter any trouble, so the less reputable parts of town wouldn't do, but anywhere else would be just fine. With an dispassionate look on his face and his hands in his pockets he meandered between the Denver streets, focused solely on putting one foot in front of the other, another faceless figment of the everyday crowd.

In the course of his aimless trek Elliot found himself sequestered in a corner of Quaestor's Emporium, a multi-level bookstore whose prodigious carpet, carved wood, and filigree marked its faithful appeal to an earlier era. Sitting in a comfortable albeit reduced-price armchair by a low screen displaying a fireplace, flipping through a book on advanced barbecue techniques that captured his attention, made Elliot feel somewhat like a refined gentleman enjoying some free time in his mansion's study. The idea that he might get his life in order to that degree amused him, but his concentration lay mostly upon the incredibly in-depth methods outlined in the book. From detailing beginners' mistakes and their remedies to explaining the vastly different meats that could result from subtle variations in seasoning and grill position, the author truly knew his stuff. The portly man's visage on the front, wearing a big smile and bearing a giant slab of roast on a skewer, belied the unfathomable complexity of his subject. 'Never judge a book by its cover' was the adage, and Elliot knew all too well both how widely that principle applied and how widely people ignored it. 

Despite thinking about that for a moment, Elliot did not allow any piteous musings to ruin his time with the volume, and by the time he replaced it on its shelf his mind raced with possibilities. Assumedly the HQ had a kitchen of some sort, but would the staff let a Ward try out recipes of his own? To even reach that point, he would need to get enough money together to buy ingredients. One thing he knew for certain: were his indomitable mastery to apply itself to the realm of cuisine and result in some heavenly morsel, the fruit of his labors would be for him alone. Who, after all, would help him plant the wheat?

Back into the early afternoon sun. A haphazard series of twists and turns through the avenues came next, with Elliot eyeing a number of stores but not deigning to enter. Without much of anything burning a hole in his pocket, he felt better than usual about stone-facedly walking past the homeless, but even still the sight weighed on his conscience. Who really needed help? Who would try to hurt or steal from him? Who would squander charity on drugs or alcohol? Who would tell the truth? Who were there because of their own wrongdoing, because of honest mistakes, because of another's neglect or misdeed? What could he really do to help? Legitimate concerns, but regardless of legitimacy, Elliot did not want to see people so miserable. 

So he tried to make sure he didn't see them.

That couldn't stop him thinking, of course. [i]Once being a superhero fails, I really should find a soup kitchen or something that'll actually help people. Hopefully they'll let me sample my own wares—once I'm out of the Wards, I'm as out of a livelihood as any of their clients. Not a hero, not a villain. Just a nobody. All because the ignorant morons fail to recognize my genius.[/i] [color=8F9779]“Ugh.”[/color] He glanced from side to side. [i]Don't you people think less of me. My life is suffering, too.[/i]

Another couple of hours passed before Elliot grew too thoroughly bored with the city. “Back to the gilded cage I fly,” he muttered as he oriented himself back toward HQ. Hopefully he would encounter nobody but security on his way to his room. Seeing one of the girls' faces scrunch up with disgust as he passed by, together with the smog inhaled during his wanderings, might make him puke.