by Hitman 44077
The cleanup efforts in Mexico were nearly complete as King Faraday looked on. However, he wasn’t prepared for the news that was about to be presented to him. Two of the individuals who were searching the remains of the villa made their way to Faraday and gave their report. “You guys locate the prisoner in the crystal block?” Faraday asked the two men.
The two men looked at one another before one of the men responded. “We’ve searched extensively all around and inside the villa, but there’s no trace of the guy.”
Faraday grew annoyed. “What do you mean?” he asked, slightly ticked off.
“I mean, this is all we found,” said the other man said, showing him chunks of crystal they’d recovered.
“I don’t know how or when, but somehow the guy escaped,” the first man said.
“Damn it,” Faraday said as his voice trailed off. “Anyone know where he could have gone?”
“No,” the second man responded.
“Great. Just get back to work,” Faraday said, flustered.
There’s no telling where he could have gone, Faraday thought. And if he’s still out there, if he knows how to manufacture the drug, then this nightmare may continue. And if that’s the case, then God help us all.
Elsewhere, many miles away, Bane was near a beach, sitting on a rock. Near him was a suitcase. He used his nails to pull small slivers of glass from his eye, but finally he’d succeeded. There — that is the last of the glass, he thought coldly. And I am running low on Ambrosia. I do not know if Porter is still alive in the wake of events, but I know I must tread on. My suitcase is filled with cash I recovered from the last deal in Denton. It also contains Porter’s notes. That shall help me when the time comes to create another dose of Ambrosia.
Bane looked around and noticed a small unmanned boat near the beach docks. I know I need sanctuary to plan and perhaps even to assume Porter’s role. But I have enough time for that. Once I am at the level Porter was before the incident with the archer, I will return to the United States… and do as I will, Bane thought as he boarded the boat. Using oars, he managed to pull himself away from the beaches, away from the villa and Mexico, to a new area — one Bane was already familiar with.
Elsewhere, in Wyoming, a set of circumstances unfolded as a man sat in darkness, deep within thoughts of his own. Suddenly, a man with long, curly hair wearing a leather trenchcoat entered the darkened room. “You wanted to see me?” the long-haired man asked calmly.
“Yes,” the man shrouded in darkness said in a robotic voice. “Porter Is Dead. I Required His Help With My Condition. A Group Of Heroes Interfered Before I Could Test The Fruit Of His Labor. I Want You To Assemble Four Of Your Teammates And Study Film On Them. Then I Would Like You To Punish Them For Their Interference.”
“Who are these heroes?” the long-haired man asked.
“The Titans,” the robotic voice answered. “When The Time Is Right I Will Send You To New York To Combat Them.”
“Good,” the long-haired man said. “I’ve been itching for a fight. It’s time the Disciples made a name for themselves.”
“And It Will Be Done. They Must Pay For Their Interference. Pay They Will. In A Manner They Will Never Suspect,” the robotic voice said aloud.