The days that followed the incident with Mr. Freeze, El Sasquatcho became more sedate. True, he hadn't been present for the skirmish. That is part of what bothered him. The incident caused the loss of teammates, be it by injury or their own choice to withdraw. 

The team was weaker now. 

Perhaps if he were present, things would have gone differently. Some of the amazing luck to which he was accustomed could have been of use to the Titans. For that matter, another body out there, one with heightened strength and unnatural durability, would have been especially useful. But no, he was Dance Dance Revolutioning and eating wings. There was a bit of guilt there. Maybe he could have stopped his new friends from getting hurt. Logically, he understood that there was no way he could have known what would happen. Emotionally, he believed that logic could suck it. He was absent, and took others away with him. 

Again, he threw himself into training. More time in the ring, more time fighting the 'bots. His Wrestling was still magnificent, and he endeavored to put polish on his Capoeira. Fun was still to be had, he did believe that recreation was important to the fighting spirit. Necessary, even. But now he was part of something grander than himself: An idea, a concept. A group of young people living in Robin's honor. 

El Sasquatcho was a Luchador, from a line of proud fighters going back for many generations. He was the of the Blood of The Saint, a proud follower of Dama Muerte, in all of her wisdom and splendor. He was born into a gift that few in this world would ever have. It was time to curtail childish things and step more into responsibility. 

When he wasn't training, he was teaching classes at the Cultural Arts Center. When he wasn't doing either, he caught a couple hours of sleep. It was a brutal schedule. After a few days of this, he awoke one morning, looked about his still spartan quarters, and came to a conclusion. 

"El Sasquatcho needs some color in his rooms." 

He rose, stretched, and popped his joints in several places. Grabbing a towel and a pair of boxer shorts (with smiley faces on them), he plodded out to the showers. In hindsight, he probably should have worn more than just his mask. 

Several minutes later, the hairy wrestler emerged from the showers and wandered into the common area for breakfast. Thankfully, his undergarments were on this time. A bowl of oatmeal and fruit down, he settled into another day of training. More time with the 'bot, more time practicing his form. More time pushing himself. 

By early afternoon, he decided that it was time for a break. After a quick snack, and a lengthy inform to Wildcat, the remaining team, and post-it on the fridge concerning his expected whereabouts, El Sasquatcho roared away in his El Camino. 

He returned about two hours later, carrying cans of paint and a television. He arrived almost exactly two minutes after the latest team member was presented in costume. 

"Hola, team. El Sasquatcho has gone by his storage unit to gather some belongings. Hey, New Guy! You know how to use a wrench? C'mon, El Sasquatcho needs a hand with something!"