Years from now, looking back over his career as a Luchador and exponent of Batman, El Sasquatcho would make a note of this moment. Yes, the greying (but very powerful) masked Warrior of Justice, wielding a traditional pen in his massive, shaggy hand, sat to scribe his memoirs. A graceful hand, writing in flowing Español, detailed the events of the day. 

While not the most unusual thing that had happened to him in his lifetime, it was indeed noteworthy when a young lady he'd just met disappeared into a hand mirror and re-emerged from his left eyeball. He shuddered reflexively; while maintaining a cool and collected exterior during the actual event, the memory of its first occurrence was a little traumatic. He grew accustomed to the technique of instant travel via reflective surfaces - [i]any[/i] reflective surface, no matter how personally invasive, but that first time was uniquely disturbing. 

From his study, the elder Luchador gazed out into the yard, his little grandsasquatchos (who had yet to acquire their own identities, and wore family masks in the interim) playing games involving flying off of turnbuckles and suplexing each other off of a trampoline. Yes, one day they would be mighty, as were their parents and grandparents. Dama Muerte had blessed them, or so it was written, for the actions of their progenitor and his steadfast dedication to his family and their ideals. 

The venerable Lucha Livre wrestler rose from his chair and breathed the prideful sigh of an accomplished family man. His hair, now worn in a preternaturally thick, grey braid, emerged from the back of his full coverage sugar skull mask and swung loosely at his waist. If anything, El Sasquatcho looked bulkier; stronger, more defined - as if age improved him like wine instead of turning him to vinegar. He recalled, if but for another moment, his youthful days with the Titans. Decisions made, feelings processed, friends made and lost. 

Rosto de la Muerte, had he really been that green? 

El Sasquatcho shook off the thought. Of course he was; they [i]all[/i] were. Time and experience made better warriors of them all, those that survived and stuck with it. Training and willingness to keep each other alive. Trial by combat against deadly adversaries that kids like them never should have been thrown at. They really weren't ready back then. Not at first. Their training should have started much earlier, and since that time the world had become a much more dangerous place. 

With precisely this in mind, the mighty El Sasquatcho, Sangre de los Santos, Patriarch of his Line and Leaguesman of Stature turned and walked out to play with the youngest generation of upcoming Familia Delacruz Luchadors. 

[hr]

PRESENT DAY:

"Umm... madame?" began El Sasquatcho in a calm, respectful tone, "That was [i]muy[/i] impressive, the eyeball jumping thing. If you would be kind enough to excuse El Sasquatcho, El Sasquatcho needs to go into the bathroom and get all of his Heebies and Jeebies out before he blows burritos across the hotel. Pardon, mi amiga."  

With as much dignity as he could muster, the burly, hairy, masked man retreated to the suite's lavatory. While one could not see the involuntary shudder of revulsion, they could clearly hear the exclamation of "Yeck!" from behind the door. He returned shortly thereafter to meet the rest of his team.