"Guess we know who's really on the run," he said just loud enough to be heard, almost jeering. He didn't seem bothered by the turn of events, though. As soon as they started getting farther away, he dropped from his perch and started walking the other way.

"Tag set and confirmed," reported the boy to... someone, via his headset. "You getting a signal from BIU-D yet?"

As he listened to some unheard voice on the other end of the line, he pulled an unmarked spray can from under his jacket and rolled it around in his hand. It looked fairly normal, but the topper was highly advanced, and had a small display, several buttons, and so on. "No, no, totally undetected," he replied. "The old guy had some kind of adverse reaction to the aerosol, but it passed for smog... There's no need to worry. They're not bright—they seriously think I'm working for Humpty..."

And with that, he was out of their hair, for the time being at least.

Meanwhile, the second group—comprised of the mole, the two monkeys and the cat—was genteelly taking in the slightly less pristine ground floor streets of Westside city, when who should come around the corner—striding in the opposite direction they were headed and looking for all the world like a slightly over-burdened and mildly menacing tourist—but Coop, the bandoliered, be-masked and very tall eagle who had blown up approximately one third of a military base back in Central City. He was not wearing his bandoliers, or his blast mask. He was, however, holding a duffel bag, and looking only slightly, marginally surprised.

He carefully put down the duffel bag, which was huge and oblong and red and black and very nearly dragged along the ground anyway, hanging as it did from the end of one of Coop's long, orangutan arms. It had numerous pockets and zippers along its various panels, but absolutely none of them appeared very full except the centre compartment, which bulged awkwardly, as if it had been stuffed with pumpkins and old iron fencing.

For a few short seconds, Coop eyed the four of them. He appeared somewhat wary, apparently undecided as to what to do next.

Coop looked back and forth between the two monkeys, slack-jawed, the faint contours of horror lining his eyes. After a few moments, however, the look of repressed horror turned to one of mere disbelief, and then, further, to a faint leer of amusement.

"Hah…" he breathed, "wow," and then, after a few more moments, "look at you, huh?"

He breathed out another stricken laugh, and slowly rested his fists on his waist. Standing with arms akimbo, he seemed to draw himself in, stooping over like a gargoyle as he eyeballed his—for the moment—rivals.

"So," he said, fractionally shrugging his shoulders—every movement seemed sluggish and faint, as if his personality was fighting its way up from a very deep, muffled pit—there was a second while he appeared to internally chew over what to say, and then Coop finished with, "…what's up?"

As Rock shouted, two of Coop's reflexes kicked in.

The first one was that of defence: Coop dropped back on one foot, his arms flying up in a sort of loose-handed, two-armed-open-air-wrestler's-grab-hug.

The second one was also that of defence, albeit a slightly more protracted and final kind: Coop ran away. With very little hesitation, he beat down on the air with both wings, and took to the sky. After a couple swooping arcs, he was down to the end of the block. After a few more arcs, he would be even further away.

Rock, too, looked surprised by Coop's (literal) flight from the scene. The monkey sprinted as all-out as he could, swerving out into the street to avoid the clutter of the sidewalk. A car received a big boot-stamp imprint in its hood as he bounded over the first screeching, horn-blaring obstruction, landed atop a taxi, leapt into the right lane, bounced off the top of a gaudy SUV, and sprinted along the roof of a bus.

It was a valiant effort, for sure; there was even a wild swing from the horizontal bar of a traffic signal post, and resultant somersaulting flight, but there was absolutely no keeping up with the bird from the ground—not on that ground, and not for any of them, anyway.

Rock glared at the retreating figure for those scant few seconds he spent airborn, before the sound of crunching metal, shattering glass, and a wailing alarm marked the end of his pursuit. The parked sedan upon which he stood was vacant, and thankfully so. Its roof was crushed almost fully down beneath his feet.

Onlookers stared, but no one really bothered stopping. The scene wasn't that out of the ordinary for the locals, apparently.

The white primate stood there for a moment, just shaking his head with a generally peeved look. He said nothing, however, and soon enough hopped back to the sidewalk and wandered toward the nearest member of his party, resigned to not waste any more effort with a pointless chase.



Meanwhile, back at the scene of the other near-scuffle, Dr. Henshin remained some distance away from the whole ordeal, looking entirely grumpy and constipated as he sat atop his fancy, flying luggage.

"I think it is important for you all to know that you have terrible taste in adversaries," he lectured darkly and with great disappointment. "There's no way you'll receive serious heroic acclaim if your sworn enemy is some... teenager in a hoodie."

He spat those words as if they were poison on his tongue. Nevermind that most of the people around him were in fact teenagers. (At least none of them wore hoodies.)

"Hmph," Doc snorted, as if unconvinced (but probably more because Hoji had a point). "Well, we need to kick that obstacle like a bad habit. As soon as we unpack, I'll see what I can find out about your new friend."

He went on frowning and glowering and glaring and making sour faces at things and random people for a while. (He had been touchy ever since the previous night, when his sleep had been interrupted. He'd likely get over it as soon as he dragged everyone out for a pleasant lunch at Cracker Drum or something of the sort, though. Old people always love that crap.)