11-11-2008, 12:44 AM
The small Catholic church had stood in Kings Row for decades. It had been declared "off limits" by Mr. King himself, and many of the gangs had
kept to that habit after the old gangster had passed on. Those that didn't found the local priest, Father Tomas, to have a will of iron, a knowledge of
security technology, and several superheroes on speed dial. Failing that, the old man had served his country during the Viet Nam War, and there were several
Skulls who had the bruises and broken bones that said that just because a man took the collar, didn't mean he was slow or weak.
Father Tomas preferred not to hurt the local malcontents, but rather to preach as Christ had. But sometimes you had to get their attention before they would
listen to the Word. And he couldn't have them digging up the bones of the deceased for those ludicrous masks. For the most part, though, they left him
alone. Only a few of them gave him any real trouble, and most of them had stopped with the addition of a particular, green-masked hero to his congregation.
Numero Catorce had lived in the barrio of Kings Row for several years now. He had helped the sexton, a retired policeman named Henry Murphy, and had
devoted time to the neighboring community center. The people of the neighborhood knew Numero Catorce, trusted him, and welcomed him. Several of matriarchs - a
group that Henry referred to as the "Matchmaker Mafia" - had been trying to get him to marry their granddaughters for several months. The
luchador had managed to avoid any insult without making any commitment to engagement. So far.
Mrs. Klauswitz, Father Tomas' housekeeper, had pointed out a small article on the front page of the newspaper at breakfast. Some time in the night, Numero
Catorce had helped defeat the strange doppelgangers of the Freedom Phalanx, and had been promoted to top Security Clearance. A brief award ceremony was
scheduled for later in the week, and many of the community were planning to take the train to Atlas City in support of their neighbor. In the article, Numero
Catorce was polite, but brief, telling the reporter that he was just doing his duty. Since that point, no one had seen Numero Catorce.
Father Tomas knew this was not unusual. The luchador often dropped out of sight. He would throw himself at a gang or a criminal organization for
weeks, often not making public appearances and only communicating with his contacts. But he always returned, greeting people after Mass with a smile and a
willingness to help. It was not a moment to worry; Numero Catorce would return.
As if summoned by his thoughts, the front door of the church opened, revealing the broad shoulders and green mask of the luchador. He paused at the
far end of the church, scanning the sanctuary for people. At the moment, no one was in view except for Father Tomas. As he completed his survey of the room,
Father Tomas saw his shoulders slump. Something was wrong.
He quietly approached the hero. "Numero?" he said. The big man did not respond. Lowering his voice, the priest tried again, using a name that only he
knew, "Roberto?"
Numero Catorce's face swung to face his, and Father Tomas saw sadness and exhaustion. "What happened?" he asked gently.
Numero Catorce started to answer, but shook his head. "I ... it is hard to say, Father." He looked away, towards the stand of devotional candles.
"Por favor, give me a few minutes. I will tell you then."
Father Tomas nodded and excused himself to his office. He had many conversations with Numero Catorce there, on topics diverse in their subject matter and tone.
He knew the hero would find him, after his need for communion with God was fulfilled.
As the priest departed, Numero Catorce quietly walked to the devotional altar. He removed a candle from the box, depositing a small donation in return, and lit
it. Crossing himself, he knelt and sought to form his thoughts into order from the disturbing chaos that they had been in since the fight with Neuron the
previous night.
He had first glimpsed a name in the graveyard where he and the others had fought Chimera. There had been little time then, and he had discounted it as
coincidence. But then, there was the look of surprise on Bobcat's face as he had faced her. She had said nothing, but he knew that his presence had
unnerved her. Even confronted with Silicon Sabre's claws and Quicksilver Nano's invulnerability, Bobcat had chosen to focus her most ferocious attacks
on Numero Catorce, knocking him down to the ground multiple times with no show of letting up.
It had puzzled him. What could be so infuriating or disconcerting as to send her into such a rage? He knew, from the briefings, that Bobcat was a feral
berserker, but this was a focused attack, not the flurries of the wild beast she was rumored to be. And why him? Nano spent as much time close in with the
enemy as he did, and HE-AT had flung dozens of the Praetorian's servants around the battlefield with her energy blasts. But every time she turned towards
him, lashing out to counter his blows, Bobcat's eyes had held a glint of rage.
He had found his answer in Neuron's base. A wrong turn had thrown him into a crowd of the villain's mechanical men. He had felled a number of them,
before a small trophy case had caused him to drop his guard, and a steel haymaker had dropped him like a stunned steer. Sr. Bishop had pulled him free with a
teleport, bringing him to where the others had found Neuron. Afterward, when clearing the base, he had opened the case and slipped the thing he had seen free.
He pulled it free from his belt and studied it in the warm glow of the candles. It was almost the same color green, but it had been darkened by what had
clearly been electrical burns. There was dried blood around the nose. As if a high-speed punch had shattered the septum of the original wearer. It was,
undeniably, a green luchador's mask. The resemblance to his own was frightening.
Numero Catorce knew the "rules" of Praetorian Earth, and had no doubt that this mask belonged to a criminal. One that had clearly caused enough
trouble that both Bobcat and Neuron knew him on sight. It was both disturbing and strangely gratifying.
Who was this Roberto Sifuentes? What did he call himself in that strange, twisted funhouse mirror world? Was he driven to crime by the events that had sent
Numero Catorce to Paragon City, or had he been the last in an infamous legacy that stretched as far back as the heroes that wore La Mascara Verde here? Did he
curse God for his life, or did he thank Him for the skill to hurt others?
Numero Catorce shook his head. He pulled his rosary from his belt and began counting off the beads. The simple ritual slowly calmed him. There but for the
grace of God go I, he thought, and sent up thanks for that grace as he did every day.
----------------
I needed an IC reason for Numero to bail on the fight against Tyrant, so I pulled this out of the air. Finally, Numero Catorce is 50.
.
Ebony the Black Dragon
http://ebony14.livejournal.com
"Good night, and may the Good Lord take a Viking to you."
kept to that habit after the old gangster had passed on. Those that didn't found the local priest, Father Tomas, to have a will of iron, a knowledge of
security technology, and several superheroes on speed dial. Failing that, the old man had served his country during the Viet Nam War, and there were several
Skulls who had the bruises and broken bones that said that just because a man took the collar, didn't mean he was slow or weak.
Father Tomas preferred not to hurt the local malcontents, but rather to preach as Christ had. But sometimes you had to get their attention before they would
listen to the Word. And he couldn't have them digging up the bones of the deceased for those ludicrous masks. For the most part, though, they left him
alone. Only a few of them gave him any real trouble, and most of them had stopped with the addition of a particular, green-masked hero to his congregation.
Numero Catorce had lived in the barrio of Kings Row for several years now. He had helped the sexton, a retired policeman named Henry Murphy, and had
devoted time to the neighboring community center. The people of the neighborhood knew Numero Catorce, trusted him, and welcomed him. Several of matriarchs - a
group that Henry referred to as the "Matchmaker Mafia" - had been trying to get him to marry their granddaughters for several months. The
luchador had managed to avoid any insult without making any commitment to engagement. So far.
Mrs. Klauswitz, Father Tomas' housekeeper, had pointed out a small article on the front page of the newspaper at breakfast. Some time in the night, Numero
Catorce had helped defeat the strange doppelgangers of the Freedom Phalanx, and had been promoted to top Security Clearance. A brief award ceremony was
scheduled for later in the week, and many of the community were planning to take the train to Atlas City in support of their neighbor. In the article, Numero
Catorce was polite, but brief, telling the reporter that he was just doing his duty. Since that point, no one had seen Numero Catorce.
Father Tomas knew this was not unusual. The luchador often dropped out of sight. He would throw himself at a gang or a criminal organization for
weeks, often not making public appearances and only communicating with his contacts. But he always returned, greeting people after Mass with a smile and a
willingness to help. It was not a moment to worry; Numero Catorce would return.
As if summoned by his thoughts, the front door of the church opened, revealing the broad shoulders and green mask of the luchador. He paused at the
far end of the church, scanning the sanctuary for people. At the moment, no one was in view except for Father Tomas. As he completed his survey of the room,
Father Tomas saw his shoulders slump. Something was wrong.
He quietly approached the hero. "Numero?" he said. The big man did not respond. Lowering his voice, the priest tried again, using a name that only he
knew, "Roberto?"
Numero Catorce's face swung to face his, and Father Tomas saw sadness and exhaustion. "What happened?" he asked gently.
Numero Catorce started to answer, but shook his head. "I ... it is hard to say, Father." He looked away, towards the stand of devotional candles.
"Por favor, give me a few minutes. I will tell you then."
Father Tomas nodded and excused himself to his office. He had many conversations with Numero Catorce there, on topics diverse in their subject matter and tone.
He knew the hero would find him, after his need for communion with God was fulfilled.
As the priest departed, Numero Catorce quietly walked to the devotional altar. He removed a candle from the box, depositing a small donation in return, and lit
it. Crossing himself, he knelt and sought to form his thoughts into order from the disturbing chaos that they had been in since the fight with Neuron the
previous night.
He had first glimpsed a name in the graveyard where he and the others had fought Chimera. There had been little time then, and he had discounted it as
coincidence. But then, there was the look of surprise on Bobcat's face as he had faced her. She had said nothing, but he knew that his presence had
unnerved her. Even confronted with Silicon Sabre's claws and Quicksilver Nano's invulnerability, Bobcat had chosen to focus her most ferocious attacks
on Numero Catorce, knocking him down to the ground multiple times with no show of letting up.
It had puzzled him. What could be so infuriating or disconcerting as to send her into such a rage? He knew, from the briefings, that Bobcat was a feral
berserker, but this was a focused attack, not the flurries of the wild beast she was rumored to be. And why him? Nano spent as much time close in with the
enemy as he did, and HE-AT had flung dozens of the Praetorian's servants around the battlefield with her energy blasts. But every time she turned towards
him, lashing out to counter his blows, Bobcat's eyes had held a glint of rage.
He had found his answer in Neuron's base. A wrong turn had thrown him into a crowd of the villain's mechanical men. He had felled a number of them,
before a small trophy case had caused him to drop his guard, and a steel haymaker had dropped him like a stunned steer. Sr. Bishop had pulled him free with a
teleport, bringing him to where the others had found Neuron. Afterward, when clearing the base, he had opened the case and slipped the thing he had seen free.
He pulled it free from his belt and studied it in the warm glow of the candles. It was almost the same color green, but it had been darkened by what had
clearly been electrical burns. There was dried blood around the nose. As if a high-speed punch had shattered the septum of the original wearer. It was,
undeniably, a green luchador's mask. The resemblance to his own was frightening.
Numero Catorce knew the "rules" of Praetorian Earth, and had no doubt that this mask belonged to a criminal. One that had clearly caused enough
trouble that both Bobcat and Neuron knew him on sight. It was both disturbing and strangely gratifying.
Who was this Roberto Sifuentes? What did he call himself in that strange, twisted funhouse mirror world? Was he driven to crime by the events that had sent
Numero Catorce to Paragon City, or had he been the last in an infamous legacy that stretched as far back as the heroes that wore La Mascara Verde here? Did he
curse God for his life, or did he thank Him for the skill to hurt others?
Numero Catorce shook his head. He pulled his rosary from his belt and began counting off the beads. The simple ritual slowly calmed him. There but for the
grace of God go I, he thought, and sent up thanks for that grace as he did every day.
----------------
I needed an IC reason for Numero to bail on the fight against Tyrant, so I pulled this out of the air. Finally, Numero Catorce is 50.
.
Ebony the Black Dragon
http://ebony14.livejournal.com
"Good night, and may the Good Lord take a Viking to you."
