"ONE! TWO! THREE!"
The bell rang, and while that would normally be fought by raucous shouts, tonight there was only silence. No sound would drown out the breaking of Milagro's heart.
He weakly tried to stand, but could only prop himself up on one elbow. He saw his adversary, beaming to his followers. Two masked minions reaffixed his royal purple cloak.
"You fought very well, young man. Your sovereign is impressed."
Even in defeat, Milagro showed defiance. "You are not my sovereign. One day, I shall have your mask."
The victor idly put his hand up to his head and felt the gold plush crown that was stitched to his bright blue mask. "I think not, my friend. I believe the crown shall stay where it is."
"Not that sham," the loser rasped. "Your true mask. The one I should have taken four years ago, when I defeated you. The mask of El--"
No one else was close enough to hear the name Milagro was about to speak, but that did not stop his opponent from kicking him in the head.
The attack enraged the técnico in the audience, and even his own followers seemed taken aback. He knew he had to regain control...fortunately, control was something he was very good at.
He raised his right arm and pointed skyward. "Look, my subjects!" he shouted. He had no microphone, but his booming voice carried throughout the arena. "Look at the poor, broken man who lies at my feet! This could be any one of you, or all of you! Know tonight, that this is what happens to those who oppose the will of the Rudo King!"
His own supporters gave a cheer, and the rest seemed to back down. There were a few still ready to fight, but they recognized that the odds were not in their favor. Rudo King motioned for his huge manservant, El Volcán, to enter the ring.
"I sentence this one to exile," he said, motioning to Milagro with his foot. "Get rid of him." El Volcán nodded, and effortlessly hoisted the fallen hero onto his shoulder.
Two hours later, police found Milagro--bloody, bruised, unconscious--just inside the boundary between the luchadores' domain and Shepherd's Cross neighborhood.
"Shit," one of them said. "Call the hospital; tell 'em we got a luchador down."
"Another one?" the second asked. "We've been getting these about once every other month." He looked down the street, toward the arena at the center of the closed-off neighborhood. "We've gotta do something about this soon."
The other cop held up his arm. "Slow down, kid. There's a lot of reasons why, but the short answer is...we don't get involved in Ciudad Máscara."
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