There was a scream down an alley. Action Figure Man™ sped to the rescue. He stumbled upon a woman being accosted by a man with undeclared intent. AFM took the corner into the alley at top speed, barreling into the man, allowing the woman to escape. In the tangle of limbs that lie on the cold, dirty ground, the assailant, weapon already drawn, attacked. AFM was caught off guard, and the knife cut a shallow nick into his plastic molded exterior. Angered, AFM took a mighty spring-loaded swing at his attacker, decking him solidly across the jaw. AFM smiled smugly to himself, knowing full well that one shot was all he needed.
As he exited the alley, the victim ran up to him hysterically screaming her thanks. Then she sobered, remembering how he'd been slashed in her stead. She took his arm, crying, "You poor thing! Let me have a look at this."
AFM gritted his teeth as she screamed and fainted. He looked at his sliced arm. Not bad, he thought. He took the unconscious perpetrator's knife and held it in a nearby trashfire until it glow dull red. Then he melted the wound shut, leaving his molten skin smoothed over it. At least he didn't have a gun, AFM thought. Covering up nicks is one thing. Filling in holes is another. He then discarded the knife in the fire. He picked up the unconscious female, and carried her to the hospital for observation.
"Action Figure Man!" the nurse at the ER desk read from his chest.
"Don't worry," AFM assured her. "She's just had a bit of a fright. She should be coming around soon. Just look after her, make sure she gets home safe, files a police report, that sort of thing."
"Police report? Hey, wait, where are you going?"
AFM turned at the sliding ER doors. "To break evil," he delivered coldly, as practiced a thousand times before, while the door slid shut on him.
AFM ran into the night, ready to dispense injection-molded justice left and right. One of the great things about being plastic was that AFM required no sleep. He wouldn't know how to if he needed to. With no food needed, and no clothing save that which was painted onto his body, he managed to live a pretty day to day life. Of course, not being able to sleep was also a big problem. He was left with a lot of daylight on his hands, as most crime occurred after dark. So, to maintain a home base more than a living space, he'd taken a job at a plastic toy factory. It was a great place to pick up spare parts. It wasn't really a good place to keep a secret identity. Especially not when he drove up to work every day on the Action Cycle™ which had his initials clearly cast on it. So everyone knew he was a plastic superhero. It wasn't exactly a secret, anyway. Who wouldn't notice something a little odd about a 6'5" plastic guy who walks around talking about breaking evil?
Plastic life was strange, granted.