It took a moment for Jaime to register what Big Bird, 6 o'clock even meant, but by the time he recognized the familiar cape and cowl swooping onto the scene, the Scarab was well to work on the guy-hanging-on-from-behind problem. A testament to too much football watched, the bottoms of Jaime's plated shoes grew spikes--makeshift cleats more inclined to digging into concrete than a lawn. He dug in and gave a good backwards shove, slamming the short man against the dumpster just behind them. Twice.

Three times, then, until the grip was finally loose enough and Jaime could bend forward and throw him over his shoulder. He caught scrambling arms underfoot (cleated no more, much to the man's mercy) and held him in place while he took to targeting those still standing. It was a superhero sandwich of sorts, with the three remaining--and presently disarmed--men back to back to back, scowling and panting and cussing each other and the boys that had them surrounded, debating over who to tackle first. The shortie on the ground was of no help, only really supplying "ow" and "dammit", among other things.

When Jaime's fingers elongated to points with an overdramatic shing, they jumped. When said fingers crackled with pale blue electricity, they cussed and two of the three shoved their buddy forward with hardly an encouraging word, turning their attentions to the shadows at their backs. Two for the bird, one for the bug. Odds weren't really in their favor.