It was late at night when El Sasquatcho exited the Gotham Taco Hut, a lovely franchise, one of many serving the greater Gotham area. True, it was a rather typical taco joint, one step above a pushcart with a questionable Health Department score, but he’d be damned if they didn’t stuff the best beef burritos in town. And speaking of stuffing burritos, the tall furry youth couldn’t seem to wait to get back to his El Camino before lifting up the bottom of his brown & black sugar skull luchador mask, cramming half his first one into his pie-hole. Manners be damned, those things were [i]awesome[/i]. He wrapped his other savory, beef-filled, hot and tangy sauce dripping, soft flour tortilla encased bit of loveliness (with just the right amount of stock infused yellow rice inside) up in its takeaway bag, and tossed it into the passenger side of his vehicle. Leaving the burrito hanging in his mouth, he dug around in his pocket for keys, and readied himself to depart. He had an appointment to keep, you see. El Sasquatcho opened the driver’s side door to his car, affectionately referred to as his “Vato Truck”, and ripped the rest of the burrito from his face. Pausing for a moment to chew and swallow his gargantuan bite before hopping in and driving off, he was surprised to hear his name being called behind him, from outside the building he had just exited. “Hector! Mr. Delacruz, is that you?” this from a man in his late 30’s, carrying two large takeaway bags himself. Trying not to jostle them too hard, he jogged up to the masked man, pausing himself to admire the handiwork of his luchador mask. “Not bad, at all, Hector! I love that you’ve kept up your artistic pursuits. La Muerte’s Luchador, eh? But the colors… it’s not quite traditional, is it? Does it mean something, Hector?” “No soy Hector Delacruz,” began the masked youth. “Soy El Sasqua..” he was abruptly cut off by the man, honestly not giving a crap for the theatrics. “Your name is Hector Delacruz, Squatch-boy. You were the only native speaker from my Spanish Language courses who always got a B. You drive the same shitty El Camino you did in your junior year. I just need a favor for a sec, ok [i]Hector[/i]? “Yo, Senor Martinez, don’t knock my ride, eh? The Vato Truck and me’ve been through a lot together. Whaddyou need? I got somewhere to be.” The man’s voice softened, and he smiled warmly. “I’m sorry, Hector. And please, call me Luis. You’re not my student anymore. I like you. I actually want to offer you a job. It’s part time, but the pay’s ok and it’s actually really fun. You’re keeping up with your art, I see?” “A little.” “Well, make it a lot.” Luis set a bag down and handed over a business card, “The Gotham Cultural Arts Center needs someone to help out with Latino Folk Arts. Thanks to your …nonstandard upbringing… and natural talent with art, they’re taking my recommendation. You’d report to me, and I promise I won’t ask much of you. Deal?” Luis Martinez indeed had taken a liking to the young man. Inquisitive and dramatic by nature, his otherwise horrifying life hadn’t seemed to destroy his spirits. Adversity, of which he’d seen a lot, pressured him to excel. It was a trait that the elder teacher admired and wanted to nurture. Now that Hector was out of school, Luis wanted to make sure the younger man was putting his life to good use, helping people, pursuing his gifts. “Just think about it, ok?” El Sasquatcho nodded his head. “Sure thing, Mr. Mar… Luis. I’ll call you tomorrow, we can set something up.” In truth, he was relieved to get the offer. He’d been living out of his car for the past week, showering at gyms and depleting his meager savings for selfish things like food and toothpaste. Depending upon what happened later that evening, he may very well find himself in dire need of a stable income. “So, umm, I’ve got an excuse, but what are you doing in this neighborhood at this time of night?” The teacher shook his head. “My wife, Liz? She’s pregnant. Like, about to pop, pregnant. I’m out here to pick up tacos and scotch. Lots of tacos. Lots of scotch.” The mention of alcohol earned him a quizzical look. “No no, only the tacos are for Liz. The scotch – that’s all for me. Because of Liz. I love her, but sometimes, man… Sorry, would you please look after my bags of tacos while I run across the street to the liquor store?” The young man nodded, smiling broadly, and put the bags in the back of his El Camino. While his former mentor walked across the blacktop to purchase his necessary libations, El Sasquatcho chewed thoughtfully on his burrito, examining the massive number of tacos in his car. He was unsure how one person, however pregnant, could possibly consume all of that food in one sitting. By the time he had almost figured out the logistics of such an undertaking, accounting for wind resistance and taco sauce viscosity, Luis had returned from across the street. He carried two bottles of what looked like fairly decent quality single-malt scotch. “Thanks, Hector.” He tucked one bottle under his arm and reached for the taco bags. A repeating tone issued from in his jacket pocket, sounding quite a bit like the intro to Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Baby Got Back”. Luis sighed, reached into his pocket and answered his cell. “Yeah baby, I got your taco.. what? WHAT!? It’s coming NOW? Holy shit, sweetie! We’re having a baby! …no, no sorry, you’re having a baby. Yes, I know, the pushing and the small spaces and the … I know. Yes, honey. Yes. I’m sorry. Sorry. Ye… SORRY. You’re having the baby, I’m just the asshat who did this to you. Uh-huh. Ok. Look, you want me to meet you there, or.. ? Oh, sorry for interrupting. Again. …oh, goddamnit… NOTHING SWEETIE! My little churrita. Luis loves his Lizzie-bear. Ok, I’m coming to get you now.” He pocketed his cell, and shoved the scotch into El Sasquatcho’s arms. “I’ve got to go, Hector! We’re having a baby! Ha!! I gotta run. Call me about that job, Hector!” Luis ran to his car, totally forgetting about his food, abandoning his booze in the hands of a nineteen year old in the middle on the night in front of a Taco Hut. El Sasquatcho remembered less interesting nights, that’s for sure. He finished his burrito, slid into his ride, and peeled away into the dark night. [hr] El Sasquatcho was not the first to arrive, so he had a bit of an audience for his reaction when he first saw Batman and Wildcat standing together to greet them. Now that the circumstances were slightly less tragic, he allowed his fanguyishness to crack open, just a bit. Tacos in one hand, booze in the other, he sprinted three steps and fell to his knees, sliding several feet and rotating fully once. He came to rest about a meter from the feet of the established and respected Heroes, proclaiming loudly and proudly: “Senor Batman, Senor Wildcat, it is a great honor to meet you formally, sirs. I am El Sasquatcho, Sangre de El Santo, the last of my people, and I present you offerings of Tacos! And Scotch!” The silence was oppressive. He heard crickets. Really. [hr] Inside, he respectfully listened to everything his new mentors had to say. Taking his new surroundings in, he was amazed that such a place existed for his benefit. This location was more than he could have hoped for; a place for him to train and do some real good in the world. “This will make an excellent Squatchcave…” he breathed quietly. If he learned anything from his failure a week prior, or by looking over his teammates, it was that he could not count on being the strongest, nor the toughest anymore. Certainly not the most experienced combatant. While he did not have to exercise much to maintain his natural strength and stamina, the thing he could do, and swore he would as often as possible, was work on his fighting technique and stealth. These two Heroes were the ones to do it, and this place was perfect. He swore on his ancestors, lest he be forgotten after death, that he would make himself into a Luchador worthy of his people. He became positively gleeful when the new outfits were presented. He could easily tell which one was his; some jackass draped a shag carpet over the mannequin before putting the armor on. “Ha ehfrigging ha, people.” He sarcastically blurted out as the others went to their own uniforms. Inspecting his, El Sasquatcho’s wry expression evaporated. This guy had him set up in articulated combat gear, armored, made to protect and move around in. No expense spared, it looked like. Matte black and brown – the same color brown as half of his mask. The headgear, though, was a source of sincere gratitude. The exact styling of his beloved luchador mask, otherwise unassuming, but designed to be protective. Careful to hide his face in the transition, he slipped it on. Oh, the headbutts he could administer with this on…. Yes. Quite acceptable. “HEY GUYS, LOOK AT…” was that his voice? The mask augmented and amplified his voice, making him roar like an angry hippodemon. He’d have to learn how to control this, but by God this was neat. He didn’t bother waiting to get to the changing rooms. While the other Titans filed out of the room, The Man With No Shame, headgear still masking his face, dropped trou and began fitting into his new gear on the spot. The impatient, disapproving looks of his mentors was met with a shrug, and an explanation distorted by his mask’s vocal scrambler to a harsh growl: “I know, I know. It’s like the 70’s down there.”