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"Who wants to bet my brother can't reach that window ledge? Any takers?"

Diarmi posed confidently, glancing upwards at the second-story window ledge his little sister had pointed to. Maybe three inches wide, a foot and a half long, set into the brick exterior of some deli he knew nothing about (though its broad windows certainly invited inspection).

Yeah. He could make that.

He stretched, feeling the familiar popping of bones shifting around their joints, as his little sister collected bets. Some were genuine, he knew, though others were 'betting' just for the pleasure of seeing him either fall flat on his face, or out of spite towards those people. Most people were betting against him, and Zola absolutely did not carry enough cash to pay out if he failed.

He couldn't fail. He wouldn't fail.

And when she said 'Dimi?', off he went. Personally, he thought leaping at the deli window without actually smacking into it was far more impressive than getting up to a second-story window, but that's not what the people were betting on, was it? Out of the corner of his eye, he could see someone, probably an employee, startle at his presence, but he refused to allow it to distract him. It took only a slight bend of the knee to launch himself up, grab the upper ledge, and twist his body to land above it. This next part would be tricky, but it was simple to him: just move quick enough and gravity would lag behind. His fingers, callused from hours of stunts like these, gripped onto the rough bricks and he skittered along the surface, grabbing the ledge from beneath, and pushing off the wall to flip up onto the ledge, where he turned and waved down to the crowd, in varying states of flabberghast (was that a word?), amusement, and awe. His parents, who'd been watching with only mild interest, gave a polite applause in contrast to the whoops and cheers from the crowd. Zola went among them to pay out the handful of winners. And in the back of the crowd, he could see his two oldest siblings moving about.

His stomach dropped, but his grin didn't. He stood, catching the top of the window, and bowed, encouraging their excitement and their attention on him. Better him than Zola, he'd decided all those months ago. Let her stay innocent in all this. He leaped off from the ledge, taking the second to pose in the air before landing in a tumble and springing back to his feet. The crowd went nuts - well, most. Some were beginning to leave, down the street or into the deli where he suspected they'd tell that poor employee about the stunt that weird kid had just pulled. While it wasn't like the family couldn't hold people captive, them leaving was never good. It meant less money, and, to his own disgust, fewer targets.

Not that such feelings showed on his face. Instead, he bowed and gestured to his parents - his father had already drawn out the old in-desperate-need-of-a-polish fiddle to play, and his mother was promising "magic like you've never seen before!"

Which, Diarmi supposed, was a fair claim to make. How often did money vanish from people's wallets anyways?

Near the middle, someone was checking their cellphone and audibly swore - so he assumed anyhow, it wasn't a word he was familiar with. He edged a bit closer as their companion asked what was wrong.

"Burglary in progress in Midtown. Variants reported. I have to go that way for work."

"Damn. Maybe your boss will understand if you're late?"

"Like that bastard's that nice."

Diarmi tuned out the rest of their conversation, nerves buzzing. Variants! Mainly, other Variants! He'd stretched his muscles and brain only a couple of times since the family had arrived in New Haven three weeks ago but only against non-Variants. He glanced to his parents, then to Zola who was watching him curiously. He quickly schooled his expression into something less excited.

"Hey, Zol, I need to go to the RV. Cover for me?" It was more an expression than an actual desire - after all, his parents wouldn't need his parkour again for some time. It was more likely they'd bring Zola up front and have her demonstrate some parlor tricks. (And, ok, he didn't have to like it, but his little sister [i]was[/i] adorable.) She nodded, offering him a thumbs-up, and he dashed away to get changed and head on over. It was hard, maintaining a secret identity, but his family simply could not know.

(Alessa saw him running to the RV. Probably to play superhero again. One day, she'd have to sit him down and explain how inaccurate the comics were when it came to the real world.)
[hr]
A change of attire and multiple rooftops later, the burglary had apparently evolved into a fire. Flip only took a moment to breathe through his nose as he surveyed the scene - he wasn't pyrophobic, no, but he was pretty sure it was rational to be nervous around blazes like this. Besides, this was going to be his last bit of fresh air for a while. He had to be sure no one was trapped inside - that’s what a real hero would do first, and if there was anyone, he had to save them. Simple enough. Cops were present, no firefighters yet, a blur that stopped and then headed in - oh wow, was that actually Breakneck? ... would she be in the mood for an autograph later?

Flip launched himself off the rooftop, executing a series of flashy flips that doubled to slow his fall and get some horizontal distance. Just before he would've hit the ground palm-first, he summoned a levitation bubble to bounce off of, just behind the police tape, and performed one last aerial somersault before landing on his feet. No cheers or applause greeted his performance this time, but he didn't expect it to. He was still new after all, and this was a crisis situation. He was about to ask the nearest cop if anyone was still inside when he realized he recognized the pink-haired young lady nearby. Two Nobles at one site - his knees felt like they'd give out any second, but he shoved the feeling down. Couldn't let the performance anxiety show. He hurried to her side instead.

"Anything I can do to help, uh-" Ms or Mrs? "-Madame Senbonzakura?" God that sounded awkward. He needed to distract from that and fast. "I've got telekinesis." There, landed it. Hopefully.
[hr]




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[i]Jimi's a bad person. Always has been, always will be. But he knows that. He wouldn't dare delude himself into thinking he's good. Good people don't burglarize homes-[/i]

"It was robbery. No one was home," Jimi muttered back to the voice in his head. He knew it was in his head, no one else ever heard it, but it didn't stop him from snapping at it once in a blue moon.

[i]Good people don't talk back or interrupt either. Very bad person.[/i]

Jimi kept quiet. He couldn't argue with that. Nor the fact that he had been a lookout for a robbery earlier in the day. It had been a bit of an impulsive thing - one of his contacts rang him up on the burner phone and asked if he wanted to make a quick buck. He glanced at his dead and empty fridge and said sure, why not. 'It'll set off the demon that lives in my head' was why not, but that just sounded crazy. His contacts didn't do 'crazy'. Now he had a roll of cash in his pocket and a tirade going off in his brain. It maybe wasn't the best deal Jimi had ever made. Still, now he could buy some groceries. And if it happened again tomorrow, he could get the electricity back on. He did miss having a cool place when the sun got too hot. Wolfy probably missed it too, he bet.

Lost as he was in his musings, deafened by the internal rant, he very nearly missed the rattle that came from the alley ahead. It was enough to make him pause. The voices he could hear, neither friendly nor concerned, made him reach for the electrical-taped metal pipe he kept tucked into his belt. Even the demon had fallen silent as Jimi tried to figure out if it was safe to pass by. He crept closer, grabbing onto the corner of the wall. It grew chilly at his touch while the pipe began to crackle with electric current.

Then came the sound of someone getting hit.

Jimi wasn't a good person. It was something beat into the inside of his skull daily, and it was never argued with. He knew better than to try. Trying had led him here. Because a good person didn't want to hurt others or let others get hurt.

Jimi couldn't stand by knowing someone was getting hurt.

He rounded the corner, wall cooling even further as he stared down the alleyway. Three against one? Hardly fair.

"Hey!" He smacked the pipe against the wall to ensure he had their attention. It wasn't enough to dispel the pipe's charge but enough to draw some attention to its crackling. "What's going on here?" And what a figure he must cut, with his stitched-up hoodie and worn-at-the-knees jeans. Hardly intimidating. Now that he thought of it, he realized he didn't even know if those three were Variants or not.

Well. He had yet to meet a Variant who dealt well with hypothermia, heatstroke, [i]and[/i] tasing.