Hoban Deych, better know as the Black Mask to the world, sighed deeply as he puffed on his short cigar, the cloud of smoke trickling out the open door of his quarters. He was dressed in only a pair of cheap, worn jeans and a wifebeater, his heavily tatooed arms behind his head as he listened to the audiobook. The 20th Anniversery Edition of Heir to the Empire filled the room, the irony being that despite being a fan of science fiction all his life, his power was based in the arcane. His quarters reflected as such, with mystic tomes mixed with Sci-fi and fantasy novels, including a well-read copies of Heavy Metal. Deych was a tall, burley man with a perminant scowl, a shaved head and a thick goatee, looking more like a biker than a mystic superhero. He'd never confirmed his background before his rise to anyone, prefering to let them figure it out themselves. The most popular theory was that he had been a librarian at some point, some nonesense about that being the way it always started in the comics. That of course was a crock.
He noticed Jacob walking down the hall toward his own room, looking as tired and beaten as ever. He'd been training hard again. Deych had seen kids like that at the gym a dozen times, trying to to work themselves to their prime for whatever reason, self-esteem or to impress girls. Jacob had other reasons, though. Most likely to prove to himself that he was worthy of being on this team. But Deych knew the kind of training the kid put himself through was going to catch up to him in the end. It never ended well.
"Kid, take a break from the workouts. Get out more." He shouted, his voice as cold and gravely as ever. "That shit catches up to you."