Murderworld's control room is lit with blue, like always - the glowing monitors, showing every angle of the bizarre circus-like scene and the carnage wrought in it, cast the three figures into sharp relief against the darkness of the room. Arcade sits at the console, like always - starting to frown, something in his the set of his shoulders as he adjusts settings frantically speaking of frayed nerves.
It's not about winning.
"They've gotten into the access tunnels, Arcade. They're headed for the control room." Crossed arms. She sounds unimpressed, resigned almost - his wonderful unimpressed Dragon Lady. So cynical.
"Yeah, yeah - I am aware, Miss Locke. I'm on it, okey doke?" The false brightness in his voice is tense and almost threatening. Flipping a switch, one of the monitors changes to show an image of the dim access tunnel and the figures creeping down it.
How many times has he lost against these costumed cretins? How many times has he been dragged in handcuffs, forcing a smile, from the smoldering wreckage of one of his creations? How much time has he wasted in jail, the seconds ticking away like hours as his brain twists itself into loops trying to escape from the crippling boredom?
"Ya know, Mr. Chambers, I thought I told you not to make the tunnels so easy to get into this time," he says sweetly. "Did you misunderstand?"
"Nay... Y'see, the outer wall has a coating that was supposed to repel-"
"We-ell," he interrupted, "Apparently it didn't work. Lordy, what does a guy have to do to get good help these days..."
The jokes. The brevity. All to cover up this anger and frustration, the sneaking certain knowledge that - lo and behold! - he's lost. Again.
It's not about winning. That's what he says, but isn't it good to win once in a while? To actually pull off a kill? The meta-humans are more fun to watch dancing, for awhile, anyway. He is adept at pushing their buttons and forcing them to play along ever so nicely, fighting Murderworld and its dangers and each other. He is the best at that. But does it mean anything if he never wins, never actually has any bodies to show for his artistry?
"Arcade, they will be here in a minute. Are you going to do something?"
He ignored her.
"I'm- goshdarn flooding mechanism's jammed! What kind of cheap gizmo did you cook up, Chambers?" He hit the console angrily with the flat of his hand and the images on the monitor shuddered.
They would reach the control room. Did he have time to plant a robot? Probably not. They would capture him.
Locke and Chambers would escape somehow. They would break him out of jail later. He would make a new Murderworld, a better one, and swear revenge. He would capture some of his old targets - sflanng! - and try to kill them. And he would fail.
And damn, was he ever getting sick of putting on a smile.