The Titans, those that remained, had a solid plan going. One that would bottleneck the baddies and make the odds of their survival something slightly less lopsided than Tragically Suicidal. They braced for the impact of their inevitable battle; waiting anxiously for the wave of combat to crash on the rocks of their reinforced position, ready, tensed, aware.
Things did not go as expected.
Part of their plan remained intact: The use of freeweights as missile weapons allowed Leviathan and El Sasquatcho to hold off the first handful of man-birds. Confidence, born of their overwhelming numbers coursed through the genetic aberrations, caused the first wave of the encroaching army to be caught unawares. One gave a particularly satisfying squawk as a forty-five pound discus of pure ouch crunched into it, propelled by an adrenaline and habañero fueled Luchador.
Then it happened. The swarm got the better of their position. From somewhere just out of his range of vision, El Sasquatcho heard a scream he recognized as belonging to his teammate, followed shortly by a sickening pop as her arm tore free of its flesh and ligament moorings. Even over the fluttering of thousands of feathers and the sounds of superpowered melee, Parasite's anguish echoed before stopping short.
Leviathan took to the skies next. Flight being absent from his power set, his sudden change of location (due in no small part to Ves's fist) was a cause for concern. El Sasquatcho remained the last of the Titan's hitters still active, logically the next target of the new Talon's attentions.
His earbud communicator let him in on Zero's idea. Activating the sprinklers didn't seem like a feasibility at the moment, short of finding some way of starting a fire in the middle of the melee. How he could accomplish this... it seemed very improbable.
The remixed 80's music played on, seemingly the only thing functioning properly in their (possibly short) career as Heroes. If they got out if this, El Sasquatcho was going to petition for entry into the Justice League. He was fairly certain the guys in the Watchtower didn't have to deal with this crap. At least, their life expectancy seemed more optimistic. First things first, though.
The hairy Titan glanced back to see how his smaller teammate was faring against the flock, just in time to see the effects of his rodent stampede. With Rat Boy no longer taking a defensive posture near the larger Luchador, El Sasquatcho took to fighting with greater freedom and range of motion.
His technique seemed to echo a mindset of meditative detachment with undertones of urgent desperation. He was flawless in pursuit of causing the most amount of hurt in the flashiest way possible. Economy of motion clashed solidly against martial gymnastics, raining pain down upon his adversaries with the proficiency of a man unconcerned with his own safety, and grace unwitnessed in a combatant of his proportions.
El Sasquatcho was fighting the best battle of his life, certain that it was likely his last.
He caught a sharp beak in one hand, curling it around before it could clamp onto his squishier appendage. A quick cartwheel away from Argonaut served to put more space between himself and the preternaturally powerful Talon, and transferred the energy of the movement into the neck of the owlbeast. It flew, head off-center, into a cluster of other of its kind.
From his new position, El Sasquatcho assumed a low stance, and let the beat of the music still playing serve as the rhythm of his footwork. The last few weeks of Capoeira training blended well with his capacity as a wrestler as he flowed into a modified ginga dance, daring the assembled owls to move closer. The instant one did, he clipped its legs and took it down to the ground, slamming a heel into its face. This flowed into a grapple; the Luchador rolled the beast over himself, bracing it as a shield against the attack of another one nearby. Quickly, he kicked the both of them high into the air and kicked himself back up onto his feet, bracing for the next attack.
At that moment, something strange came over El Sasquatcho. It was a freeing feeling; as if his body were suddenly lighter and his mind filled with passionate optimism. It was as if, in that span of time, the shards of what could be crystallized around what he needed to have happen. He felt as if he could flip a coin a thousand times, calling it accurately every single time. This was a power he had tapped into before, in small ways, always not at his bidding. Today it was strong, vibrant. Desperation and determination parted the way for its arrival, and the being known as El Sasquatcho hummed with it, more than ever before. He did not know how long it would last, and sought to take advantage of it while he could.
Eyes, bright with confidence, matched an almost cheerful grin as he sprinted two steps toward Argonaut and slid under the grasp of a swooping owl. He grabbed hold of its taloned feet, allowing its momentum to pull him back up before twisting them around and kicking himself into a spiral, taking the beast with him. By the time they both hit the floor, El Sasquatcho was already on top of it, burying an elbow into the creature's sternum.
Rick Astley's remixed wonder caressed the air, causing the masked warrior to break into song amid the chaos. Grabbing the wings of another beast, he paraphrased the line, "El Sasquatcho never gives you up..." before slamming his head into the monster's face.
It was as if he were singing to Argonaut, his friend. Vesta, the naive girl he with which he shared laughs and hot wings. Somewhere in the carnage, he locked eyes with her in an attempt to tell her this.
Another beast fell to the onslaught of of the energized Luchador, thrown into a paralyzing suplex after being snatched from the air. "El Sasquatcho never lets you down..." He rolled over the fallen beast, using the transferred kinetic energy to fling it above his head. A powerful jumping drop-kick propelled it into another section of the swarm, disrupting the overall flight pattern of the mutants above. Creatures slammed into each other, bringing their overall organization into fractured chaos.
"El Sasquatcho does not run around, nor desert you..."
Spying one on the floor, battered about by its fellows trying desperately to regain an orderly flight pattern. Groggy, but still conscious, it was seized by the ankles and spun viciously by the hairy luchador, around and around, picking up speed.
"El Sasquatcho never makes you cry; he will never say goodbye..."
When he finally let go, the great Were-Owl streaked outward on a solid, unerring path, flying into the kitchen area. Its head connected solidly with the microwave, causing it to sputter and flare to life with static-popping fire, acrid black smoke and the smell of feather-frying ozone parting the ambient neutrality of the air. If the sprinklers were still active, a short electrical fire in the kitchen area would be enough to set them off.
"El Sasquatcho never tells a lie, and hurts you."
There was now open space between himself and Vesta. Knowing full well he could not match her strength for strength, he opted for a less direct approach. She was strong - no doubt - but she only weighed as much as he did. Maybe less. Snatching an attacking Owl into an armlock, El Sasquatcho pummeled it to semi-consciousness and leapt over it, a tight hold maintained on the thing's shoulders. As soon as his feet hit the floor, the burly wrestler ducked and bowed forward, releasing the creature in a graceless hurl at the new Talon.
Hoping that his skill and the right amount of enhanced probability lined up to provide an accurate and profound overbalance, El Sasquatcho charged, moving to slide under her arc of attack and pound her legs with a powerful, otherwise bone-pulverizing leg sweep. If her head hit the concrete floor hard enough, their chances for survival looked less dismal.
