Life had become somewhat erratic for El Sasquatcho. In the days following the owlbeast attack, he had become withdrawn, even quiet, as if pondering over a great decision to be made. Those who were even vaguely acquainted with the jovial Luchador could tell that something was off. 

He spent most of his time away from the remaining team, busying himself with mundane tasks. There was still his legitimate work to be done with the Gotham Cultural Arts Center, which he approached with a sense of lackluster automation. He hadn't even bothered to unpack what little he owned fully, taking out only what he required for day-to-day use and replacing it again. 

If he wasn't at work, he was at the hospital, checking in on his people. If he wasn't at the hospital, he was training. If he wasn't training, he was back at Grant's Gym, picking through the damage for anything of use. (While at Grant's, he took the opportunity to gather a multitude of intact feathers. They were unique, and he was an artist, after all.) 

El Sasquatcho spoke comparatively little, and then mainly to the newcomer, Hero. Mostly curiosity about what he could do with automobiles. He was somewhat skilled at regular maintenance on his Vato Truck, could handle installations well enough, but working outside of a mod kit or standard part switch taxed his knowledge. Still, the conversations were mostly informal technical ones, spattered with varying bits of broken Spanish on either end. 

One visit to the hospital brought him into a rather strained conversation with Chester Prince, the younger Titan expressing his doubts and desire to leave the team. 

"Si si, Señor Ratboy. El Sasquatcho also has doubts. El Sasquatcho did not sign up to get his head removed from his torso by force, nor his intestines used for the double-dutch jumproping by some monologuing rudo. El Sasquatcho wanted to train with the best, and make the world better for himself and others. Still... there is uncertainty."

Shaking his still covered noggin, he continued, "Listen, if you want to leave the Titans, I have the understanding of your feelings. Do not cut us off, though. Keep in touch with El Sasquatcho. If things change, or someone comes after you, El Sasquatcho has a backup plan for us, ok? Ok, you make with the resting. El Sasquatcho will see you in a day or two."

The day progressed as days do, when one is in the process of rebuilding their life: Slowly and without mirth. This particular day had him mumbling something to his teammates about going out to get some air, maybe hit the Taco Hut nearby. He plodded down to his El Camino, the majority of his few possessions still within. With reverence, he patted the roof of the vehicle like one may a beloved pet, eased open the door, and swung himself inside. 

The engine roared to life, subsiding to its usual impressive mechanical purr. He slowly backed out of his parking space, and near-idled it to the edge of the lot, facing the street with apprehension. To his left, the way to the nearest Taco Hut. The right - the highway out of Gotham. The vehicle waited there for a long moment, owing to the indecision of its driver. 

In an instant of frustration, the Infamous El Sasquatcho, Blood of Saints, Titan of Gotham City, slammed his head into the steering wheel. The car responded by openly blaring its "La Cucaracha" horn into the evening air. The moment taking him, he did so more than once.

From the motel rooms, one might hear the slightly obnoxious, repetitive klaxon. [i][b]La Cucaracha, La Cucaracha... La Cucara, La Cuca, La, La, La, La, La, La Cucaracha, La Cucaracha...[/b][/i]

The engine noise roared to life again, quieting only with distance.