Inspiration can come from the strangest of places. In this case, I was so bored out of my skull watching Mary Poppins Returns that I started thinking of how I'd write the story better.

This abomination is the result of that.

. . .

The Banks Family had lived in their London Townhouse for the past five generations, and according to the family patriarch (the honorable Humphrey Banks), they did not plan on moving out of Number 17 Cherry Tree Lane anytime soon, thank you very much. Why, even the idea was preposterous, enough to set the walrus-like mustache whiskers of Humphrey quivering with suppressed ire.

And so, even as the neighborhood took a turn for the worse, the Banks family remained. The buildings around them were abandoned or torn down, becoming dens for squatters and druggies and all sorts of undesirables, and the Banks family stayed. The old admiral's home, a local legend for the way he would fire off a cannon to mark the hour, became a safehouse for a group of Tottenham thugs, and still, the Banks family stayed.

Their home stood, an oddity in the run down neighborhood, well maintained and proud, speaking of a sort of quiet wealth that was rare in the modern day. Every day, Humphrey would climb into his venerable Volkswagen, fight with the engine for a few minutes, and then drive to the bank, where he would spend his days working for the institution that his family had worked at since his great-grandfather George Banks first started there. Then, he would drive back home, walk inside, and eat the dinner that his daughter-in-law had prepared. His grandchildren would spend entirely too much time on their phones, but what else was new with the younger generation, and Humphrey Banks would finally go to bed, content in knowing that the Banks family home would endure.

. . .

The first inkling Humphrey had of something going terribly wrong was the loud crash that woke him up. Blinking sleep from his eyes, the older man swung his feet over the edge of the bed and tucked his feet into a pair of worn, brown slippers and yawned. Had one of the children fallen out of bed again?

The tinkle of broken glass that he heard after that thought sent a shock through his system. The sound came from downstairs.

Burglars.

Mister Banks growled deep in his throat and reached under his bed, pulling out an unremarkable wooden box. Inside was the rifle that his father had bought for him when he was a lad. With fumbling fingers, Humphrey loaded the rifle, praying that it wouldn't be needed, that a bird had simply flown through a window or somesuch.

These were the thoughts that ran through Humphrey's mind as he slowly walked down the stairs, rifle nestled into his shoulder in a manner that he half remembered his father instructing him in. Nothing that he could see seemed out of place. He turned to move into the kitchen-

Pain. Humphrey went reeling, the rifle clattering out of his hands as something smashed him across the face.

"Make sure he doesn't get back up. T, you check upstairs." spoke a reedy voice. Welsh, by the sound of him, Humphrey noted absently with the part of his mind that wasn't panicking.

Lightning pain raced through his body again as someone kicked him in the stomach, then again, and again, until Humphrey felt like his whole body was on fire. He could tell that one of his ribs was broken at minimum. Coughing, he spat out a was of blood.

Roughly, someone jerked his head up. Humphrey found himself looking at a masked face, with only the eyes visible.

"Good evening Mister Banks. My thanks for inviting us into your home."

Humphrey tried to respond but only managed a low moan. The Welsh thug patted him condescendingly on the head before standing up.

"Sorry bout that. You know how it is Mister Banks, we can't have you shooting us. It's bad for business."

Swallowing, Humphrey managed to find his voice.

"What...do you...want?"

The masked criminal rocked back on the balls of his feet as Humphrey levered himself into a kneeling position.

"Well, for a start we'll be taking your very fine china. Antique, is it not? That'll fetch a pretty penny. But what we're really here for is your safe."

Humphrey took a shuddering breath in through his nose. The safe; of course. The entire neighborhood had seen it being installed not a week before. And no one buys a safe if they don't have valuable things to put inside of it.

The thug drew a pistol out from underneath his jacket and held it in one hand, not pointing at Humphrey but clear in it's presence.

"So. Are you going to cooperate?"

The glob of spit that Humphrey aimed at that man didn't hit him, unfortunately, but he felt it conveyed his intent well enough.

The other man laughed openly at that before backhanding Humphrey with the butt of his pistol. Once again, pain exploded through his skull. He might have blacked out for a second there. Regardless, when he came to, the venerable Mister Banks heard a sound that made his blood run cold.

Crying.

The children were sitting on the floor, whimpering, their mother, Linda with them, desperately trying to comfort them. The man with the reedy voice had his gun pointed at his daughter-in-law.

"I'm going to ask again. Nicely, one last time, Mister Banks. And if I don't like your answer," the gun shifted until it was pointing at little Michael "I'll shoot the brown haired one. Are you going to cooperate?"

Linda made a desperate, keening sound that Humphrey had only heard once before, on the day that they had been informed that Johnathon had died in Afghanistan. He swallowed roughly.

He was a proud man. A Banks. But this...this was something that he could not endure.

Humphrey opened his mouth to give the burglars the answer that they wanted...but just as he was about to speak, the door blew open. Humphrey could see the robbers tense, a loudclick echoing ominously throughout the room as the pistol was cocked.

"No one come in! I swear, I'll blow the kid's brains all over the-" the man found himself unable to finish his sentence as a line of red light flashed through the open door, stabbing through the man's hand like a bolt of lightning. Before the pain had even registered to the Welsh thug, the line of red light continued, flashing across the room to similarly disarm the other two burglars.

The three men screamed, holding their ruined hands. One of them, a large man wearing a hoodie, was apparently tough enough to ignore the pain somewhat and began scrabbling around for his dropped weapon.

"Tsk...wouldn't do dat if I was you."

Humphrey blinked his eyes. Striding through the door was a...man. A blue man with a metallic mohawk attached to his head. His teeth glinted in the light of the incandescents, his mouth smiling even though his eyes spoke a different story. A zipping sound heralded the arrival of that same red flash of light as it flung itself towards the strange man, resolving into the form of an arrow, floating in the middle of the air.

The man clapped his hands together.

"Ain't this so much better when only one of us has a weapon? Much more peaceable like. Sorry to bother you three with your job, but y'see, I've been hired to look after these little uns. Can't have em dying on my on my first day." The man's smile broadened. "And I'd hate to get the walls all dirty with blood; don't wanna make a bad impression on her, see. So, if'n you'd be so kind, haul your sorry ass...uh...behinds on outta here and don't come back, a'ight?"

The entire room, children, thugs, Linda, and Humphrey stared at the blue man in shock for several long moments before finally, the moment was broken by the Welsh thug that had threatened Humphrey earlier.

"Who the fuck are you?"

The blue man's smile dimmed momentarily at the foul language, eyes flicking to the children, before returning in full force. He spread his arms and bowed slightly.

"You don't know who I am? What, you can't tell just by looking at me?"

The man whistled, and the arrow zoomed out of sight, returning a split second later with a floral handbag. A floral handbag that looked awfully familiar to Humphrey...

"Who am I? I'm Mary Poppins, y'all!"