07: Forget It, Jake... (Rudo King)

(Translated from Spanish.)

"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."

06: Can You See Me At All? (Nowhere Man)

Miranda Clyburne instinctively curled up against the radiator when she heard the footsteps. When she felt the hand against her head, she tried to turn away...but of course she couldn't go very far, tied up as she was. She felt the hand pull the blindfold away from her eyes.

Miranda kept her eyes closed--she'd heard the stories about what happens if a kidnapper sees your face.

"Not this again," a male voice said. "I'm not going to kill you. I don't even have a weapon."

Slowly, Miranda opened her eyes. Once they adjusted to the light, she saw a tall, blonde man wearing a sand-colored suit, black gloves, and a wolfish grin.

"Good news, Miss Clyburne," he said. "The ransom has come through already. The police should be here to pick you up soon."

A wave of relief washed over her, along with a spark of defiance. I can't let him get away with this, she thought. She made a point to study his features as much as she could.

He noticed her increased focus, but made no attempt to hide his face. In fact, he slowly turned to the side, to let her get a better look. "I'll even tell you my name, if you want. Not that it will help."

Miranda didn't understand what he meant by that, but she certainly didn't appreciate being toyed with. Not after all that she'd been through. "You bastard," she spat.

"I've been called worse. Now...just sit there and be good, and you'll be home in time for cocktails. Have a pleasant evening." He gave her a quick nod, and walked out the door.

Miranda went over the details in her mind. His blonde hair, parted to the left. The wicked glint in his brown eyes. His well-trimmed...wait, did he have facial hair? Not a full beard, not a mustache. Maybe he was clean-shaven.

She thought about his olive green suit and black gloves. No, that wasn't right. Brown? Brown suit, no gloves. But he must have been wearing gloves...the gloves were brown, and his hair was black. That must have been it. And his tie was...wait. Was he wearing a tie?

Miranda began to panic as more and more of the details slipped away. Did he smile? Did he touch her? What had he said about her parents? Frustration and despair set in as she tried to hold onto even one thing that would help her identify her kidnapper.

When the police came ten minutes later, Miranda Clyburne was in tears...and she didn't know why.

05: Like-Minded People (The Crowd)

For a party that was seventeen guys and no girls, it was going pretty well.

Six of them were hanging out in the kitchen, next to the well-stocked fridge. They were talking about important current events, and washing down the conversation with Bud Light.

"If I had to?"

"If you had to, dude."

"I guess...Clooney."

The others laughed. "GAAAAAYYYY!" one of them shouted.

"You said if I *had* to! And don't tell me you wouldn't at least think about it!"

"..."

Over on the couch, four of them were playing video games, while another group of four waited their turn.

"BOOM! Suck it, Donkey Kong!"

"Dude, I have got to learn how to block someday."

"Ah, it's more fun like this. Makes the game go faster."

"This is no fair. I'd be schooling all of you if someone" --he jabbed an elbow to his left for emphasis-- "hadn't picked my guy. And if it wasn't for our stupid house rule where we always have to take different guys."

"What's that? I can't hear your whiny-ass complaining over the sound of my FALCON PUNCH!"

"Ahh! You dick!"

Meanwhile, over at the stereo, the remaining three were trying to pick the music.

"What next? Dave Matthews?"

"Dude, I will throw you right out the window."

"Yeah, I was kidding. Put on that Acid Magnet demo; that shit is legit."

"YES! Great call, dude. Remember that show we caught at the Pyramid last month? They fuckin' KILLED it!" He tried to replicate the lead singer's signature scream, and fell well short.

"Dude, you're flat."

"Dude, your mom's flat."

"OHH!" Two of them shared a high five, while the third frowned.

"OK, I don't even have time to go into all the ways that you're dumb."


At this time, the door opened, and an uninvited guest entered. He waited for a lull in the noise before he spoke.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'm looking for Troy Griffith."

Seventeen heads turned. "Yeah, what?" they asked.

04: His Own Little World (Mister Oblivious)

The place: Ng Street, two blocks away from BuzzGen--the hottest new advertising firm in the city. The time: 12:52, right at the end of the lunch break. Two of BuzzGen's rising stars walked to their office, returning from their meal at Andy's Andes.

"You know, I've never had Peruvian before...it's really good. You were right about that place," Danielle Chen said, just after checking her teeth for stray bits of lamb. "Where are we standing on the Price Industries account?"

Her co-worker, Samir Almasi, shook his head. "I told you, Danielle. I don't talk business outside of the office. I don't care if it does mean we can write off lunch as a business expense."

A man approached them from the other direction. He wasn't dressed like the others on their lunch break--his blue jeans, sneakers, and green short-sleeved shirt were an obvious clash with their business attire. He had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and a pair of Beats over his ears, the cord of which trailed down into his pants pocket. He looked down at his feet as he walked, his head bobbing lightly in time with whatever he was listening to.

"The rules are more complicated than that, Samir. Anyway, speaking of business...we'd better get back to the office before the boss has our balls for breakfast."

Samir rolled his eyes. "You watch too much Mad Men."

The man with the headphones kept moving, heading directly for Danielle and Samir. Most of the other sidewalk patrons moved around the man, but the advertisers were too engrossed in their conversation.

Danielle smiled--it was the same smile she usually saved for whenever Darren in Sales was fixing the copier. "What can I say, all those men in suits...mmm."

"I'm still trying to find something to fill the hole left by The Wire," Samir replied. "I've been enjoying True Detective, though."

At this time, the two paths crossed. Danielle spotted the on comer and stepped aside, but Samir was too late. The man in the headphones walked through him and didn't even seem to notice.

Samir turned around and yelled, "Hey! Watch where you're--" He trailed off when he realized what just happened.

walked through him

Samir froze, a rising sense of panic clutching at him. "Wha--who--" he sputtered.

Danielle got an excited look on her face. "I've heard of that guy! They say he--hang on, let me check." She cautiously put her hand against Samir's chest, and giggled when her arm passed through it completely.

"This is so cool!" she yelled, and started waving her arm through his body repeatedly. Samir tried to raise his hands as a defensive gesture, but they put up no more resistance than the rest of him.

"Stop that! What the hell is going on?" Samir instinctively reached for his anxiety medication, but of course his hand went right through his pocket and into his leg.

"Oh, don't be such a baby. The gang back at the office is going to love this." Danielle tried waving her arm through his torso again, only to have her hand bump against his arm.

Danielle frowned a little and said, "Looks like it wore off." Samir, on the other hand, sighed with relief.

03: Hard Bargain (Ernest Lackey)

The argument had going on for hours, and Ernie was beginning to lose his patience. "I'm not asking for the world here, Doctor. All I want is the knowledge that if I send you twenty guys, I'm going to get them all back--alive, all parts intact, and with their original genetic coding."

"That's preposterous!" Doctor Ernie-Forgot-His-Name-Already shouted. "What am I supposed to use for experimental subjects?"

"Put an ad on Craigslist, like any other self-respecting mad scientist," Ernie snapped back. "Or yourself; I don't give a damn. Just don't use my guys." He scratched the scar that cut across his nose. It hurt, but he was still proud of that scar. That was the fight where he landed three solid shots on the Cowboy--a record that, unlike his nose, would never be broken. "Now, about the safety regulations..."

"Safety regulations?" the other man yelled incredulously. "How much safety can one expect around open lava pits?"

"Don't give me that crap; we've been through this four times already. Guard rails, oxygen monitors, non-skid surfaces...the works. If one person gets so much as a scratch that wasn't put on them by a licensed hero, you'll be lucky to get a job as a mad janitor after I'm done with you."

The doctor snarled and screamed, "I've had enough of your impudence, fool!" and reached into his lab coat. Before he could grab whatever was in there, Ernie grabbed his arm and pinned it against the table. An outlandish device, unseen outside of comic books and steampunk photoshoots, clattered to the floor. Ernie scowled, grabbed the other man by his shirt, and pulled him in close.

"Listen, pal. I've lost count of how many people I've henched for--I was in the Red Trenches, for Christ's sake--so don't go waving your death ray around and expect me to be impressed. You either sign this contract, or you can run your goddamn volcano lair by yourself. Understand?"

He roughly tossed the scientist back into his chair, which nearly tipped over. Once he had settled, the mad doctor was clearly enraged...but he picked up the pen. "This isn't finished, Mr. Lackey. You'll pay for that."

"Yeah, yeah," the union leader replied. "Make sure to initial every page."

Back in his henchmen days, Ernie got beat up a lot. But when the union formed three years ago, he hung up his themed costume and put on a suit.

He hadn't lost a fight since.

02: Start on the Outside and Work Inward (Mister Manners)

Silence fell around the dinner table. Most of the guests were paralyzed with fear over what had just happened. None were willing to speak out and possibly draw their leader's ire.

There were two exceptions. One was the unfortunate target of the event, who held his hand over his right eye socket. The pain was tremendous, and blood poured out from under his hand...but he had been so shocked by the speed and severity of the act, he couldn't even scream.

The other was Reginald Wingate, whose calm expression was betrayed by the white-knuckle grip he held on a piece of silverware. Wingate held the utensil in front of his victim's face, giving him the unpleasant experience of staring at his own eye.

Reginald's voice was calm and cold as always, as if he didn't even notice the blood spattered all over his face.

"Tell me, young man. Does this look like a salad fork?"

01: Knock, Knock (Punchline)

"LIGHTS OUT!" yelled the guard, and the cellblocks in Lockwood Peninteniary went dark, one by one. The prisoners crawled into their bunks and settled down for a few hours of fitful sleep...except for Inmate #4221 (listed in prison records as "KUBELSKY, BENJAMIN--LIKELY ALIAS.")

Inmate #4221 calmly folded a page in the book he was reading and slid it under his bed, then lied back. His plan had taken months of setup, but his phone call earlier in the day set the final piece into motion. Nothing left to do but wait.

Within minutes, a thunderous impact came from the other side of the wall. A spider web of cracks formed on the concrete as it bulged inward. A second impact quickly followed, but the wall finally gave way on the third. Concrete and rebar exploded into the cell, clattering against the bars. Inmate #4221 looked up at the giant hole and saw that it was filled by Beacon City's chosen defender, the Cowboy.

Pieces of the wall crumbled in his hands as he clenched them. His face was almost as red as his signature bandana, and not even the wide brim of his Stetson could conceal the anger in his eyes. The Cowboy raised his fists and bellowed with rage...

"ORANGE WHOOOOOOO?!!!"

The prisoner smiled. "Orange you glad I didn't say banana?"

The Cowboy's anger slowly melted into confusion, and finally into the expression Inmate #4221 was most familiar with--annoyance. "You sumbitch," he muttered, and stomped out of sight.

Inmate #4221 stood up and walked toward the hole in the wall. "This," he said. "This is my best escape plan ever."