[center][img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/841663747940417597/1048790890803634186/Untitled-6.png[/img][/center][hr][color=yellow]G M  E V E N T  # 1 [sup][sub][sup]1[/sup]/[sub]2[/sub][/sub][/sup][/color]
[sup][color=silver]Waterside Plaza, Manhattan, NYC[/color][/sup]

Mortimer Norris watched in disbelief as his heist descended into the worst clusterfuck he'd ever encountered in his criminal career. The big, dumb idiot in the truck had been bad enough, but the hasty intervention of New York's spandex enforcers just fouled the entire operation beyond recovery. They had planned for such things, of course. You don't pull a job in broad daylight on the streets of the Big Apple without expecting a grandstanding cape or two to make themselves known. No, it wasn't the [i]presence[/i] of the heroes that royally fucked things up for him and his crew; it was the ridiculously low response time of not one, not two, but [i]six[/i] costumed do-gooders. 

They had planned the time and place of the heist specifically because it offered them the greatest time between initiating the assault and escaping before the law or the vigilantes could show up. Mort's employer, the Big Man, had even accounted for the fact that the Fantastic Fuckers would be giving a planned interview during the job. Yet, the little shits had arrived in record time, and thanks to the Roxxon-hired freak who had been riding shotgun in the tanker holding Mort and his men up, the Four had managed to send things all to pot. 

To make matters worse, when Mort had tried to stealthily access the tanker's hold with a plasma cutter during the height of the melee, some black-haired cape he'd never seen or heard of before lifted the entire damned thing into the sky. And now, the career criminal was staring up at a skyscraper-sized weirdo wearing a fishbowl. As far as Mortimer was concerned, all six of the assholes could suck a big fat one.

To say that Mortimer Norris was having a very bad day would be an understatement. 

It was a day he was done with. Turning away from the rapidly dwindling fight, as more and more of his men were taken down, Mortimer attempted to flee the scene. Slowly and quietly as to draw little attention to himself, he began making his way through the maze of vehicles that had been abandoned at the start of the attack. As he reached the sidewalk and began to round the corner of an alley unnoticed, he nearly ran straight into one of his men exiting that same byway. 

"The fuck are you doing down here?" Mort demanded, his usually calm and assured demeanor completely shredded by the events of the last few minutes. Now he had a turncoat to deal with. "Whatever, forget it. We're getting out of here."

Mortimer stepped past the man and tapped the rifle he gripped. "Make yourself useful and make sure no one follows, yeah?" 

"Goddamned wankers," Mortimer muttered as he entered the alleyway. He made it barely four steps before he felt the heavy butt of an automatic rifle collide with the base of his skull, and the world went dark.

Underneath the illusionary form of the armed criminal Mortimer had run into, the masked man known as Mysterio gave a slight grin.

Mortimer Norris was assuredly having a [i]bad[/i] day.