Velocipede Excelsior the seven hundred ninety-sixth and seventy-two hundredths rolls up to the scene in the Oily Thunde
r, at least depending on your answer to the Ship of Theseus. Since the Mekhala Mad Dash, every single inch of the car has been vaporized and replaced, just as most of the bones in his body have been broken several times over. He takes off his helmet--a dress helmet this time, he knows what he's about--and "hup"s his way over the side of the door. Landing, he flails wildly to keep his balance, feet somehow sliding whenever they attempt to find purchase. After far too long at this, he finally catches himself, standing awkwardly on his toes for some reason, and then straight yeets the keys over his shoulder, where a band of durats (the Pit Crew) appear to valet his car away. He pushes his hair back with the palm of his gloved hand ooch ouch the velcro and snaps some finger phasers at the assembled.
He's wearing almost a robe, golden triangles generously arrayed at the top and swirls and whirls all the way down. It opens in the center to reveal a skintight black body suit that would probably be frankly c*te on any other athlete but unfortunately reveals too many knobbly bits where bones healed funny. Here, away from the censorship of the public eye, he's got a cigarette and he's smoking it because that's what cool guys do.
Excelsior takes one look at the attention he's getting and, entirely out of character, pushes past towards the relative safety ahead. PSYCHE! He whirls back, spinning on wheels hidden in the heels of his shoes. He holds up one fist dramatically. Hopefully that looked as good to everyone as he hoped it would when he practiced.