Disclaimer: Property of the mouse…even though I wish he was mine.

A/N: In answer to a challenge from IcyWaters. I hope I did it justice. On with the show.

A hero is true to his or her conscience. In short, heroism means

doing the right thing regardless of the consequences.

-Brandon Mull

The rain drummed a steady rhythm against the roof of the mission. It served as a soothing accompaniment to the low murmur of voices of those sheltered within its walls, and a welcomed change from the violent pounding of the storms that had plagued the pueblo earlier that evening. Los Angeles had experienced an unusually long stretch of drought, the wells nearly dry and the crops shriveled and stunted, and though the thought of rain a welcomed one, the heavy rains that had come with the storm had fallen fast and hard, much too fast for the parched and hardened soils to absorb. The patrols and refugees had brought word of roads washed out, farm lands flooded and dry stream beds transforming into raging rivers in a matter of minutes.

With the night approaching, it was decided that all those who had sought the safety of the mission would remain within its walls at least until day break, as the damage would be better assessed in the light of day. Father Philippe made his round among the refugees, offering food and water, and a prayer to help to calm their fears. The lights from the candles flickered as the doors to the church swung open, admitting a pair of bedraggled soldiers and a gust of cool wet wind. A small child cried out as several were extinguished. The padre waited until the men shouldered the door closed and set the iron latch firmly before relighting the candles.

There was little doubt as to the identity of the two men, even in the dim light of the church there was no mistaking the portly girth of Sergeant Garcia, or the drooping mustache of Corporal Reyes. Though they were uncharacteristically quiet and bedraggled, uniforms torn and stained with mud, leaning against the rough wood of the door as if it were the only thing keeping them on their feet. Father Philippe frowned as the corporal swayed unsteadily. Garcia grasped the smaller man's arm with a large hand, guiding him to the closest bench, where the Reyes collapsed like a sack of corn flour. The padre started forward to greet them, but paused as a small boy broke away from his family and rushed over to greet them.

A gentle smile appeared on Garcia's round face as he spoke with the boy. It slipped as the child asked a question that was lost to the padre's ears as a small babe began to wail.

"Pablo!"

The boy turned at his father's call and with one last smile at the soldiers, returned to his family. Garcia's smile vanished completely with the boy gone, replaced by a weariness and a sadness that aged him beyond his years. He slumped down onto the bench beside Reyes, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Do you really believe it, Sergeant?" Reyes asked. He spoke as if every word took great effort to form, and even more to speak.

"I don't know." The bench trembled beneath the force of the large man's heavy sigh. "I want to believe it is true, but…well you were there as well. You saw the river." His Adam's apple bobbed against his collar as he swallowed heavily. "No one could survive that."

"He could maybe." Reyes offered.

A noncommittal grunt was his reply.

Reyes shrugged and then winced, raising a hand to rub at his shoulder. "If the ghosts didn't get him."

Garcia turned to face the corporal, exasperation on his round face. "For the last time, stupido, there is no such thing as ghosts."

Reyes looked less than convinced. "If you say so, Sergeant."

"I do."

"But you heard the noise too."

Garcia shook his head. "That was not a ghost. It was…" he paused. "It was a bird…or the wind."

"I've never heard the wind sound like that before." Reyes shuddered. "and what about the light?"

"Enough!" Garcia threw up his hands in frustration. "No more talk of ghosts. That is an order, Corporal."

Reyes nodded, slumping deeper into the bench.

"Sergeant?" He asked quietly after a moment.

"What?"

"I will pray that he did survive."

Garcia sighed. He opened his fist slowly, removing a wad of fabric and smoothing it over his knee.

"Me too, Corporal." He murmured. "Me too."

The padre held back a gasp. It was a familiar scrap of black silk, torn and battered.

The mask of El Zorro.