McFist stood up, wobbly, quickly regaining his balance. His head swam. The evil magic coursing through him was disorienting. He took deep breaths; walked to the door of his office. Tore it off its hinges when he tried to open it. He stared at it in his hand and dropped it. It clattered noisily.

As if in a trance he continued walking to the elevator. He'd completely forgotten about Viceroy by this point, still standing in his office with the Sorcerer, shell-shocked at what he was witnessing. Once in the elevator he pushed the buttons too hard and broke them. No matter. He'd pressed the ground level button and the elevator was moving anyway. He ignored his secretaries when he stepped out the elevator and marched outside. The fresh air of the evening hit his face and he filled his lungs with it. Then, he started to run. Too fast—he grabbed the corner of a building to swing around it, ended up ripping a chunk of brick. He crushed it, it turned to smaller pieces and dust, falling from his fingers.

He guffawed. "Ninja! Where are you? Come out and play!"

It was well past three in the afternoon. Randy was exhausted. His mom was surely wondering where in god's name he was, and these robo-dogs would not stop coming. He just wanted to go home. He couldn't. Things would go to hell if he gave up now. There had been plans by his archenemies before, and he'd always managed to stop them. He could now. Couldn't he? Of course he would…he chuffed inside the Mask. Huffed. Hell, he was panting, lungs gasping for air in result of his acrobatics. He was so tired of fighting these damn dogs. But it was one after the other, there didn't seem to be an end to the things.

If one got its limbs chopped off another came tearing down the street howling murder. Viceroy really put his back into these ones. Ten or so minutes after thinking that, Randy shoved his katana into the chest of a robot dog, watching it collapse on itself. Each one seemed to have its A.I. center located in a different region of its 'body,' and apparently he'd happened to hit dead center on this one in particular. A pause passed, there was a…lull? Shouldn't more be coming now? He didn't want more, but he had horrible luck—

"YOU!"

The guttural scream resounded and could have been heard from two blocks away. Literally. It was almost supersonic. Randy whirled on his heel to face the source…and found it approaching him, fast. It was a blur of brown suit and blond hair. He was barreled over, grunting as Hannibal McFist rammed into him full force. He kicked instinctively to get the man off of him as soon as he quit being dazed, slowly realizing who was staring him in the eye with enough hate it could have melted titanium. The Mask hid his gaping expression.

He made a strangled noise as McFist's arm shot out and grabbed Randy by the neck with ease, lifting him above the ground. Randy was losing his head.

"See me now, Ninja?"

Randy was too stunned to respond.

"Thanks to the Sorcerer, I can finally get my revenge on you."

The Sorcerer?

The Sorcerer did this? But—that meant—

This was it. The last confrontation between Hannibal McFist and the Ninja that there would ever be. With inhuman strength, Hannibal squeezed down on the Ninja's neck, not with all his might, he wanted the righteous rat bastard to live a little longer yet. If Hannibal had anything to say about it, the Ninja would be dead before he hit the ground when Hannibal inevitably tossed him aside. The Ninja's head blocked the sun from Hannibal's standpoint, creating an eclipse effect, and the billionaire savored the sound of the Ninja's choking. He didn't gloat, not aloud that was, taking his time watching his adversary squirm.

Where was the Ninja of Norrisville's nobility and honor now? When the townspeople found his body lying broken and unmasked in the streets, they'd despair, more than they already were, in all this chaos. The Sorcerer gave him all the powers. That's what he'd claimed, anyway, and Hannibal? He was not complaining. McFist had everything he'd ever wanted, it was just time to seal the deal. The world would go to hell, and he didn't give a damn, he had all the resources in that doomed planet, he'd be fine, as well would his wife and stepson. Viceroy and his mother could stick around if they wanted, the mad scientist deserved his fair share of credit. Hannibal was not usually so sharing, but he was staring down the apocalypse. Certain things needed to be considered. Like starting it.

The Ninja's hands wrenched against Hannibal's arms, trying in vain to free himself. It was pathetic. Hannibal couldn't help but imagine how it must feel like for the hero. Eight hundred years' worth of doing the exact same thing, never wavering. It must be a shock to lose so suddenly, so unexpectedly. It must be a practically unnatural experience, as losing had been for Hannibal in the beginning, nearly three years ago.

Before his secret campaign against the Ninja, he'd always gotten everything he desired, without fail. He worked hard to be that way, expected success. Then the Ninja came into the picture with every ounce of his smug arrogance. Who knew pitch black eyes with nothing except for luminescent green swirls for irises could be so expressive. There was no mistaking it, the disapproving looks and the haughty attitude. When Hannibal had fumed about it to Viceroy the other man pierced him with the strangest stare. As if Hannibal wasn't one to talk.

He snorted at the memory.

It only took his prosthetic arm to wrap around the Ninja's throat.

He used his organic arm to yank at the mask. It hissed, sizzled and seethed, burning his palm. He bared his teeth. He was not going to give up because of a piece of clothing. It turned out that removing the mask required tremendous effort. No matter, he had tremendous power. The Ninja did his best to turn his head away, visibly panicking, none of it did any good. Hannibal smirked as the deep voice he'd heard on rare occasions shouted, "No!" A long, suspenseful moment later of pulling, pulling, it came off.

Hannibal threw the mask on the ground.

Dark sclera was replaced with white, swirls by blueness, pupils large and round and terrified—no, now enraged.

Wild purple hair. Caucasian. Not...Asian...

...Young...

A boy.

Familiar?

Hannibal's heart thudded. He didn't even breathe. His grip loosened.

A mistake. There was a pregnant pause. What began as a young man's yell transformed into a roar, a battle cry. Knuckles swung viciously and preternaturally fast to collide with his cheek, he hardly felt it.

"Who are you?"

The young man concealed none of his emotions. Outrage, disbelief, steeliness, hatred. He didn't hesitate, "Fuck you!" It was a very un-Ninja thing to hear, but here he was, spitting curse words like a spurned teenaged brat.

Something broke inside Hannibal. He dropped the N—the—boy onto the ground, slammed a foot on his goddamned chest to keep him there, just barely blocking a sharp kick. Pure insolence glared up at him, and Hannibal all but screamed into his face, "No, fuck you! There is no way I have been dealing with some asshole kid all this time! I refuse to...I...!"

The boy huffed a laugh, pale yet red-faced with exertion, white teeth displayed in what was certainly not a smile, "Are you serious? Go screw yourself, McFist." He reached for the mask splayed on the ground. He snatched it up and held it closely to himself.

Memories flashed in Hannibal's mind, of previous encounters, such as the incident Hannibal started bragging too early about his would-be victory, and the Ninja snapped for silence. It had been a whip crack, when all along it had just been a child playing grown-up. The revelation humiliated Hannibal more than anything else at that moment.

"Shut UP!"

Hannibal, practically spitting, charged at the boy, putting all of his weight into it—only to be sidestepped and crash into a wall of a building, going straight through. The way he did this was such that the entire ceiling came down on him. He coughed horrendously as debris filled his mouth and nose. He was trapped beneath it all. If he would escape, he'd have to dig his way out.