Iron Man didn't even get the chance for a flippant remark about inevitability before he was turning his face instinctually away from the noise and lifting away from the ground, far enough over Cap's head to blind the shooters with a tic-tic-tic stuttered flash. It was painfully bright, buying Iron Man the time to swoop down and gather two of the men under his arms to heave up and then drop from a joint-damaging height. They wouldn't be eager to get back up again, but if they fought through it they would certainly be a lot slower.
"There's a warrant for your arrest," he finally managed to greet casually, but there wasn't room for discussion. A bent and sickly figure had appeared at the top of the stone staircase leading into the bank, and raised one gnarled hand with a look of twisted pleasure and determination. Every body that Steve and Iron Man had put down was easily on their feet again, grabbing weapons within their reach and starting into the fight again before they even had their balance. No wonder there was such a big chorus line for this robbery; they were recycling. "After the old guy. It's old guy, you, people who steal newspapers," Iron Man quantified, prioritizing the arrests with a flat hand scaling downward. What else was he supposed to say? Sweet letter, meant to write back, my bad?